by Amy Myers
A blush from the assistant, but whether it was irritation or modesty, Georgia couldn’t judge. ‘We only had a drink,’ Fiona muttered.
‘And I suppose Sandro didn’t mention his grandfather to you either?’ Georgia asked merrily.
A superior cool smile. ‘No. Nor his grannie. Nor did we set a date for the wedding. Anything else?’
Definitely time to retreat. Georgia paid for her picture in silence, thanked Fiona profusely and turned for the door. As she did so, she was aware of someone who had just entered the gallery and was now talking to Roy as both men disappeared through the rear door. She had recognized the newcomer immediately, even with a partial view.
It was Mark Priest. What on earth could Jago’s son be doing in a Dover gallery? He worked for an insurance company and lived in Tunbridge Wells. Dover was somewhat off his path, even if he did deal with art claims. Was he here on business? And if so, what business, and was it legitimate or otherwise? In that case, his appearance on a scene that had Zac involved in it was suspicious – even sinister.
She was still thinking about Mark Priest as she set off towards the car park. Then to her horror she saw that strolling towards her was the bad penny himself, Zac. She congratulated herself that at least she was sufficiently inured to his presence again for there to be no shivers down her spine.
‘Georgia!’ he cried warmly. ‘What a surprise.’ He deposited an uninvited peck on the cheek, turned round and walked along at her side.
‘How did you get on with my chum Cook? Don’t worry about me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I do understand why you went alone. We undercover agents have to be careful. Are you all wired up and clad in a bulletproof vest provided by the Met?’
‘Common sense is my guardian,’ she replied as tartly as she could manage. ‘You should try it sometime.’ Should she mention Mark? No, not yet, she decided.
‘Oh, Georgia.’ He looked reproachful. ‘For you the glass is always half empty, not half full.’
That simply wasn’t true. Georgia was about to jump on this, when she realized that’s exactly what he wanted. ‘Think of your work, Zac,’ she reminded him amicably. ‘We shouldn’t be seen together for either of our sakes.’
‘Nonsense. I merely bumped into my ex-wife.’
‘Did you ever wonder why you got caught?’ she asked, exasperated. Always so blindly optimistic.
He put on his guileless look. ‘Peter was too good a cop for me.’
‘If you carry on walking with me, you can tell him so yourself.’ She should have guessed Zac would appear. Goodness knew how he found out when she was coming, but now she was here she could at least find out what he had been doing in Paris.
‘Splendid. I’ll come with you. Are you off to the castle?’
‘Yes. Can you spare the time?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘For you two, of course.’ He never could pick up sarcasm.
‘You didn’t answer my question. How did you get on with our Roy?’ he asked, as back at the car park he slid into her passenger seat.
‘So so. A blank on Lance Venyon, but then that was a long shot.’ In fact she was still bearing in mind that although Cook had not registered the name of Lance Venyon he had seemed to react to the mention of Sandro’s grandfather – though what that might imply she couldn’t even begin to guess.
‘Is Cook a suspect for Daks’ murder?’ Zac asked casually.
‘No idea,’ she replied firmly.
‘I take it your lips are sealed.’
‘Only because they’ve nothing to reveal.’
‘But they do, they do . . .’ he murmured.
She ignored him. ‘He could be a suspect, I suppose. If Cook is up to no good, Daks might have been blackmailing him. Young to try that trick, though.’
‘He was old enough to be a forger, if I’m right about the network being organized from Cook’s gallery.’
‘His father Leonardo is apparently a straight guy. He’s been checked out,’ she said. No harm in telling him that (she hoped).
‘And yet,’ Zac said earnestly, ‘Sandro’s grandfather was a friend of Lance Venyon.’
‘Who was also on the side of the angels, so far as I know,’ she countered.
‘But how, Georgia, can you tell the good angels from the fallen variety? You made a mistake with me.’
Round One to Zac. She hadn’t even a reply to give him, because he was right. ‘How,’ she asked firmly, ‘did Cook get to know about Sandro, if you’re right about the scam? He was over here for such a short time. It’s understandable if he was just selling him legitimate pictures to sell to tourists, but as part of an ongoing fraud ring the time scale doesn’t seem to fit.’
‘It could be,’ Zac said carelessly, ‘that Daks used to paint the forgeries in Budapest, and they were brought over one by one. He probably paid brief visits to Britain in order to see the original hanging in situ, so that he could check the colours, then returned to paint the copies from reproductions. Roy travels a lot, I gather. He could have picked them up.’
‘Mark Priest couldn’t be mixed up in all this, could he?’ she asked carefully, negotiating the traffic up Castle Hill.
‘Not so far as I know. He works with me – sort of,’ Zac added vaguely. ‘Why?’
‘He came to see Roy Cook this morning.’
‘Did he?’
Georgia glanced sideways and saw that for once she had caught Zac off guard. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Does he work for the Art and Antiques Unit too?’
‘Not sure.’ Zac frowned. ‘Could do. I’ve met him a few times in various places. He’s well thought of. Everyone’s reliable valuer, too reliable for me. Why don’t you check him out with Policeman Plod. Mike, is it?’
‘It is, and Mike’s no Plod. You should know. And, incidentally,’ she threw in, ‘what were you doing in Paris?’
‘Meeting Roberto,’ came the prompt reply.
‘I thought he worked in Budapest.’ If she had hoped to catch him out, she was wrong.
‘Georgia, dear, keep to Lance Venyon, there’s a good girl.’
She fumed, but managed a sweet smile. ‘I’ll mention Mark Priest to Mike. He’ll value your help, I’m sure.’
In theory it might be possible that Mark was in on the art frauds, perhaps one of the inside men with access to the houses; he would have the opportunity to take photographs legitimately for valuations, which Sandro couldn’t in his role as tourist. It seemed unlikely to her, though. From the impression she had gained of Mark, he was a solid citizen. But then wasn’t that what made a good con man? A good one, not like Zac.
She drove into the castle and along the winding route to the car park, handed over the entrance money at the visitor centre – both hers and Zac’s, so nothing new there – then walked over to the disabled area, where Peter was waiting in his wheelchair. As they approached, his eyes went immediately to Zac and looked at her accusingly. ‘You didn’t go—’
‘No. I went alone, and don’t blame me for this,’ Georgia said.
‘I don’t,’ Peter replied grimly.
‘No hard feelings,’ Zac said kindly.
‘Enjoy your time inside, did you?’
‘It was profitable,’ Zac replied seriously. ‘I learned quite a lot and now I can make an honest living. You heard I was working with the Serious Crimes Directorate?’
Georgia cringed. This was so like Zac. He actually thought they’d take this stuff about an honest living at face value. One glimpse at a con and he’d be involved up to his neck.
‘I did,’ Peter replied noncommittally.
‘I gather from Georgia,’ Zac continued blithely, ‘that you’re interested in King Arthur. I expect she told you about the Rossetti we saw in Paris. King Arthur and the Holy Grail, fake or genuine?’
‘Trust you to upgrade it,’ Georgia remarked. ‘Not even Rossetti claimed it to be the Grail. It’s a goblet.’
‘Apart from that painting—’ Peter began.
‘Which Lance
Venyon was connected with,’ Zac continued for him. His nose was positively twitching, Georgia thought.
‘I’m here merely to indulge a private passion of my own,’ Peter finished airily, ‘which Georgia does not at the moment share. And so far as you’re concerned, Zac, no more.’
Georgia could say nothing, since Zac knew very well this visit must be linked to Venyon. Zac chatted happily about Pre-Raphaelites as they made their way down to the statue of Vice-Admiral Ramsay which stared out over the harbour to the Channel he had done so much to protect during the Second World War. Here it was easy to think in terms of King Arthur’s fleet sailing back from France to save England from the Saxons or from Mordred’s army, according to history or legend respectively. Looking seawards, not much could have changed in the view, although inland the rivers would have been much wider. On Barham Downs, though, the wind still howled as it would have done fifteen hundred years ago.
‘It all seems most interesting,’ Zac continued provokingly. ‘You’re hooked on King Arthur, Peter. Georgia is badgering Roy Cook about Lance Venyon, of whom he’s probably never heard, Antonio Benizi had a Rossetti painting brought to him by the said Lance Venyon. Lance Venyon fell off a boat, by means unknown, and Sandro Daks is murdered. There must surely be a link?’
‘Perhaps.’ And that was all he was going to get in answer, Georgia decided.
‘Call me a fantasist – as I’m sure you do, Georgia – but why therefore aren’t you as fascinated as Peter in King Arthur?’ Zac promptly replied.
She opened her mouth to explain, and found that she couldn’t. Peter was doing his best not to laugh and Zac wasn’t bothering to restrain himself. Another Zac trick. Divide the opposition. She shrugged, holding on to such dignity as she could muster, and turned the tables. ‘And now Mark Priest takes a bow into Cook’s gallery.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ was all Zac said – which instantly made Georgia suspicious. He usually liked beating an idea to death, not dismissing it.
Peter obviously thought so too. ‘Very odd. Again, the link has to be the art world. You know Benizi, Zac, you know the Cooks, and you know Mark Priest. Now, let’s consider this. According to Georgia, Antonio told her that he decided to keep that painting to see if anything developed over the discovery of the goblet, for that would mean the value of the painting would rise.’
‘Did he?’
Zac had his blank expression on, but Georgia knew him well. That meant Zac knew something that they didn’t.
‘And,’ Peter added, ‘there were more paintings, weren’t there? In Budapest.’
That was a leap and a half. Georgia hadn’t expected that, but if Peter had hoped to catch Zac he was on a hiding to nowhere.
‘Were there?’ was all he replied.
‘Roberto works in Budapest.’
That split-second pause that would be indiscernible to most people, but which Georgia recognized immediately, told her Zac was retreating into con-man mode.
‘Right,’ he said lazily. He could hardly deny it, so his only way out, Georgia realized, was for him to display no interest.
‘Seen him recently, Zac?’ Peter asked.
‘Not in Budapest. Vienna maybe. Some time ago.’
Peter let it go, announcing that he was off to the wartime tunnels, but the point was made so far as Georgia was concerned. There were more paintings, they were in Budapest not Vienna – and Zac was somehow involved.
Perhaps Peter was hoping that by going to the tunnels next, Zac would get bored and leave them before they tackled King Arthur’s stronghold, the church. If so, he was disappointed, and when after lunch and a long tour, Zac was still at their heels like a faithful puppy, Peter gave up, and made no demur when he followed them up to the Pharos and the Church of St Mary. He was actually a help in getting the wheelchair into the church and then stood by while Peter took centre stage.
‘It must have been here, where the arch of the chancel of the early church had been, that the empty coffin was found during the restoration of the church in the 1860s.’ Peter pointed to the spot. ‘It was buried quite near the surface, which suggests this wasn’t its original burial place. Wasn’t Jago’s theory that the chaplains might have taken its contents, bones, goblet and grave goods, if any, and left the heavy lead coffin behind?’
‘It’s possible,’ Georgia agreed, conscious that Zac’s ears were flapping.
‘You old romantic,’ Zac teased her.
Perhaps he was right. Standing here, she found that Jago’s theory seemed tenable, as Peter pointed out where the foundations of the earlier church had been. As for romantic, on an impulse she had actually read the passage in Le Morte D’Arthur last night:
‘And then was the noble knight sir Gawaine found in a great boate lying more then halfe dead. When king Arthur wist that sir Gawaine was laid so low, he went unto him; and there the king made sorrow out of measure, and took sir Gawaine in his armes, and thrice hee sowned . . . And when paper and inke was brought, sir Gawaine was set up weakely by king Arthur, for hee had beene shriven a little before; and hee wrote thus unto sir Launcelot: “Floure of all noble knights . . . And at the date of this letter was written but two houres and halfe before my death, written with mine owne hand, and so subscribed with part of my heart blood . . . And I require thee, as thou art the most famous knight of the world, that thou wilt see my tombe.” And then sir Gawaine wept, and also king Arthur wept; and then they sowned both. And when they awaked both, the king made sir Gawaine to receive his Saviour . . . And then the king let bury him in a chappell within the castle of Dover; and there yet unto this day all men may see the skull of sir Gawaine, and the same wound is seene that sir Launcelot gave him in battaile. Then was it told to king Arthur that sir Mordred had pight a new field upon Barendowne. And on the morrow the king road thither to him, and there was a great battaile betweene them, and much people were slaine on both parts. But at the last king Arthurs partie stood best.’
The first point that had struck her – irreverently – was that Sir Thomas’s imagination had clearly run away with him if Gawain could foretell his own death so exactly in his letter. The second was that as Rossetti had followed the Malory story so precisely as to produce a watercolour of Lancelot and Guinevere at Arthur’s tomb it wasn’t a great stretch of the imagination to believe that he might also have produced a fine oil painting of the death of Sir Gawain.
She left Peter still musing in the church while she went to have a look at the Pharos at its side from the viewing platform, where she was interrupted by a shout from Zac.
‘Come up here, Georgia.’ He was standing on the grassy battlements looking out to sea, a spot where Peter’s wheelchair would not be able to follow, she noted, perhaps unfairly.
She decided to accept the challenge, if that’s what it was. If there was a battle coming with Zac, she must win it, and there was no point shirking the issue.
‘Are you glad you came?’ he asked, as she scrambled up the embankment to join him.
‘In a way.’
‘Which way would that be?’
Her exit line from this was easy. ‘Your point about links between Lance, Arthur and Sandro Daks. I was almost ready to give up on the Venyon case before that.’
Zac was apparently intent on watching the ships going in and out of the harbour. ‘And now?’ he asked.
‘It’s easier to believe there’s a story there, but I’m still not sure.’
‘You never were.’
‘Uncalled for,’ she whipped back.
‘Agreed. Do you miss me?’
‘Irrelevant.’
‘And thus the question is answered.’ He grinned in victory.
It was too late to redeem the situation, so she ignored it, sensing he was about to make his move.
‘I miss you,’ he continued.
‘I’m sure you haven’t lost your technique with women.’
‘Women in general aren’t you. What’s this man of yours like?’
‘He’s not this man.
Luke’s my partner. I live with him, and I love him. OK by you?’
‘Much too defensive, sweetheart.’
‘I’m not,’ she exploded. The crunch had come, and she had lost the plot.
‘No need to cry,’ he said maddeningly.
Cry? To her horror she realized that she felt dangerously near it, but already he had taken her into his arms and was kissing her. Not on her cheek this time, and for one terrifying moment her body flared up, remembering, wondering what on earth might happen next. Wanting to know . . .
Then it was over. His lips were still on hers with the same intensity, but now she felt nothing in response. She had been crazy, but it was finished. Shakily she disengaged herself, sensing that she was free for ever, but hardly daring to believe it.
‘I think not, Zac,’ she said steadily, as he fell into perspective for her at last. He was a good-looking charmer, a weak con man, who deserved her compassion, but nothing more. It was past. It was over, thank heavens, and any tears he might arouse now would be those of relief, not passion or regret.
He must have read her tone of voice correctly – con men were good at that.
‘Only a bit of fun. We had that, didn’t we?’ He sounded almost as if he were pleading with her.
Fun? She thought back to the agony of those years, but then she saw it in another way. Not the half-empty glass but the half-full one. She had clung to the bad times, and spewed out the good ones as invalid. But they weren’t, and they had been fun.
‘Yes.’ She smiled at him with what she recognized with surprise as affection. ‘Yes, we did.’
‘That’s what King Arthur is too, just Peter’s fun.’ It was hard to tell what Zac was thinking, but he looked amused as if he’d been somewhere else all the time. Although perhaps that too was Zac all over.
‘Not where Lance Venyon is concerned,’ she said as they strolled on.
‘Maybe it was his fun too.’
‘Well?’ Peter asked when they returned to him, looking almost benevolently from one to the other. ‘Found that missing link yet?’
‘No, but it’s there somewhere,’ Georgia told him. ‘Like Excalibur.’ Perhaps someone would arise waving it before them. Or perhaps somebody just had. Perhaps, it occurred to her, Excalibur was in Budapest.