Murder and the Golden Goblet

by Amy Myers

  ‘Only my Sandro left,’ came the prompt reply. ‘And then my son.’

  Georgia hoped she was right about its being a boy. There might be a lot resting on this child, she reflected with growing excitement as they left Magda in search of lunch. Kranowski, Daks, Benizi, Venyon, Sandro . . . Surely the links were getting a lot stronger now? The Kranowksi family disappears from Paris, turns up as Daks in Estonia, then re-establishes itself in Budapest, the city linking East and West. Which, according to her guidebook, was a city that in the 1980s was rife with art forgery and crime. And what could Domenico Daks’ property be but the painting – or paintings?

  ‘Circumstantial,’ Luke said, when she put this thesis to him. He relented. ‘But it’s looking good. Equally you could be talking through your hat.’

  ‘That’s funny. Richard Hoskin used three words when I asked him about Lance: Raphael, Michelangelo and hat.’

  Luke laughed. ‘There you are then. Proof.’

  ‘I am not,’ Georgia informed him, ‘going to return to Peter with a theory about Lance’s old panama or homburg or trilby.’

  ‘You should be grateful that the word Arthur hasn’t passed anyone’s lips today.’

  She shuddered. ‘Give it time.’

  *

  The Benizi premises were situated just off the Falk Miksa utca, a street filled with antique shops and near the Danube’s Margit Bridge. Benizi Antiques looked unobtrusively expensive with three exquisite items in the window display, an icon, a painting and a Chinese vase. They spoke for themselves, suggesting it would be a waste of time to enter except with a large chequebook.

  ‘You can leave this one to me, unless I’m positively drowning,’ Georgia told Luke.

  ‘Don’t I have a part in your cunning plan, whatever it is?’

  ‘Yes. Not to erupt when I mention Zac.’

  Did she sense him stiffen? ‘I’ll stay out of this one, then,’ he said. ‘You’ll do better alone.’

  That was true and she was grateful. Luke gave her no time to argue, but strolled off towards the river. It was time to act, and in she went. The reception room followed the style of the window display. An elegant antique desk and chairs, plum-coloured velvet drapes and a sense that one was in the presence of great art (and wealth). A good-looking man in his late thirties appeared, thanks to closed-circuit TV she assumed, since nothing so vulgar as a bell had sounded. Immediately a chair was placed for her to be seated. To prevent her from fainting with shock at the prices to be mentioned? No problem. She sat.

  ‘Signora?’

  ‘You must be Signor Roberto Benizi.’ And when he nodded, she swept on: ‘I’m Zac White’s wife.’ She beamed at him. ‘Well, ex-wife really but we’re on the best of terms. He’s probably talked about me. He told me about the Arthurian paintings, you know, and since I was in Budapest on holiday I thought I’d ask if I could possibly see them.’

  Nothing like jumping into a raging torrent. Roberto’s smile barely changed. He looked puzzled but his eyes were studying her keenly. ‘Arthurian paintings?’ he queried.

  She nodded. ‘The Rossettis.’

  ‘What were these paintings? Perhaps you could describe them? With Lizzie Siddal as model?’

  The weak point and he’d hit it. She hadn’t a clue what the other paintings depicted, or even how many there were. Time to play the ace. ‘Not in the one I saw recently at your father’s home in Paris. Such a magnificent painting of Sir Gawain, isn’t it? I fell in love with the portrayal of King Arthur.’ Mention the goblet? No, that would be a mistake.

  ‘You wish to buy such a painting?’ The eyes were boring into her, but at least he hadn’t pursued the question of the subject matter of the others.

  ‘Not me,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I have two friends who are keen enthusiasts of both King Arthur and the Pre-Raphaelites. If the paintings are on the market, I’m sure they would be interested.’

  ‘I can make enquiries about such paintings, madame. Who are these friends?’

  She smiled. ‘Naturally I could not tell you that, if you do not actually possess the paintings. I was sure from what Zac said that you did. And of course since your father showed me the Gawain painting, the family firm would obviously have an interest in any others in the series.’

  He frowned. ‘It is our policy only to show or even discuss paintings with the principals themselves. At least I must have further information about these friends.’

  The last card in her hand and the riskiest. ‘Now you can’t really expect me to divulge confidential information,’ she laughed gaily, ‘any more than I would reveal the secrets of the Daks family.’

  A sudden stillness in the atmosphere. ‘Domenico Daks?’

  ‘Yes. If that, of course,’ she said lightly, ‘was his real name. Domenico, Sandro, Leonardo and Michelangelo.’

  Roberto was still wavering. ‘This Gawain painting,’ he said casually. ‘Is that the one with the priest in the background?’

  You don’t catch me out so easily. Georgia sensed victory. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember a priest, just King Arthur holding a cup or something to Gawain’s lips.’ Please, please don’t let him decide to telephone Antonio.

  Another tense silence, then to her relief, he relaxed. ‘Scusi, signora. Is necessary. You come with me, please.’

  He beckoned to her to follow him. With her heart in her mouth, expecting to be coshed at any moment and grateful that Luke at least knew where she was, she did so, walking through the velvet drapes with a confidence she did not feel. Ahead was a corridor, but he beckoned her into a small side room. ‘You wait here,’ he told her. ‘I fetch them.’

  Was this a trap? She waited on tenterhooks, but there was no click. She hadn’t been locked in at any rate. Either he was ringing his father, or the reason for her being in this small empty room was that he didn’t want her to see his other stock.

  With great relief she heard his footsteps returning and he hadn’t been away long enough to have called Paris. He was carrying three paintings, which he stood against the wall, before removing the coverings.

  Georgia caught her breath, hardly able at first to take in what she saw, and looking from one to another. The first was of a distraught woman holding a skull, with what was surely the Dover hill and Pharos in the background. ‘The Lady of Farthingloe,’ Roberto said, his watchful eyes upon her. For a moment this made no sense, and then she remembered Jago’s recounting of the legend of Gawain’s beloved who found his skull on the battlefield and gave it to the canons of the priory. The legend, he had said, that Lance loved so much.

  Interesting though that painting was, it was the other two that gripped her attention: Guinevere and Lancelot. One was of their final parting in the cloisters of the convent to which Guinevere retreated after Arthur’s death. The other was of their tryst in Guinevere’s bedchamber. Georgia had seen Rossetti’s drawing of the discovery of Lancelot in the chamber by his enemies, but this bore no resemblance to it. For once guilt was playing no part in this relationship. With the casement through which Lancelot had obviously climbed behind him, he and Guinevere were just on the point of their first embrace. Georgia could almost sense movement in the figures as they approached each other, passion no longer suppressed, desire about to be fulfilled.

  Roberto began to talk about the paintings in polished terms, obviously knowing every detail of Rossetti’s career – and the provenance of the paintings through the Milot family. Now was not the time to declare that they were fakes, or even to think through the implications.

  Instead, Georgia was riveted on the figure of Guinevere herself, the betrayer of Arthur, lover of Lancelot. She had seen that perfect face before.

  It was Jennifer’s.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘So they’re fakes!’ Peter punched the desk in delight. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘It’s very well to glory in our triumph,’ Georgia replied practically, ‘but where does this take us?’

  She’d talked it over endlessly with Luke
on the return flight from Budapest until he pleaded for mercy. They had devoted their free day to enjoy what Budapest had to offer, and that’s how he wanted to remember it, he said. It was therefore Monday before Georgia had a chance to talk to Peter fully about the trip.

  ‘Easy,’ Peter replied. ‘You have to be right. Domenico Kranowski equals Domenico Daks. It’s making sense at last.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. What are we going to tell Jago? How’s he going to feel?’

  ‘Interested, but not devastated, I imagine, unless the use of Jennifer as a model connects her too closely with Lance. It’s Gawain’s bones that are his passion, and possibly the goblet that goes with them. He’s not involved with the paintings.’

  ‘Unless the Gawain story is blown to smithereens along with the paintings.’

  ‘Why should it be?’ Peter asked mildly. ‘Jago developed his thesis before the paintings and goblet entered into it. Then the goblet rumours came along, and after that the paintings.’

  Georgia felt a ridiculous sense of relief on Jago’s behalf. ‘You mean that Michelangelo or Domenico Kranowski painted them in response to the rumours about the cup? Why, though?’

  ‘For cash, darling. That’s what makes the world go round. Didn’t you know that? The Jagos of this world may rise above it, but most folk can’t afford to.’

  ‘So one of the Kranowskis hears the rumours from whatever source, realizes a killing can be made from the Arthurian world and paints a series of pictures. Unfortunately Jago would recognize his wife and so might countless other people in their circle,’ Georgia pointed out.

  ‘If he saw them. Lance never got round to showing them to him, did he? We assumed that was because Jago’s interest didn’t lie in the paintings, only in Gawain’s bones. Suppose Lance was just the Benizis’ foil?’

  Instinctively she found herself coming to their defence. ‘Antonio told me that Domenico Kranowski didn’t do the fakes.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he? And perhaps he didn’t.’

  She saw where this led. ‘But Michelangelo did.’

  Peter nodded sympathetically. ‘And so the claim that the Benizi Brothers walk the fine line now has a distinct wobble.’

  ‘Don’t mince your words,’ she said bitterly. ‘It makes them fall headlong into the underworld and probably—’

  ‘Dragging in Lance Venyon and Jennifer Priest with them. I’m bound to say, Georgia, that it does look that way.’

  ‘But what motive for killing Lance?’

  ‘When thieves fall out anything can happen.’

  She slowly digested this. Antonio a murderer? She couldn’t believe it. ‘It doesn’t fit, Peter. Michelangelo must come into this story some other way. If he is Venetia’s “Michael”, then he visited England in 1961, and Leonardo himself in 1990, probably both at Domenico’s request to ask for family property back.’

  ‘What property?’ Peter asked sharply.

  She had forgotten this was new to him. ‘I assume the paintings. They could even have been in Hoskin’s possession for a while at least, which would account for the reference to Raphael and Pre-Raphaelites. Leonardo didn’t know what the property was.’

  ‘Or said he didn’t,’ Peter retorted. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Georgia. Domenico died some years ago. If this property was so important he would have told someone in the family what it was before he died.’

  She was momentarily silenced. Then: ‘Probably,’ she admitted. ‘Although as we’re dealing with fakes, Leonardo might simply not have wanted to tell us.’

  ‘True.’ Peter frowned. ‘In that case, this property could equally well be the script about Gawain at Dover and his remains, or even a fake goblet.’

  ‘No. The Kranowskis are art forgers, not metal-workers.’

  ‘Are we sure? Anyway, as we agreed, just because the paintings are fake, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Ruskin didn’t discover the real existence of such a goblet.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Georgia shot back at him. ‘Even if you’re right, the bona-fide evidence is hardly likely to have been in the hands of a family of fakers.’ She stopped in sheer weariness. ‘This case is getting to me.’

  ‘To both of us,’ Peter agreed. ‘We’re stuck in the middle of a hall of trick mirrors wondering which way to turn.’

  ‘Jago has to be the answer to that,’ Georgia concluded. ‘If anyone can judge whether Lance was victim or villain he can.’

  *

  ‘I assume that your investigation has moved on a stage.’ Jago looked at them enquiringly, as she brought the drinks out into the pub garden. Too warm to sit inside on a day such as this, and much more pleasant for Peter.

  ‘It has, in fact,’ Peter assured him blithely.

  ‘You know who pushed him overboard?’ Jago looked surprised.

  ‘No, but the range as to why someone should want to do so widens, and with that fingers of suspicion grow more confident.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Jago looked troubled. ‘Poor Lance. He was the most popular man I ever met, but even the best of men can unwittingly get in the way of others’ plans.’

  ‘You did give us the impression that this popular man was somewhat hard on his women friends,’ Georgia reminded him.

  ‘Ah yes. That dear little Venetia. Since you reminded me about her, I’ve been thinking about her quite a lot, wondering if she had hidden claws and could have scratched back to the extent of pushing him overboard.’

  ‘If she did, we’d never prove it,’ Peter said lightly.

  ‘So how long do you go on digging away at this theory of yours?’ Jago asked.

  ‘As long as you for King Arthur’s goblet,’ Georgia laughed, seeing Peter at a loss for an answer.

  ‘Touché,’ Jago said ruefully. ‘Of course that might not be much longer. There’s blog talk of a communal dig to take place shortly.’

  ‘Where? When?’ Peter asked.

  ‘No details yet. I put it down to some movement on your part. Has there been one?’

  ‘There has, though I can’t see how it would tie up with digging for the goblet. We’ve proved to our satisfaction that the Arthurian paintings that Lance was in pursuit of, probably including the one with the goblet, were fakes.’

  To Georgia’s relief, Jago did not enquire further and looked only mildly disappointed. ‘I can’t say you surprise me. There are always those that try to cash in on a current event. No doubt they were a crude attempt to persuade the unbelieving that there was such a goblet.’

  ‘Not that crude,’ Peter said. ‘It came from the Kranowksi stable.’

  ‘Now there,’ Jago said, ‘you do surprise me. Did Lance know that?’

  ‘That’s the question. He was so friendly with Antonio Benizi that it’s hard to tell at this late stage.’

  ‘Quite. Lance is not necessarily on the side of the devils,’ Jago pointed out, ‘even if he knew them for what they were. It was his job to track down such frauds, and to remain friendly with the fakers.’

  ‘A thin line.’

  ‘One which he trod with delicacy. Are you implying the provenance of the paintings led to his death?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Jago nodded gravely. ‘Not that that affects the goblet. That still exists, just as the bones of Sir Gawain do.’

  Along with Prester John and Shangri-La, thought Georgia irreverently. She felt instantly ashamed as she saw Jago’s blue eyes on her, as if he could tell what she was thinking. Zac’s trick.

  ‘Knowing Lance,’ Jago said, ‘if he had discovered the paintings were fake, he would have redoubled his efforts to help me find Gawain’s remains and any evidence connected with that. He might even have found it.’

  ‘Then it’s strange that nothing further has been heard of it. No one would want to stop their discovery, only to steal them.’

  ‘We don’t know that that hasn’t happened,’ Jago pointed out. ‘Such is the secretive world of collectors that they make sure that rivals can’t trace them. Today, with email addresse
s, that’s much easier. With care, bloggers can make themselves untraceable.’

  ‘Even the site’s source?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Jago agreed. ‘One could give false information using an external blog host and a valid email address.’

  ‘Why such extreme secrecy?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘My dear Georgia, consider the hunt for Prester John. Man’s quest for something beyond this mundane existence is a lonely one, a solitary pursuit: the search for religion, for the Grail – whatever. Each man has his own. Mine is Sir Gawain and there could be others on the same track. Amongst the bloggers there have been many theories as to the site, ranging from here to the Darenth Valley, though there seems a consensus for Barham Downs now. I shall not be joining any communal dig, of course.’

  ‘So what is your next step? To dig on your own site?’

  Jago laughed. ‘Have you ever been poised on the brink of something you know will bring you complete happiness and yet be afraid to go forward?’

  Oh yes, Georgia thought. That touched a nerve. She had. She was in such a situation now every time she was with Luke. Every time they made love, every time they argued over spaghetti, with every addition they made to the Medlars garden.

  ‘The vision has become almost as precious to me as the object itself,’ Jago continued. ‘I fear to step forward, and yet I know I shall.’

  ‘Travelling hopefully is better than arriving,’ Peter said.

  ‘Ah yes. How I agree with Stevenson. He was right, although I would put it differently myself. I believe perfection belongs to God. The medieval mason would build a flaw into his work, not wishing to step on the Almighty’s prerogative. I feel somewhat the same, that the grail of perfect happiness should be left as just that.’

  ‘Suppose,’ Georgia said practically, ‘that someone finds it first in exactly the place you now believe it is.’

  Jago laughed delightedly. ‘You are bringing me down to earth, Georgia. I cannot continue to live in cloud cuckoo land for ever. I might rush out with my shovel tomorrow evening to take one last brave step towards that grail. A step that might kill me, of course.’