by Amy Myers
Georgia looked at him curiously. ‘How?’ she asked quietly.
‘You believe someone killed Lance,’ Jago pointed out. ‘It is not so inconceivable. So keep my possible plan under your hats.’
‘Like Lance’s hat?’ Georgia asked idly, as he prepared to leave.
She was taken by surprise at Jago’s reaction. He looked shaken, and, she thought, alarmed.
*
‘So there could be something to Hoskin’s idle words after all. What, I wonder, is so odd about Lance’s hat?’ Peter speculated as they drove home.
‘What he kept under it?’ Georgia asked.
Peter didn’t dignify this with a reply. ‘If I fed that into Google, I’d get—’
‘Eighty million responses, no doubt.’
‘Something,’ Peter said optimistically, ‘might crop up. You don’t think it could be a blog, do you?’
‘I don’t. Lance wasn’t privileged to know what they were.’
Peter sighed. ‘Let’s fall back on the tried and true. A reconstruction. We can start with his last day alive.’
‘About which we know very little.’
‘Last two days, then,’ Peter amended. ‘The day he left home and the day he left Hythe harbour, never to be seen again.’
‘Not much better.’
‘Correction. We know he gave a lift to an unknown woman.’
‘Agreed. Could mean nothing.’
‘He’d met Michelangelo recently.’
‘Agreed. But we don’t know whether it was about paintings or Ruskin letters.’
‘We know he had a row with Venetia, who then went storming off to see Mary.’
‘Agreed, with the proviso that we only have her word for it.’
‘We think Lance was murdered.’
‘Yes.’
A long pause. ‘Can we take any of these givens further forward?’ Peter asked.
‘Only Venetia and Mary. We don’t know one of them didn’t go haring off after Lance.’
‘It seems unlikely Venetia did. She said they were discreet.’
‘Everyone can lose their rag every so often. She told us quite frankly that she did.’
‘Could the visitor he was meeting that afternoon have been Jennifer? That would raise the temperatures to boiling point if Venetia found out.’
‘It would give equal reason for Mary to boil over. Not to mention Jago. Suppose Venetia put Mary right on Lance’s feelings for Jennifer?’
‘Now that’s a thought,’ Peter said approvingly. ‘Jennifer and Jago were in Paris, so no great problem about either of them coming to Dover. Mary never specified the meeting was in Hythe, did she?’
‘Not so far as I recall. But Jennifer wouldn’t want to kill Lance,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Crime of passion? Jennifer comes over for an unexpected dirty weekend with Lance, who cancels Venetia’s trip. Jennifer sails back to France with Lance, finds out about the other two women and pushes him overboard.’
‘Then jumps off the boat herself and swims to Boulogne. Not likely.’
‘She takes the dinghy.’
‘It was still on the boat,’ Georgia said doubtfully. ‘Strong swimmer?’
‘And then emerges from the water with wet clothes, travel documents, money . . .? Drawbacks to a crime of passion.’
‘Bother,’ Georgia said crossly. Then: ‘Suppose she planned it. Took a second dinghy on board.’
‘You don’t think Lance might have noticed it and thought it a trifle odd?’ Peter said caustically.
‘I give up.’
‘Don’t,’ he advised kindly. ‘There’s an answer somewhere.’
*
Venetia’s voice came over strongly on the telephone, more strongly than Georgia would have guessed from remembering her tiny frame. Peter had slept on the problem and by the time Georgia had appeared in his office the following morning had chosen to ring her, putting on the speaker phone so that Georgia could hear as well.
‘How is it going?’ Venetia asked.
‘Step by step,’ Peter answered blithely. ‘How’s Falstaff?’ Always ask after the pets, he constantly advised Georgia.
‘Guarding me like Cerberus.’
‘From what?’
Venetia didn’t answer that. Instead: ‘What is it you’d like to know?’
‘Whether you and Mary went together to Hythe to talk to Lance or you alone?’
A laugh, fortunately. ‘I like the direct approach. Will you believe me if I tell you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘I think you might this time. I went alone. Mary informed me that she knew all about Jennifer and could do without my help, thank you very much. She also knew all about me, and wasn’t at all surprised that Lance had dumped me. She’d already had a word with my husband. A sweet lady, Mary. Like one of those scratch cards. Take off the glitzy surface and underneath is the plain truth. Usually that you’ve lost. Mary’s unvarnished truth was that she was going to hang on to Lance at all costs.’
‘She didn’t succeed.’
A pause. ‘And you think my being in the picture had anything to do with that? No, Mr Marsh. I did go down to Hythe, and guess what, Lance wasn’t there. He’d told me he was meeting someone at the club, but there was no sign of him. I went to his boat, still steaming with fury, convinced he was skulking there. Everyone knew me, so I just marched straight on board without anyone thinking twice about it. He wasn’t there either.’
‘Are you implying he might never have left Hythe? That someone else might have taken the boat out?’
‘No, I’m not. When I found out he was missing, I was on the phone like a flash. I even went down there. There was no doubt that Lance took the Lady Mary out himself early on the 14th. He was well known and was seen by several people. And, unfortunately for your thesis, all of them said he was alone.’
‘No one could have been hiding below decks?’
‘That’s just about conceivable but hardly likely. Lance would have been most surprised at such odd behaviour and undoubtedly would have turfed them off if he’d thought there was trouble brewing. There was nothing he hated more than having a row at sea. He was a great dodger of rows anywhere.’
‘So why did you think he was murdered, and how?’ Peter demanded.
‘The answer to the latter is no idea. As for why he could have been murdered, I suppose that because I could cheerfully have killed Lance myself at times I could envisage his arousing the sentiments in others too. Nor could I face the fact that he merely had an accident. Though that, Mr Marsh, seems to be the conclusion you must be coming to.’
*
‘I still don’t believe it,’ Peter exploded. He had come up to Medlars for dinner so that Luke could be in on the crisis meeting. Was this case going forward or sinking in a storm?
‘Believe the accident or murder?’ Luke asked.
‘Either,’ Peter growled.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Georgia said.
‘All right, I don’t believe it. I do believe her.’
‘I would have put it the other way around, Peter,’ Luke said calmly. ‘But I’m only a publisher.’
‘You’re not even that in this case,’ Georgia pointed out sourly. ‘There’s still no contract.’
‘Would you like one? I’ll do one tomorrow.’
She looked at him in amazement. ‘Are you being kind to us, Luke? There’s no case yet.’
‘There is,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for buried treasure, and at least there must be a story to be told about that.’
Peter went home happily, but her evening was not yet over. Twenty minutes after his departure, he was on the phone to her. ‘There’s a message from Mike,’ he said.
‘Can’t it wait?’ Georgia asked plaintively. Bed was looking awfully attractive.
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Mark Priest’s been arrested.’
Chapter Thirteen
Ma
rk Priest? What had been going on? Georgia wondered. It was only two weeks since she had seen him in the Pad and Palette. The investigation had obviously moved on quickly. But which investigation?
‘Arrested for what?’ she asked when she reported in the next morning. ‘For the art-thefts scam or Sandro’s murder?’ She’d assumed the former, but now this more sinister thought had occurred to her.
‘Organizing the art scam, according to Mike,’ Peter told her. ‘At present, anyway. If Sandro got in Mark’s way of course it might become a murder charge as well, provided there’s forensic evidence against him. Sandro is firmly tied into it, since the copies replacing the stolen artworks are all by the same hand as Sandro’s legit work. The Met has had its sights on Priest for a long time, because he has some connection to every house or museum suffering from the scam.’
‘One could say the same of Zac.’
‘Do you see him successfully masterminding a scam on this scale?’
‘No,’ she admitted. Even so she couldn’t get her mind round its being Mark. An organizer yes, but a crooked one has to see round more corners than a straight one. It was true she’d only met Mark once, however, which wasn’t a lot to go on.
‘Mark Priest fits the frame,’ Peter continued. ‘Outwardly unassertive, he’s in the middle of the game, and could have set up the thefts to switch the originals with copies, and dealt with the insurance problems later.’
‘Are the Cooks involved too?’ Somehow Georgia couldn’t see Ratlike Roy or Kinky Kelly working avidly for Mark Priest, and yet if Sandro was working for them surely they couldn’t be sparkling clean.
‘Not proven. Priest has to talk first and at the moment he’s putting on a fine show of complete innocence.’
‘What about the Benizis?’ she asked reluctantly. ‘Do they come into it?’
‘Question marks over the business, if not your chums in particular. There’s nothing to link them with the Kentish art thefts, only the tenuous connection of the Daks family and Roberto Benizi in Budapest.’
‘And Zac,’ she pointed out.
‘As you say, Zac. Who at the moment isn’t in the frame, let alone the picture. That might be because nothing directly leads to the Benizis or to the Daks family, except Sandro. And if he chose to copy masterpieces and someone bought them – so what? There’s nothing illegal in copying. It’s a question of what you do with it and how you present it. I’m quite sure Sandro would have put a discreet mention of his own name on the back of each copy, which has no doubt been picked up by the Met. No intention to deceive, ladies and gentlemen, none at all.’
Georgia had mixed feelings. At the moment she would undoubtedly be persona non grata with Antonio and Madeleine, thanks to her Budapest caper. There would be a price on her head at least. She could visualize Antonio shaking his head sadly, even as he signed the execution order. That’s enough, she told her imagination firmly.
‘This will be another almighty blow to Jago,’ she said.
‘With luck King Arthur will help keep his mind off it. Look at this.’ Peter passed her the morning’s newspaper and she quickly scanned the item he pointed out. It carried the headline ‘England’s Hour of Need’:
Speculation grows on the Internet that King Arthur is preparing to come to the aid of the nation. The late king still reclines in a coma after his mortal wound at the Battle of Camlann, but his supporters are claiming that his return is imminent. According to his spin doctors, his loyal party activist Sir Gawain has offered to reveal the whereabouts of his own bones and grave goods in the hope of discovering His Majesty’s long-lost golden goblet, a magnet which, it is hoped, will draw the king from his resting place. Sir Gawain, best known for his epic battle with the gigantic Green Knight, expired off the Channel coast some years ago, and is now thought to be slumbering close to his former liege lord in Kent.
The article continued in this vein for another two paragraphs, concluding:
His Majesty’s followers are preparing for Gawain’s resurrection by meeting on Barham Downs near Canterbury on 6 July. Reports that a magician by the name of Merlin is expected to attend are as yet unconfirmed. A spokesman for the local archaeological society made it clear that the society had no plans to take part in the dig but would be keenly interested in the outcome.
Georgia laid the newspaper down. ‘Do you think they really plan to dig?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Is this Jago’s big moment? While the Arthurian world and his wife are digging on Barham Downs, he might be scuttling off to his own selected site.’
‘Probably – with or without his son.’
*
Georgia could hardly wait to push the newspaper under Luke’s nose, and took the rare step of suggesting he join them for lunch at the White Lion on the grounds that it might affect the contract he was drawing up. It was rare only because Luke preferred to remain glued to the oast house during his so-called lunch break.
‘At least King Arthur’s in command now,’ he said cheerfully, once they were settled at the White Lion, Haden Shaw’s local. ‘Either he turns up with Gawain next week waving his sword and clutching his goblet under his arm, or he doesn’t. You can’t do a thing about it.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ she said fervently. ‘Shall we go along to watch the fun?’
‘Jago’s movements might be more interesting,’ Peter said.
‘Perhaps, although he might leave it for a few days, even weeks or months, before he makes his own move.’
‘How will they organize this thing?’ Luke had been reading the article carefully.
‘According to the blogs, admission to the sacred spot is by ticket only,’ Peter said. ‘They can’t be pleased at this wide publicity. Someone must have leaked it.’
‘But what if the meeting’s a practical joke? Remember the magician who heralded his arrival with a big poster campaign advertising “He is coming!”, sold all the tickets, and when the eager audience arrived they simply found another poster announcing: “He has gone!”?’
Georgia duly laughed. ‘Suppose something is dug up. Bits of Gawain’s bones, as in the Piltdown fraud.’
‘Modern tests would dispose of that.’
‘Technology might have moved on since Piltdown days, but human beings are just as daft. It’s a question of what people want to believe. If enough want to believe something is genuine, then the scam succeeds.’
‘No,’ Luke said. ‘I don’t agree. With this announced in the press, there are going to be doubters out in force.’
‘Doubters have been overruled before,’ Peter pointed out. ‘Despite all the museums, including the Hermitage, who refused to buy Ruchomovski’s Tiara of Saitaphernes, the Louvre went ahead and bought it.’
‘Times have changed,’ Luke argued, ‘and that’s where Arthur’s goblet will fall down – that’s if it ever pops up. There’d be so much ridicule that no one would dare stand up and proclaim it the real thing.’
‘By real,’ Peter came back at him, ‘do you mean really King Arthur’s or really genuine gold? I’ve no doubt about the latter, it’s the former I’m more interested in.’
‘How do you define real,’ Georgia asked, deciding to stir it, ‘where King Arthur’s concerned? Do you mean King Arthur as portrayed by tradition, or a minor leader who repelled a horde of Saxons?’
Both Peter and Luke turned on her, but before either of them could demolish her, Charlie Bone appeared at their table out of the blue. ‘Guessed you’d be here,’ he said, ‘skiving as usual.’
‘Look who’s talking.’ Georgia moved up on the bench and her cousin slid in beside her. She hadn’t seen him since Gwen’s wedding, and his arrival was opportune.
‘I’m not.’ Charlie looked injured. ‘Peter asked me to come. I’m early, that’s all, so eager am I to help you at all times.’
‘Blogs,’ Peter explained succinctly. ‘I asked Charlie if he could trace them back to source.’
‘I haven’t got far
,’ Charlie said blithely. ‘Terry and I played for hours this morning, but no more success than you did, Peter. They’re all such secretive sods that no one wants to stick a head above the parapet in case he loses his fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘So one of them could well be Jago himself.’ Peter beat Georgia to the obvious conclusion.
‘You mean Jago deliberately whips up this furore over a site well away from his own patch, so that he can keep all the glory for himself?’ Luke said. ‘Wow, what a gent.’
‘I doubt if he would put it in those terms,’ Peter said drily. ‘He is an academic protecting his research, after all.’
‘Picturing himself holding up the goblet as if he’d won the Grand Prix?’
‘Good publicity,’ Charlie observed.
Charlie had a knack of expressing the obvious that had been too obvious to see for herself, Georgia thought. That could be exactly what Jago had in mind. ‘So,’ Charlie continued, ‘are you all off to Barham Downs next Thursday, shovels and metal detectors in hand? Good pub at Barham.’
‘No doubt King Arthur stepped down for a pint in the midst of the Battle of Badon,’ Luke joked.
‘There’ll be another bunfight next week,’ Charlie said happily. ‘According to those blogs, half the lads think the goblet has nothing to do with Gawain but was dropped in the middle of the battle as someone stopped to take a swig of ale, possibly Arthur himself. The others think Gawain died at Badon, aka Barham Downs, and not at Dover, so why couldn’t it be called Gawain’s cup and not Arthur’s?’
‘Let’s not spoil the story,’ Georgia said patiently.
‘What happened to that Lance Venyon you were investigating?’ Charlie asked. ‘Is he mixed up with this?’
Silence. How, Georgia thought, could they say yes, when they still didn’t know how he tied in with it, if at all.
‘No clues at all, Sherlock?’ Charlie persisted.
‘There might be,’ Georgia said, ‘but if so they’re locked inside the memories of (a) a scorned woman, (b) an antiques dealer who won’t speak in case it rakes up nefarious doings from his own past or (c) a professor in his nineties with Alzheimer’s.’
‘Ah. No way out?’ Charlie asked.