Murder and the Golden Goblet

by Amy Myers

  ‘I’ll eat my own hat if there is,’ Peter said gloomily.

  ‘Don’t follow. Who else’s would you eat?’

  ‘The only words the professor could utter about Lance were Raphael, Michelangelo and hat. The Michelangelo could be a reference to the Kranowski family, known forgers of the 1950s. Raphael is perhaps a reference to Pre-Raphaelites and therefore to Rossettis, and the hat is a blank.’

  Charlie looked interested. ‘Did you try them all together?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing interesting came out of it.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Let’s get back to your office and have a go.’

  Luke decided to leave them in the interests of his own office, but Georgia was amused to see that he looked reluctant to do so. Could it be that he really was getting gripped by hidden treasure?

  Once back in Peter’s house, Charlie sat himself down at Georgia’s computer – tactful of him not to usurp Peter’s, she thought – and his fingers were soon busily clicking.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘Look at this, art and hat.’ Peter wheeled himself over to peer over Charlie’s shoulder as he scrolled through the list.

  ‘Oh yes, what?’ Georgia asked impatiently since her own view was impaired.

  ‘Bruno Hat,’ Peter crowed softly. ‘Of course. Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘No one. That’s the point. It was one of the master scams of the 1920s when such jokes were highly rated in the fashionable world of celebs. Bruno Hat was a fictitious artist supposedly discovered in a small Sussex village and hailed by Evelyn Waugh and his chums as a genius. His work was sensational, and an exhibition was mounted of his frightfully avant-garde works. A catalogue was produced and Hat even made a brief appearance at the exhibition. The cognoscenti promptly bought paintings like hot cakes. Naturally they had to be pretty good anyway, and it’s still not certain who actually painted them. Hoskin was remembering that.’

  ‘But why?’ Georgia asked, though ideas were beginning to spark off in her mind. Hat and Kranowski, Michelangelo Kranowski, Domenico Kranowski, Richard Hoskin . . .

  Obviously Peter was galvanized too for he was on his own mission. ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘I have an important personal engagement with Google.’ He turned the wheelchair round and in a trice was busy with the search button.

  ‘The problem is that pretty nearly anything one feeds in comes up with something,’ he grumbled. ‘There’s too much information in the world.’

  ‘Or disinformation,’ Georgia pointed out. ‘The Internet’s only a medium.’

  ‘Hey presto,’ Peter cried. He stared at the screen. Before Georgia could see what had caught his attention, he clutched his head, and cried out again: ‘A fool, I met a fool in the forest and it was me!’ he said.

  ‘Never mind the Shakespeare quotes, what have you discovered?’ Georgia peered over his shoulder.

  ‘I knew those Benizis and Dakses were fooling us. There’s the link between them.’

  ‘Where?’ she demanded. All she could see was a site about faked art.

  ‘Domenico,’ he howled.

  ‘Explain.’ She was hopping up and down in frustration.

  ‘There was no Domenico Kranowski, and no Domenico Daks either. Part of the maze. He changed his name completely, naturally enough. He was heading a family of fakers, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Antonio Benizi knows the Daks/Kranowski family well. He never lost touch with Kranowski. He knew the change of name, forename and surname. It’s how the firm’s operated all these years between East and West, and be blowed to the Iron Curtain. He was misleading you, Georgia.’

  ‘Because of the paintings?’ She was still in the maze.

  ‘No,’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Look at this.’

  She peered closely at the screen, with Charlie equally glued to Peter’s other side.

  ‘Raphael Kranowski,’ Peter read out. ‘Silver- and goldsmith. Faker of the Weimar Bowl and the Samos Rhyton, et cetera.’

  ‘Antonio spoke of him as an art forger,’ she stammered. ‘Domenico, anyway.’

  ‘There was no Domenico. We’ve both been fools, Georgia. You swallowing everything Benizi told you, and me’ – at least he was including himself, she thought wryly – ‘for not checking it on the Internet. How could I have been such an idiot? Am I getting old?’ He looked at her in appeal.

  Georgia couldn’t answer. The sudden collapse of his usual confidence had shaken her and it was left to Charlie to come to the rescue. ‘Even Sherlock had to call in Brother Mycroft on occasion.’

  That rallied Peter. ‘Very well, Mycroft. If it’s so elementary, where do we go next?’

  ‘Obvious,’ Charlie said blithely, ‘this chap forged the goblet.’

  Peter’s eyes gleamed. ‘Which no doubt is the property Raphael was so eager to recover from Lance Venyon. So eager that Michelangelo pursued it in 1961 and Leonardo in 1990.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said Georgia fervently, ‘if I wasn’t in love with Luke, I’d marry you for this.’

  ‘Why punish me?’ he moaned. ‘What have you got against me?’

  ‘Nothing in the world,’ she replied happily. ‘You’ve given us the path forward.’

  ‘It’s Mum’s eclairs, you know. They’re good for the brain. Anyway, I’m getting interested in the Arthur story. I always fancied myself as the jolly fat one.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s Robin Hood,’ Georgia said gently, looking at Charlie’s scrawny figure.

  ‘So it is. Merlin, then.’

  ‘You’ve achieved magic this time,’ she said gratefully.

  *

  Georgia followed Peter into the garden after Charlie had taken himself off, rather regretfully, to return to his London flat. Hot days weren’t good for thought, but then neither were claustrophobic offices, so the garden was a good compromise. She was all too well aware that the gate through to her own garden was rarely used now. Perhaps the time had come to sell the house. Or should it wait until next season? Just in case . . .

  ‘Let’s put this together,’ Peter began. ‘Fact. Benizi misled you over Raphael Kranowski.’

  ‘He deliberately let me think Domenico was an art forger, because he didn’t want us to follow up the goblet. Why?’

  ‘A possible scam.’

  ‘Whose? We suspect that Lance was mixed up with it, but did he organize it, or the Benizis?’ Even now it cost her something to think of them as villains.

  Peter took up the baton. ‘The Benizis must be at the heart of it, since it’s in their interests to develop the Arthurian market. If this goblet is first rumoured to exist, then proven, the provenance of that and the paintings is strengthened. If the chaplains’ script and Ruskin letter also turned up, the price would be sky high.’

  ‘The rumour is that the goblet was buried,’ Georgia continued, the bit between her teeth now. ‘It couldn’t be just any old gold cup, it had to be linked with Arthur. So they draw Lance into it, but why should Lance help them? He had his reputation to consider.’

  ‘Money. Friendship. And perhaps,’ Peter added, ‘he was killed because of this scam.’

  ‘Unless Lance brought the scam to Benizi.’ Yes, surely that was it? ‘You’re forgetting Richard Hoskin.’ Was there a ray of light at last?

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was a historian and interested in archaeology. It’s clear he knew about the scam.’ Steady. She tried to keep a cap on her words. No thesis ahead of the facts. But, oh, how those facts fitted. ‘He has a museum full of Arthurian-type artefacts.’

  He caught her excitement. ‘Old bones. Sir Gawain’s bones, and,’ he gloated, ‘possibly his sword, belt buckle, shield, who knows what. Georgia, we’re on our way. The goblet might even be there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Glorious Sussex. The most wonderful county in the world at present. No wonder the Benizis tried to charm you out of any suspicion of them, Georgia. Thank your lucky
stars. If you hadn’t been so gullible, he’d probably have shot you.’

  ‘How very kind,’ she said savagely, uneasily aware that he could well be right.

  *

  Georgia was looking forward to seeing Peter’s reaction to Camelot, even though Barry Hoskin had been reluctant for them to come. His father was far from well, he told them, was already agitated over the King Arthur blogs, and he didn’t want him upset any more. Then he had relented and called them back. His father, he admitted, was extremely anxious to see them after he had explained what it was about.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t think he’s going to this gathering at Barham Downs,’ Barry said gloomily, as he led them to the living room. ‘When there was a hue and cry like this a few years ago, he was in better health and not only wanted to go, but to take half his museum with him. When I refused, he wanted to invite everyone for tea. Luckily it proved a damp squib, and no one was in the mood for a drive to Sussex. If,’ he added hopefully, ‘you could lay his worries to rest today, I’d be awfully grateful.’

  ‘If we find out what they are, we will,’ Georgia assured him. ‘The problem is that we’re looking for guidance from him.’

  ‘Then we’re all doomed.’ Barry helped Peter manoeuvre his wheelchair round the furniture, placing him strategically close to his father.

  Peter immediately hit off with Professor Hoskin, through nods and pictures of Anglo-Saxon objects which he had brought with him. The professor studied each one closely and handed it back without comment. Until, that is, Georgia saw Peter pass him a picture of an ornamented wooden goblet of the early Anglo-Saxon period.

  The professor shouted out something that Georgia did not catch, but Barry supplied the word: ‘Zoomorphic’. It meant nothing to her, but Peter was nodding enthusiastically. ‘Animal ornamentation,’ he said. Immediately Georgia was back before the painting of Gawain. That goblet had been decorated with some kind of animal shape.

  The next was a picture of a buckle from the same period, also ornamented. ‘Filigree,’ the professor supplied with great satisfaction. When he struggled to his feet, beckoning to Peter, Georgia grew more optimistic still. Richard Hoskin seemed oblivious to the presence of Georgia and his son, who had nevertheless taken firm control of him, and he chattered meaninglessly to Peter. Peter manoeuvred his chair outside with Georgia’s help, where he then wheeled himself rapidly to the professor’s free side. No prizes for guessing they were off to Camelot.

  ‘Here comes the conjuring trick,’ Barry declared, once they were all in the barn. Camelot flooded into life, and having been forewarned, Peter was clearly in no doubt as to how to react.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ he exclaimed in delight. Nevertheless Georgia could see he was genuinely impressed. He had more of a gift than she did for transporting himself into the pleasures of others, however alien to his own.

  ‘Sir Gareth,’ Peter cried, of a blond-haired knight sitting at the round table, and Richard Hoskin nodded in delight.

  ‘Sir Perceval,’ Peter tried, then corrected himself. ‘Geraint of course,’ and he received a nod. He passed muster with Sir Bors, Lancelot was a no-brainer, then came Lamorak, of whom Georgia had never heard, Tristram, and another stranger to Georgia, Sir Segramour.

  By this time Peter was obviously in high favour and Hoskin might have sat there all day, but Barry turned the lights out on Camelot and on in the museum itself, where Georgia took over. The problem was that she wasn’t sure what she was looking for.

  ‘King Arthur’s goblet?’ she tried on Hoskin hopefully, but there was no response. Even Peter’s ace, ‘Raphael Kranowksi’, brought nothing. She was beginning to lose hope, until Peter mentioned Bruno Hat. Now it was a different story.

  She listened amazed as the professor burst out laughing, his hands slapping his frail legs. ‘Lance, Lance . . .’ and a flow of words followed though nothing that she could understand.

  ‘Benizi,’ she tried, but it was only Lance that he stuck with.

  ‘Lance – die,’ he managed and a thrill of optimism ran through her.

  ‘He drowned in an accident,’ Peter tried.

  Unbelievably, there was a vigorous shake of the head in reply. It might not mean anything, Georgia warned herself, but it was a sign that he was on track at some level. He could point if not answer, and he was doing so at what looked like pieces of a broken sword.

  ‘Lance? Painting? Rossetti? Pre-Raphaelites?’ she tried again, but this time he just shook his head, putting a hand out lovingly to the artefacts.

  Barry was indicating that his father was tired and that it was time for them to go. As they left, he pushed a diary into their hands. ‘Let me have it back when you’ve finished with it. It’s not much, but it does have Lance Venyon’s name in it several times.’

  Georgia could see that it was for 1958, and as soon as they were away from the house she stopped the car so that they could look at it. There were indeed several mentions of Lance Venyon, first as Mr Venyon, then Lance Venyon, then LV or Lance, six meetings in all over the summer of 1958.

  ‘I think that the professor was trying to tell us that Lance had something to do with these artefacts. That they were part of a scam. Lance’s Hat. Suppose,’ Peter said slowly, ‘they were waiting here for Lance to pick them up on the Benizis’ behalf, and then when he died they just stayed here. Those items wouldn’t have a lot of value in themselves.’

  ‘The dates don’t work. Any cache of bones and artefacts would have to age in the ground. They wouldn’t still be in this collection.’

  ‘Bother. You’re right. Suppose what we saw were the rejected ones? Suppose Lance took what he wanted and left the rest?’

  ‘Possible, but too many supposes. Are you implying the professor forged all that stuff?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘No. These could be the real thing. The professor would have access to all sorts of collections hidden in museum basements, which might never be missed. Think of the value to the Benizis’ scam. Pop some of these authentic bones and artefacts in and it would make the goblet appear genuine in a collection. Gold is difficult to date.’

  ‘Theoretically the goblet still might be genuine.’

  ‘Less and less likely, darling. I think it’s time for a word with your Antonio.’

  ‘On the phone?’

  ‘Of course. No one gets shot that way.’

  Georgia forbore to point out that the Benizis could easily find out where she lived if they were intent on getting rid of her, but acquiesced.

  ‘Shall I do it?’ Peter asked sympathetically.

  ‘No, I will.’ It was her job. She’d been too gullible with them, but no more.

  She rang from Peter’s office as soon as they were home, and Antonio answered – somewhat guardedly. No surprise there. If he was waiting for her to mention the Budapest paintings, he’d be pleasantly surprised. It was the past she’d keep to, not the present – if only for her own safety.

  ‘We know about your arrangement with Lance, Antonio,’ she began after the opening skirmishes.

  ‘Georgia, what arrangement is this?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Lance provided you with enough genuine old artefacts for you to stock Gawain’s grave so that the Kranowski goblet should appear genuine and the paintings’ value soar through the roof. Did you tell Raphael he and Michelangelo could have a share of the booty, or did you pay them cash?’

  Silence.

  ‘You told me Raphael, alias Domenico, was an art faker,’ she reminded him.

  He spoke then. ‘No, Mrs Georgia, you assumed he was, because we had just been to the Louvre. We talked about paintings. I do not believe in giving unnecessary information. Raphael liked to be thought of as art faker, so he can keep real work secret. Big joke. He called himself Domenico when he painted. But he was not as good as his son Michelangelo.’

  ‘A big joke like the one you and Lance were involved in for the King Arthur market. Is that why you killed Lance?’

  ‘Kill him?’ he exploded. ‘No, no, no. You h
ave it wrong. It was not my funny joke. You think I would do something as foolish as that? We did not know about Lance’s game, Madeleine and I. We guess something naughty going on, but not what. We only find out later. We very cross.’

  ‘When did you discover? Before or after he died?’

  There was a muffled voice, then the receiver was snatched from Antonio, after a scuffle, which Madeleine obviously won. Her calm voice said: ‘A week or so before he died, Georgia, when Michelangelo telephoned us. We were living in Rome, and at that stage Lance had only talked to us about the painting of Sir Gawain and its provenance, convincing us that it was genuine.’

  Some hopes, Georgia thought.

  ‘We knew nothing about any goblet until Michelangelo told us, nor did we know about the other paintings, which he sent to us a few days after Lance’s death. He was furious because he had gone to tell Lance that the Kranowksis were about to be exposed as fakers, and his father was intent on getting the goblet back. After all, his exposure would ruin Lance’s plans, he might have thought. Lance refused to let him have it, however, and Michelangelo suspected he had sold it.

  ‘I could not work out what was going on,’ Madeleine continued, ‘so I decided to go to see Lance. I was due to visit London anyway, so I saw Lance on my way back to Dover. He was not pleased, and told me I was too late. He had been working on this scam for a long time; everything had been in the ground for over two years to allow time for the earth to settle around it, and the joke was about to spring. He wasn’t going to ruin it now by digging up the goblet, the prize of the collection. No one would think the goblet was a fake because the other artefacts weren’t. Besides, he had taken his inspiration for the scam from the painting of Sir Gawain, and he was positive the provenance of that was secure. Like a fool, I believed him, since I hadn’t seen the other paintings at that point. I would have had no doubt about their being fake. Lance told me to take my ferry home, and he would drop me off at Dover. I needed to talk it over with Antonio, so I agreed, but the next thing I received was Jennifer’s letter. The Kranowskis’ exposure as fakers took place hard on the heels of our receipt of the paintings and we heard no more. The scam seemed safely buried, which was good.’