by Amy Myers
Lance made the climb back, refusing to let anyone take his precious goblet from him, and when finally, with a great deal of help, he reached the top, Georgia saw tears in his eyes. He looked round in triumph at the assembled group as though he were victor, not loser.
‘Here!’ he said softly as the last bit of earth fell away, and he held it up again, clasped in both hands.
King Arthur’s goblet. It was impossible here to think of it as Raphael’s goblet, or Lance’s, or even Sir Gawain’s. For a few moments, even to Georgia, it was Arthur’s alone, gleaming out in the sunshine. She recognized that ornamentation from the painting: it had been an animal, and it could indeed have been a bear surmounting something she didn’t immediately recognize. A primitive crown? A Christian symbol? It hardly mattered. She knew what Antonio would have said if he were here: it has soul.
Georgia felt a few tears in her own eyes. Stupid. However good, it was fake. Yes, but Antonio had said that for a true artist there were no fakes, there were only creations. A fake was unique in itself. As was this gleaming masterpiece.
At last Peter held out his hand towards Lance, who handed the goblet to him, with Mike’s eye carefully watching every movement.
‘You know,’ Lance remarked at last, ‘I feel I own this goblet.’
‘Forget it,’ Peter said gently. ‘You don’t. The Kranowski family does.’ Even Peter, his daughter observed, didn’t have the heart to point out that Lance’s grand-daughter had murdered Sandro for its possession.
‘Morally I do. I brought it into existence.’
‘Tell that to Leonardo Kranowski.’
‘I suppose you are going to insist on taking it back to him. Suppose I challenge it? The land is legally mine, therefore so is the goblet.’
For a moment, Georgia froze, but Peter made short shrift of Lance’s challenge.
‘Jago Priest owns this land,’ he said flatly, ‘and after him his son Mark.’
‘Then there’s no problem,’ Lance said genially, ‘is there, Mark?’
Mark had been silent all this while, and Georgia held her breath. For a moment she thought he would side with Lance. ‘No problem at all,’ he replied steadily. ‘I’m sending it back to the Kranowksis.’
Georgia breathed a sigh of relief. Jago Priest had taken his revenge.
*
‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’ Venetia asked. Georgia had elected to drive down to see her to break the news, rather than merely telephoning her.
‘We can’t prove it without his DNA, of course, although since Sam’s has been taken it shouldn’t be too hard if it comes to that. We don’t know yet. The police are pondering it.’
‘I knew it, you know. That’s why I was sure he was murdered. Lance wasn’t the type to disappear over the side of a boat. Too careful and manipulative for all his hail fellow well met line. That’s sincere too, of course.’
‘Do you want to meet him again?’
‘No thanks.’ Venetia pulled a face. ‘Jennifer won and that’s that. Besides, that would mean having to ask you where Jago is. Ah,’ she continued, ‘I can tell the answer from your expression. Lance did him in, didn’t he?’
‘No body and all Lance says is that it was an accident.’
‘Not one through his falling over the side of his boat. Jago would never have set foot on it, not if he was alive. No, I don’t fancy seeing him again. I’d rather delude myself over the Lance I remember during the good times. The next thing would be his conning me into moving in to take care of him. Forget it. I’ve a dog to look after. I don’t need a jackal.’
Georgia laughed. ‘Did you know about the scam?’
‘I guessed, and from that it wasn’t far to considering Lance’s disappearance as fishy. I stopped halfway on that, which is why I said nothing to you. I didn’t want to know what happened, and still don’t. But come with me for a moment.’
Georgia followed her into a study with a sleek-looking computer and desk. Venetia opened a cupboard and took out an old carrier bag. ‘I got it down from the loft for you. Such a lovely thing. I couldn’t bear to throw it away.’ She shook the bag upside down and out fell a mass of scraps of parchment with ancient calligraphy and ornamentation.
‘These are beautiful,’ Georgia exclaimed, once she had got her breath back. ‘Could they possibly be Lance’s chaplains’ script, the provenance for the cup?’
‘I imagine that’s what Lance wanted them for. And there’s a letter too.’
‘From John Ruskin?’
‘Yes. I was keeping it for him. It’s all fake, of course.’
‘Do you know who faked it?’ Georgia asked.
‘I did.’ Venetia cast a mischievous glance at Georgia. ‘I always had an artistic gift.’
*
‘It’s at this stage I’m glad it’s not up to me as to what happens to Lance. There’s no proof of murder, or of accident now. What will Mike do?’ Georgia asked Peter on her return.
‘Without a body, not a lot forty years on. Even the DNA evidence wouldn’t prove he killed Jago.’
Georgia shivered. ‘Do we have to go down there?’
‘It’s where it began.’
‘The Gawain site?’
‘No, Sandro’s death.’
They were staying with Gwen and Terry at Peter’s request; he felt it only fair to fill them in on events, and had taken them to show them Gawain’s grave and such objects as Lance hadn’t taken with him.
The churchyard, where she and Peter had come alone, was a far creepier place, and, despite Peter’s presence, back came all her previous revulsion.
‘So it was here,’ Peter said reflectively, ‘you found Sandro.’
‘Why was he murdered in this place, though? Chance?’
‘No. Sam kidded him she was going to pose for him with the goblet in the nude on a gravestone. Then the row broke out as he realized that was a joke. Her claim is that the gun was Sandro’s and she grabbed it from him in self-defence.’
‘Oh yeah? And then she stalked me and needed it for the same reason,’ Georgia said. She shivered again at the memory. ‘This corner is still creepy. Let’s get away. Lance could have buried Jago’s body anywhere.’
‘A moment, Georgia. Let’s get to the bottom of this story now.’
‘Aren’t we there?’
‘You know we’re not.’
‘But his story about putting the body over the side of the boat could be true.’
‘Too much trouble getting it there, and too risky.’
‘You mean – he is buried near Gawain?’ She tried to convince herself that must be the answer.
Peter shook his head. ‘I mean here. Where easier than a grave not long dug, with a coffin in it? Look, Josephine Jones, 1960.’
She swallowed, trying to distil logic from emotion. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Probable. I’ve already talked to Mike.’
‘Then why bring me here again?’ she cried.
‘We need to concentrate on Jago and Lance before Jago is forgotten and Lance prances off into a happy sunset.’
‘You’re sure it’s accidental death?’
‘Are you?’
How could she say yes when all her gut instinct told her that the story wasn’t yet over? ‘He murdered him.’
Peter nodded. ‘Planned murder.’
‘Never forget Jennifer,’ she said slowly.
‘You’re right.’
‘When Madeleine threatened to reveal the scam?’
‘Before that. What was going to happen after the scam? Have you asked yourself that? Jago would be humiliated, but what help would that be to Jennifer and Lance’s relationship? None. Murder would undoubtedly have taken place in due course. After the scam, Jago would apparently commit suicide in his humiliation, and after a decent interval she and Lance would marry. That would leave Mary dangling, which would be a problem, but one they could live with. Unfortunately this plan went drastically wrong.’
‘Because of Michelangelo.’ She was followi
ng it now.
‘Yes. Jago discovers the scam and Jennifer’s plans rapidly change. She accompanies Jago, and somehow Jago meets his death, no doubt at Lance’s hands but at Jennifer’s planning. Her power must have been remarkable.’
‘But there’s no proof that it was premeditated.’
‘Oh, but there is. For us, at any rate. A jury might be hard to convince after all this time.’
‘What’s the proof?’
‘Two paintings, Georgia,’ Peter said simply. ‘Sir Gawain’s painting in 1959 to fit in with the scam was no problem, nor was a painting of the Lady of Farthingloe. What is interesting is the other two sent to the Benizis by Michelangelo after the supposed death of Lance Venyon. If the scam was successful, sooner or later Jago would have seen those paintings.’
‘And seen Jennifer as the adulterous Guinevere.’
‘Yes. He would have known Jennifer was involved with the scam, realized her relationship with Lance – and sued for divorce. Divorce wasn’t highly rated in those days, and would not have suited Jennifer or Lance one little bit. No, how could Jennifer have risked being the model unless she knew Jago would no longer be alive to see the paintings?’
*
Georgia remembered the last time she had sat on this terrace, drinking wine and eating. Only then the gathering had included Zac. Now it was Luke – thank goodness.
‘I’m sorry we had to be so suspicious of you,’ she said.
Antonio beamed. ‘It is our fault. We did not want to be part of tricking Jago, so we ask Lance very few questions and he tell us nothing. We only know when Michelangelo tell us.’
‘It was delicate,’ Madeleine said.
‘Si,’ Antonio agreed. ‘Delicate. Paintings, you see. Lance bring first one to us. If we ask too many questions we might guess it a fake. Then we see the other three when Michelangelo bring them to us after Lance’s death. We took them because of Jennifer and hide them. One day perhaps we can sell them—’ He looked angelically innocent. ‘So now you know we tread careful line. Not deal in fakes.’
‘Of course not,’ Georgia agreed solemnly.
‘Good, good. So have more wine.’
Luke accepted with alacrity, but she held back. No more mazes of confusion for her.
‘You are a good man for Mrs Georgia,’ Antonio said. ‘Better than Zac.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ Luke murmured.
‘So now you have the goblet . . .’ Antonio said thoughtfully.
‘To hand back to its rightful owner,’ Georgia said sweetly. She wasn’t going to stand for any belated claim that it was his.
‘Madeleine and I wonder where real goblet is,’ Antonio finished.
Georgia almost choked. ‘What real goblet? There is no real goblet.’
‘Oh yes. That is very funny, now we know that Lance killed Jago.’
‘Nothing funny about that,’ Luke pointed out.
‘No, but Lance killed the man who actually knew where the real goblet was. Jago did not trust Lance, so he said nothing to him. He realized it was not in that field. Lance was wrong, he told us.’
‘Where, then?’ Georgia cried.
‘Oh, Mrs Georgia, he did not tell us. What a pity.’ Antonio chuckled. ‘Ciao, goblet. We could all have been very rich, yes?’
Epilogue
‘Blow this wheelchair.’ Peter had been determined to come, heat or no heat, to Budapest with her. Once the formalities of the Treasure Act and coroner were over, made much easier since the goblet’s ownership was now beyond doubt, Mark had agreed that Peter and Georgia could return it in person to the Kranowski family. They had wasted no time, and no sooner had they checked into their hotel in Pest than Peter was eager to call a taxi to the Rákóczi út.
‘I won’t be able to get up the stairs you told me about, but perhaps Leonardo will come down,’ he said hopefully. ‘I just want to see the damned thing handed over.’
‘It’s no palace,’ she warned him. ‘You might be disappointed in the goblet’s new home.’
Fortunately Leonardo himself came to the door to greet them. He was smiling with pleasure. ‘You have it, our goblet?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Ours?’ Georgia wondered. Was he speaking on behalf of all Kranowskis, past as well as present?
‘Yes.’ Once inside, Peter opened the bag they had brought it in.
She was surprised when Leonardo stopped him from going further. ‘Wait, please.’
He led them straight to the wall at the far end of the entrance hall, painted with the dull murals that Georgia had seen before. He motioned to them to wait, went to the end of the wall and pressed what looked like a light switch. Some light switch. This one rolled the apparently solid wall back like a sliding door, neatly enclosing itself behind the stair well and revealing a corridor in front of them. It was immediately clear to Georgia that this was the main part of the house (and, no doubt, business). ‘Please to come with me.’
Georgia needed no second bidding and escorted Peter as Leonardo led them into a little room with a table and several chairs, reminding her of the Benizi store she had visited. But this was no empty room. The walls were covered with exquisite tiny miniature paintings and cabinets displayed small golden ornaments and objects that wouldn’t have disgraced Fabergé, and icons. Bemused, Georgia sat in one of the ornate chairs, by Peter, to wait until Leonardo reappeared. When he did, however, he was not alone. He was pushing another wheelchair.
Its occupant was a bearded old gentleman with carpet slippers and a red velvet jacket with cap to match. He looked older than Jago, older even than Richard Hoskin, in his mid-nineties at least. It took only a moment for Georgia to realize who this was, however, and for Peter too.
‘You must be Raphael Kranowski,’ he crowed in delight.
The old man inclined his head. ‘Of course,’ he almost whispered in good English. ‘We goldsmiths live long. We are a family firm. We must see the family continue.’
‘We were sad about Sandro,’ Georgia said.
He acknowledged her sympathy graciously. ‘We have a fine baby coming, Sandro’s baby. I will teach him much before I die. I will give him my goblet. It is for him.’
‘I have it here,’ Peter said, handing him the velvet bag.
‘Ah.’ His frail hands fumbled with the drawstring, and Georgia wondered whether to help. She decided not to. This was Raphael’s goblet. She could see tears in his eyes as he unwrapped it, and saw the goblet as it must have left his hands. No shiny glitter, but the true soul of the gold.
He held it up for Leonardo to admire. ‘I told Leonardo that Lance had stolen the goblet, but he said Lance was dead. If so, the goblet would come on the market, so I knew something was wrong. But now I have it.’ He stroked its curves lovingly.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Georgia said sincerely.
She was fixed with a steely glance.
‘Yes, it is magnificent,’ Raphael agreed. ‘But one day they find my Holy Grail. Much, much better.’
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