by Amy Myers
Whatever this corner of the churchyard reeked of, it wasn’t Lance crying out for justice. It was both a relief and disturbing. If not Lance who set up these vibes, who or what was it? She played with the notion that it was Sir Gawain, but dismissed the fantastical thought impatiently. It was just the weirdness of this place that gave her crazy ideas.
*
‘Are we downhearted?’ Peter asked after she had reported to him the following day.
‘Frustrated,’ she conceded.
‘No reason for that. We have a sporting chance.’
‘Maybe, but what’s the game?’
‘A Sudoku puzzle, perhaps. Some facts known, others to be sought with their help.’
‘One graded diabolical, if so,’ she grumbled.
‘We have a link in Sandro.’
‘A weak one, with just a girl’s fleeting memory of a fleeting remark.’
‘Nil desperandum, daughter. Mike told me Sandro’s father Leonardo has been over here, breathing down their necks. He couldn’t offer anything in the way of explanation over Lance Venyon.’
‘How do you interpret that as helpful?’
‘Don’t snarl, darling. Sandro is a descendant of the grandpop who knew Lance, and so Leonardo is too.’
‘So what? He knows nothing.’
‘According to Leonardo, Sandro was a tearaway, a law unto himself. All Leonardo claimed to know was that Lance Venyon was an old acquaintance of his father. His father had died in 1988, expressing a wish that Leonardo would look Lance up if travelling to the West ever became possible; he had duly come to England as soon as the Iron Curtain lifted, and they had moved to Budapest from Estonia. He found out that Lance was dead, but doesn’t recall ever mentioning this to Sandro, although he could have been mistaken. That would fit with the fact that when Sandro found out Lance was dead he didn’t make any effort to track down Venyon’s living family. Anyway, Mike isn’t pursuing the Venyon line any longer.’
‘And this is good news?’ At least Elaine’s mother’s mysterious visitor was probably explained. It had been Leonardo.
‘Yes. It could clear Sandro out of the picture so that we can concentrate on Lance. It does seem unlikely that Leonardo is anything to do with a family involved in art theft in the 1950s. Mike has checked him out; he’s as respectable as they come. A university lecturer in Hungary since he moved there, son of a retired teacher and dressmaker.’
Georgia thought about this. ‘All we know is that Sandro didn’t talk to Elaine. We don’t know he didn’t make other enquiries, such as meeting Jago. After all, how did Leonardo find out in 1990 that Lance was dead?’
‘From the village and Mary Venyon herself, perhaps.’
‘In which case he might well have spoken to Jago Priest and so might Sandro, if his mission was other than mere courtesy.’
‘Jago would still have been in France in 1990, but it’s possible Sandro spoke to him.’
‘About what?’
‘Suppose he came about those paintings? Maybe his grandfather was an Arthurian fan.’
‘A tenable theory, but sheer speculation,’ Peter whipped back smartly. ‘Which is why Mike’s concentrating his attention not on Lance but on Sandro’s working and love lives.’
‘Are they both focused on this Dover art gallery?’
‘Quite possibly. Kelly Cook was apparently distraught to hear about Sandro’s death, and even more so to hear that he had another lady friend in Canterbury. Her husband was equally upset, presumably because of his working partnership with Sandro.’
‘So they’re in the frame—’ That was something at any rate. She had quizzed Gwen and Terry over their acquaintanceship with Kelly. It turned out that Kelly used to work with Terry before her marriage to Roy. Gwen thought she was a laugh, but Georgia wasn’t so sure. Vampires were a laugh only until they sank their fangs in.
‘Georgia,’ Peter interrupted, ‘Lance Venyon is our target, and we need him in our sights, not Daks.’
‘Even though Lance hasn’t left one single fingerprint on time that we can be sure of?’
‘He’s leaving mental tenprints at least. They won’t go away.’
‘I agree.’ She gave in. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. We still have two people who actually knew Lance, apart from the vicar, who we can provisionally assume is a disinterested party. That’s two figures to fill in on our Sudoku puzzle. One is Venetia Wain, an unknown quantity as yet. The other is Jago Priest, who looms large in my thoughts. Both have passable motives that might reward investigation. Now that Daks is tiptoeing out of the picture, it’s time to offer Jago a pub lunch on Saturday.’
*
It was a larger group than expected. Jago would be delighted, he had told Peter on the telephone, although his daughter Cindy and Sam were visiting him this weekend.
‘I told him the more the merrier,’ Peter had said.
‘On the grounds that tongues run away in informal chat more readily than in formal interview?’ Georgia asked.
‘How well you know me.’
‘Then we’ll invite Luke too. Three of us, three of them.’
‘Excellent. He can take care of the drinks and food while we talk.’
This was a role that fell rather often to Luke in such circumstances, and Georgia had felt a rare tug of loyalties. By luck, it was warm enough to sit in the pub garden and the Priest family was already present when they arrived. Cindy, with a mop of dark hair and lively face, was a surprise, having nothing of Mark’s caution – at least superficially. She was obviously younger by several years, but seemed to spring from a different generation. There was no Mr Cindy, it seemed, but there was Sam – who proved to be her daughter, not son.
‘So confusing,’ Peter muttered as he manoeuvred his chair into place.
‘Don’t be a fuddy-duddy,’ Georgia hissed at him. She took Sam for a student from her orange spiky hair and general fashion mode of jeans, bare midriff, bangles and scarves, but it turned out that she was twenty-two and that she and her mother ran a craft shop in Canterbury. Both ladies seemed to have plenty of the get up and go quality but in different ways. Cindy would be the businesswoman, Georgia suspected, while Sam did the pushing.
‘So what’s this about Pops’ old chum being bumped off?’ Cindy asked, once food had been chosen and Luke had obediently disappeared to order it. He rather liked the silent partner role in such circumstances, he had reassured Georgia, because he could take a back seat and sum up situations objectively rather than concentrating on his own contribution.
‘The jury’s still out as to whether he was,’ Georgia replied. ‘So we’ve come back for further direction from the judge.’
‘I’m honoured,’ Jago chuckled. ‘But I still don’t buy the idea that Lance was murdered.’
‘What was so interesting about this Lance apart from the fact that he knew Prester?’ Sam gave her grandfather an affectionate squeeze of the hand.
‘Prester?’ Peter looked enquiringly at Jago.
‘Sam’s pet name for me. After Prester John, I fear,’ Jago replied ruefully. ‘Sam is a tease, as well as my firmest supporter where my theories on the historical Arthur are concerned. Prester John as you no doubt know was a twelfth-century fantasy about an eastern emperor who kept the then known world engaged in a quest to find him for four hundred years or so.’
‘Like King Arthur and the Grail,’ Sam said straight-faced, ‘only Prester John was more fun. Just fancy, it was probably one monk who set up a scam that had the West thinking it had this all-singing all-powerful all-dancing mighty potentate in the East to defend Christianity for the righteous against the naughty old Saracens. He was richer than Croesus, more powerful than Charlemagne, seventy-two kings worshipped at his feet, all the jewels of Ind—’
‘I think we’ve got the picture, Sam,’ Jago said gently. ‘Sam, you see, has this notion that it was the excitement over the quest to find Prester John that in the twelfth century obscured the historical King Arthur by revivi
ng the king through a quest for the Holy Grail.’
‘Reviving?’ Cindy snorted. ‘Creating him, more like.’
‘Nonsense, Mum,’ Sam flashed back. ‘Arthur was real. Prester was a joke, but Arthur’s something different.’
‘Bosh,’ her mother retorted.
‘Why can’t you see Grandpops has to be right?’
Georgia felt like waving a flag to call a truce over King Arthur, but decided it would be more diplomatic to retreat and help Luke with the drinks. By the time she came back with her tray, she was relieved to find that the discussion had moved on. Peter was talking about Sandro Daks.
‘What’s he got to do with this?’ Cindy asked sharply.
‘Did you know him?’ Georgia asked in surprise.
‘Yeah.’ Sam answered for her. ‘We both did. He did work for us in Canterbury. He was murdered, but what’s it got to do with you?’ She was the suspicious one of the two, Georgia could see, and also protective of her mother, for all her combative stance. A point in her favour.
‘A double interest. I found his body—’
‘My dear Georgia. I’m sorry to hear that,’ Jago said. ‘An appalling shock for you.’
‘It was. And another shock to find out later that he had some slight connection with Lance Venyon.’
‘What was that?’ Jago asked, frowning.
Georgia explained, conscious that all three Priests had their eyes firmly fixed on her. ‘We wondered if he came to see you, Jago, since he didn’t get in touch with Elaine. Someone might have told him you were his best friend. His father Leonardo might also have contacted you in 1990, although I think you were still in France then.’
‘I don’t recall a Leonardo Daks at all.’ Jago thought for a moment. ‘I was working in Toulouse by then, so I would have been difficult to track down. I believe Sandro might have telephoned me some months ago, however. I didn’t recognize the name because I don’t think he gave it to me. He asked if I knew Lance’s whereabouts, I explained he was dead. I didn’t want to refer him to Elaine for obvious reasons. He seemed quite satisfied and that was that.’
‘He didn’t explain why he was interested?’
‘Yes, he did. He said he was anxious to trace a painting with which Lance had been connected. That was why I saw danger signals. Knowing Lance’s line of work, I could have been speaking to the Mafia or some descendant of the Benizi Brothers, or worse an unscrupulous Arthurian collector in search of the goblet. I assured him that Lance was dead, referred him to Wymdown churchyard for confirmation, and told him that his family had moved away and I’d lost contact. I heard no more. International art thieves are not my speciality, I fear.’
Georgia thought this through. ‘It’s unlikely the Benizi Brothers would be so determined to track Lance down after so long.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Jago said. ‘I told you the rumours about the golden goblet had begun again. There are several blogs devoted to it.’
‘Suppose the painting Sandro mentioned was the Rossetti of Gawain and Arthur,’ Peter suggested. ‘What made Lance so sure about the provenance?’
‘Because it had been held by the same family who had bought it from Rossetti in the 1850s. What Lance could not be sure of was whether the goblet was genuine or whether it was Rossetti’s imagination at work. But he was on the brink of tracking down the scripts and other evidence to confirm its existence and reveal its whereabouts. That was the exciting news I was eager to hear when news came of his death.’
‘By Gad, the jewels of Prester John,’ breathed Sam, open-eyed.
‘You jest, young lady,’ Jago said amiably.
She giggled. ‘I’m with you all the way, Grandpops.’
‘Maybe this painting with the goblet was the reason for Sandro’s death,’ Cindy put in quietly. ‘It all goes back to this Lance Venyon.’
‘Nah,’ snorted Sam. ‘Have a go at the Cook’s Tart for the reason. He told the old witch she was a joke.’
Could Sam or even Cindy have been Sandro’s Canterbury girlfriend? Georgia wondered. Not Cindy, she thought. She looked too businesslike to take up with such a young toy boy. ‘What about her husband?’ she asked.
‘You mean this lad was having it off with him too?’ Jago asked innocently.
Sam turned on him. ‘No joke, Prester. Sandro was all right, till the tart started poking her butt in.’
‘Would Roy Cook have had any reason to kill him?’ Peter persisted. ‘Apart from Sandro being his wife’s bit on the side?’
‘It’s possible,’ Cindy said. ‘Sandro painted for the tourist trade and we weren’t his only outlet.’
‘Could he have been mixed up with any illegal art trade?’ Georgia asked.
Cindy looked at her in amused scorn. ‘He’d hardly tell us, would he? Ask Mark. Art scams are his department.’
Of course. Georgia remembered that Mark worked on art claims for an insurance company.
‘He’s what one might call a modern equivalent of Lance, only more static and rather more formal,’ Jago explained. ‘It was more gripping in the old days.’
‘Yeah,’ Sam laughed. ‘Men with hats pulled over their eyes. Me Big Spy, you evil monster threatening civilization as we want it. Anyway, Sandro wasn’t like that. His real love was painting nudes.’
Jago fixed her with an eagle eye. ‘Sam? Not you, I trust.’
‘What of it? He stuck a new face on me each time.’
*
‘Another blank wall?’ Georgia asked Peter as they drove away. ‘Or do we have a gate this time? If Lance was on the verge of some exciting discovery, whether over the goblet or the Rossettis, or both, the possibility remains that Sandro’s grandfather was involved too.’
‘Let’s say some rubble has been cleared from our path,’ Peter replied. ‘What do you make of Jago now?’
‘A nice guy, good at fielding balls and throwing them back. Nothing leads us on.’
‘I disagree. I have a feeling the next signpost points towards Paris.’
Chapter Five
In the late spring Paris always flaunted herself at her most beautiful, Georgia thought. Here on the outskirts, it was so green that it seemed impossible that the grey of the city was only a metro ride away. Madame la Contessa d’Orvona lived in a Vincennes mansion overlooking the huge public park and chateau, and with any luck was Lance Venyon’s former lover Madeleine. If only Luke had been able to come too. He loved Paris, whereas Peter never travelled to France. From his perspective, it was the country that chose to harbour his treacherous wife Elena – albeit she was in the Dordogne several hundred miles from here. Luke could not spare the time from work, however. Even Eurostar’s speedy travel wasn’t inducement enough for him to tear himself away, and so she had decided on a quick day trip, even though that had involved getting up at the crack of dawn to join the train at Ashford.
The chance of meeting the Countess Madeleine had been too good to turn down, especially coming so hard on the heels of Peter’s prognostication that Paris might be their next stop in the hunt. There was no word yet from Venetia Wain, and Madeleine’s had been the only hopeful reply to their advertisement on their website. She had known Lance Venyon, her message stated baldly, and Marsh & Daughter were welcome to visit her.
‘Go,’ Peter had said promptly. ‘I’ve plenty to do here.’ That was true. Elaine had studied the list of named guests at the funeral, but it had rung no other bells for her than the distant relations she had mentioned. Nevertheless these all had to be followed up with the help of the old address book Elaine produced for them. Georgia also suspected he intended to have a session tracking down blogs on King Arthur.
The small formal garden between this mansion and the broad tree-lined avenue outside spoke of money in itself, Georgia thought, judging from the architecturally arranged trees and shrubs growing through a pebble base. It was impressive, yet not off-putting, perhaps because the statuary around was equally well chosen. Soft weathered-stone classical statues seemed part of the garden rather
than objects deposited there for themselves alone. It occurred to her that this was probably because they were genuine antiques rather than garden-centre offerings. Nevertheless the latter seemed to have their place too. Dotted around she could see friendly stone frogs, a heron by a small water cascade, and a stone cat regarding them thoughtfully from the shade of a bush.
What, she wondered, would she find once she was inside the house itself?
For starters, it was a maid – if a cheerful bustling middle-aged lady could answer to that description.
‘Bonjour, madame. Entrez, s’il vous plaît.’
Georgia was then escorted through an entrance hall which was a cross between the Louvre and an antiques fair. Pictures, furniture, china jostled together for the eye’s attention. She didn’t have time to take them all in before she was shown into the room where Madame la Contessa awaited her.
Once again she was taken aback. This was no ageing floozie sighing for the bohemian 1950s. The countess was tall, well-built and except for exquisite tailoring of her suit could have attended morning service in an English country church without attracting any notice for non-conformity. Even so, it was she rather than the Aladdin’s cave she was standing in who attracted the attention. Despite her obvious years – mid to late seventies? – her eyes and movements were lively as she came forward to greet Georgia.
‘It is good of you to come all this way, madame.’ Her voice was deep, almost husky, and that too had life in it.
Despite the French formality of the greeting, Georgia was now in no doubt of Madeleine’s origins. She had falsely assumed the countess was French since Lance had met her in Paris, but she wasn’t. Her walk alone proved that.
‘You’re British, madame?’ she asked.
‘I am. I haven’t lived there for many a long year, but I still think kindly of it, and visit when I can. Do sit down, please.’
‘I don’t think London could rival this.’ As she sat in the elegant armchair, Georgia glanced at the glories surrounding her, and did a double take. Surely that was an original Degas painting? And the long-case clock must date back to the eighteenth century. She had to tear herself away from further gaping at the wonders around her, but Madeleine looked amused.
