by Amy Myers
As Margaret came in Peter scented an ally in his indispensable carer. ‘What’s your view of King Arthur?’
‘Richard Harris,’ she said briefly. ‘In Camelot. And lunch is in half an hour.’ She removed the coffee cups and disappeared.
‘There you are, you see,’ Georgia declared. ‘Arthur’s a dead duck historically. Only survives on celluloid.’
‘And in the passions of men, Georgia.’
*
The seaside proved to be further away than the Kentish coast. Venetia Wain lived on the outskirts of Bognor Regis in Sussex, and when on the following Wednesday Georgia drove there with Peter it took them past familiar territory, as they had visited the air museum at Tangmere during their last case to meet former Spitfire pilots. Aldwick, where Venetia lived, was where George V had famously stayed with his Bognor-loving wife Queen Mary, despite uttering the famous royal words of ‘Bugger Bognor’. His Majesty had hardly been staying in the worst part of town here, Georgia thought, as she drove along the Aldwick road after leaving the Bognor promenade. The sea could lift one’s spirits even on a dull day such as this, especially in a town getting ready for the holiday season. Unfortunately it had displayed little of its Regency splendour, but here and there she had had glimpses of a more gracious past.
Venetia lived on a newish estate, in a pleasant yellow-brick home with lattice windows, and from the size of the garden alone it spoke of a leisured retirement – though that was probably an illusion in today’s world.
A ring at the doorbell brought instant response from a barking dog, which was rapidly silenced with a firm, ‘Quiet, Falstaff,’ from within. The door was opened by a small wiry lady of about eighty, and a collie’s head was poking suspiciously round its owner’s legs.
‘Let’s sort out the wheelchair,’ she said briskly after greeting them, and summing the situation up. ‘Round the back, I think.’
Peter had said that Venetia had simply brushed this issue aside on the telephone with a casual ‘we’ll manage’. ‘That could mean anything,’ he had forecast gloomily, ‘from a long flight of steps to a privy at the end of the garden.’ In this case, fortunately, it merely meant entering through large French windows at the rear of the house and a ground-floor bathroom.
‘I’d move in tomorrow,’ Peter said gratefully.
‘Delighted.’ Venetia disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Falstaff to entertain them, and returned with a medley of coffee cups in a variety of different chinas and colours. ‘Now,’ she said, seating herself in an upright chair, ‘you want to talk about my old lover Lance. Not so old when I met him, of course.’
Georgia was relieved. So far no sign of the serpent, even if she could believe in the Eve. Venetia must have been stunning when younger. ‘I was wondering how we would broach the subject. Your daughter explained that you weren’t very well, so we didn’t want to spring it on you.’
Venetia waved this aside. ‘Maureen says that to everyone. Some people are such bores. They want to ask frightfully technical questions about sailing, and I’ve long since put all that out of my mind. Or else they want to probe what my innermost thoughts might have been out there alone on the ocean. Most of the time it was what to have for supper.’
‘Do you still sail?’ Peter asked.
‘As a passenger only. I’ve a dog to think of.’
‘You take him with you?’ Georgia misunderstood.
Venetia laughed. ‘Hardly. He prefers the smells of dry land. What’s your interest in Lance and me? I’ve looked at your website, but I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘His wife’ – Peter launched into the by now familiar words – ‘didn’t believe that Lance’s death was an accident. She thought he was murdered.’
‘Of course he was.’
Venetia’s reply, even more assured than Madeleine’s, flabbergasted Georgia and she could see that Peter was equally taken aback, so much so that Venetia looked astonished. ‘Well, presumably you do too or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘We were expecting a blank look of surprise,’ Georgia confessed. ‘That’s what the response often is. Especially as in this case we haven’t yet come up with firm evidence of murder.’
‘Surely even the murderer would be surprised,’ Venetia said drily. ‘It’s well over forty years ago. He or she would assume it over and done with. Have one of my scones – they’re as hard as ship’s biscuits, but no weevils, I assure you.’
This procedure took some time, but allowed them a respite to readjust, especially since the scones were delicious. ‘Why are you so sure he was murdered?’ Peter asked.
‘Lance wasn’t the type to have an accident by falling overboard. He loved life too much to let it cheat him that way. He never drank when he sailed, he was never much of a drinker anyway. He obeyed the rules of the water, which I suppose was odd as he never obeyed any on land.’
‘Such as?’ Peter enquired politely.
‘Marriage for a start,’ Venetia said cheerfully. ‘He led Mary a worm’s life – I can’t say dog’s, since Falstaff finds his rather good. I know I contributed to Mary’s worm’s life but if it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else, and anyway there were several someone elses.’
‘You mean he wasn’t serious about you – I’m sorry,’ Georgia apologized belatedly when Venetia didn’t answer.
‘I take no offence,’ Venetia said at last. ‘I was thinking how to define serious. Yes, Lance was serious. I was serious too. I loved the damned man for a while, but it was serious between us within given boundaries. We both knew we were too similar for a marriage to work between us; he was already married to Mary and saw no need to alter the situation. I was married too, with a husband I didn’t much love, but with a child that I did.’
‘It must have been difficult for you,’ Georgia said.
Venetia looked amused. ‘Not at all. I was away sailing for weeks at a time, and Lance was travelling. We met abroad, we met in England, but seldom in Wymdown, except socially. Then we were all the best of friends. It worked splendidly, especially as I’m pretty sure both our spouses knew anyway, and chose for their own reasons to ignore it.’
‘Have you any ideas as to who murdered him and why?’
‘I could have done, for a start,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ll have to decide whether I did. A nice puzzle for you. We could have a murder weekend, and write your book for you.’
‘We’d need a little evidence,’ Peter pointed out.
‘Signed confession, that sort of thing?’
Whether or not Venetia was a suspect, she was certainly an eccentric. ‘That would be a start,’ Georgia said, ‘but I’d hate to be sued on the grounds that it was false.’
‘Very well. Let us be earnest.’ Venetia pulled a face. ‘I could have killed Lance, believe me. I had reason to. I was in Wymdown when he died. We had arranged to meet on the 13th in Hythe, the day before he vanished.’
‘You were actually in Hythe that day?’ Peter asked.
‘I should have been. I had a call from him just before I set out, telling me something had come up. He sounded flustered, which was most unlike Lance. He said he couldn’t make it after all.’
‘Did you take that to mean he wasn’t going himself or that he didn’t want to meet you?’
‘Whatever I took it to be, he clearly meant the latter.’
‘Mary Venyon testified at the inquest that he was expecting to meet someone that afternoon, presumably in Hythe. Was that you?’
‘I wouldn’t know. We’d arranged to meet at sixish, have a meal and sleep on board, perhaps go sailing the next day.’
‘He didn’t mention another visitor before you? I’m meeting X at three so you come at six – that sort of thing?’
Venetia regarded him with an amused eye. ‘It’s a long time ago, but I’m sure I’d have remembered something as obvious as that – I’d even have told the police. As it was, I knew nothing, and I was off the hook to get over the shock by myself. That was tough, especially when
the boat was found. Of course if I’d pushed him off it, it wouldn’t have been a shock,’ she added straight-faced.
‘True. Did you have any reason to kill him?’
‘Oh yes,’ was her casual admission.
‘And that was?’ Peter took this in his stride.
‘Patience. I’ll tell you, but first you must understand what Lance was like. I once told him somewhat savagely that he was like the sea. I’d call him Father Neptune from time to time, to which he replied that I was Mother Carey. She looks after the souls of drowned sailors, doesn’t she? Daft, the things you call each other when you’re in love. Lance claimed I’d have a job with his soul, and he was right. He could be kind and thoughtful, a good lover on a calm blue-skied day, with just the occasional swish of waves lapping on the beach, but there were times when one couldn’t predict him at all. The tide was out. I could never reach where he was then, nor did I want to. There were times when the tide was racing in, when he was all set to go haring off on a project, sweeping all before him, not caring what wreckage he caused. There were times when he was as buoyant as the Dead Sea, supporting you by the sheer force of his personality. But there were also the times when he’d let you sink like a stone without a moment’s hesitation. And there were the stormy times, bad weather ahead. Batten down the hatches. Stay in harbour. Anchor where you can. Lance is heading this way.’
‘Which mood was he in at the time he disappeared?’
‘I saw him the day before he left for Hythe. I’d say the mood was stay in harbour. Storm rapidly approaching.’
‘From which direction? Did he give any idea?’
‘No, but he’d been preoccupied for some days. I’d see his car nipping up the hill on the Barfrestone Road. Jago Priest had bought Badon House—’ She glanced at them. ‘You’ve heard of him?’ When Georgia nodded, she continued, ‘Mary and Lance kept an eye on the place for him, arranged for work to be done and so forth. It wasn’t unusual to see one or other of them nipping up there, but I noticed Lance going that way several times, usually alone or with Mary, but once with a young man.’
‘Do you know who that was?’ Peter asked.
‘Oddly enough, I did ask him casually about it, and he said his name was Michael. Nothing more, and the mood was definitely storm brewing. Silly, isn’t it, the details one remembers?’
‘Perhaps you remember it because something struck you as odd about it, and maybe that was only because Lance was indicating bad weather ahead.’
‘No. More likely retreating into the place I couldn’t reach. Far-distant lands.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact, we’d met in Canterbury by chance on the 12th, had a flaming row and he broke it off. I twitted him about being Jago’s caretaker, or some such mild joke. He went ballistic. Accused me of spying on him, trying to possess him. As if I’d want him lock, stock and barrel. No way. He told me whatever feelings he had for me were over. It was getting too hot. He hardly bothered to be polite, which was unlike him. The Lance I thought I knew had vanished for good.’
‘You said he was changeable. Why did you think this was different?’ Georgia asked. This was beginning to add up. When she had told Zac that she knew about his antics, he too had just changed. No attempt to hide and, for the moment, a brief one, he had been stripped of all pretences.
‘I did say that,’ Venetia agreed. ‘This time I knew there would be no coming back. You learn that at sea too. Rules are OK, but it’s the fine-tuning that gets you to know the sea and quick reactions that keep you alive. It was the same in my private life. I knew I needed to react quickly, so I broke it off.’
‘You said that he did,’ Peter reminded her.
‘Did I? Perhaps it was mutual. Let’s just say that by 13 September 1961, the day before Lance disappeared, we were not in a state of harmony, and the phone call finished it. That meeting we had arranged in Hythe was simply for me to pick up some of my possessions that I’d left on the boat.’ She paused. ‘Believe it or not, I still find it painful to recall the shock of Lance’s turnaround.’
‘But you were not only going to meet him’ – Georgia was puzzled – ‘but stay overnight and go sailing.’
Venetia grimaced. ‘Yes. We’d already made the arrangement and given the appropriate excuses to our spouses. After the break-up, there were still things to discuss, some of my possessions were in his boat and vice versa. So we thought we might as well meet and get it over with, though I doubt if I could have stayed over as planned. Too much emotion. Then came the phone call cancelling it.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I acted like any irrational woman. I went to see Mary, of course.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I can see that shocks you.’
‘Let’s say surprises,’ Georgia amended.
‘Do you always behave with dignity in such situations?’ Venetia looked from Peter to Georgia.
Youch. Georgia thought of Peter when her mother Elena had walked out, of herself and Zac, and couldn’t answer yes. Even so she wondered whether she would openly admit it as Venetia had. Perhaps when she was eighty she would be able to look back objectively and do so, although she doubted it. ‘No. I have lapses,’ she confessed. Peter said nothing.
Venetia nodded. ‘I had a lapse that afternoon, and I’ve never regretted it. Tell me, what do you know about Mary? Quiet, stay-at-home, the devoted wife Lance could always come back to?’
‘Yes,’ Georgia agreed.
‘A stereotype, and people are rarely that, save superficially. Mary was all those things. She was also devious, spiteful and ruthless. Her life centred on one person: Lance. Not even – though this is not for the record – on her daughter. That changed after his death, save that his memory became sacrosanct. While he was alive, nothing got in the way of her determination to retain Lance for herself. Not even Lance could break that steely grip. She used a long chain but a very strongly forged one. Mary knew about me, I’m sure, just as she knew about his other affairs. I was different because I was on her home patch. I’m sure it was she who decided that it was time my husband knew – not that he cared.’
‘Was it she who persuaded Lance to end the affair?’
‘I wish I could say yes, but I can’t. She didn’t like me, and was wary of my influence, but it suited her. It gave Lance a thrill of excitement in his home village that she couldn’t provide, and I suspect that she feared that this time if it came to a battle she’d lose him, if not by divorce, then emotionally.’
‘For the same reason she tolerated his friendship with Jago Priest?’
‘Yes. What happened to that dry old stick? I met him once when he owned Badon House. We moved away not long after Lance died so I lost track – not that I wanted one.’
‘He’s alive and well, and no longer particularly dry.’
‘Mellowed with age, then. Still living in Paris?’
‘No. In England.’
‘Good grief. These potty fanatics must keep going because they won’t let go of their pet theories. Still banging on about King Arthur, is he?’
Georgia braced herself.
‘He is,’ Peter said, avoiding her eye. ‘King Arthur too is alive and well and living in a cave in Kent, together with his goblet and a few scrolls as an ID card in case he’s woken up by the motorway noise. Did Lance talk about him?’
‘About King Arthur? I don’t remember. He might have. He talked mostly about places, paintings, people, Paris – that was his first love.’
‘Did he mention Antonio Benizi?’
‘He didn’t talk about him that I recall, but I met him and his wife, the famous Madeleine. That was Antonio, wasn’t it? Small, Italian, dark-haired, quicksilver brain—’
Georgia thought of Antonio now. Silvered certainly, but how quick? Quick to outwit her? She had come away with nothing tangible save a sight of the painting – and that was by his design.
‘Yes, and they knew Jago in Paris too, being Lance’s best friend.’
‘Best friend?’ Venetia looked at them oddly.
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’ Georgia was taken by surprise.
Venetia began to laugh. ‘Typical of Lance to give that impression – and for Jago to perpetuate it. Lance loathed Jago. No doubt about it.’
Peter shot a startled look at Georgia, and she could see her own shock reflected in his face. So much for knowing Lance the man.
‘By loathe, do you mean really hated, or disliked? They were in Paris for some years together and you said that Lance looked after Badon House for Jago.’
‘I use words precisely. He loathed him,’ Venetia said in answer. ‘At least,’ she amended, ‘during the time he knew me. That would have been from about 1958 to the time of his death. I suppose when they first met there might have been a time that he tolerated him.’
‘But why did he hate him?’ Jago seemed affable enough, Georgia thought, and he implied that he and Lance were on the best of terms. ‘Did Jago do something to offend Lance?’
‘One could say that.’
‘What on earth was it?’
‘He married Jennifer.’
Of course, Georgia thought. She’d been asleep at the switch. Madeleine had said something about that, but surely she had implied such feelings had passed when Lance married Mary.
‘Is she still alive?’ Venetia continued.
‘No. She died two years ago. Is Jennifer important in Lance’s story?’
‘Was Guinevere to Lancelot?’
‘Are you telling us that Lance stayed in love with Jennifer?’ Peter asked evenly, as Georgia grappled with the implications.
Venetia nodded. ‘And believe me, I should know. That’s why he stayed in touch with Jago, his so-called best friend. A great joke, as Lance saw it. Jennifer was the place in his mind that I could never reach.’
‘You said Lancelot,’ Georgia asked carefully. ‘Does that imply they were having an affair after she married Jago?’
‘I expect so. Not openly. Like Guinevere, Jennifer knew which side her bread was buttered on. All I know is that the lady had taken up permanent residence in his heart, his mind and his love life. To misquote a now well-known phrase, there were three of us in Lance’s and my pillow talk.’
