by Amy Myers
‘And Zac’s role in this?’
‘Spying out the possible forgeries. So far they’ve tracked down a so-called Turner in Elham Castle, a William Etty in a Sussex museum, a Lawrence portrait of a former lord of the manor at Egerton Grange, and a Pre-Raphaelite somewhere. They’d all suffered minor burglaries in the last three years. The Art and Antiques Unit doesn’t yet know if all of the forgeries are connected, or whether any of the paintings were copies when they were acquired. It’s inclined to the former, though. As with anything else in this field, the style, even in forgeries of others’ works, becomes familiar, as do the materials and ageing methods.’
‘Which Pre-Raphaelite?’ Peter enquired.
‘Burne-Jones, I think.’
‘King Arthurs?’ he asked hopefully.
Mike laughed. ‘Getting hung up on the gent, are you, Peter? The answer is no, as far as I recall. Anyway, I’ve cleared it for you to drop in to Roy Cook’s gallery so far as the Met is concerned. Only on the Lance Venyon front, of course. As for me, I’m not too keen, but I suppose I trust you.’
‘Is Cook a suspect for Sandro’s murder?’
‘Close,’ he replied. ‘And could get closer if he’s tied in to the Art and Antiques case. They’re pretty sure that Cook is involved in that, either as a runner for the scam or the top brain. No gun’s turned up yet for the murder. It was a semi-automatic, fired from about three feet away.’
‘Have you questioned Zac?’ she asked.
‘No. Thankfully, I’m the middleman,’ Mike said. ‘Anyway, the Met has vetoed your marching in there with Zac at your side. They wanted to veto you too, but agreed that if by chance there was a link to this Lance Venyon it might be better coming from you than us policeman plods.’
Relief. Without Zac, she would have all her antennae pointing towards Roy Cook, rather than wondering what her ex-husband might say next. Zac varied in performance; he could have an intuitive grasp of a situation, or he could plonk the largest foot in the world into it.
‘Is it OK for me to go?’ Peter asked.
‘That’s up to you to decide between you,’ Mike replied. ‘One can look casual, two – particularly with the wheelchair – might look like a deputation.’
After Mike left – rather reluctantly since the garden was cool and pleasant on a hot day – Peter decided Mike was right. He would pass on the Roy Cook front, but he maintained his right to visit the castle, which she willingly conceded. She even agreed to accompany him.
‘Any other open paths to Lance Venyon?’ she asked.
‘Professor Richard Hoskin for one. I was in touch with the son yesterday. His father was a professor of history from 1954 to 1976 at the University of Hampshire. Wrote several books, naturally; they were about the Anglo-Saxons.’
‘Not King Arthur, and how he routed them at the Battle of Badon?’
‘No mention of Arthur.’
‘Then I can’t wait.’
‘You’ll have to. The appointment’s not until Friday. Meanwhile it’s back to His Majesty.’
‘By time machine?’
‘No, by courtesy of Jago Priest. I can’t help feeling you’re right and that that churchyard is involved in this problem, even though Lance’s grave isn’t in the corner where you felt that strong atmosphere. Give it another go, will you?’
‘Just to stand in that corner?’ She was puzzled as well as reluctant.
‘No, check out that field as well. Check where they thought that treasure was buried. I’ve spoken to Jago, and he’s deputed daughter Cindy to show you the spot marked X.’
‘I can’t see that this will achieve anything. Have you been blogging again?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, Georgia, I’ve been thinking,’ he replied with dignity.
‘About what?’
‘Golden goblets.’
*
Cindy looked around the Badon House kitchen appreciatively. Georgia had picked her up at the Canterbury Park and Ride and driven her to Wymdown. Cindy proved knowledgeable about art history and it had been interesting to talk to her on her own. At their previous meeting she had been overshadowed by her ebullient father and her daughter, who was coming to pick her up in their car later after the shop had closed. Today Cindy looked far more the businesswoman, with her long smart skirt and blouse, dangly earrings and expertly applied cosmetics. Here was one very cool and confident woman, Georgia thought, who was happy to leave the role of extrovert to Sam and Jago. No business of Cindy’s would dare to fail. Nevertheless she seemed pleasant enough and certainly very fond of her father. Gwen and Terry had obviously taken to her, from the way they were chatting over tea and eclairs.
‘Dad told me he owned this place once,’ Cindy said.
‘That’s right. Do you share Jago’s theories about King Arthur?’ Georgia asked.
‘Hardly. My interests are strictly factual. What one digs up provides the basis for deduction, not the other way round. Sam is the fanciful one.’
‘Just about King Arthur?’
‘That among other myths and legends. It’s the folklore aspect that attracts her. She does rather good drawings if she sets her mind to it. Horror, chiefly.’
‘Of folklore?’ Gwen asked curiously. ‘What’s so horrid about that?’
‘Plenty. There’s a strain of fear running through it. Like life. The Hooden Horse is pretty scary to a child. The Bogey Man, the Sandman, the Green Man, all nasty things that go bump in the night and come out to grab the unwary.’
Georgia laughed. ‘Do you paint too?’
‘I take a sketchbook when I travel, but chiefly I buy it and sell it. I’ve more of an eye for that, so I’m told. Now what exactly are you hoping to find in Dad’s beloved field?’
‘A golden goblet would be nice, but short of that just the site that your father has ruled out as the location. I’m sure he must have other sites to investigate by now, as I gather he still hopes to find Gawain’s bones.’ She wouldn’t mention the churchyard – that was her own nightmare.
‘Ever see a blue moon?’ Cindy said caustically. ‘I know Arthur’s goblet is flavour of the month again at present amongst the bloggers and nutters, but you’re right: the site wouldn’t be in this field and Pops knows that. He says general attention is firmly focused on Barham Downs at present and that every Arthurian bloodhound is out there in disguise sniffing over every inch.’
‘Does your father still do his own sniffing?’
Cindy considered this. ‘I suppose he’d like one more bash. Every time I visit him I find him blogging away on the Prester John sites, or crawling over maps, past and present. Now that his first site is ruled out, he’s paying more attention to the other early churches, Coldred for instance, since that was linked to Dover Priory. And of course he’s interested in the Barham Downs area too.’
‘Because of his Battle of Badon theory?’ Georgia asked.
‘So you’ve picked that up, have you?’ Cindy looked surprised.
‘Peter did, from a blog.’
‘You are thorough. Or are you getting gold fever yourself?’ Cindy wasn’t smiling anymore.
‘It’s safe from me,’ Georgia replied lightly. ‘Our interest is only in Lance Venyon.’
‘I doubt if you’ll find him buried in the field,’ Cindy retorted drily. ‘But let’s go and look.’
Georgia was glad she hadn’t persuaded Peter to come with her. It was no place for a wheelchair. Quite apart from the narrow gateway, the field shelved more steeply than it had appeared from the churchyard end, and although it was grazed it was otherwise untended. Clumps of nettles and brambles dotted the grass, and the ground was uneven.
‘It’s down here.’ Cindy led the way to the churchyard wall on the far side of the field. ‘Pops’ theory was that the chaplains needed both a protected spot and one they could easily find again when, as they hoped, the old religion was restored. After all, even in the sixteenth century fields were ploughed and they wouldn’t have wanted to risk damage or discovery by third p
arties.’
Even though the ground was more even here, there seemed to Georgia nothing remarkable about it.
‘Pops was convinced that the earlier church preceding the current St Alban’s was nearer here, and that its ruins or foundations could well still have been in existence in the sixteenth century when the chaplains lugged the remains of Sir Gawain here. In his dreams, that is. He argued that they would want to avoid the new St Alban’s for security reasons and might have picked on the old foundations as giving extra protection. That could have meant roughly here, Pops thought, where we’re standing. After he’d found nothing, he had the geophysical survey done. He pounced on every shadow it showed. Zilch. And he was so sure. St Alban’s has a lot of Roman tiles and stuff in its construction and that would tally, Pops says, with there having been a lot of rubble around from the earlier church when they built the current one.’
Once again Georgia had an image of a solemn funeral procession of chaplains marching down from their lodgings in Badon House for a formal reburial. Gawain’s would be semi-sacred relics, and so there must have been some sort of ceremony, however brief. Even on a sunny summer’s day it was possible to believe it happening in this remote spot under its shading trees. Yews lived a long time, and the ones she was looking at could well have seen exactly what happened when the chaplains came. Or, she had to remind herself, not seen anything. Jago’s thesis had proved wrong. If the bones were anywhere, it wasn’t here.
‘Pops thought the site would have been here because of the cross. Do you see?’ Cindy pointed behind Georgia to the field they had just walked down.
At first she couldn’t, but gradually she made out what Cindy meant. There were long hummocks of land on the incline low enough almost to blend into the general unevenness of the ground. Shaped like prehistoric barrows, they crossed each other. ‘Pops felt that the remains would have been buried at its foot just here,’ Cindy explained.
Georgia could see why Jago had been so taken with the idea, but that was a long way from convincing her. ‘Three hundred and fifty years have passed,’ she objected. ‘The field wouldn’t have been the same shape then.’
‘Why not?’ Cindy asked reasonably. ‘In past ages they didn’t have a habit of building on every green site available. This would have been grazing ground for years. It’s no use for cultivation, and anyway it would have been glebe land belonging to the church. No, if there was any truth in the story at all, it must have seemed a reasonable bet for Pops that it was here.’
‘And still your father keeps the field for sentimental reasons.’ Now that she was here, Georgia could appreciate all the more Jago’s agony when his years of hope culminated in nothing.
Cindy shrugged. ‘Why not? It earns grazing rent; not much it’s true, but enough to pay for maintenance. I reckon he’ll only sell it if the goblet is actually found on Barham Downs or wherever.’
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
Cindy laughed. ‘I told you, I deal in facts. Sam’s view is that as there’s a consensus, the dratted goblet must exist, and so it’s just a question of where. The Ringlemere Cup was found more or less by chance, so maybe this one will be too. We’ve even had enthusiasts turning up at St Alban’s even though Pops has been careful not to draw attention to Wymdown and his exploded theory. Each one blogs away hoping to steal a march on someone else’s theory while jealously guarding his or her own.’
‘Her own? Not gender-orientated, then?’
‘No way. One blogger believes the village of Womenswold holds the goblet, simply because of feminist principles – regardless of the fact that the village’s name originally meant forest of the warriors; another that the goblet must be in Wales because Guinevere is a Welsh name, and so on.’
‘What about the Kent Archaeological Society? Are they involved?’
‘Not to my knowledge. They require solid evidence, as I do. There’s masses of Roman, pre-Roman and early Anglo-Saxon stuff dug up in Kent, especially round here, and even if such a goblet were found it’s a big step to its being connected with Arthur. Pops reckons that if it was Arthur’s personal goblet then it might be ornamented with his personal bear symbol, so that might help.’
Georgia’s mind flashed back to the painting, and the possible animal relief on the goblet, then firmly brought herself back to reality. ‘But you’re inclined to believe it’s all a South Sea Bubble of fantasy?’ Even if there had been such ornamentation in the painting, it could provide no evidence without Antonio agreeing to its undergoing modern tests.
‘Of course it’s probably fantasy,’ Cindy agreed. ‘But I admit to a tiny doubt. Just suppose it’s not. Something has sparked this story off again, and suppose it was hard evidence that did so, not just gold fever.’
Georgia tried to keep the lid on speculation. ‘Does the name Richard Hoskin mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing. Should it?’
‘He’s someone who claims to have known Lance Venyon, and therefore might also have been a friend of your father’s. And Lance,’ Georgia said firmly, ‘is the reason I’m here, though it’s hard to remember at times.’
‘You still think he was murdered, don’t you?’ She looked at Georgia curiously.
‘There are grounds for it. Did your father have any further thoughts about it?’
‘You shook him,’ Cindy admitted. ‘He doesn’t see how the murder could be connected with Sir Gawain and Arthur, though. He’d be more inclined to think one of Lance’s ladies pushed him overboard.’
The sudden arrival of Sam prevented Georgia from taking this further.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Sam was coming through the churchyard gate, her bright auburn hair making a vivid splash of colour among the dark green of the trees and bushes.
‘The tour’s over,’ Cindy called out to her. ‘Sir Gawain has ridden off, taking his goblet with him.’
‘You shouldn’t mock it,’ Sam said fiercely. ‘It’s our roots.’
‘Sorry,’ Cindy answered peaceably. ‘We’re just checking the roots of Sir Gawain, if that’s OK by you.’
‘One look from you, Mum, and any self-respecting legend would wither in its historical bed. She’s a cynic, Georgia.’ Sam turned to her. ‘She doesn’t see the point of investigating anything you can’t touch. Grandpops is much more sensible.’
‘Sensible?’ Cindy threw at her. ‘Who buys a home the size of Badon House just for a whim?’
‘Someone with soul, Mum.’
Soul again. Soul of King Arthur, soul of the Mona Lisa, soul of the goblet. And it all boiled down to a patch of barren ground, here where Georgia was standing. Why had Peter been so keen that she should check it out?
Georgia could hear Sam and Cindy’s argument continuing after they had said their farewells and were returning to the car. She was about to return to the comfort of Gwen’s tea and cakes herself, when she remembered with sinking heart Peter’s request about the churchyard. The creepiness might have gone by now, she comforted herself as the gate creaked eerily in the stillness, but she changed her mind as she reached the corner where Sandro’s body had lain. The atmosphere was just as stultifying as she had found it earlier. Here she had stood that evening, here by this gravestone where she had first seen the hand. And still that coldness persisted, a shiver stemming not from the sun or from the tragedy of Sandro Daks, but from something else. Did this, could this, connect to Lance Venyon? She still couldn’t see how. She was chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, and it seemed trapped in this corner.
‘Peaceful place, isn’t it?’
She turned round, half expecting to find the young curate she had met before. Instead it was an old man, whom for the moment she didn’t recognize. Then she realized it was the former vicar whom she’d met at the wedding.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he said politely. ‘I visit my old church from time to time. St Alban’s was my favourite. The nearest to God, perhaps. Are you still hunting for Lance Venyon?’ he enquired. ‘You asked me about him when we last met.�
�
‘Yes. Sandro Daks, the young man who was murdered, had mentioned that Lance was a friend of his grandfather’s. It rang no bells with Elaine Holt, though.’
‘Nor with me. I have nevertheless been thinking about Lance quite a lot since you mentioned him. Odd the way some small thing can trigger one’s mind into motion, and then it refuses to stop. It has an obliging way of producing items from the back of one’s mind.’
‘And did it over Lance?’ This sounded hopeful.
‘It did indeed. Lance and the goblet.’
‘King Arthur’s?’ Did everyone in the world know about it?
‘I can see you’ve heard of it. Lance told me some story about it. So far as I recall, he was helping a friend to track down the cave Arthur’s supposed to be buried in, and fully expected to find the goblet too. He was optimistic of a result soon. I was far less optimistic but nevertheless intrigued. After all, it might have meant a relic for St Alban’s.’
‘You don’t remember where he thought the cave was?’ Was this a new line or Lance spinning a variation on the real story? The latter, she guessed.
‘Alas, no. Dreams always break off at the vital moment, I’m afraid, and my memory often does the same. I do recall the day Lance left here, however, and this is not by summoning up some false memory. He was in his car, and told me he was off to Hythe – or was it Dover? – to go sailing. I wished them a happy journey, not realizing of course that I’d never see him again.’
‘Them?’ she picked up, with a quickening sense of excitement. ‘He wasn’t alone?’
He looked startled. ‘Did I say that?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Of course. That’s why I remembered. He had a woman with him.’
‘His wife? Venetia Wain?’
‘No. I’d have remembered if so. She was a stranger to me.’
*
‘Just how much reliance can we place on the vicar’s memory?’ Peter asked, when she returned to Haden Shaw.
‘Not a lot,’ Georgia replied regretfully. ‘How can he be so sure of the day?’
