by Amy Myers
Peter looked at her in frustration. ‘For the first time I feel at a loss. Venyon keeps slipping away from us. How do we catch hold of him? He’s as slippery as an eel. If it wasn’t for King Arthur, I’d chuck this one in. And even he’s going nowhere. I’d hoped your seeing the actual site might have sparked something off.’
Unexpectedly his pessimistic mood made Georgia more positive. ‘Don’t give up yet,’ she said. ‘Question one: do we think there’s something odd about Venyon’s death?’
‘Yes, but I haven’t a clue what it is.’
‘Question two: do you think there’s a link between Antonio Benizi, his painting, Lance, Jago, perhaps Jennifer and the fabled golden goblet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Question three: and a link with Sandro Daks?’
Peter hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Question four: just because it’s difficult do we want to give it up?’
He looked at her gratefully. ‘Phrase it more positively.’
‘Question four: are we going forward even though it’s foggy?’
‘Yes.’
Antonio Benizi might, she acknowledged, have led them into a deliberate maze, but even mazes had centres as well as exits. It was finding them that was the problem.
*
Richard Hoskin lived in the far hinterland of the village of Burwash, nestling in a narrow lane. It was the sort, Georgia thought, that might lead either to a dead end or to a major highway at a moment’s notice. This one, she discovered, did not conform. It wound on and on, up hill and down dale until she wondered whether she’d mistaken the way. Just as she began to think this was the case, Hillsview miraculously appeared, at least the plaque by the gateway told her so. Of the house itself there was no sign. It must be shrouded in trees, which made its name inappropriate.
Its driveway led to a large Victorian mock-gothic home, ugly but comfortable-looking. It was clearly Barry, the son, who opened the door. He must be in his mid-sixties, she estimated, and seemed an unlikely carer for an ageing relative; he was a vigorous, outdoor man, with a bronzed face and athletic build. He exuded welcome, however, for which today she was more than usually grateful.
As soon as they went into the pleasant living room it was clear just why his father needed a carer. Professor Richard Hoskin was sitting in an upright armchair, with vacant eyes, and a pleased expression with which she imagined he greeted all visitors.
‘How did you pick up our request for information?’ she asked after introductions had been made.
Richard Hoskin continued smiling, and it was Barry who answered cheerily: ‘My father uses the Internet, don’t you, Dad?’
A vigorous nod from his father, so Alzheimer’s had not completely claimed him. ‘Lance,’ he agreed brightly, which was a hopeful sign.
‘You feed the name into Google every so often, don’t you, Dad?’ Barry prompted. ‘Yours was the first site it returned so it excited him,’ he explained to Georgia.
Another vigorous nod.
‘Was Lance a friend of yours?’ Georgia asked him, but nothing came in response.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help,’ Barry said, dashing her hopes. ‘I’d never heard the name until I saw Dad typing it one day and asked him about it.’
‘What did he reply?’
‘He said Arthur.’
Of course. This was squaring the circle yet again. ‘Do you know why?’ she asked without much hope, but Barry shook his head. ‘Do you know Jago Priest?’ she persevered with the professor.
His eyes shifted and he looked puzzled. First he shook his head, but then nodded.
‘A friend of yours?’
A shake of the head as Richard Hoskin lost interest in Jago.
‘How do you know Lance Venyon?’ she prompted, hoping Jago’s name might have helped shift a block.
‘Yes.’
This was encouraging at least. ‘In the art world?’
‘Raphael.’
‘Your favourite painter is Raphael?’ Another blank. ‘Lance specialized in Raphael’s paintings?’ Nothing. Was Raphael all he could manage of Pre-Raphaelites? She had a sudden hope. ‘Lance and Rossetti’s paintings of King Arthur?’ Nothing. Try another tack. ‘You’re a professor of history, specializing in the Anglo-Saxon period, so does that include the Arthurian age? King Arthur fought the Saxons.’
Jackpot. This produced an excited gabble of words, between him and Barry, which she couldn’t follow. Barry looked at her doubtfully. ‘She wouldn’t be interested, Dad.’
What was this about, Georgia wondered in frustration. At the moment she’d be interested in anything.
‘Lance,’ the professor said again, making moves to struggle up from the chair. Something was obviously afoot, as Barry went over to help him.
‘He wants me to take you to see his special room,’ he told her. ‘Be warned.’
There was no point in her asking which room and why she should be wary. She’d go with the flow.
‘This way.’ Barry indicated the French windows, leading into the garden, and she went outside. It was a large garden, and it must have been part of an old farm at one time, because at one side was an old barn, much older than the house, tiled and restored. A garage? she wondered, as she waited for Barry to help his father outside. She’d once gone to see someone she had set down as a dull old stick only to find he had a 1903 Dion Bouton in perfect condition in a similar barn and more classics in the garden, or rather automobilia junkyard. That was Peter’s sphere of interest, and so he had been highly annoyed at having missed it.
This garden, however, was spectacularly neat and well kept. Each flower knew its place, and no weeds had been allowed to block their nourishment. Barry was leading his father straight to the barn, which implied this was the special room, and she followed at their side. Coming in from the sunshine as he opened the door, she could see nothing in the gloom, until Barry switched on the lights.
Not just any lights. Not just any special room. She was transported to Camelot, as a thousand candlelights lit the raised platform at the far end. There was a round table, similar to the ones she had seen in tourist towns, but at this one twelve knights in full armour were sitting. At least it had baulked at the thirty or more knights suggested by Malory. The Siege Perilous had been left empty. An intense light shone on it, creating the impression that Sir Galahad would come racing in with the Grail at any moment. For all their democratic seating arrangements at the Round Table, however, Arthur was clearly marked out as head of the court, and behind him was a simpering Guinevere. Morgana la Fay peeped in on the scene from the rear and Merlin stood as a maître d’ to the proceedings at one side of the platform.
Richard Hoskin cooed contentedly to himself as he gazed on his creation, which she enthusiastically admired.
‘Lance Venyon?’ she then asked him tentatively, wondering how he came into this story. Hoskin nodded, waving a hand towards the sides of the barn, almost invisible in the dim light. Some more juggling by Barry with the light switches, and the stage was darkened, taking Camelot back into fairyland, and the rest of the barn illuminated. Now she was no longer in Hollywood but in a museum. Every wall was covered with ancient swords and helmets, while display cases were filled with pottery, rings, bowls and bronzes. She wandered up and down, half puzzled, half admiring. What had this to do with Venyon? Nothing that she could see, so why was she here?
Another case displayed fragments of parchment in a language she didn’t recognize. The original script of Beowulf, perhaps? Certainly fragments showing miniature exquisite pictures were of battle scenes, and Viking ships – or, she thought suddenly, of the Battle of Dover? Could they possibly have come from the chaplains’ supposedly lost record of the Arthurian story? Another was in a different script, looking somewhat more modern, and with a picture of three monks praying. Or were they the three chaplains of St Mary-in-the-Castle?
‘Do you know where all this came from?’ she asked Barry, having made the appropriate noises of appreciation to his
father.
‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.’ He looked genuinely apologetic. ‘This lot wasn’t here when I left for university in 1958; then there was a spell in the army and some years abroad, so I was only really aware of it when I came back after Mum’s death. He said it was part of his work, and Camelot was just his way of having fun. Not being interested in the subject I never questioned it. After all, even after he retired, he still wrote research papers and articles, as well as a book or two.’
‘The collection must have some value, from its sheer quantity.’
‘Especially to the bloggers.’
Georgia looked at Barry in astonishment. ‘He knows about blogging?’
‘He’s glued to blogs for a considerable part of each day under the code-name Camelot. It beats television hollow.’
Hoskin must be too ill to take much active part now, but the past might still be vivid to him, if only she could reach it.
‘Lance Venyon,’ she tried again, then with a pause between each name: ‘Jago Priest. King Arthur’s goblet, Sir Gawain. Rossetti, St Mary-in-the-Castle, Wymdown.’ Nothing, so as a last resort she tried ‘Raphael’ again.
She listened hopefully as another excited babble flowed but all she could make out were the words ‘Michelangelo’ and ‘Lance’s hat’. Hat? She tried Raphael again, but only received the same reply.
‘I’m afraid that looks like it,’ Barry said apologetically. ‘I’d better close up here.’ Georgia took the hint, giving a frustrated look at this wonderland. Whatever secrets it held, if any, were further away than Camelot itself.
Chapter Ten
‘You’ll be delighted to hear that Professor Hoskin is a fan,’ Georgia announced. Peter had asked her to call in before returning to Medlars, and she had been happy to do so. She was looking forward to describing the glories of Camelot.
‘Good,’ Peter replied with relish. ‘Tell me more.’
‘The bad news is that there’s precious little to take us forward. His memory is all but gone, save for odd snatches from the past.’
‘Such as? There’s many a pearl in a closed oyster.’
Georgia doubted that, but obediently related what little the visit had produced before embarking on Camelot. His reaction to this, plus her description of the museum, was all she could have hoped for, which compensated for her meagre offering in the way of hard information.
‘So in fact,’ Peter summed up, ‘all we know for sure is that the professor admires Raphael and Michelangelo and that Lance had a hat. Well done.’
She laughed. ‘Thanks. Luke—’
‘Ah yes. Luke. Our publisher, who, it seems, will not be awarding us the most generous contract in the world for this case. Can you do anything about warming him to the potential of this project?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Then we can consider the possibility that Professor Hoskin did mean the Pre-Raphaelites and not Raphael and that therefore he was somehow involved with Rossetti’s painting. More immediately, it’s time to visit Dover to discover what you can about Sandro’s link with Venyon.’
Visions of Zac hovered uncomfortably near.
Peter was watching her carefully. Spot on as usual. ‘Did you tell Luke about your meeting Zac in Paris?’
‘No.’
‘Foolish of you. Zac rang me today to suggest a date. I told him Mike had vetoed the trip, and he took it with suspicious equanimity. I should tell Luke about his reappearance, if I were you.’
‘There’s no need. Zac won’t be there,’ she said mutinously. Trust Zac to ring Peter direct.
Peter sighed. ‘Sometimes, Georgia,’ he announced, ‘dearly as I love you, you can be very trying to live with. Has that occurred to you?’
‘Yes. Door closed.’
‘Very well. Now that we are temporarily enclosed in our own kingdom let us concentrate on its concerns. I have had a whole day to reflect on them. King Arthur and his goblet. Firstly, your point about the painting having been in the plural when Jago referred to it, but contradicted by Antonio. I have checked. The Benizis have no branch in Vienna. They do in Budapest, and the branch is run by Roberto Benizi.’
Shock waves ran through Georgia. Her error? No, she was sure of that. ‘A mistake,’ she said defiantly.
‘Tut, tut. You can do better than that. Secondly, we need to know more about Jago’s wife Jennifer and perhaps about Dover Castle.’
‘Dover Castle?’ she repeated in bewilderment.
‘Seeing the site Jago dug failed to spark off anything helpful, but Dover might. Anyway, I want to go there. You can see Cook alone; we’ll meet in the Castle car park. But Jago first.’
*
‘What did you think of Arthur’s field?’ Jago chuckled, settling into his garden chair. For mid-June, the weather was extremely warm and his garden was a welcome escape from the closeness of the house.
‘Cindy was a first-class guide.’
‘She’s wasted selling arty-crafty stuff. She should be out there digging for victory like Sam,’ Jago said.
‘Or for Sir Gawain,’ Georgia joked.
‘If only I was sure of where,’ Jago replied. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Lance must have got hold of the vital clue as to where those bones lie.’
‘You still believe they are to be found?’
He looked surprised. ‘Of course. A good thesis never dies, it just awaits proof. And proof is always around the next corner. That’s what Jennifer used to say. She was a great encourager. Look, have I shown you our wedding photo?’ He struggled out of his chair and went inside the house, emerging with a framed photograph.
Jennifer was indeed spectacular, Georgia acknowledged, delighted to be shown this without even having to ask. Even in the formal 1950s fashions, with the pinched waist, and full petticoats and little hat, Jennifer looked as if she, like Helen of Troy, could launch a thousand ships. She stared out at Georgia faintly smiling, enigmatic within the oval perfection of her face. At her side was a much younger Jago. With age he had filled out, was almost bald and had added the beard obviously to compensate for the lack of hair above. Bespectacled and earnest-looking, Jago looked almost nervous of his beautiful wife.
‘Was Lance at your wedding?’ she asked.
‘Certainly. He was our best man.’ Jago bustled inside once more and came out with another photo, not framed this time. ‘This is my favourite,’ he said. ‘It was taken after the civil wedding; we had the church service afterwards.’
There was the same perfect face; this time Guinevere was sandwiched between her Arthur and her Lancelot, and the shortest of the three, although the eye went immediately to her. Much the same as Jago, Lance looked the adventurer, challenging the camera, as though he found life a perpetual joke. It fitted with the image that Antonio had painted of him, but, Georgia reflected, if Jennifer had been the love of his life, then in this photograph that could hardly have been the truth. Lance must have been displaying a brave face to the outside world.
‘Is Mary Venyon in this photograph?’ She peered at the indistinct row standing behind the trio.
‘I don’t think Lance had even met her then.’
‘Or Madeleine?’
‘Of course. She was Jennifer’s great friend, although I’m afraid that she and I did not get on well.’
‘She was one of the two of Lance’s lovers you referred to earlier.’
He looked surprised. ‘I don’t believe I said that. A great friend of his, certainly, but if they slept together it was never mentioned, not even between Jennifer and myself. Venetia Wain was the most serious threat to Mary.’
Apart from Jennifer, Georgia thought. That gorgeous face smiled out at her like Mona Lisa’s. She is older than the rocks among which she sits. Someone had once written that of the Mona Lisa, and it surely applied to Jennifer Priest too. The timeless tug of sex, Eve’s power over Adam. ‘You didn’t tell us that Madeleine married Antonio Benizi,’ she said.
‘Didn’t I?’ Jago looked puzzl
ed. ‘How could I have forgotten that? I suppose because we lost touch so long ago. I did tell you – didn’t I? – that the Benizi Brothers were interested in the Arthur paintings that Lance told me about?’
Paintings in the plural again, she noted. ‘Antonio Benizi only recalls one.’
‘Does he?’ Jago thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps he is right, I can’t be sure. Mists of time and all that.’
Yet Antonio was sure – or was he? And what difference could it possibly make? She needed to move on. ‘Antonio and Madeleine Benizi took me to the house where the faker Domenico Kranowski lived with his family. Did you know them?’
From his reaction it obviously rang a bell. ‘I didn’t know Domenico. I knew of him. A talented family.’
‘Could he have faked those Arthurian paintings?’ She was interested to see if he would come up with the same reply as Benizi.
He did, looking surprised. ‘No. Lance would have been on to that right away.’
She decided to say nothing about the painting that hung in the Benizi bedroom. Fitting a jigsaw piece into the wrong place could hinder or ruin the chances of solving the puzzle. Go carefully, she thought. ‘Lance must have seen the painting of Gawain, so didn’t you ask if you could too?’
‘Of course,’ he replied promptly. ‘But he explained it was a delicate matter. If I, a known Arthurian enthusiast, was seen to be interested it would raise the price immediately and the paintings could well go to the highest bidder – which could not have been me. I did not have the funds either for that or for the script that could have revealed where the goblet lay.’
‘Which also, forgive me, could have been faked.’
‘Dear me, you are pessimistic.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It could, but highly unlikely. Fortunately, the catalogue of the contents of the Dover Priory library survives, disclosing that one of its spheres of interest was early British history, scripts obviously written in earlier times by the monks. One such for instance was called Histories of the Britons and Early English Kings. A fire at the priory had destroyed many treasures, and between that and Henry VIII’s bloody-mindedness just think what records confirming Arthur’s life and presence in Dover might have been lost to the world. Or even still exist somewhere. Who knows? There could well have been a record by the chaplains at St Mary-in-the-Castle containing the Arthur story, the presence of the goblet and exactly what there was in the way of Sir Gawain’s remains and possessions. His sword, for example. Perhaps a buckle. There might even have been a disguised clue as to where they intended to take their precious relics if they were ever threatened. Since the church was within the precincts of the King’s own property, the chaplains would have felt their loyalties divided. Were they there to serve God or Mammon – the latter being in the form of their lord and master Henry VIII? His Majesty has more to answer for than his matrimonial adventures. If, as I believe, they felt the remains of Gawain were relics of the Church, they could well have consulted the priory, and a written record be made. And the Ruskin letter is similarly probable, given his passion for maps and medieval scripts.’
