by Amy Myers
‘In theory, yes,’ Georgia said gently. Then, remembering those scraps of parchment in the Sussex Camelot, ‘Does the name Richard Hoskin mean anything to you?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied instantly. ‘A notable Anglo-Saxon historian. I have his books somewhere.’
‘He is also interested in Arthur and has a great collection of artefacts,’ she said. ‘You’d enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure I would. You’ve seen it? Met him? Tell me about him.’
He listened attentively while she did so. ‘He has Alzheimer’s now,’ she concluded. ‘He is well into his nineties.’
‘Poor fellow,’ he murmured. ‘One must avoid taking fantasy too seriously.’
‘You seem to manage it well,’ Georgia pointed out.
Jago chuckled. ‘I try to, otherwise I can imagine St Peter greeting me with a belly laugh at the Pearly Gates when he tells me that there was no such person as Arthur. I should argue back, of course. Now, how’s that young man you told me about? The one who knew Cindy and Sam. Any advance on finding his murderer?’
‘No arrest yet. I hope Sam wasn’t too upset by his death?’
‘More than she let on, I suspect, but she’s dealing with it. She’s a lass after my own heart, willing to humour me in crawling over the pros and cons of where Gawain lies, not to mention the goblet. She reminds me of myself when young, eager to sail the seven seas in search of truth.’
‘Metaphorically, I presume,’ Georgia laughed. ‘I’m told you don’t like sailing.’
‘Correct, Georgia. In real life I stick to dry land. Much safer.’
*
‘Where are you off to?’ Luke asked casually.
‘Dover,’ Georgia replied. Now that Zac wasn’t included in the party, this was easier to answer. All the same she was wary. Usually he didn’t enquire about her movements, and she was conscious that Zac had been in her mind all too often in the last week or two. ‘Somewhere there’s a link between Sandro Daks and Venyon, and that gallery is our last chance for finding out what it is. Besides, how could I deprive Peter of a day with King Arthur?’ She was joking, but Luke didn’t seem to find it funny. Early morning blues, probably.
Luke shrugged. ‘It’s your royalties at stake.’
She refrained from pointing out that Marsh & Daughter didn’t yet have a contract. She had tried several times to talk to him about Zac, but had backed off. Her feelings about her ex-husband were her own affair, and could only hinder the strong new growth of her relationship with Luke since she had moved into Medlars.
As she walked along St Thomas’s Road in Dover to find the gallery, she realized how great a hindrance Zac would have been. Muddling today’s work with her private life of yesteryear would have been a big mistake.
When she reached it, the Pad and Palette proved, as the name implied, to be more than a gallery. It sold artists’ supplies ranging from art by numbers to what looked like high-class tools for highly professional artists. From its window displays and what she could see beyond them, the shop impressed her more than she might have expected from her brief encounter with Kelly. The gallery, a large airy room at the side of the sales area, looked equally varied, selling prints, cards, original drawings and watercolours, concentrating on local scenes.
As she walked in, she saw that the girl sitting at the desk was not Kelly. Georgia was hardly surprised, since Kelly hadn’t struck her as a working woman – not in the art field anyway. She suppressed this bitchy thought immediately, amused at the ease with which it had come. There was no sign of any male presence, so Roy Cook must be in the rear rooms, if at all. This is where Zac might have come in useful, she acknowledged. He would be chatting up this girl within seconds with his own brand of irresistible charm.
She smiled amiably at the girl, and wandered into the gallery, where she did a quick tour in order to return speedily to the desk.
‘I was looking for drawings by a young man called Sandro Daks,’ she said to her brightly, waving vaguely in the direction of the gallery.
‘I’m not sure if there are any left.’ The girl rose immediately, registering definite interest, which was encouraging. ‘We did have some.’ She went into the gallery with Georgia trotting behind her, and stopped at a sepia-coloured drawing of the Canterbury Cathedral west entrance. Georgia decided that two hundred pounds was way too much to spend merely on acquiring goodwill, but fortunately the girl moved over to a large portfolio in one corner, a treasure-trove of odds and ends.
‘There should be some unframed ones here.’ The girl rummaged through, and produced small drawings, one of the Roman lighthouse in Dover Castle and another of something Georgia thought she recognized.
‘Isn’t that the Dark Entry in the Canterbury Cathedral precincts?’ she asked, and the girl nodded.
Georgia liked this one. Even in pencil Sandro had managed to suggest the dark versus the light beyond, and the atmosphere of past ages.
‘He was very talented,’ she said, wondering whether the Inland Revenue would accept this as a legitimate expense against tax. ‘There was a murder in the Dark Entry, wasn’t there? Years ago, of course. In the Ingoldsby Legends. How sad that Sandro was murdered too.’
For the first time the girl really looked at her. ‘Terrible, wasn’t it?’ Trite words, but she did look genuinely upset.
‘It was. In fact,’ Georgia replied, ‘I found his body. And it was terrible. That’s why I wanted one of his pictures. It seemed right somehow.’
‘I went for a drink with him a couple of times,’ the girl volunteered.
Excellent, Georgia thought. ‘I’m sorry. I can see it must have been hard for you. I was staying with my aunt near the pub where he used to work,’ she continued smoothly. ‘There was a girl there who said Sandro had come to Britain to find a man called Lance Venyon.’ Exaggeration was necessary. ‘She was wondering who this Venyon was, because it might have helped the police to find his murderer.’
‘Sandro didn’t mention him to me,’ the girl replied. ‘Roy might know.’
At last. Georgia breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Perhaps so. Is he around?’
‘I’ll check.’ The girl walked over to the desk and spoke over the intercom. Whether it was the name Daks or Venyon that drew his attention, the reaction was positive. ‘He’ll come through,’ she told Georgia, as though Her Majesty had condescended to drop by.
‘Oh, thank you.’ A bit of effusiveness never hurt.
Roy Cook quickly appeared through the rear door, and Georgia speedily assessed him. Late thirties, forties perhaps, over-smart, over-confident, slightly plumpish face that spoke of the good life. No starving in garrets with his artists for this one.
She advanced to meet him. ‘Mr Cook? I met your wife at a wedding recently.’
‘Whose was that, then?’ The reply was guarded.
‘It was at Badon House in Wymdown. My aunt’s marriage to Terry Andrews.’
‘Oh yeah. Kelly knows Terry.’
Relations, if not cordial, were at least established. ‘I remembered Kelly talking about your gallery, and the police told me that Sandro Daks used to work for you. I found his body, you see. I know it’s silly, but I thought I should buy one of his pictures, and this one of the Dark Entry is excellent.’
‘Glad you like it.’ He barely glanced at it. ‘Great loss, Sandro. He could have become a pretty good artist.’
‘A great one?’
‘Who knows? He had something about him, that’s for sure. It was great stuff for the tourists. I’ll miss him.’
Time to move the conversation forward. ‘I was telling your assistant that I heard he came over here to find a man called Lance Venyon. Did he mention him to you?’
To her disappointment, he looked blank. ‘No. Who’s he?’ He seemed uninterested, so this was probably yet another dead end. The ‘Who’s he?’ in the present tense came out so naturally, she was inclined to believe it was genuine.
‘A friend of Sandro’s grandfather.’
Per
haps it was her imagination but Cook did register something here, although all he said was: ‘Unlikely. He said his family lived in Budapest, and before that in the Soviet Union. Not likely to have been much of a friendship.’
‘Venyon died in the 1960s.’
‘Then why so interested?’
The friendly note was fast vanishing, she noted, and the truth was called for. ‘My father and I write up true-crime cases from the past, and Venyon’s is one of them.’
‘Is that so?’ Cook shrugged. ‘Daks was twenty-two. Not in the frame.’
He was definitely hostile now, and his body language suggested he was about to terminate this interview. Backtrack quickly, she thought.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘It can’t have been important since Sandro never got in touch with the Venyon family. One of the problems in my line of work is that there are an awful lot of loose ends that might be completely irrelevant, but have to be followed up. Not like the provenance of pictures.’ This had come out casually, but even so she received a sharp glance for her pains. Or was that her imagination too?
‘Right. With us, it is or it isn’t. Sorry I can’t help over Daks.’ The brisk tone told her the encounter was over as from now. ‘Sandro was a nice kid. I was sorry to hear how he died.’
‘Drugs, do you think?’
‘No idea.’ Still brisk. ‘Too sensible, I’d say. Into women, was Sandro.’ Loud false laugh. ‘He had Fiona bang to rights, didn’t he, love?’
A blush from the assistant, but whether it was irritation or modesty, Georgia couldn’t judge. ‘We only had a drink,’ Fiona muttered.
‘And I suppose Sandro didn’t mention his grandfather to you either?’ Georgia asked merrily.
A superior cool smile. ‘No. Nor his grannie. Nor did we set a date for the wedding. Anything else?’
Definitely time to retreat. Georgia paid for her picture in silence, thanked Fiona profusely and turned for the door. As she did so, she was aware of someone who had just entered the gallery and was now talking to Roy as both men disappeared through the rear door. She had recognized the newcomer immediately, even with a partial view.
It was Mark Priest. What on earth could Jago’s son be doing in a Dover gallery? He worked for an insurance company and lived in Tunbridge Wells. Dover was somewhat off his path, even if he did deal with art claims. Was he here on business? And if so, what business, and was it legitimate or otherwise? In that case, his appearance on a scene that had Zac involved in it was suspicious – even sinister.
She was still thinking about Mark Priest as she set off towards the car park. Then to her horror she saw that strolling towards her was the bad penny himself, Zac. She congratulated herself that at least she was sufficiently inured to his presence again for there to be no shivers down her spine.
‘Georgia!’ he cried warmly. ‘What a surprise.’ He deposited an uninvited peck on the cheek, turned round and walked along at her side.
‘How did you get on with my chum Cook? Don’t worry about me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I do understand why you went alone. We undercover agents have to be careful. Are you all wired up and clad in a bulletproof vest provided by the Met?’
‘Common sense is my guardian,’ she replied as tartly as she could manage. ‘You should try it sometime.’ Should she mention Mark? No, not yet, she decided.
‘Oh, Georgia.’ He looked reproachful. ‘For you the glass is always half empty, not half full.’
That simply wasn’t true. Georgia was about to jump on this, when she realized that’s exactly what he wanted. ‘Think of your work, Zac,’ she reminded him amicably. ‘We shouldn’t be seen together for either of our sakes.’
‘Nonsense. I merely bumped into my ex-wife.’
‘Did you ever wonder why you got caught?’ she asked, exasperated. Always so blindly optimistic.
He put on his guileless look. ‘Peter was too good a cop for me.’
‘If you carry on walking with me, you can tell him so yourself.’ She should have guessed Zac would appear. Goodness knew how he found out when she was coming, but now she was here she could at least find out what he had been doing in Paris.
‘Splendid. I’ll come with you. Are you off to the castle?’
‘Yes. Can you spare the time?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘For you two, of course.’ He never could pick up sarcasm.
‘You didn’t answer my question. How did you get on with our Roy?’ he asked, as back at the car park he slid into her passenger seat.
‘So so. A blank on Lance Venyon, but then that was a long shot.’ In fact she was still bearing in mind that although Cook had not registered the name of Lance Venyon he had seemed to react to the mention of Sandro’s grandfather – though what that might imply she couldn’t even begin to guess.
‘Is Cook a suspect for Daks’ murder?’ Zac asked casually.
‘No idea,’ she replied firmly.
‘I take it your lips are sealed.’
‘Only because they’ve nothing to reveal.’
‘But they do, they do . . .’ he murmured.
She ignored him. ‘He could be a suspect, I suppose. If Cook is up to no good, Daks might have been blackmailing him. Young to try that trick, though.’
‘He was old enough to be a forger, if I’m right about the network being organized from Cook’s gallery.’
‘His father Leonardo is apparently a straight guy. He’s been checked out,’ she said. No harm in telling him that (she hoped).
‘And yet,’ Zac said earnestly, ‘Sandro’s grandfather was a friend of Lance Venyon.’
‘Who was also on the side of the angels, so far as I know,’ she countered.
‘But how, Georgia, can you tell the good angels from the fallen variety? You made a mistake with me.’
Round One to Zac. She hadn’t even a reply to give him, because he was right. ‘How,’ she asked firmly, ‘did Cook get to know about Sandro, if you’re right about the scam? He was over here for such a short time. It’s understandable if he was just selling him legitimate pictures to sell to tourists, but as part of an ongoing fraud ring the time scale doesn’t seem to fit.’
‘It could be,’ Zac said carelessly, ‘that Daks used to paint the forgeries in Budapest, and they were brought over one by one. He probably paid brief visits to Britain in order to see the original hanging in situ, so that he could check the colours, then returned to paint the copies from reproductions. Roy travels a lot, I gather. He could have picked them up.’
‘Mark Priest couldn’t be mixed up in all this, could he?’ she asked carefully, negotiating the traffic up Castle Hill.
‘Not so far as I know. He works with me – sort of,’ Zac added vaguely. ‘Why?’
‘He came to see Roy Cook this morning.’
‘Did he?’
Georgia glanced sideways and saw that for once she had caught Zac off guard. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Does he work for the Art and Antiques Unit too?’
‘Not sure.’ Zac frowned. ‘Could do. I’ve met him a few times in various places. He’s well thought of. Everyone’s reliable valuer, too reliable for me. Why don’t you check him out with Policeman Plod. Mike, is it?’
‘It is, and Mike’s no Plod. You should know. And, incidentally,’ she threw in, ‘what were you doing in Paris?’
‘Meeting Roberto,’ came the prompt reply.
‘I thought he worked in Budapest.’ If she had hoped to catch him out, she was wrong.
‘Georgia, dear, keep to Lance Venyon, there’s a good girl.’
She fumed, but managed a sweet smile. ‘I’ll mention Mark Priest to Mike. He’ll value your help, I’m sure.’
In theory it might be possible that Mark was in on the art frauds, perhaps one of the inside men with access to the houses; he would have the opportunity to take photographs legitimately for valuations, which Sandro couldn’t in his role as tourist. It seemed unlikely to her, though. From the impression she had gained of Mark, he was a solid citize
n. But then wasn’t that what made a good con man? A good one, not like Zac.
She drove into the castle and along the winding route to the car park, handed over the entrance money at the visitor centre – both hers and Zac’s, so nothing new there – then walked over to the disabled area, where Peter was waiting in his wheelchair. As they approached, his eyes went immediately to Zac and looked at her accusingly. ‘You didn’t go—’
‘No. I went alone, and don’t blame me for this,’ Georgia said.
‘I don’t,’ Peter replied grimly.
‘No hard feelings,’ Zac said kindly.
‘Enjoy your time inside, did you?’
‘It was profitable,’ Zac replied seriously. ‘I learned quite a lot and now I can make an honest living. You heard I was working with the Serious Crimes Directorate?’
Georgia cringed. This was so like Zac. He actually thought they’d take this stuff about an honest living at face value. One glimpse at a con and he’d be involved up to his neck.
‘I did,’ Peter replied noncommittally.
‘I gather from Georgia,’ Zac continued blithely, ‘that you’re interested in King Arthur. I expect she told you about the Rossetti we saw in Paris. King Arthur and the Holy Grail, fake or genuine?’
