by Amy Myers
‘Neither of them knows there’s really something to be found.’
‘How,’ Peter asked, ‘do we know there is? All we know is that there probably was something somewhere forty-odd years ago.’
She moaned slightly. ‘Your meaning?’
‘Look at it this way. As you pointed out, the hoard wasn’t in the expected place. Our Lance had a valuable gold cup in his possession. Less valuable than if it belonged to King Arthur but nevertheless undoubtedly solid gold, since Kranowski would have used old gold from the Byzantine period.’
‘How would King Arthur get a goblet made of gold from the East?’
‘Easily. Trading arrangements in those days were less hampered by HM customs and import taxes. As I was saying, what does Lance do with this goblet? Suppose it was a double scam. Suppose he pays some paltry sum for the goblet from Kranowski, sets the whole scam up, with bones and what have you, but flogs the goblet for himself?’
‘We’ve been there. It would have come on the market.’
‘Not necessarily. He could have given it some entirely new provenance, nothing to do with Arthur at all. When Michelangelo comes over in 1961 and asks for it back, Lance can’t hand it over, fobs off Michelangelo with some story and Lance breathes again, briefly.’
‘Michelangelo kills him?’
‘Theoretically, though how remains a mystery. Final reconstruction: he gets in contact with the Benizis in Rome, says he thinks Lance has pinched the goblet, then the Kranowskis flee. The building of the Berlin Wall in August 1961 seals the borders between East and West Europe, bringing virtual silence until 1990, when Leonardo zooms over to have another go. With me so far?’
‘Agog.’
‘He’s told Lance is dead, can’t track Jago down, because he’s living in France, Sandro comes, still thinking there’s a chance of finding the goblet for his family. Sandro gets hold of Jago, this time to confirm Lance is dead and fish around for news of it. As a result, he too believes Lance stole it.’
‘Then why was Sandro killed?’
‘It has to be over the art thefts. Blackmail.’
‘Then what was he doing in the churchyard?’
Peter stared at her. ‘Damn. I’m out, checkmated.’
*
‘Someone to see you.’ Luke came into the kitchen with an expressionless face just as Georgia was scanning the newspaper to see if there was an update on the Barham Downs meeting.
‘Who is it?’
‘Zac.’
She choked on her coffee.
‘I offered him pistols or swords at dawn,’ Luke said affably, ‘but he declined. He’s kicking his heels in the living room.’
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly. ‘Do you . . .’ she began uncertainly.
‘No way. I’m off to the oast house. Your problem, darling.’
‘Thanks a bunch,’ she thought mutinously. She found Zac standing in front of a painting she and Luke had bought in Italy two years ago.
‘Nice,’ he said, as he turned round to greet her.
‘What do you want, Zac? she asked crossly. ‘Eight-thirty in the morning is a fairly unsocial time.’
‘I could do with a coffee,’ he answered her plaintively, and she had to laugh.
‘The kitchen’s the place for that. I can finish my breakfast and you can tell me what you’re after.’
‘Luke seems a nice bloke,’ Zac said approvingly, following her lamb-like to the kitchen.
‘He is. Are you married again?’ She’d never thought of asking him.
‘Sort of. Didn’t bother with the ring this time. Too much trouble.’
He didn’t seem disposed to say more and she wouldn’t ask. That would mean involvement, whereas this needed to be over and done with. Otherwise the next thing she knew would be that he would be telling everyone that she and Luke and he and Mrs Sort-Of were all bosom friends and no doubt getting credit on the strength of it.
‘Tell me what you’re here for,’ she suggested after he had been presented with his coffee.
‘I’m in a mess.’
‘When weren’t you? What is it this time?’
‘The Art and Antiques job.’
‘Mark Priest?’ she asked sharply. ‘You’ve been caught out too?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Explain, if that’s possible.’ Zac’s explanations were usually as cobwebby as his scams.
‘The thing is, Mark’s been charged, and I could be next.’
‘You mean you’re involved in it? You idiot.’ She should have guessed this.
‘No. I’m innocent, I really am, Georgia. I might have one or two things on the side but not this one.’
‘Like running fakes to Budapest.’
He shot a glance at her. ‘Maybe. Close, anyway. It looks like I could be roped in for bringing Sandro’s copies back here.’
‘And did you?’
‘No,’ he said virtuously. ‘I wouldn’t be such a fool. The trouble is that Mark knew I was running for the Benizis. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that there was any truth in that, but it doesn’t look good. Mark could have set me up, you see, and it wouldn’t be hard for the police to make a case that I’d been playing both sides. Which I haven’t.’
‘No disrespect to you, Zac, but why should anyone, let alone Mark or the Met, set you up?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. The thing is that I know I’m innocent, but I’ve worked more closely with Mark than I let on to you. When the Art and Antiques Unit asked me to cooperate, I thought Mark was the best bet to help me out. He didn’t seem the type for a master villain. So he gave me an idea of what was worth checking into to see if it was fake or not. I had a fling with his sister a few years ago, and she put me in touch with him. I did some valuations and so on, and it always seemed to be those houses in which the copies turned up.’
‘What can I do about it?’ she asked cautiously. A fling? Zac with the cool calm lady? It didn’t fit.
‘Put in a good word for me, if it comes to the crunch.’
She tried not to laugh. ‘I’m not the police, Zac.’
‘But you know I wouldn’t be such a fool again, Georgia,’ he pleaded.
‘I don’t know. That’s the problem.’
He sighed. ‘Then just do some looking out for me, then. You and Peter prove I’m innocent. The thing is, Georgia, Mark’s not cool enough to organize an art ring like this. Someone else is behind it. I reckon it’s a woman, I know a lot about how women’s minds work.’
‘Really?’ she asked drily. ‘Are you saying this is Kelly’s doing?’
‘Kelly? She wouldn’t know a Watteau from a Warhol,’ he said rudely.
‘That doesn’t stop her organizing the scam.’
‘Agreed. But think about it, Georgia. If Mark’s guilty that’s that; if he’s innocent, look to those closest to him.’
For one crazy moment she thought he meant Jago, but of course he didn’t.
‘Do you mean Cindy?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Why on earth would she set up her own brother?’ Cindy was surely too small a player in the art world to be able to organize something on this scale. Or was that the point? Appearances were deceptive, and it would certainly explain the fling with Zac. She needed contacts, and Zac was good at that.
‘I don’t know, but it adds up, don’t you think?’ Zac replied. ‘I thought you might mention it to Mike.’
‘Mike doesn’t like bright suggestions from outsiders.’
‘I knew I could count on you,’ he said happily.
‘But not today,’ she said firmly. ‘Today is the Barham Downs gathering. The Priest family will be otherwise occupied.’
‘Not at Barham Downs. Jago’s got his own thing going. Might be fun. We know it’s going to be a fake, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’
‘Come off it, Georgia. You’ve been to Budapest. You’ve talked to Antonio. We know what we’re talking about.’
Caution needed here. ‘About the paintings, yes.’
‘Goblets
, Georgia, goblets.’
So he did know. ‘There’s nothing fake about a golden goblet unless it’s sold under false pretences.’
‘That’s true.’ Zac looked worried. ‘You’re not thinking of pinching it, are you?’
‘It wasn’t at the top of my list of priorities,’ she whipped back tartly.
‘Good. I’m pretty sure Jago is digging tonight. Are you going? The Barham Downs dig starts at six-thirty.’
‘Yes.’
Zac looked even more worried. ‘Remember you and Peter are the only ones who both know it’s fake and have no reason to conceal it. Just be careful.’
*
It was a warm day and after lunch Peter had made it clear he had other fish to fry on the Internet, and Georgia decided to spend the afternoon in Medlars’ garden. The Barham Downs meeting wasn’t until six-thirty and in case Jago had also arranged his dig for tonight, Peter had offered to check whether this would be later or earlier. Either way, she had an hour or two to herself.
The cottage garden had been overgrown and neglected when Luke took the house over, but during the summer they had worked on getting the original shape back, planting and scattering seeds partly at random. Already the work was bearing, if not fruit, then at least signs of perking up, with old rose trees regaining hope, and producing flowers. The age of King Arthur seemed a long way from this and so did 1950s Paris. Earth and gardens were real, not cloaked in the garb of time or mystique. Beyond the garden, the fields stretched out almost to Haden Shaw and though there was a footpath to the lane past their house it was seldom used. There was a gate from their garden into the fields – their escape valve, Luke called it. There would be a plentiful supply of blackberries shortly, and few rival pickers.
She glanced up from the file she was reading, shading her eyes against the sun, which was too strong even for her sunglasses. Today there was a walker – a woman – who had obviously seen her and diverged from the footpath to approach her gate. As she grew nearer she saw to her amazement that it was Sam. No mistaking that bright spiked hair, and boots.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked, surprised that anyone Sam’s age would walk anywhere. Then with alarm: ‘Jago’s all right, isn’t he?’
‘Fine, as far as I know. Looking forward to tonight. That’s why I’m here.’
Georgia blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Because’ – the girl was still smiling – ‘it’s not going to be ruined, least of all by you and that legless old fart.’
It took Georgia a moment before she realized she meant Peter, and she froze. What was all this about? Not good. Zac’s words came back to her. Take care. ‘How could we ruin it?’ she asked as calmly as she could. The girl must be unbalanced. She would ignore the reference to Peter – for the moment.
‘You going?’
‘Probably. How would that ruin it?’
‘The press are coming. You’re not going to get your hour of glory by telling them it’s all fake.’
So that was it. No time now to think round this. She had to get out, and quickly.
‘I don’t want your grandfather hurt either. That’s why I’m going, and so is my father. If it is fake, it will come out anyway.’
‘Only if you shoot your big mouth off. For once in his life Grandpops is going to get his big moment and you’re not going to stop it with your lies.’
‘We don’t propose to tell him anything, Sam.’ Calm, keep it calm.
‘You don’t understand a thing, do you? Only one word and everyone will believe it’s a fake. And it’s real. It’s the real thing. I know it is. Grandpops knows it too. He’s not a fool. He’s been working all his life on this, but one word of fake, and that would be that. Sandro was going to tell him it was a fake too. Some arty-farty story he’d made up.’
‘You shot him.’ The words jerked out. Georgia was ice-cold. Now she did understand, all too well. The only person in the world besides Jago who would go on believing in this goblet no matter what proof was produced was Sam. And she would murder for it.
‘Of course I did. He was going to dig the goblet up and make a stupid claim that it was his. The fool pretended it was fake. I saw him off, that’s all. I had to.’
Georgia’s mind whirled into action. She was in danger – she was not even within earshot of the oast house, where Luke was working. For the first time she noticed Sam’s shoulder bag. A bag she had one hand inside. Should she keep her talking? If she ran, she’d be dead before she reached safety.
‘Why do you care so much, Sam?’ Keep the voice quiet, genuinely interested.
The girl smiled. ‘I’m the only one, that’s why. The others laugh at him. Mark, Mum, the lot. Why? The fools can’t see King Arthur’s a symbol. He’s God. He means something. Grandpops has been waiting for this all his life and he’s going to get his day of glory.’
‘It’s gone too far, Sam. The goblet won’t pass the tests. Even if it did, there’s nothing to prove whose goblet it was.’
‘You’ve gone too far, Marshy girl. It’s real, not a fake. And so’s this.’ Sam was waving the gun around now. The gun that had killed Sandro. She looked insane, laughing hysterically, first pointing the gun at Georgia, then waving it over her head.
‘Your grandfather wouldn’t want this, Sam,’ Georgia managed to say steadily. ‘He’d be cross with you. King Arthur was a symbol of life, not death.’
Sam began to cry, then hiccupped in hysteria, and the gun was kept straight at her.
Keep talking, Georgia thought with dry lips. Talk of King Arthur, that’s your only chance. Sam had moved between her and the house now, and there was no one to run to, no one to hear.
‘You fucking fool, of course he’d want it. The goblet and bones are all he cares about. Not you and the old fart. It’s his own personal Grail, and he’s going to have it.’
Through a daze Georgia saw the pistol rising, Sam coming closer, and she froze. She’d never had time to tell Luke how much she loved him, never have his children, never see Peter again. Everything was still, waiting—
Then there was shouting all round, the gun rising in front of her, the flash and the explosion followed by pain and the ground she was sprawling on. Voices – Luke’s? No, Zac’s. Men’s voices, shouting, pounding feet. Painfully she sat up. She was dizzy, and as her eyes cleared she saw Sam spreadeagled on the ground with Zac at her side. What on earth was he doing here?
‘I’ve got the gun,’ Zac was saying in a pleased voice, as Luke pounded towards them. Dear God, was he going to shoot her – or Luke?
No. She could see Mike Gilroy too.
‘What did you do?’ she asked Zac faintly, as Sam showed no signs of coming round. Guns weren’t Zac’s style. He was scared of them, she remembered.
‘I hit her with a melon.’
Melon? What kind of sense was that? Zac seemed as shaken as she was. ‘I was first round the side of the house, and saw her. Your greengrocery delivery was sitting outside the door so I grabbed it and chucked it at her.’
‘A melon?’
He looked rather pleased with himself. ‘I was always rather good at cricket.’
*
‘That’s it, Georgia. It’s time for the showdown.’ Peter thumped his hand on the desk.
‘I’m all for it,’ she agreed heartily. The morning after was the time for showdowns. The evening had been spent with Luke alone, safe at Medlars. Sam, having recovered from concussion, was under very voluble arrest and if forensic science supplied sufficient evidence that the gun matched, as Mike was sure it would, she would be charged with Sandro’s murder and the attempted murder of Georgia Marsh.
Zac, having recovered his aplomb, was preening himself for being a vital witness, Peter had told her. His story was already all over the newspapers. ‘Man foils Murder with Melon’. The look Mike had given him had suggested he only had a temporary reprieve for good behaviour, however. After all, he had pointed out, it had been Zac who had gaily let Sam know Georgia was planning to be present wh
en Jago made his bid for stardom.
‘Thanks, Zac,’ she said wryly.
‘He did save your life,’ Peter said. ‘And he was worried enough to call Mike.’
‘Yes.’ Someday she’d have to think about that. Now she could only think of how soon she could be out of this maze and back with Luke. Jago’s dig had been postponed, thank goodness, since he had not unnaturally been horrified when Cindy broke the news to him at the police’s request.
‘Nothing has altered so far as Lance Venyon is concerned,’ she pointed out.
‘It has,’ Peter said soberly. ‘Do we really believe that Sam didn’t know it was a scam?’
‘How could she know?’
‘Through Mark, or more probably if you’re right through Cindy; she organized the art thefts and knew the Daks family all too well, and probably the Benizis.’
‘The art thefts could still be Kelly’s venture,’ Georgia said doubtfully.
Peter eyed her thoughtfully. ‘The melon has got to you, Georgia. It was Cindy, of course. She was under our noses all the time. Cindy setting up her brother. Sibling rivalry there, I think. I gather dear Zac told you he had an affair with her four years ago and remained in touch; he chatted to her – as Zac will – about his contacts with the Benizi set-up and the brilliant young copyist they employed’ – he saw her face – ‘no doubt for strictly legal reasons. Anyway, it gave Cindy the idea for the art thefts.’
‘More than that.’ Georgia saw how it all fitted now. ‘It also gave her the idea of setting Mark up as a fall guy in case one was needed. A game I suppose she would call it. Like Lance Venyon. Jago said he played life for the game.’
‘The game,’ Peter repeated thoughtfully. ‘The only explanation for Jago being so slow on this fake is that he’s so obsessed with finding the bones that he has persuaded himself that Lance was indeed his best chum, and that his original theory was correct. He had just misjudged the exact site. But it’s there, he claims, not far from the point Cindy showed you. That’s where he intends to dig.’
‘Believing it genuine or a scam now?’
‘We’re assuming Jago is either a collector prepared to blinker himself to the truth, or a man with the nerve to knowingly laugh off a scam, or lastly a straight dealer: that implies Jago is right, that a fake never existed, that Hoskin’s museum is just that and that the Benizis are lying through dislike of him.’
