by Amy Myers
Georgia gulped. ‘Is that all possible?’
‘Oh yes,’ Peter replied. ‘It is. And even if it’s fake, we can presume that the hoard is buried convincingly deep in specially prepared earth to look as though it’s been there since the sixteenth century.’
‘Jago would have a hard job convincing the Kentish Archaeological Society that it was King Arthur’s.’
‘It would fit Jago’s thesis and that’s all he requires, no matter what arguments go on amongst the cognoscenti afterwards. Look how long it took to disprove the Piltdown Man, and even now there are question marks over who was behind the hoax if any.’
Georgia nodded. ‘I still think we should be there at the dig.’
‘I agree, together with the police of course. Did you see the newspaper today?’
‘Only the front-page story, about the melon.’ She managed to laugh. It was rather funny.
Peter passed the newspaper to her, folded back to page three: ‘“Barham Downs waits in vain for King Arthur.” You can read for yourself the account of what happened last night – a wash-out. Nothing found, except a couple of pieces of old iron which could be from British or Saxon swords. It’s this paragraph might interest you though.’ He leaned forward and tapped the page.
‘“In an Arthurian hoax in the late 1950s,”’ she read, ‘“four paintings with seemingly impeccable provenance as the work of Dante Gabriel Rossetti gave credence to the story of Sir Gawain’s burial in Dover Castle, but were later discovered to be fakes. The current rumours of Arthur’s golden goblet being buried with Gawain’s bones are thought to stem from a revival of the same hoax.” Where did this come from?’ She was staggered. ‘Zac?’
Peter laughed. ‘No way. There’s only one answer to that. Your chum Antonio. Nice move, yes?’
‘He does indeed walk the fine line,’ Georgia said admiringly. ‘Quick thinking on his part. This distances him nicely from any goblet scam, while curiosity value will shoot the value up nicely, temporarily at least. I might even put a bid in for one of them myself.’
*
‘Come in.’
Jago seemed to have aged tremendously. His shoulders were bent, and his whole demeanour was of weariness and defeat. ‘Help yourselves to a drink, please.’ He waved towards the kitchen as he led them to his study. Georgia took the hint, and after ensuring Peter was safely into the room, went to make tea for them all. Jago had asked them to come over immediately, when Peter took the bull by the horns and telephoned him. It took some time locating everything, and when she returned to the study bearing the results, Peter and Jago were in full flow about arrangements for the postponed dig, which Jago was explaining would be in a week’s time. She had mixed feelings: revulsion at the whole idea and a desire to get this case finished, and – she admitted – genuine curiosity.
Jago broke off immediately. ‘I have to apologize to you, Georgia, for what happened. Sam is heavily partisan where King Arthur is concerned. She’d never have used the gun, of course. She runs wild . . .’ He didn’t sound as if he even believed this himself.
‘I gather that Mark is clear of charges of art theft,’ Peter said less than tactfully. So he wasn’t letting Jago off the hook yet.
‘He is,’ Jago replied. ‘Cindy is not. Poor Mark. He never can see what’s happening before his eyes. It’s his own fault for becoming involved.’
Georgia shivered. He didn’t, she wanted to say. Surely Jago must see that? He was as much a dupe as Zac had been, and that was saying something. Goodness knows what he now believed about his precious theory and the hoard. She bit back any reply, however. It would do no good, and Jago had enough to contend with. Even so, his reply had been chilling.
‘I’ve had every journalist in the world ringing me up,’ Jago continued querulously. ‘In vain I tell them my theory has nothing to do with fakes. I suppose you told them about the Kranowskis.’
‘No.’ Peter answered this, to Georgia’s relief. She was still grappling with the speed with which Jago had moved from his granddaughter’s attempted murder and daughter’s involvement in an art-theft ring back to his beloved theory about Arthur.
‘Then it was Madeleine and Antonio Benizi. They never did like—’ Jago stopped, and passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Do you know, I really feel I’m getting old. Stupid, isn’t it? This great scam, do you believe it?
‘I’m afraid so.’
He shook his head. ‘The goblet exists. It all does, and it’s real, not fake. These are simply rumours of a scam put about to devalue the collection when it is found.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I see it,’ he cried. ‘Antonio Benizi, of course. Just like him. Put around the rumour that it’s all fake, and he can buy it for virtually nothing, and then prove that it is real after all. Money, you see . . .’ He looked uncertainly at them, as his voice trailed off.
Georgia said nothing. She couldn’t. She’d taken enough shock herself in the last day, she couldn’t add to Jago’s.
Peter, it seemed, could. ‘It wasn’t Antonio,’ he told Jago in a neutral voice. ‘It was Lance who organized the scheme and commissioned the goblet.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Jago said harshly.
‘I understand, but it is so. You can check with the Kranowski family, in due course. That was what Sandro wanted back, when he telephoned you.’
‘Who?’ Jago looked bewildered, then shook his head. ‘I can’t take all this in. I really can’t. I can’t believe that Lance would ever have tried to trick me so. It wasn’t a trick, it was a decoy, that’s it. He hoped by drawing the competitors off on a false trail, he would leave me a clear field to find the real burial place for Gawain’s bones.’ The light of hope shone in his eyes.
Please let Peter let him think that, Georgia prayed.
‘No. Lance would have revealed the scam, once you had dug up the hoard,’ Peter said briskly.
For a moment Jago looked at a complete loss, then replied, ‘I don’t know any more. I just don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps there’s a much simpler explanation,’ Peter said, gentle again. ‘And with the story now public, it might be possible for you to face it.’
‘I’ve faced enough in the last few days. One more horror won’t kill me.’ Jago rallied slightly.
‘You’re behind at least several of the Arthurian blogs, aren’t you?’
Jago bridled. ‘Why not?’ he said indignantly. ‘One doesn’t get much fun out of life at eighty-six. One has to make one’s own.’
‘Fun,’ repeated Peter meditatively.
Where was Peter going with this, Georgia wondered, feeling too sick to grapple with his route. It was no great surprise that Jago was hosting a site, but several of them? What did that imply? Jago, from being the victim, seemed now at bay. Control had passed to Peter, and he was in a place where she couldn’t follow him. Yet, at least.
‘Fun is an interesting word,’ Peter continued. ‘And you’re an interesting man, Jago. There are two sides to you, the academic and the gamester.’
‘One has to relax at my age.’
‘But you can’t relax too much, can you? Not even now with all that’s happening to your family.’
Jago looked at him in surprise. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about King Arthur, did you? You’re harking back to Lance Venyon. Have you discovered how he was murdered?’
‘He wasn’t,’ Peter replied.
‘Then there is hardly any need for you to disturb me or to attend the disinterment of Gawain’s bones.’
‘On the contrary,’ Peter said, almost sadly. ‘There is a murder we have to investigate.’
‘Whose?’ Jago shot at him.
‘The murder of Jago Priest. You are Lance Venyon, aren’t you?’
Chapter Fifteen
How strange to be back in this village pub, Georgia thought, where only two months ago she had sat with Luke and Peter, while Jago – Lance, as she must think of him now – spouted happily about Arthur with Cindy and Sam. A lifetime away, it seemed. This didn’t seem
the same man; with that one accusation he had turned into a stranger.
‘It was puzzling me,’ Peter said. ‘Here was the Jago we all liked, but all we heard about was the man whom nobody seemed to like at all. Including, presumably, his wife Jennifer.’
‘Do we have to bring her into it?’ Lance said. ‘I can deny all this, of course. I doubt if you could prove it.’ He had no conviction in his voice.
‘Of course you could deny it,’ Peter replied. ‘But DNA would, if push comes to shove, prove you wrong. Mark is Jago’s son, Elaine your daughter, as is Cindy. Do Cindy and Sam know, incidentally?’
Lance said nothing for a moment, then: ‘Blast DNA,’ he said amiably. ‘And the answer is no, they don’t. None of them does. I can’t see proof of any crime, thus no arrest and thus no DNA sample. Your tame policemen can’t take samples against my will.’
‘So where is Jago Priest?’
‘Not my problem. It is yours,’ he replied merrily. He seemed to have revived very quickly. The game, Georgia thought. The game was indeed afoot, and the game now was to outwit Peter. She was still recovering from the shock. She’d have it out with Peter later for not telling her, though she reluctantly conceded that the less she knew the better, perhaps.
‘I doubt if the answer will be too difficult to discover,’ Peter replied.
‘I do,’ Lance replied blithely. ‘The mere fact that I took the opportunity of stepping into Jago’s shoes when the rotter walked out and deserted Jennifer does not make me a murderer. I merely resigned from the Sorbonne in his name, and took a new job in Toulouse.’
Walked out? Georgia thought. Good one.
‘Identity theft?’ Peter asked.
‘There was no financial gain, I assure you. Forfeiting my own savings and pension was more hardship than gain, since Jago’s are less good. Moreover, Jennifer had more money than Jago.’ He was obviously enjoying this immensely, and Georgia was almost hypnotized into forgetting there was a murder to consider.
‘It’s always the game with you, isn’t it?’ Peter said.
‘Indeed it is. Still. I always loved the game. I have greatly enjoyed feeding you titbits of bait, then watching you hare after them – rather too efficiently, I fear, in the case of the Rossetti painting, and of course my disappearance.’
‘How did you manage that?’ Georgia asked.
‘I had a clever wife, or rather partner, if it makes any difference. We celebrated our fortieth anniversary in 2001.’
‘Did she help you plan her husband’s murder?’ Peter asked dispassionately. No letting him off any hooks, she noted.
Lance’s expression grew harder. ‘What murder?’ he asked again. ‘Jago went on a few days’ holiday to – where was it, Outer Mongolia, perhaps? – and never returned.’
‘Without knowing he was dead, why did you go ahead with the theft of his identity?’
If Peter had hoped to throw him by this, he was out of luck. ‘Ah,’ Lance replied immediately, ‘because he’d been missing for the whole of that summer, it was clear to me he must be dead. He would never have stayed away from Jennifer so long otherwise. When it was clear he was not returning for whatever reason, Jennifer suggested I should move in with her. Mark needed a father, he was very young.’
‘Why take his name, then?’
Lance looked shocked. ‘Society in those days would not have tolerated our living together otherwise, and there were of course poor Mary’s feelings to consider. We didn’t want to wait the necessary seven years or so for Jago’s death to be formally declared. We decided we could make a new life in Toulouse, and perhaps eventually England, to benefit from my King Arthur coup in due course. I was reluctant about the latter; it seemed to me one dice thrown too often. Apparently I was right, but Sam was insistent that I should have another shot at the dig, so I thought why not? Coincidentally – what a surprise – the rumours began again. A chip off the old block, is Sam.’
‘So it seems,’ Peter said. ‘Even in murder.’
‘Diminished responsibility,’ Lance said quickly. ‘I couldn’t bear . . . Enough of that.’ He caught himself briskly. ‘To resume my tale: I took the new position in Toulouse, at a somewhat lower academic standard. I knew enough about art to teach its history admirably and was a far better teacher than Jago himself. I have quite a reputation you know, even now. In those days there weren’t quite so many conferences so it was possible to keep to my own turf; Jago and I were much the same build, and with the help of a beard and change of parting, that sort of thing – and of course with Jennifer at my side – it proved quite easy to avoid recognition. Friends and family were a problem, of course. Fortunately, only one of Jago’s parents was alive, and she was senile.’
Fortunately? Georgia felt sick.
‘My parents, of course,’ Lance continued, ‘believed I was dead, and it was easy to lose contact, as it was with friends. As we were in Toulouse, distance made their hearts grow considerably less fonder, and for those stalwarts who were more clingy, it was possible to invent excuses for not seeing them, or for Jennifer seeing them alone. As the years passed, it grew even easier, until we were able to return to England – not too close to Wymdown or Dorset, of course, until Mary died.’
‘You were listed as being at the funeral,’ Georgia said puzzled. ‘Your wife would have been there, surely.’
‘Quite. I did take a few risks. I had taken the boat out on 14 September, with an extra dinghy on board, to near the French coast, where Jennifer was waiting for me. It was a wrench to part with my beloved Hillyard, but needs must. As for the funeral, well, that was a problem. I had missed the memorial service through tactical illness, though Jennifer attended. When it came to the funeral it was a different matter. Mary had been obsessed with the thought that she had to see a body before she would believe I was dead. Otherwise she hoped I might come marching home, or so she told Jennifer. Today this would be understood, but then the police merely thought her a nuisance, clamouring to view every body that could possibly fit the bill. When one did pop up, Jennifer went with her for company. I suspected that Mary knew about Jennifer’s role in my life, but in an odd way that made her more dependent on Jennifer after my so-called death. Mary was set on the body being mine, and Jennifer gently helped her to believe it. As for the funeral, it was ultimately simple. Jennifer gave my name to the undertakers and to the journalists there, each time indicating some other man as if that were me.’
‘But Mary would have noticed you weren’t there.’
‘I had to leave promptly, Jennifer explained to Mary. Poor dear Mary was in such a state that she believed I rushed right away because I couldn’t take the emotion of Lance’s death. I wrote her the most charming letter afterwards, of course. In Jago’s handwriting naturally, since that was something I most certainly had to acquire. As for my voice – well, I never rang Mary. Only Jennifer did, and Mary was too diffident to make international calls. They’re commonplace now, but it was quite a fandango in those days.’
‘If Jago went to Outer Mongolia, he’d have taken his passport with him,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘So he would. Fortunately, my line of work, shall we say, allowed me to overcome this difficulty. Ten years ago, with Mary no longer alive, we thought it safe to move back to Kent, and reacquaint myself with my daughter. My appearance had by then changed with age, and no one would remember the old Lance’s voice – save perhaps darling Venetia, but fortunately she too had moved away. She was a highly inquisitive sort of person.’
‘So the mysterious visitor the afternoon you went to Hythe wasn’t Jago?’ Peter asked.
‘Good heavens, no. There was no visitor. I lied. Needed time to myself.’
‘Madeleine visited you that day.’
‘So she did.’ Lance laughed. ‘How could I forget? Most unwelcome. She wanted to probe into the scam on Jago. She felt protective of Jennifer and was convinced it was all my idea. A stupid woman.’
‘How had she heard of it?’
‘No idea.’<
br />
‘It couldn’t be that Michelangelo Kranowski came over to warn you that Raphael Kranowski was about to be exposed as a fake? That you fobbed him off with the same story that the great scam was about to be sprung but you weren’t going to tell him where the goblet was buried; that he thought you had pinched it, and went back to ring Madeleine in Rome?’
Lance still didn’t look fazed. ‘I suppose it was possible. Dear me, such a long time ago.’
‘It must be. According to what you said just now, Jago had been missing for some weeks, even months, and you thought he was dead so it seems unlikely the scam would still be sprung in his absence.’
A split second while Lance realized he’d been trapped. He wagged an indulgent finger. ‘Words, Peter, words.’
‘Which can be fatal.’
‘If verbal, not worth the paper they’re written on, as Sam Goldwyn once famously said.’
‘Was the scam all your idea? Or Jennifer’s too?’
‘Forget Jennifer,’ he snapped.
‘And the murder?’ Peter asked.
The gamester was beginning to tire. He shrugged. ‘Very well. That prat Michelangelo bleated to Jago about the goblet being Raphael’s work, and revealed the whole damn scam to Jago. Jago came hot foot over to Dover; I met him after I’d dropped Madeleine off. God, what an afternoon. What a day, come to that. We had an interesting discussion. I put him on a ferry back to France and he went off quite happily – well, not happily, he didn’t even like ferries very much.’
‘He didn’t come aboard your boat?’
Lance snorted. ‘Jago? You have to be joking. One of the less pleasant sides to this particular game has been my inability to sail any more. Fortunately having Jennifer made up for that.’
‘So did Jennifer murder Jago to get him out of the way so that she could be with you? You knew he was dead, so if you didn’t kill him then she did.’
