Murder and the Golden Goblet

by Amy Myers

  ‘I heard you mention Lance Venyon,’ he said.

  ‘Did you know him?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Retired vicars tend to have had the privilege of knowing everybody, in a village this size. I took another parish, an urban one a year or two after Lance died, but there’s something about Wymdown brought me back here in retirement.’

  ‘Familiar faces?’ she asked tritely.

  ‘Perhaps. Though not the Venyons, of course.’

  ‘Were you here when the body was found?’

  ‘I was. Most distressing for his wife, Mary, especially since it was well over a year after the accident.’

  ‘Accident? So it’s known what happened?’

  ‘The boat was found drifting, and Lance was most certainly not the suicidal type. I don’t think I ever heard the suggestion mooted.’

  ‘What type was he? His daughter describes him as adventurous.’

  He considered this. ‘Then let’s leave it at that.’

  If anything was calculated to encourage her not to leave it at that, this was. Nevertheless she could hardly say, ‘Tell me all.’ Discretion was necessary. ‘Did you like him?’

  His answer was prompt. ‘Oh, yes, everyone liked Lance. That was the problem.’

  ‘Problem?’ She tried to make it sound casual. What sort? she wondered. A line of lady friends? Work-shy? A series of illegitimate children? Cheated at cards? Ran off with the church funds? She realized with some surprise that her nose was beginning to twitch again.

  ‘Do you have a particular reason for asking?’ he asked courteously.

  ‘I have to admit, no. Just general curiosity.’

  ‘Quite understandable.’ He didn’t volunteer anything further. Feeling rebuffed, though aware she deserved it, she went to claim another glass of champagne. Luke was nowhere to be seen – yes, he was in the garden talking to Gwen. He had nobly offered to drive Peter and herself here, so he was stuck on orange juice. On the way to join them, however, she was accosted by a good-looking man in his twenties; how flattering, her champagne-befuddled head told her.

  ‘Colin Holt,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Elaine’s son?’ she asked, glancing over to where Peter was deep in conversation with the Mauve Lady.

  ‘Yeah.’ He studied her. ‘You’re Marsh and Daughter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Only half of it.’ How stupid small talk could get.

  ‘I’ve read a couple of your books. Is that your dad there chatting up my mother? I heard him ask about my granddad,’ he added when she nodded.

  ‘Lance Venyon?’ Her interest quickened. Maybe she could get to the heart of the vicar’s mysterious ‘problem’. ‘It sounds as if he was a nice guy,’ she began cautiously.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Nor would Mum, really. She was only a babe in arms when he died. But his photos look great.’

  ‘An attractive man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Too attractive for his own good?’ The champagne was pushing her on, probably unwisely.

  ‘Yeah. Mum always reckoned he was done in.’

  ‘Murdered?’ She was jolted out of her stupor, as scenarios rushed through her mind.

  ‘Yeah. Did he fall, did he jump or was he pushed?’ He grinned at her. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘He was alone on the boat?’

  ‘Who knows? Mum, being aged two at the time, didn’t exactly get every detail first hand, but from what I’ve read, no one’s suggested otherwise, except obviously my grandmother. Anyway it’s just like Mum to blow it up. Can’t be a straightforward accident, has to be more to it.’

  Georgia began to dislike this man. ‘Perhaps there was.’ At the very least there was some mystery here.

  He shrugged. ‘My grandmother kept all the cuttings. No mention of a police investigation into suspicious death.’

  ‘Not even when the body was found?’ At least it was found, she thought, which would have provided some kind of ending for poor Mary. She wouldn’t have continued to suffer the worst of all unanswered questions, which Peter and she still endured, after her younger brother Rick had gone missing over twelve years ago. His body had never been found. Georgia pulled herself up quickly. Get away from this subject.

  ‘Did your mother have any reason for thinking he was murdered? Did he have enemies?’

  ‘Anyone like my granddad has enemies.’

  ‘But you didn’t know him, so how can you be sure what he was like?’

  Another shrug. ‘Family, friends, you know how it is. Easy to think of a granddad with whiskers and runny eyes, but when you look at his photos, well, you see him as he was. A go-anywhere, do-anything party-animal sort of chap. One of life’s jokers.’

  ‘What did this sort of chap do in life?’ Georgia enquired. A joker? Had one of his jokes taken him a step too far?

  ‘Not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Something in the art world, I think. Not my line. I’m a car salesman.’

  He would be. ‘A painter?’

  ‘Don’t know. Ask Mum.’

  ‘My husband’s in art.’ A blonde bombshell in her late twenties, too much make-up, too frilly a dress, and four-inch heels too spindly to withstand the onslaught of too much champagne, infiltrated herself with aplomb between Georgia and Colin.

  ‘Is he an artist?’ Georgia asked the new arrival’s back, since the front was very firmly facing Colin.

  ‘He’s got a gallery down in Dover. Sells stuff.’ This was tossed over her shoulder in her shrill voice, while Colin got the full force of the follow-up in lower key: ‘I’m Kelly. Kelly Cook.’

  Georgia decided it was time to fade away gracefully – not that they would notice. And why should they? Colin was at least ten years younger than she was, and Kelly was hunting prey. Georgia faded towards Luke, who was ambling towards the table where Terry and Gwen were awaiting the cake. When it arrived, borne by Charlie, it proved to be a massive replica of Terry’s classic old Porsche 356, linked bumper to icing bumper with one of Gwen’s Ford Fiesta.

  ‘Different, anyway,’ Peter said admiringly. He had owned such a classic before his accident, but he seemed genuinely not to be thinking of that.

  ‘What have you got against poor old King Arthur?’ Luke asked, while they waited for the cake to come round. ‘Terry says you’re a cynic on the subject, yet I gather Arthur’s as much of a local as Lance Venyon.’

  ‘Nothing personal,’ Georgia explained. ‘Don’t you remember how obsessed Peter became with him as a diversion from our case about the Spitfire pilots?’

  ‘Yes, but why did he? It’s a vast subject to dabble in.’

  ‘He became interested in the Ringlemere Cup, the gold one dug up in Kent a few years ago. Now in the British Museum.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with King Arthur,’ Luke pointed out. ‘It was Bronze Age, wasn’t it? Well before the Romans anyway, let alone King Arthur’s time in the fifth century.’

  ‘I suppose in Peter’s mind, it got linked because it was so like the cup found in Cornwall in the nineteenth century. Near Bodmin Moor I think, which isn’t a million miles from Tintagel.’

  ‘All that proves is that there was an ancient trade route going from Cornwall to the Kent coast. We know that anyway. The Pilgrims’ Way covers some of it.’

  ‘I sometimes suspect Peter of being a romantic at heart. Cornwall to him equals Lyonesse, Tristram and Isolde, Camelot – and King Arthur.’

  ‘What about Wales and King Arthur? Not to mention the rest of Britain, Ireland and half of mainland Europe. Not forgetting Dover.’

  ‘Dover?’ she asked. This was a new one.

  ‘Peter must have told you. Malory’s Morte D’Arthur sets Arthur at Dover Castle, not to mention a battle at Dover against the dreadful Moriarty – sorry, Mordred. Got my villains mixed. You could say Arthur’s link with Dover is because the medieval kings of England owned the castle, and their spin doctors advised it would be good to represent themselves as the new King Arthur – but then one might ask how did the pre-Malory kings know
about Arthur, if there wasn’t considerable evidence for his existence?’

  ‘This is very erudite of you, Luke. It must be the orange juice speaking.’

  ‘Nonsense. King Arthur—’ he began, as Peter wheeled himself up to them. ‘We’re talking about your favourite subject,’ he said.

  ‘And that is? I can think of quite a few thousand.’

  ‘How about King Arthur to begin with?’

  ‘I’m more interested in Lance Venyon at present,’ Peter replied with dignity. He always had a keen sense of when he was being sent up.

  ‘Because his daughter thinks he might have been murdered?’ Georgia asked innocently.

  Peter looked disappointed. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Her son, Colin. Why does Elaine think he was murdered?’

  ‘She muttered darkly about various people wanting revenge.’

  ‘Scorned ladies?’

  ‘Possibly, if they were up to sailing boats, pushing people overboard and then swimming off into the blue leaving the dinghy on board.’

  ‘Where did the boat go down?’ Luke asked.

  ‘It didn’t. According to the vicar,’ Georgia said, ‘it was found drifting. Colin said there was no indication of a police investigation. I think it’s more likely that Lance was too vital a person for Mary to believe that fate has been so cruel as to take him away and so she came up with her own conspiracy theory.’

  ‘Possibly. Jago Priest might tell us,’ Peter suggested innocently. ‘We’ll try him.’

  She might have known. Her father was already stampeding ahead, although, so far as she could see, with little cause. It was true her own instinct was prodding her onwards, but it was her job to take the cautious line. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He was Lance’s chum during and just after the war years, and even owned this house for a while, though I gather he never lived here.’

  Georgia was wary. She was being rushed and would be blowed if she’d pick up on this. ‘Try Jago for what, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Georgia,’ he replied blandly. ‘Let’s find out.’

  Chapter Two

  Why on earth had she come, Georgia wondered. Marsh & Daughter were at that delicate stage of authors’ lives when one book is completed, and the next still a jumble of ideas. Usually she and Peter had a number of projects advancing together, until one stood out and demanded attention. This time the projects file had failed to oblige, and each document within it, or each page of notes (Peter insisted on paper backup), had a sheepish look about it, even defiant, as if challenging them to find anything at all interesting within it.

  She had to admit that wasn’t the only reason she had decided to accompany Peter today. The early May weather was unexpectedly obliging after what seemed non-stop rain, but unfortunately she had no valid excuse for tackling the garden at Medlars while so close by Luke was immersed in his office panicking over his spring list.

  ‘Interesting,’ Peter commented, glancing at the house, as he manoeuvred himself into his wheelchair. ‘What do we expect from this?’

  Georgia considered the neat but somewhat nondescript detached building set some way back from the lane behind high hedges and, from the glimpse through the gateway, shrouded with bushes too. Lewson Street was a hamlet near Faversham, at whose centre was a fine pub. Its houses and cottages were strung out along a long lane leading from a nearby church and back to the busy A2 road.

  ‘The jury’s out on this one,’ Georgia replied to Peter’s question cheerfully, as she rang the doorbell. An academic, perhaps in this green ivory tower?

  The man who answered the door was too young to be Jago Priest; he could only be in his late forties. Tall, sturdily built, casually dressed, but smartly. No businessman this, yet no academic either, and any personal memories of Lance Venyon could only be those of a tiny child.

  ‘Mark Priest,’ he announced as he greeted them. He was weighing them up carefully, although not unwelcomingly, Georgia thought. ‘My father’s waiting for you. Come in.’ A makeshift ramp for Peter’s wheelchair had been laid to the doorstep, which won Mark some brownie points, and he took immediate charge of clearing the path for it to a room at the rear of the house.

  ‘Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home,’ boomed its occupant.

  It was Jago Priest’s size that first struck Georgia. She had expected a frail man in his eighties. This man was certainly that age, but frail he was not. He was tall, still well built, with white hair, which was profuse though hardly rivalling the vicar’s mane, and a white beard to complement it. Where the vicar had been restrained, however, this man was jovial in the extreme. When she had telephoned, he had obviously been taken by surprise – not unnaturally considering that Lance Venyon had died well over forty years earlier. Now he exuded welcome, and his personality dominated the room.

  Nevertheless the room, or rather its contents, were fighting back with a vengeance, and came a close second. Peter obviously thought the same for he announced approvingly: ‘This is somewhere I could feel at home.’

  Jago laughed. ‘The precious life-blood of a master-spirit, as Milton said, eh? Books.’

  That was an understatement. Apart from one framed photo of a striking-looking elderly lady, the books were the room. Hardly any wall space was to be seen: two of the walls were entirely hidden, the third grudgingly permitted a window, and the fourth hosted ancient maps. More books were heaped on the floor and were doing their best to encroach on the comfortable-looking chairs and desk, although there a brand-new computer seemed to be eyeing them so sternly that the flood was held at bay. A working room, and an active one, Georgia realized, despite Jago Priest’s age.

  ‘My little hobby,’ he explained chuckling.

  For once lost for the right words, she could only nod weakly, because she had just realized what this collection was all about. Once again, she had run straight into Camelot. This wasn’t a higgledy-piggledy random selection of books; they all, so far as she could see, had to do with King Arthur, with deviations into early British history, Bronze Age, Roman, Celtic, and Anglo-Saxon. King Arthur reigned serenely over them all.

  ‘It takes some getting used to,’ Mark said gloomily, seeing her amazement. ‘Imagine growing up with this lot.’

  ‘You’re not an enthusiast?’

  ‘No,’ he grimaced. ‘I deal in facts, not myth.’

  Jago didn’t seem put out at such betrayal by his son. ‘And what is myth and legend but history hiding behind a cloud?’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking,’ Peter asked tactfully, ‘that these books are divided more or less between the two?’

  Jago turned to him. ‘I can see you have a discerning eye, Peter. This wall has mainly what one might call the Camelot story, the Arthurian story of the Middle Ages, best known through Malory’s fifteenth-century Le Morte D’Arthur, who drew of course from earlier sources, both French and British, many lost to us now. It is by courtesy of Chrétien de Troyes, writing three centuries earlier, that the Holy Grail stories became part of the Arthurian tradition.’

  ‘Hollywood fodder,’ muttered Mark.

  ‘And this,’ Jago lovingly touched another wall of books, ‘is where Mark and I agree. The historical side of the story. The old faithfuls, Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Gildas, Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmouth—’

  ‘Still largely myth,’ Mark defended his corner.

  ‘My son takes the view,’ Jago joked, ‘that our ancestors got together one day and decided to invent a whole new king to fool posterity.’

  This was clearly a battle that had raged for years, Georgia saw with amusement, but there seemed no animosity in it, merely a wariness of what the opponent might say next. The problem was: were they ever going to get Jago to talk about Lance Venyon?

  ‘Dad, your visitors are here to talk about that old friend of yours, not Arthur.’

  ‘Indeed yes, I must remember my manners. You must forgive me.’ Jago sat down in his chair, looking his full age. ‘Since my wife died two years ago –’ he gla
nced at the photograph – ‘I have little chance to indulge my enthusiasm, and Mark and Cindy, my daughter, are usually my only outlets to sharpen what’s left of my wits.’

  ‘Was your wife a King Arthur enthusiast too?’ Georgia asked gently.

  ‘Indeed she was. She would say it was because her parents named her Jennifer, which, as you know, is a variant of Guinevere.’

  Georgia began to sense even more the kind of upbringing Mark must have had in this overpoweringly Arthurian family. He caught her eye, and obviously read her thoughts.

  ‘I don’t live here,’ he explained straight-faced, ‘so I can take it in small doses.’

  Nevertheless, he was clearly on guard and announced he would leave them to make some tea – couldn’t stand the strain, no doubt, and who could blame him, Georgia thought?

  ‘Don’t pity him.’ Jago returned to full vigour, when Mark had left them. ‘He pretends to be a doubter, but the mere fact that he tries to disprove my every word by rushing to the history books or the Internet suggests to me that secretly he’s as drawn to it as I am. I’ll lay a bet with you that when I’m gone this collection goes straight to Tunbridge Wells. That’s where Mark lives,’ he explained. ‘Jennifer and I lived there too when we first returned to England ten years ago. A good town for history, even if Arthur never drank its spa waters. My daughter, Cindy, is wise enough to keep aloof from our controversy, though I suspect she is more sympathetic to Arthurian history than she likes to let on, whereas the next generation, my dear Sam, is even more of an enthusiast than I am – if that’s possible.’

  ‘Perhaps Mark will get his evidence in due course. Our perspective on history can change,’ Peter pointed out. ‘With a period such as King Arthur’s in particular accepted facts can be turned on their head.’

  ‘Just what Lance would have said,’ Jago commented quietly.

  At last. A chance to get the conversation on track. ‘You knew him from his childhood?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘No. We met during the war, the Second World War, I should say. We met in 1944. I was twenty-three and he, I think, slightly younger.’