by Amy Myers
‘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 puzzled. ‘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.’
‘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.’
Perhaps 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?’
