Murder and the Golden Goblet

by Amy Myers

  ‘Even though it would have made you rich?’

  An exclamation of annoyance. ‘You don’t understand, Georgia,’ Madeleine said. ‘The whole point of the scam was that it was a joke – of sorts. Lance was going to pay Kranowski out of his own pocket, and had already paid Hoskin. Lance confessed to me that day that his aim had never been money, but revenge.’

  Of course, Georgia thought, kicking herself for not realizing it sooner. Not money, but the game!

  ‘Lance was hell bent on making Jago Priest the laughing stock of the Arthurian world,’ Madeleine continued, ‘by building up the hoax to the point where Jago was so obsessed that he could never admit anything was a fake. The world’s press would be present, Jago would luxuriate in his glory to the full; he would officially authenticate the find – and then, he, Lance Venyon, would tip the press and experts off that it was all a fake. It was Lance’s revenge for Jago marrying Jennifer.’

  ‘And Jennifer knew about it?’ Never forget Jennifer.

  There was a long silence, then at last Madeleine answered her. ‘I don’t know. That’s the torment.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘How can we tell him?’ Georgia asked. Jago already had Mark’s arrest to battle with, even though the charge was still for the art thefts, not murder. So far, Mike had said, they were still lacking forensic – or indeed any – evidence to connect him with the murder of Sandro Daks.

  ‘How can we not?’ Peter asked reasonably.

  For good reasons, Georgia thought. However robust Jago might seem, he was in his mid to late eighties, and the shock of his life’s dream being shattered, just at the point where they suspected he might be about to dig once again for Gawain’s bones, might well be too much for him. Added to that, he still considered Lance to have been his best friend. Two central props to his life would be knocked away.

  ‘In hindsight, it was a good plan,’ Peter observed.

  ‘Was it?’ It seemed to Georgia fraught with risk.

  ‘Our Lance must have had patience. He worked on the scheme for several years. Jago married Jennifer in 1956; Lance at some point conceived the idea, set the rumours going himself without benefit of the Internet, then pretended to pick up on them, fitting them in to what Jago already believed, then organizing and ageing the collection in the ground.’

  ‘The question is: did he put it there?’

  Peter ruminated. ‘My money would be on the assumption that he had already buried it when he died. Otherwise what happened to the goblet? It wasn’t presumably found amongst his belongings after his death, and the Benizis would have known if it had come on the market.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have told us, though,’ Georgia said. ‘And if you’re right, and the collection was buried, you must see where that takes us.’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s still there where Lance buried it; he was about to spring the joke.’

  Georgia grappled with this. There was a flaw somewhere. ‘Buried it where?’

  Peter whirled his chair round irritably. ‘Georgia, I don’t know. There are a thousand don’t knows. What, for instance, about the chaplains’ script and the Ruskin letter? Do they exist? Are they buried with the hoard? Can’t be. So where are they?’

  ‘Perhaps Lance had a further flourish planned with the paintings, script and letter to turn up. But he died.’

  ‘I notice we’ve stopped using the words killed or murdered.’

  ‘We have to,’ she said gloomily.

  ‘If Jago found out about the hoax,’ Peter said wistfully, ‘that would have given him a first-class motive.’

  ‘We’ve been down that cul-de-sac,’ she replied. ‘He had the time, but no opportunity. Even if he had learned or guessed about the hoax and dashed over from France to be the mysterious visitor Lance arranged to meet that day – who must surely have been Madeleine – how could he have overcome his loathing of water sufficiently to choose that method and plan his escape by water?’

  ‘Risky, I agree. Lance might have been a trifle wary at Jago’s sudden enthusiasm for sailing? No, if we’re talking murder, it’s back to the Benizis, Venetia or Mary, or persons unknown.’

  ‘Or Hoskin,’ Georgia added.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right, but where does that get us?’ Peter looked at her. ‘Shall we wipe our hands of the murder angle? Luke still thinks the story of the scam alone might make a book, depending on what happens over the dig.’

  ‘Back to square one. That means Jago finding out about the hoax.’

  ‘He will anyway.’

  ‘Not through us.’

  ‘We’ve committed the unthinkable. We’ve become personally involved in this case, particularly you, Georgia.’

  She could say nothing in her defence, because it was true. Even now she was taking the Benizis’ story at face value. ‘Yes, let’s press on with dear old King Arthur,’ she agreed. ‘One odd thing is that when Lance died, Jago didn’t find the hoard in the place indicated and that’s where Lance must surely have buried his collection. So why didn’t Jago find it?’

  ‘Sometimes you excel yourself, Georgia.’ Peter didn’t seem to be joking.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied modestly. ‘Either Jago must have changed his mind, or he missed it. Or he lied about where it was to us. Or,’ it occurred to her, ‘he did find it and is gloating over his hoard in secret.’

  ‘In which case he’s still in for a big shock when he discovers it’s all a scam – and, if you’re right, why should he be making a song and dance about it now?’

  She made a stab in the dark. ‘Because he’s going to re-find it, to get his hour of glory?’

  ‘Why take over forty years to do so?’ Peter cut neatly through her argument.

  ‘The time is ripe now. He’s bored with just looking at it once in a while, and the recurring rumours have given him the perfect opportunity for public glory, especially with the bloggers meeting on Barham Downs. Jago doesn’t know, remember, that the goblet is Raphael Kranowski’s, not King Arthur’s.’

  Peter finally delivered his verdict. ‘You could be right, but I don’t think you are. It seems to me we could be missing a trick here.’

  ‘A trick about what?’ Her voice came out as a squeak. Not another U-turn, surely?

  ‘It could be Jago is the guiding blogger behind the Barham Downs gathering. He’s busy keeping the opposition employed elsewhere while he digs away. I’ll ring Jago. We should be there, just in case.’

  ‘He’s in his late eighties. He won’t be doing it by himself, and he’d arrange for press to be there. Anyway, I repeat, we know it’s all a fake.’

  ‘As you said, he doesn’t know it’s fake.’

  Georgia closed her eyes in despair. ‘I can’t bear it. It gets worse all the time. I can picture him at Wymdown digging away in his field in the confident hope that his life’s dream is about to be fulfilled. He’ll have enduring fame as the greatest Arthurian of them all. And after that it will all be exposed as a hoax.’

  ‘That’s life,’ Peter agreed.

  ‘You’re very callous.’

  ‘I do believe you’re beginning to have Arthurian stars in your eyes, Georgia. Secretly you want King Arthur to come galloping down from the hills to scoop up his goblet just as much as I do.’

  ‘The world could do with him,’ Georgia replied with dignity.

  *

  Only another day to wait. Several times Georgia had wanted to warn Jago, and she suspected Peter still did too.

  ‘No,’ he had decreed. ‘We can’t take the responsibility. But he’s agreed we can join him, and says he’ll let me know the location tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Should we warn Cindy or Sam?’

  ‘They have their heads screwed on sufficiently to know the risks.’

  ‘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.’