Murder and the Golden Goblet

by Amy Myers

  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 when 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.’

  Georgia gulped. ‘Is that all possible?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Peter replied. ‘It is. A
nd 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 s
aid. ‘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.’