The Borgia Chalice

by Derek Wilson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

One of the most fabulous treasures of the Renaissance, the Borgia Chalice, carries with it a dark aura - for legend has it that the notorious Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI, could use this cup to poison his enemies, yet drink from it himself without harm. Security expert Tim Lacy has no superstitious fear of the chalice's supposed powers, and nor do the six people who drink from it after Lacy buys it for a client. But within the hour, four of those people are dead, all of them art critics who had mercilessly attacked the chalice's late owner, Gregor Santori, as a fraud. Yet Santori's son and daughter, who also drank from the cup, are unaffected. Is it possible that this is revenge from beyond the grave? Lacy sets out to unearth the truth in Rome, where revelations of sordid Vatican politics have remarkable contemporary echoes. Before long Lacy finds himself racing between the art establishments of two continents in pursuit of a criminal more ruthless than he could ever have known...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 383

Sample

The murderer handled the plain buff file lovingly, reverently, as though it were a crisp-lettered incunabulum from the workshop
of Caxton or Wynkyn de Worde. Its owner would not have traded it for the rarest volume in the world’s finest collection of
early printed books. Every folio masterpiece, every treasured first edition had its blemishes and endearing inaccuracies.
Here, within these bulging covers of anonymous beige, was perfection. The insoluble crime.


Slender fingers opened the folder. The murderer smiled a self-congratulatory smile at the sheaf of photocopies and cuttings
clipped in precise order. The top page, beautifully printed in Renaissance Italian, was from Vespasiano da Bisticci’s Vite d’uomini illustri del secolo XV. The translation followed. Light laughter filled the room as the murderer read the familiar text. Who would ever believe that
a twentieth-century assassination had been conceived five hundred years before?


It was this same Pope Alexander who caused the celebrated Augsburg goldsmith, Georg Schongauer, to fashion a chalice of impious
design and most unholy purpose. The stem of this costly, gold and enamel goblet was formed by three interlocked female forms,
their feet resting – appropriately – on a circle of writhing serpents which formed the vessel’s foot or pedestal. Cunningly concealed within the elaborate carving
was a mechanism which, when activated, released an instant poison into the bowl from the chalice’s hollow stem.


Ever on the watch for treason among those closest to him, it was the pope’s established custom to strike first and upon the
slightest suspicion of disaffection. In the autumn of 1496 it was reported by his spies that three cardinals – della Chiesa,
Montadini and Petrucci – were plotting against him. Alexander summoned them to his chambers and confronted them with their
alleged crimes. They vigorously denied proceeding against his holiness in word or deed and on their knees besought some token
of his favour. Laughing, Alexander bade them rise. ‘I am glad these stories are nothing more than malicious rumour,’ he said.
‘Come let us drink to our continued friendship.’ He had the chalice brought which I have described. A servant filled it with
wine and his holiness drank deeply from it. He then passed it to the others who were present. Each, in turn, knowing the pope’s
reputation but thinking no ill could befall them since they had seen his holiness taste the wine, followed his example. Besides
the cardinals, the pope’s sons, Giovanni and Cesare, also drank from the cup. Within minutes della Chiesa, Montadini and Petrucci
were seized with violent pains and, falling to the ground, died in great agonies. The physicians who were summoned to examine
the bodies decreed that the cardinals had been poisoned but as none of the Borgias was in any way harmed they were unable
to say how the fatal drafts had been administered. Nor has anyone ever been able to resolve this problem.


The murderer luxuriated in the thought of a crime maturing for half a millennium. Waiting, like a great vintage, for a palate
refined enough to appreciate its mellowness and subtlety. Waiting for the precise moment. Turning the collected leaves the
murderer found a report from the Daily Telegraph of 21 October 1992.


Santori family in court uproar

Screams of I’ll kill them’ rang from the public gallery of Court Three at the Old Bailey yesterday afternoon. Several people
had to be manhandled, still shouting, from the chamber before Mr Justice Grandisson could complete the sentencing of Gregor
Santori, found guilty of criminal fraud. The accused seemed unmoved by the disturbance. He stood erect but frail as the judge
ordered him to spend four years in prison.


The tone of high drama which has marked the seven months of this trial continued to its very end. In the early stages of the
proceedings the jury and public were baffled by the spectacle of rival experts, put up by the defence and the prosecution,
slanging each other from the witness box. Then, in July, Santori (51) collapsed in court and had to be rushed to hospital
with a minor heart attack. That was followed by a strong plea from the defendant’s family for the case to be dropped. The
Telegraph took a lead in condemning Judge Grandisson’s decision to continue wasting taxpayers’ money in the pursuit of a sick man whose only alleged crime lay in persuading very rich collectors
that the products of his own acknowledged genius were the works of long-dead masters.


When the trial was resumed in October it soon became known as the ‘Borgia Chalice Affair’. The prosecution sought to convince
the jury that Santori had faked a five-hundred-year-old ‘death cup’, reputedly made for the notorious Rodrigo Borgia, Pope
Alexander VI. Santori produced a string of specialist scholars to support his claim that the magnificent, jewel-studded goblet,
the centrepiece of many sinister poisoning legends, was genuine. But the jury accepted the evidence of a team of leading international
experts assembled by the prosecution. Even so, it took the eight men and four women two-and-a-half days to reach their verdict.


Yesterday’s public-gallery rumpus was caused by Santori’s son Tristram (26) and daughter Guinevere (23), who have stood by
their father throughout the proceedings, organizing a petition and mounting pavement demonstrations outside the court. The
family’s lawyer made it clear that he would be appealing against the sentence. Ms Santori wiped tears from her eyes as she
confessed to media reporters her fears that her father would not survive more than a few weeks in prison. Asked whom her courtroom
threats were addressed to she replied ‘So-called experts’ before being hustled into a cab by her brother.


What a remarkable talent Gregor Santori had possessed. And how the art establishment had loathed him. Hypocrites! Predictable, closed-minded hypocrites! But the murderer had every
reason to be grateful to the spokespersons of the artworld. It was their protective, ghetto mentality that had created the
right atmosphere for a criminal triumph. Oh, their delicious self-righteousness! How well it was expressed in Apollo’s editorial of August 1993.


Private Grief, Public Concern

The death, in prison, of Gregor Santori is a tragedy for his family and for his wide circle of friends. It is not an eventuality
that even his most ardent opponents would have envisaged or desired. We extend our deepest sympathy to all who mourn the passing
of a fine craftsman, a dedicated scholar and a warm, ebullient human being.


Yet, let there be no crocodile tears. Eight months ago, Dr Julia Devaraux, Director of the Kurtheim Institute, and Mort Bronsky,
of New York’s Bronsky-Stein Gallery, made a cogent case in this magazine for labelling as a fake the so-called ‘Borgia Chalice’.
They concluded their article with these words:


‘What should, in truth, be called the Santori Chalice is a masterpiece in the traditional sense of that word. In this single,
virtuoso item Gregor Santori stakes an irrefutable claim to be ranked with the very best contemporary goldsmiths. That is
not at issue. Nor, sadly, is it the point.


‘In the world of private and institutional collectors, authenticity counts for more than genius. A secure attribution may
increase the market value of a painting, a sculpture or a Renaissance chalice by a factor of ten or even more. That fact will
always tempt owners, dealers, ‘improvers’ and downright fakers to manufacture provenance, to forge signatures or, as in this
case, to fabricate artifacts. Every collector must take CAVEAT EMPTOR for his banner device but he is also entitled to expect
the protection of the law. It is sad to see a man of Gregor Santori’s skill and knowledge serving a prison sentence but the
judgement was just and may deflect others from the paths of deception.’


The media has made much of Santori’s constant insistence that the Borgia Chalice and other items in which he traded over the
years were all genuine. It is a story that is destined to run and run and this month’s sad news will not put an end to it.
Authentication is a hazardous business and experts do make mistakes. There is not a major museum which does not have in its
vaults objects now consigned to embarrassed obscurity which were once acknowledged by leading academics as respectable masterworks
of impeccable provenance.


However, we must not allow sympathy for Mr Santori’s family or indignation with the judicial system to cloud our judgement.
The balance of specialist opinion about various items sold by Gregor Santori is clear, and potential purchasers of artworks
deserve safeguards no less than buyers of second-hand cars and insurance policies.


The murderer flipped through the pages. Documentation of a multiple assassination: method, timing, accomplices. The murderer laughed aloud. Innocent, unsuspecting accomplices!
They had even posted advance notice of the crime. Yes, here it was in Grinling’s Monthly Review of August, 1994.


The gold and enamel cup with cast stem and chased rim shown opposite must be one of the most frequently photographed examples
of the gold-smith’s art. The celebrated, or notorious, Borgia Chalice is the best known item of the Santori Collection which
will be auctioned at our New Bond Street rooms on 29 September. This item was at the centre of the controversy which put a
sad end to Gregor Santori’s remarkable multi-faceted career as goldsmith, collector and dealer in Renaissance and sixteenth-century
silverware, bronzes and jewellery. Also included in the sale of 163 lots is the Shrewsbury Ewer, dating from c.1590 and carrying
an estimate of £40,000—£60,000 ($64,000—$96,000). Among the items from the late Mr Santori’s own workshop are several pieces
of tableware inspired by sixteenth-century Florentine designs and three acknowledged copies of bronzes by Ghiberti and Riccio.


The controversy over the genuineness of the Borgia Chalice did not end with the court case. Though Grinling’s are content
to accept majority expert opinion that it is an extremely well-crafted piece in the German Renaissance style, further study
and the application of new verification techniques may yet suggest otherwise. Whether this remarkable cup is the one in which
Pope Alexander VI served poison to his unsuspecting guests or a modern masterpiece which caused one of this century’s most controversial fraud cases, it will certainly attract considerable international
interest.


The murderer sat back, eyes closed. It had all fallen into place so easily and been carried into effect so smoothly. Inevitable
– that was the word. It described all art. A masterpiece of painting or music, even a Renaissance chalice – they seemed ‘right’
because one could not imagine them any other way. Every line, shade, nuance was in its proper place – genius and industry
concealed by inevitability. That was why the Michaelmas Massacre was recognized, and always would be recognized as a work
of art.


Catherine Lacy stepped quickly across the pavement and stationed herself under the purple awning of Grinling’s rooms while
her husband paid the taxi driver. The rain which had been on and off all morning was in a very emphatic ‘on’ phase and she
did not want any of it to spatter her black woollen suit. Its tailored lines emphasized her slender figure and Catherine noted
the appreciative glances of a couple of men going into the auctioneers. Nice to know that she could still turn heads even
though the big four zero was looming. Tim joined her, shaking droplets of water from his thick black hair, and they went up
the steps into Grinling’s wide foyer.


‘Crowded,’ he observed.

The spacious vestibule was dotted with little groups of people, several of whom the Lacys recognized. There was a cluster,
two or three deep, around the counter where the catalogues were sold. Still more formed a reverse waterfall up the impressive
staircase leading to the first-floor galleries.


‘I guess we should have gotten here earlier.’ Catherine’s New England drawl had not been softened by eleven years’ residence
in Britain.


Tim glanced up at the famous Blitz Clock on the wall above the racks of recent sale catalogues. In 1940 it had been carried,
still ticking, from the wreckage of the auctioneers’ original premises near the river and had been installed here when Grinling’s relocated after the war, still bearing
like a veteran’s scar the wide gash across its enamel face that it had received in the bombing. Nine forty-three it proclaimed,
defying contradiction.


Tim checked his watch against it. ‘Quarter of an hour to go yet. We obviously underestimated the pulling power of the Santori
legend.’


‘I’ll bet most of them are sightseers, not serious buyers.’

‘Tim, Catherine! Great to see you!’ The man who came up behind them and clasped their shoulders in a heavy embrace was large,
ebullient and American. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. Have you started investing the Lacy millions in Renaissance silver?
If so, this is not the place to start. Prices will be going through the roof today.’


Tim evaded the question. ‘Mort Bronsky!’ He allowed his hand to be crushed by the New York dealer. ‘We should be asking what
you’re doing here. It was partly your evidence that put Santori away. I can’t believe you’ve come to gloat over the break up of
his collection.’


‘Hell no! I never wanted to see poor old Gregor sent down. I was gobsmacked when that judge handed out a custodial sentence.
It really wasn’t necessary.’ Bronsky’s affable smile faded to a concerned frown as the three of them moved towards the staircase
and began to climb.


Catherine glanced sideways at her fellow countryman. She was never quite sure about the over-friendly Mort Bronsky. Somehow,
his hail-fellow-well-met manner seemed too good to be true. ‘Don’t you think some people might regard your presence here as
… well …’


‘Bad form?’ Mort laughed. ‘Cathy, you get more English every time I see you. But yes, I guess I’ll probably merit a few inches in tomorrow’s gossip columns. I certainly
thought long and hard about coming. But they were very pressing and London always gives me a buzz …’


‘They?’

‘Grinling’s, Tim. Very insistent they were. They want me to take part …’ He came to a sudden halt on the top step. ‘Sorry,
guys, I’m going to have to take five. I’ll catch up with you later.’ The burly American turned and bumped his way back to
ground level through the ascending throng.


Catherine looked at her husband with raised eyebrows. Tim grinned. He nodded in the direction of a small man standing in the
doorway of the main gallery inspecting a full-sized bronze figure of Neptune and referring through rimless spectacles to his
catalogue. ‘There’s the reason.’


Catherine studied the balding figure in immaculately cut suit and bow-tie. ‘Who he?’

‘Heinrich Segar – German academic; leading expert on Renaissance sculpture.’

‘OK, I know the name, of course. I’ve even browsed through one of his books. Wasn’t he another of the prosecution witnesses
against Santori?’


‘That’s right. This seems to be quite an old boys’ reunion. Except that Segar and Bronsky hate each other’s guts.’

‘Hence Mort’s hasty retreat?’

‘Right.’

‘So what’s the problem – professional jealousy?’

‘Partly. They both make a lot of money out of advising top galleries and museums. That makes them rivals and they seldom seem
to agree. If Mort says a piece is phoney the owner only has to wheel in Segar for the item in question to be given a clean bill of health – and vice versa.’


‘But they both declared the Borgia Chalice a fake.’

‘That’s right. That went a long way towards swaying opinion in the trade generally and, presumably, the jury. People said,
“If Bronsky and Segar both say the chalice is wrong, it must be wrong.” He glanced towards the commissions desk at one side
of the upper foyer. There was a short queue of people leaving bids or registering themselves as potential buyers. ‘I must
just go and sign on, darling. Do you mind going ahead and grabbing a couple of seats?’


‘If I can.’ She gazed into Gallery One – the Long Room – with its purple walls, hung today with nineteenth-century watercolours
awaiting a sale the following week. The thirty or so rows of folding chairs were filling up rapidly.


Catherine squeezed through the throng in the doorway and walked towards the dais at the far end. She found a couple of seats
at the edge of the fifth row but she did not sit immediately. Instead she dropped a newspaper and a catalogue on the chairs
and gazed round, savouring the atmosphere.


She loved sale rooms. Whether in a plush London gallery like Grinling’s or a provincial auctioneer’s draughty warehouse, the
same elements were always present – the buzz of expectancy; the nonchalant dealers feigning bored indifference; the rivalries
masquerading as camaraderie; the bonhomie from the rostrum; the thrill as nodded bids bounced back and forth, pushing a lot
well beyond its estimate; the breath-holding silence giving way to excited chatter as soon as the gavel fell; the eccentric
characters these pieces of impromptu theatre always attracted; the chance to talk shop with friends and acquaintances who shared an appreciation of beauty and craftsmanship.


Yet today’s event was much more exciting than even a major West End sale. The trials and tribulations of Gregor Santori had
seldom been out of the media for the past two years and more. The long-running saga had the elements that news editors, feature
writers and presenters of late-night arts programmes alike drooled over – a flamboyant central character well-known for wealth,
extravagant parties and love affairs, a court case that had never lacked drama, a fraud scandal that did not cease to be controversial
even after the jury’s verdict had been given, a fabulous collection of early silver and jewellery – one of the best in private
hands – and, at the heart of all the arguments and speculation, the Borgia Chalice, an object with a mystery and a romantic
legend of its own. No wonder the reporters were here in force.


Looking around, Catherine noted two TV crews and recognized three broadsheet arts correspondents. A wiry little man was on
the dais arguing with one of the Grinling’s people about positioning his Walkman on the auctioneer’s desk.


Catherine was suddenly aware of a commotion behind her. Both TV cameramen were focusing on something at the back of the room.
In company with several others, Catherine turned.


The attraction was a large woman in her forties, heavily made-up and enveloped in a sack of wafting silk. She was attended
– that was the only word – by an entourage of hangers-on who clustered round her as she progressed down the room greeting
and being greeted, like royalty at a levee. Julia Devaraux was admired by many, loathed by many more but ignored by no one
– her publicity machine saw to that. She was a woman of undeniable intellectual attainment with a string of degrees to prove it but she had early made the decision that academia presented too
small a stage for her talents and had deliberately turned herself into a media celebrity. This she achieved by being outspoken,
brash and downright insulting on a variety of issues from trends in modern art to women’s rights, vegetarianism and nursery
education. Currently she was writing a bitchy column for one of the upmarket weekend magazines and hosting a Sunday afternoon
antiques programme, in addition to her day job as Director of the Kurtheim Institute of Art and Craft, Birmingham’s scaled-down
version of the V and A.


Catherine turned away quickly, grabbed up the catalogue and pretended to study it closely. She was too late.

‘Catherine Lacy? Yes it is you. I knew it; I never forget a hair-do.’ Julia’s powerful contralto had a penetrating quality that might have been the
envy of a La Scala diva. She leaned forward across three seated elderly ladies to grasp Catherine’s hand.


‘Hello, Julia, how nice …’

‘What are you showing in darkest Wiltshire this season? It’s high time I came down and did another piece on your gallery.’
The femme formidable turned to declaim to the world in general. ‘This little woman has one of the best eyes for talent in the business. She buries
herself deep in the country but some of her shows are simply stunning and she finds such promising new material. Call my secretary,
Catherine. We’ll fix a meeting and discuss my visit.’ The last words were flung over La Devaraux’s shoulder as the cavalcade
moved on.


Catherine sat down quickly, her cheeks burning. ‘Female canine,’ she muttered under her breath. She knew she was trapped.
Like the elephant – an apt simile – Julia did not forget. If her office did not receive a call within a week, her secretary would be in touch with Farrans Court, pen poised
over Dr Devaraux’s engagement diary. That meant that Catherine would have to organize a lavish but health-sensitive lunch
and subject her exhibiting artists to a couple of hours of instant evaluation and bombastically delivered judgement. The trouble
was it would be very good for the gallery, which right now needed all the publicity it could get.


Back in the mid-eighties, before Thatcher boom had given way to Thatcher bust, it had seemed a wonderful idea for she and
Tim to run separate businesses from the idyllic setting of a period residence in mid-Wiltshire. Catherine had turned the principal
rooms of the late medieval manor house at Little Farrans into a gallery and arts centre where painters and sculptors – especially
newcomers – could not only display their works but also meet with dealers, academics, collectors, critics, media reporters,
school and college groups and the general public. The idea had worked well. Several artists who had made their debuts at Farrans
Court had gone on to become well established and highly collectable. The house was now marked out as a favourite venue for
exhibitions, lectures and seminars. The Farrans Festival, started three years ago, was already an important part of the region’s
social calendar. But Catherine had discovered that while laurels fade and fashion is as substantial as summer clouds, the
expenses of running a business and maintaining a five-hundred-year-old mini-mansion were very solid, very permanent realities.
One always had to be dreaming up new ideas to bring the punters in and not for a single day could one afford to neglect publicity.
Catherine sighed. And that involved being nice to the Julia Devarauxs of this world.


Meanwhile, Tim had joined the knot of people registering their intention to bid. As he did so, a mid-thirtyish woman came
through a doorway marked ‘Private’ and smiled as she recognized him.


‘Tim?’ Her eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. ‘Surely you haven’t come to buy.’

He laughed. ‘Yes and no, Corinne.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ She offered her cheek.

Tim appreciated the cool fragrance of her perfume as he leaned forward to kiss her. It complemented the image of efficient
femininity Corinne Noble presented to the world. It was no mask. When she had arrived from Christie’s two years before she
had been the youngest department head Grinling’s had ever appointed but her mix of adventurousness and expertise had quickly
paid off in the Medieval and Renaissance European Paintings department. At a time when rival houses were struggling in a depressed
market, Corinne had made some remarkable coups, substantially increasing the company’s turnover and profit.


Tim lowered his voice. ‘It means yes I’m buying – or trying to buy – and no I’m not buying for myself.’ Before she could press
him for further details, he went on. ‘Any-way what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be beavering away upstairs among the
anonymous Gothic masters?’


Corinne grinned and shook her close-cropped auburn hair. ‘Everyone in the building’s trying to look in at the Long Room. There
promises to be high drama.’


‘You’re expecting ferocious bidding?’

‘Not just that.’ She gave him a broad wink.

‘Stop being mysterious. What do you mean?’

‘Aha! W and S, as my grandmother used to say.’

‘Your grandmother must have been a very infuriating woman.’

Corinne laughed. ‘She was. They say I take after her.’

At that moment the queue moved on and a bright young junior looked up from her papers. ‘May I have your name, please, sir?’

Corinne intervened. ‘Jenny, this is Mr Tim Lacy of Lacy Security. His credit is excellent and even if it weren’t we couldn’t
turn away his business. These entire premises are guarded by gadgetry he’s installed. If we upset him he may break in at dead
of night and clean us out completely. Isn’t that so, Tim?’


Jenny giggled. She handed Tim a paddle – a plastic board shaped like a small tennis racquet – and noted its number against
the name she had just added to her list. ‘That’s fine then, Mr Lacy. No. 237.’


As they walked back towards the gallery, Corinne slipped her arm through his. ‘Is Catherine with you?’ she asked nonchalantly.

‘Yes, so you’d better behave yourself.’

‘As if I wouldn’t.’

They paused in the doorway of the Long Room and eased their way through the crowd of dealers who preferred to stand at the
back of the gallery where they could keep an eye on rival bidders; where they could be seen from the rostrum but not be watched
by the seated customers.


They stopped for a moment, scanning the rows of well-filled seats. Tim said, ‘Talking of security …’

Corinne feigned wide-eyed innocence. ‘Were we?’

‘Talking of security, what’s happening about the new warehouse? We don’t seem to have heard anything.’

Corinne looked away quickly. ‘Isn’t that Catherine along there, on the right?’ She moved forward.

Tim laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Have I said something embarrassing?’

‘No … of course not.’ Her self-assurance gauge took a sharp dip. ‘It’s just that … I’m sure you’ll be receiving a letter very
soon.’


Tim increased the pressure on her shoulder. ‘Saying what?’

‘Tim, these are board decisions, you know that. Personal feelings don’t enter into it.’

‘What you’re trying to tell me – or, rather, what you’re trying not to tell me is that Lacy Security is being cold-shouldered.’

She turned towards him, frowning, high colour suffusing her cheeks. ‘Some of the top brass … Well, they’ve heard that Lacy
Security’s been having some problems and anyway,’ she rushed on before Tim could react, ‘they think we need something more
than conventional security systems. You know the rate at which specialized art theft is increasing.’


‘That’s the first time I’ve heard Lacy systems called conventional.’

‘Tim, it’s no longer just a question of guarding priceless objects. Today’s syndicates are violent and ruthless. Look at the
Frankfurt raid last month: two museum staff killed. And a couple of weeks before that there was that ghastly affair in Barcelona:
a guard and a member of the public gunned down in broad daylight.’


Tim removed his hand from her shoulder. He sighed. ‘I see. We’re talking thug patrols; ex-cons ready to turn any suspected
break-in into a private massacre. Well, it’s pretty obvious who’s been feeding these ideas to your bosses. Saul Druckmann.’


Corinne shrugged. ‘These decisions have nothi