Next In Line

Chapter 19

‘It’s my great pleasure,’ announced the new director of the Fitzmolean, ‘to welcome you all to this remarkable collection of Frans Hals’ work. I would now like to invite Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, to open the exhibition.’

The Princess stepped up to the microphone. The applause continued as she glanced down at the opening paragraph of her speech.

‘Can I begin by saying how delighted I was to be invited to open this much-anticipated exhibition, which has already received glowing reviews. The Times’s critic reminded us this morning that great art transcends all prejudice and social barriers. When we look at a painting, we are unaware of the artist’s colour, religious beliefs or political views. Until I read that review, I hadn’t realized that Frans Hals is considered by many art historians to be in the same league as Rembrandt and Vermeer, or that although he was never short of commissions during his long life, he died almost penniless. Perhaps because he had eleven children.’ The Princess waited for the laughter to die down before she continued.

‘However, he left a legacy we can all admire and that will surely last for many generations to come. A Dutch master of the Golden Age would surely have been delighted that this museum has honoured his memory with such a comprehensive display of his work, which is thanks to Beth Warwick, the curator of this exhibition. Her energy, endeavour and scholarship are clear for all to see.’

A warm round of applause followed, and Beth bowed her head.

DI Ross Hogan would have liked to join in the applause, but not while he was on duty. His eyes swept the room as HRH continued her speech. He noticed his boss, Commander Hawksby, standing at the back of the assembled guests, observing proceedings; even at a gathering like this, he was clearly unable to stop being a policeman.

A few paces in front of the Hawk stood DCI Warwick. Next to him was his father, Sir Julian Warwick QC, whom Ross had previously seen only at a distance when appearing in the witness box at the Old Bailey. Ross assumed the woman on his left must be William’s mother.

His eyes moved on to William’s sister Grace, and her partner Clare. The formidable couple were holding hands, unafraid of making a public statement about their feelings for each other. Ross couldn’t help wondering what Sir Julian thought about that. To their right were Beth Warwick’s proud parents, Mr and Mrs Rainsford, to whom he would be eternally grateful for the way they had also welcomed Jojo into the family as their second granddaughter.

Ross suppressed a smile when he caught the eye of Victoria Campbell, who was standing to one side, carrying out her anonymous role as a lady-in-waiting. He had to admit that he still fancied her, but he didn’t need anyone to remind him: in your dreams.

At the very front of the gathering stood Christina Faulkner, who was holding hands with the young man Ross had last seen at Tramp. He had assumed Sebastian had been a one-night stand, but clearly he was not. His attention was then drawn to another man he hadn’t expected to see at the opening. He didn’t appear to be listening to the speech, his eyes remaining fixed on one particular painting.

With Miles Faulkner’s trial now only a few weeks away, it puzzled Ross why no one had yet questioned him about the painting Booth Watson was staring at, and how it had ended up being part of the exhibition. Even more surprising, Faulkner’s lawyer hadn’t made an official complaint about his client being forcibly removed from his home in Spain and dragged back to England to face a second trial.

Equally puzzling was Faulkner’s decision to plead guilty in exchange for two years being knocked off his sentence. It didn’t make any sense. Faulkner had the reputation of being a sharp deal-maker, and that certainly wasn’t a good deal. There had to be something neither he nor William was aware of. Ross wondered if he’d ever find out. He glanced back at Booth Watson, whom he assumed must know the answer to all of those questions.

The Princess turned to her final card.

‘I have no doubt that, like us, the public will derive great enjoyment from this remarkable exhibition,’ she said. ‘And I’m delighted to declare it open.’

Another round of applause followed. The Princess left the stage, accompanied by the museum’s director, and headed straight for the keeper of pictures to congratulate her. Artemisia, her little coronet wedged firmly in place, somehow managed to squeeze in between them.

When Diana and the new director moved on to chat with some of the other guests, Beth had to hold firmly on to Artemisia’s hand to stop her becoming a supernumerary lady-in-waiting. The commander chose that moment to come out of the shadows and have a quiet word with William.

‘Look over there,’ he whispered.

‘I’ve already seen him,’ said William.

‘Why’s he so interested in that particular painting?’

‘Caravaggio’s Christ Descending from the Cross,’ said William not turning his head, ‘was loaned permanently to the gallery by Miles Faulkner, in exchange for a suspended sentence following his first trial.’

‘I’m bound to say Booth Watson doesn’t appear to have a permanent look on his face, more temporary,’ mused the Hawk.

‘I wonder what Faulkner would be willing to offer in exchange for a suspended sentence this time,’ said William.

‘Even if he were to offer us his entire collection, I can’t see the judge being swayed.’

‘Unless Beth was the judge,’ responded William.

‘Even Faulkner couldn’t fix that. But that wasn’t the reason I wanted to speak to you. I had a call from the Commissioner just before I left the Yard this evening. He told me he has an appointment to see the Prince of Wales on Monday morning at twelve o’clock, when he intends to fully brief him on Superintendent Milner’s extra-curricular activities.’

‘Milner spent this afternoon with the Prince of Wales, sir,’ said William, ‘while he was on a visit to the Royal Geographical Society. He’ll have had more than enough time to put his side of the story long before the Commissioner turns up.’

‘I fear a quiet resignation due to ill health may be the best we can hope for.’

‘The damn man should be hung, drawn and quartered,’ said William, ‘and his head left on a spike on Tower Bridge, while Reynolds is put in the stocks on Ludgate Hill and pelted with rotten tomatoes.’

‘It’s so refreshing, William, to find that, after all your years in the force, the heart of a choirboy still beats within your breast,’ said the Hawk as he glanced across the room to where Sir Julian Warwick was deep in conversation with Beth Warwick.

‘Were you very disappointed not to get the job as Director?’ Julian asked his daughter-in-law.

‘I was,’ admitted Beth. ‘And it didn’t help when Tim Knox told me the board voted seven to five in favour of Gerald Sloane. To make it even worse, the chairman told Tim that if it had been six all, he would have given his casting vote to me.’

‘What can you tell me about Sloane?’ asked Julian, glancing across at the museum’s new director.

‘He’s been director of the Manchester Municipal Gallery for the past seven years, and I’m told he looks upon the Fitzmolean as a stepping stone to greater things, whereas I wanted to build the museum’s reputation so that no one would ever consider it to be a stepping stone.’

‘Bide your time, young lady, would be my advice,’ said Julian. ‘You just might find yourself getting the job sooner than you think. But at the same time, keep your eyes wide open, because Sloane will look upon you as a rival. He’ll either befriend you, or try to undermine you. Possibly both.’

‘You think like a criminal, Julian,’ said Beth.

‘That’s what I’m paid to do,’ was his response.

‘I know I shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ whispered Beth, ‘but I have it on good authority that only half the staff turned up for his leaving party in Manchester.’

‘All the more reason for you to be cautious. It’s no secret that if the Fitzmolean staff had been able to vote, you’d have won by a country mile.’

Beth nodded. ‘I know this isn’t the appropriate occasion,’ she said, ‘but I need your advice on a private matter.’

‘Why don’t you all come down to Nettleford for lunch on Sunday? That should give us more than enough time to talk it through,’ said Julian as his wife joined them.

‘I’m surprised to see Mr Booth Watson here,’ said Lady Warwick.

‘Perhaps he’s an admirer of Frans Hals,’ suggested Beth, knowing only too well why he was there.

‘Mr Booth Watson isn’t an admirer of anyone,’ said Julian, ‘unless there’s a chance they could turn out to be a potential client. And Frans Hals certainly doesn’t fall into that category. Although he wouldn’t be the first dead client BW has represented.’

‘You’re such an old cynic, Julian,’ said his wife.

‘You don’t have much choice when you have to spend your professional life crossing swords with the Booth Watsons of this world,’ he replied. At that moment Artemisia let go of her mother’s hand and shot off across the room.

‘What’s the little minx up to?’ asked Julian.

‘Wants to say goodbye to her friend, would be my bet,’ said Beth as Artemisia grabbed Ross by the hand.

The last person the Princess said goodbye to, after admiring her coronet and giving her a kiss, was Artemisia, which didn’t please the new director.