Nothing Ventured

28

‘I think I know what’s in the other crate,’ said William.

‘But you’re not going to tell me, are you?’ said Beth.

‘No. Just in case I’m wrong, and then you’ll be disappointed.’

‘You do realize that the painting would have to be of Dutch or Flemish origin and pre-1800 before it could be considered by our hanging committee.’

‘If I’m right,’ said William, ‘that won’t be a problem. And its provenance is every bit as impressive as the Rembrandt. In any case, thanks to you, I’ve been invited to the opening ceremony.’

‘Not me,’ said Beth. ‘It was the museum’s director, Tim Knox, who invited you to the “opening of the crates ceremony.” I can tell you, you wouldn’t have been my first choice.’

‘Dare I ask?’

‘Christina Faulkner, the woman who made it all possible, and whom I can’t wait to meet and thank personally.’

William didn’t need reminding of the last occasion he’d seen Christina, and wondered if there would ever be a better opportunity to tell Beth exactly what had taken place that night in Monte Carlo.

‘I might even bump into her on Saturday,’ continued Beth, ‘if she visits Belmarsh to console her husband.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said William. ‘But my father and Grace are going to the prison this morning to give your father some important news.’

‘Good or bad?’ asked Beth, sounding anxious.

‘I’ve no idea. He wouldn’t even tell my mother.’

‘I wish I could be there to hear the news,’ said Beth, ‘but we’d better get moving if we’re not going to be late for the “opening of the crates ceremony.” This is one of those days when I wish I could be in two places at once.’

‘Good morning, Sir Julian. The prisoner is waiting for you in the interview room.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Rose.’ The leading silk and his junior followed the prison officer along a corridor that was becoming all too familiar.

When they reached the interview room Sir Julian shook hands with his client. ‘Good morning, Arthur.’

‘Good morning, Sir Julian,’ Arthur replied, before kissing Grace on both cheeks.

‘Let me begin with some good news,’ said Sir Julian, sitting down and placing his Gladstone bag by his side. Arthur looked apprehensive. ‘Thanks to the expertise of Professor Leonard Abrahams, a forensic document analyst at Columbia University in New York, the DPP has agreed to support our application for leave to appeal against sentence, which is virtually a retrial.’

‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Arthur.

‘And even better,’ said Grace, ‘we’ve been given an early slot in the court calendar, so your appeal should be heard in a few weeks’ time.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ said Sir Julian.

‘Especially if you and the DPP were at Oxf—’

‘Behave yourself, Grace,’ said her father. ‘Although I must confess I’ve used up all my markers.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ said Arthur.

‘It was worth playing the long game,’ said Sir Julian, without explanation. ‘However, as we only have an hour, Arthur, we must use the time constructively. First, I should tell you that I intend to call only three witnesses.’

‘Will I be one of them?’ asked Arthur.

‘No point,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Appeal hearings are held in front of three judges, not a jury, and you have nothing new to tell then. They will only be interested in any fresh evidence.’

‘So who will you be calling?’

‘The two police officers who gave evidence at the original trial.’

‘But they’re hardly likely to change their stories.’

‘You’re probably right. However, William has received some information from an unimpeachable source that might make their original testimony look a little less credible. However, our principal witness will still be Professor Abrahams. Grace has been dealing directly with him, so she’ll take you through the evidence he has compiled, and, more importantly, his conclusions.’

Grace took a thick file out of her briefcase and placed it on the table.

‘Let me begin...’

‘Let me begin,’ said Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, as he faced a small gathering of friends and staff, ‘by welcoming you all to what my colleague Beth Rainsford has described as the “opening of the crates ceremony.” Once the Rembrandt has been removed from its crate and returned to its rightful place, we will then open the second crate and discover what hidden treasure is inside.’

Get on with it, William wanted to say.

Beth contented herself with, ‘I can’t wait.’

‘When you’re ready, Mark,’ said the director.

Mark Cranston, the keeper of paintings, stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid of the first crate as if he were a conjuror, to reveal a mass of small polystyrene chips that his team took some time clearing, only to discover that the painting was wrapped in several layers of muslin. Cranston delicately peeled each layer away until the long-lost masterpiece appeared.

The rapt audience gasped, and a moment later burst into spontaneous applause. The works manager and his crew carefully lifted up the canvas and gently lowered the painting into its frame, securing it with tiny clamps. A second round of applause broke out when the picture was hung on its waiting hooks to once again fill a space that had been unoccupied for seven years.

‘Welcome home,’ said the director.

The assembled gathering gazed in awe at the six Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, who returned their admiration with disdain. It was some time before the keeper suggested that they should now open the other crate, although it was clear that some of the patrons were reluctant to be dragged away from their long-lost companions.

Eventually they all joined the director around the second crate, some more in hope than expectation. They waited in silence for the ceremony to be repeated. First the lid was lifted by the keeper, then the packing chips were removed, before the layers of muslin were finally peeled away to reveal that Rembrandt had a genuine rival.

A collective gasp went up as a magnificent depiction of Christ’s descent from the cross by Peter Paul Rubens was revealed.

‘How generous of Mr. Faulkner,’ said one of the patrons, while another ventured, ‘Two for the price of one. We are indeed blessed.’

‘Shall I hang it next to the Rembrandt?’ asked the keeper.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the director. ‘In fact I must ask you to place it back in the crate and nail the lid down.’

‘Why?’ demanded another of the patrons. ‘The label on the crate clearly states that the painting is the property of the Fitzmolean.’

‘It does indeed,’ said the director. ‘And I can’t deny that this remarkable painting would have adorned our collection, and attracted art lovers from all over the world. But unfortunately, I received a letter this morning from a Mr. Booth Watson QC who pointed out that the labels on the two crates had obviously been switched by someone, but certainly not his client. Mr. Faulkner had always intended to return the Rembrandt, and is delighted to know that it is safely back in its rightful place. However, the Rubens, which has been in Mr. Faulkner’s private collection for the past twenty years, must be returned to him immediately.’

William now understood why Faulkner had been smiling when he was arrested, but still couldn’t resist asking, ‘Where’s he going to hang it? In his cell?’

‘Of course, I immediately sought legal advice,’ said the director, ignoring the interruption, ‘and our solicitors confirmed that we have no choice but to accede to Mr. Booth Watson’s demand.’

‘Did they give a reason?’ asked the keeper.

‘It was their opinion that if a dispute over ownership were to result in litigation, not only would we lose, but it would be extremely costly. For the time being, the painting will be placed in secure storage until the board makes a final decision, though I have no reason to believe they will disagree with our legal advisers and instruct me to return the Rubens to Mr. Faulkner.’

Some of the patrons and guests continued to admire the Rubens, aware they would never see it again. William only turned away when the lid of the crate was finally nailed down. A cold shiver went down his spine when he turned to see Beth deep in conversation with Christina Faulkner. He wondered if Christina was telling her the truth about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo.

Mr. Booth Watson didn’t acknowledge Sir Julian as they passed each other in the corridor.

‘No prizes for guessing whom he’s about to have a consultation with,’ said Grace. ‘What’s the speculation in the robing room?’

‘Faulkner’s looking at six years at least, possibly eight, but it doesn’t help that the tabloids keep referring to him as a modern-day Raffles, rather than the common criminal he is.’

‘But it’s the judge who’ll decide the length of his sentence, not the press,’ said Grace.

‘That’s assuming the jury doesn’t acquit him. You can be sure he’ll have a well-honed story by the time he appears in the witness box, and will deliver it with conviction.’

They left the prison at the same time as Booth Watson entered the interview room.

‘Good morning, Miles,’ he said, slumping down into the chair opposite his client. ‘I do wish you’d stayed put in Melbourne and watched the rest of the Test match, as I recommended.’

‘But if I had,’ said Faulkner, ‘my entire art collection would now be on the other side of the world.’

‘Not if you’d allowed me to handle Warwick in Southampton before he got off the Christina.’

‘Who’s Warwick?’

‘The young detective who visited your wife in Monte Carlo, came to an arrangement with her, and then sealed the deal in bed later that night.’

‘Then you’ll be able to run rings around Warwick when you get him in the witness box.’

‘If he ever gets into the witness box. He certainly wouldn’t if I was advising the other side. I’d let an old pro like Hawksby take the stand, not Warwick. So for now we’ll have to forget him and concentrate on your defense, which is frankly looking a bit frayed at the edges.’

‘What are they charging me with?’

Booth Watson extracted a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘“That you did knowingly and willfully steal a national treasure with no intention of returning it to its rightful owner.” And before you say anything, I should advise you that it would be difficult to claim that you’d never seen the Rembrandt before, as your wife will undoubtedly testify that it’s been in your home in Monte Carlo for the past seven years. And the Crown is also certain to ask, if you didn’t switch the labels on the crates, who did?’

‘What’s the bottom line?’ asked Faulkner.

‘Eight years at most, but more likely six, depending on which judge we get.’

‘Can you fix that, BW?’

‘Not in England, Miles. But I’ve got a public relations team working on your image, and currently you’re seen in the media as a cross between the Scarlet Pimpernel and Raffles. But unfortunately, it’s not public opinion, but a jury, that will decide your fate.’

‘Have you got a get-out-of-jail-free card up your sleeve, BW?’

Booth Watson looked his client in the eye before saying, ‘Only if you’re willing to make one hell of a sacrifice.’