Nothing Ventured

31

‘Please state your name and occupation, for the record,’ said Mr. Booth Watson.

‘Miles Adam Faulkner. I’m a farmer.’

‘Mr. Faulkner, the court has heard that you own an impressive art collection, as well as homes in New York and Monte Carlo, an estate in Hampshire, a yacht, and a private jet. How can that be possible if you’re a farmer?’

‘My dear father left me the farm in Limpton, along with three thousand acres.’

William immediately scribbed a note and passed it across to the Crown’s QC.

‘That still doesn’t explain your lavish lifestyle, or your ability to collect valuable works of art.’

‘The truth is that, despite my family having owned Limpton Hall for over four centuries, some years ago the government issued a compulsory purchase order on my land, as they wanted to build a six-lane motorway right through the middle of it, leaving me with the house and just a couple of hundred acres. I opposed the order and took them to court, but sadly lost on appeal. However, what the government ended up paying me in compensation allowed me to pursue my lifelong interest in art. And thanks to one or two shrewd investments in the stock market over the years, I have managed to build up a reasonable collection.’

William made a second note.

‘Which no doubt you intend to pass on to the next generation,’ said Booth Watson, looking down at a list of well-prepared questions.

‘No, sir. I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Sadly my wife had no interest in having children, and as I do not want to break up the collection, I have decided to leave my entire estate to the nation.’

Miles turned and smiled at the jury, just as Booth Watson had instructed him to. He was rewarded with one or two of them smiling back at him.

‘Now I’d like to turn to one painting in particular, Mr. Faulkner, The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild by Rembrandt.’

‘Without question a masterpiece,’ said Faulkner. ‘I’ve admired it since the day I first saw it as a schoolboy when my mother took me to visit the Fitzmolean.’

‘The Crown would have us believe that you admired the painting so much, you stole it.’

Miles laughed. ‘I admit,’ he said, looking at the jury once again, ‘that I’m an art lover, even an art junkie, but I am not, Mr. Booth Watson, an art thief.’

‘Then how do you explain your wife’s claim, under oath, that you have been in possession of the Rembrandt for the past seven years?’

‘She’s quite right. I have owned The Syndics for seven years.’

The jury were now staring at the defendant in disbelief.

‘Are you admitting to the theft?’ asked Booth Watson, feigning surprise. The jury too appeared to be confused, while Mr. Palmer QC looked suspicious. Only the judge remained impassive, while Faulkner just smiled.

‘I’m not quite sure I understand what you are suggesting,’ continued Booth Watson, who understood exactly what his client was suggesting.

‘I wonder, sir,’ said Faulkner, turning to the judge, ‘if I might be allowed to show the court the painting that has been hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room of my home in Hampshire for the past seven years, in order to prove my innocence?’

Now even Mr. Justice Nourse looked puzzled. He glanced across at Mr. Palmer, who shrugged his shoulders, so he turned his attention back to defense counsel.

‘We wait with interest, Mr. Booth Watson, to find out what your client has in store for us.’

‘I am most grateful, Your Honor,’ said Booth Watson. He nodded to his junior, who had positioned herself by the entrance to the court. She opened the door and two heavily built men entered carrying a large crate, which they placed on the floor between the judge and the jury.

‘My Lord,’ said Palmer, leaping to his feet, ‘the Crown was given no warning of this unscheduled charade by the defense, and I would ask you to dismiss it for what it is.’

‘And what might that be, Mr. Palmer?’

‘Nothing more than a stunt to try to distract the jury.’

‘Then let’s find out if it does, Mr. Palmer,’ said the judge. ‘Because I suspect the members of the jury are as curious as I am to discover what’s inside the box.’

Everyone’s eyes remained fixed on the crate as the packers became unpackers. They first extracted the nails, followed by the polystyrene chips, and finally the muslin, to reveal a painting that left some gasping, others simply bemused.

‘Mr. Faulkner, would you be kind enough to explain how it’s possible that Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild comes to be in this court,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and not, as your wife claimed earlier, hanging on a wall of the Fitzmolean Museum?’

‘Don’t panic, Mr. Booth Watson,’ said Faulkner to a man who never panicked. ‘The original is still hanging in the Fitzmolean. This is nothing more than an exceptional copy, which I purchased from a gallery in Notting Hill just over seven years ago, and have the receipt to prove it.’

‘So this,’ said Booth Watson, ‘is the painting your wife has been looking at for the past seven years, under the mistaken impression that it was the original?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir, but then Christina has never shown any real interest in my collection, other than how much it was worth. Which in this case was five thousand pounds.’

‘Mr. Faulkner,’ said the judge, looking closely at the painting, ‘how can a layman like myself be sure this is a copy and not the original?’

‘By looking at the bottom right-hand corner, My Lord. If this was the original, you would see Rembrandt’s initials, RvR. He rarely left a painting unsigned. To be fair, that’s something else my wife was unaware of.’

‘While I accept your explanation, Mr. Faulkner,’ said Booth Watson, ‘I am still at a loss to know how the original, now safely back in the Fitzmolean, came into your possession.’

‘To understand that, Mr. Booth Watson, you have to first accept that I am well known as a collector throughout the art world. Each year I receive hundreds of unsolicited catalogs for art exhibitions, as well as several requests to buy paintings, often from old families who do not want anyone to know that they are experiencing financial difficulties.’

‘Do you ever buy any of these works?’

‘Very rarely. I’m far more likely to make my purchases from a respected dealer or an established auction house.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain how the original Rembrandt came into your possession.’

‘A few weeks ago someone offered to sell me a painting that he claimed was a Rembrandt. As soon as he described the work, I knew it had to be the one stolen from the Fitzmolean.’

‘Why did you make that assumption?’ asked the judge.

‘It’s almost unknown, My Lord, for a Rembrandt to come on the market. Almost all of his works are owned by national museums or galleries. Very few are still in private hands.’

‘So if you knew the painting was stolen,’ said Booth Watson, ‘why did you have anything to do with it?’

‘I confess that I couldn’t resist the challenge. However, when I was told I would have to travel to Naples to view the painting, I realized it had to be the Camorra who had stolen it. I should have walked away. But like a footballer who’s convinced he’s about to score the winning goal, I charged on.’

Booth Watson had never cared much for that particular metaphor but ran with it. ‘And did you score the winning goal?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Faulkner. ‘I flew to Naples, where I was met by a smartly dressed young lawyer accompanied by a couple of thugs who never once opened their mouths. I was then driven to a rundown part of town which is a no-go area, even for the police. I’ve never seen such poverty in my life. And the only pictures on the walls of the tenement blocks were either of the Virgin Mary or the pope. I was taken down a long flight of stone steps into a dimly lit basement, where there was a large painting propped up against the wall. I only needed one look, to know it was the real thing.’

‘What happened next?’

‘The bargaining began, and it quickly became clear they wanted to be rid of the painting, so we settled on a hundred thousand dollars. I knew, and they knew, that it was worth a hundred times that amount, but they weren’t exactly overwhelmed with potential buyers. I told them I would hand over the money the day the painting was returned to the Fitzmolean. They said they’d be in touch, but didn’t even offer to drive me back to the airport. I had to walk some distance before I came across a taxi.’

‘And when you got back home, did you tell anyone about your experience?’

‘I had to share what I’d been through with someone, so I foolishly told Christina. I never thought she’d take advantage of it, and even lie under oath.’

‘And the gentlemen you’d met in Italy didn’t keep to their side of the bargain and return the picture to the Fitzmolean.’

‘The Camorra rarely stray beyond their own territory,’ said Faulkner. ‘I heard nothing for over a month, so I assumed the deal must be off.’

The judge made a note.

‘But it wasn’t?’

‘No. The two thugs who I’d met at the airport turned up at my home in Monte Carlo in the middle of the night with the painting, and demanded their hundred thousand dollars. One of them was brandishing a knife.’

‘You must have been terrified.’

‘I was. Especially when they told me they would first slit the throats of the six Syndics, one by one, and then mine if I didn’t pay up.’

The judge made another note.

‘You had a hundred thousand dollars cash on hand?’

‘Most people who want to sell me one of their family heirlooms, Mr. Booth Watson, don’t expect to leave with a check.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘The following morning I rang the captain of my yacht and told him that a large crate would shortly be arriving at the dockside. He was to take it to Southampton and personally deliver it to the Fitzmolean Museum in London.’

‘And, Your Honor,’ said Booth Watson, ‘if the Crown so wishes, I can call Captain Menegatti, who will confirm that those were indeed the instructions Mr. Faulkner gave him.’

‘I bet he will,’ muttered William, ‘if he wants to keep his job.’

‘You flew to Australia the following day, assuming that your orders would be carried out.’

‘Yes. I had hoped my wife would come with me, but she changed her mind at the last moment. It turned out she had an assignation with a younger man.’

William clenched his fists to try and stop himself trembling.

‘But then she was well aware I had tickets for the Boxing Day Test in Melbourne,’ continued Faulkner, ‘which meant I wouldn’t be returning to England before the New Year.’

‘But you returned to England halfway through the match?’

‘Yes, Captain Menegatti called me at my hotel in Melbourne to tell me that my wife had turned up at the yacht, not with the single crate I’d told him about, but with my entire Monte Carlo collection. She then instructed him to take them all to Southampton, where she would meet up with him before going on to New York.’

‘How did you react?’

‘I caught the next plane back to London, and it didn’t take a twenty-three-hour flight to work out what she was up to. As soon as I landed at Heathrow, I took a taxi to my home in Hampshire, aware I didn’t have a moment to lose.’

‘Why didn’t you ask your driver to pick you up?’ asked Booth Watson.

‘Because it would have alerted Christina that I was back in the country, and that was the last thing I needed.’

‘And was your wife at home when you turned up?’

‘No, she wasn’t, and neither were my artworks, which I discovered were also on their way to Southampton. I only got there just in time to stop them being shipped off to New York.’

‘So you then boarded the yacht, and gave instructions for the artworks to be returned to your homes in Hampshire and Monte Carlo—’

‘With one notable exception,’ interrupted Faulkner. ‘I had always intended to return the Rembrandt to the Fitzmolean whatever the consequences.’ Once again he turned to face the jury, this time giving them his ‘sincere look.’

‘But before you could do that, the police charged on board, arrested you, and accused you of having switched the labels on two of the crates so you could keep possession of the Rembrandt.’

‘That, Mr. Booth Watson, is a farcical suggestion, for three reasons. Firstly, I was only on board the yacht for a few minutes before I was arrested, so it’s obvious my wife had already informed the police that the Rembrandt was still on board. Secondly, the label for the Fitzmolean must have been switched by her before the pictures were even loaded in Monte Carlo.’

‘But why would she switch the labels, and then tell the police that the Rembrandt was still on board?’ asked Booth Watson, innocently.

‘Because if I was arrested, there would be nothing to stop her sailing off to New York and stealing the rest of my collection, which she had clearly been planning to do while I was safely on the other side of the world.’

‘You said there was a third reason, Mr. Faulkner.’

‘Yes, there is, Mr. Booth Watson. Commander Hawksby was accompanied by two other police officers. They had obviously been briefed by my wife that the Rembrandt was on board. What would have been the point of switching the labels when the harbor master had the authority to open every one of the crates? No, what Christina planned was that I would be arrested, and at the same time I’d lose my Rubens. She not only switched the labels, but knew she would be depriving me of my favorite painting.’

‘At least the Rubens has been returned to its rightful owner, along with the rest of your collection.’

William noticed that Booth Watson gave his client a slight nod.

‘Yes, it has, Mr. Booth Watson. Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, accepted that a genuine mistake had been made and kindly returned the Rubens to my home at Limpton Hall. However, after a few days, I began to have second thoughts. As you will know, the Fitzmolean’s collection of Dutch and Flemish paintings is second only to that of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I began to wonder if Rubens’s Christ’s Descent from the Cross had found its rightful home, and after much soul searching, I have decided to make a gift of the painting to the nation, so that others can have as much pleasure from it as I have had over the past thirty years.’

Word perfect, thought Booth Watson, looking at the jury. He was now convinced that at least half of them were on his client’s side.

‘And finally, I must ask you, Mr. Faulkner, if, before this recent regrettable misunderstanding, you have ever been charged with a criminal offense?’

‘No, sir, never. However, I must confess that when I was at art school, I once pinched a traffic policeman’s helmet and wore it to the Chelsea Arts Club ball. I ended up spending a night in jail.’

‘Did you indeed, Mr. Faulkner? Let us hope you won’t be spending any more nights in jail. No further questions, Your Honor.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Sir Julian as Grace laid out a set of large black-and-white photographs on the bench between them.

‘The photos show Stern leaving the court after you’d cross-examined him.’

‘I can see that. But what do they prove, other than that he’s enjoying the limelight?’

‘Not for much longer, I suspect. Take a closer look, Dad, and you’ll notice something Stern didn’t want us to see.’

‘I’m still none the wiser,’ confessed her father after he’d taken a second look at the photographs.

‘The leather jacket is Versace, and the shoes are Gucci loafers, top of the range.’

‘And the watch?’ said Sir Julian, catching on.

‘A Cartier Tank. And it’s not a fake, unlike the man.’

‘Stern certainly couldn’t afford those kinds of luxuries on a detective inspector’s pension.’

‘And there’s a bonus,’ said Grace, pointing to another couple of photos showing Stern climbing into an S-type Jaguar and driving away. ‘The car’s registered in his name.’

‘I think it’s time to apply to a judge in chambers, and find out if he’d be willing to allow us to inspect Stern’s bank accounts.’

‘Do you think the jury believed a word of that codswallop?’ asked William, after Mr. Justice Nourse had called for a recess.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Hawksby. ‘But it doesn’t help that Mrs. Faulkner was so obviously planning to steal her husband’s art collection. So the jury will have the unenviable task of deciding which one of them is the bigger liar. How are things progressing in court twenty-two?’

‘I’m just on my way to see Beth and find out. By the way,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘those files I left on the table in your office have proved most helpful.’

When William entered court twenty-two, the first thing he saw was Arthur Rainsford disappearing down the dock steps to the cells below, accompanied by a policeman.

‘We’re finished for the day,’ said Beth, as William sat down beside her. ‘So we may as well go home.’

William thought about having a word with his father, but noticed he was deep in conversation with Grace, so he decided not to interrupt them. Beth took his hand but didn’t say another word until they’d left the building and were out on the street.

‘Your sister was forensic in her examination of Professor Abrahams,’ said Beth as they walked across the road.

‘My father allowed Grace to examine the principal witness?’ said William in disbelief.

‘And Abrahams was so convincing that the Crown didn’t even bother to cross-examine him.’

‘Once again I’ve underestimated the old man,’ said William. ‘But was Grace able to prove there was a missing page?’

‘By the time Professor Abrahams had left the witness box, even the Crown’s leader accepted there were three pages,’ said Beth as they joined a bus queue.

‘That’s good news. But what about the judges? After all, they’re the only ones whose opinions really matter.’

‘There’s no way of knowing. Like seasoned poker players, they reveal nothing.’

‘Who’s next up to be demolished by my father?’ asked William once they’d boarded the bus.

‘Detective Sergeant Clarkson, Stern’s former partner.’

‘He’s a weaker character than Stern, so might well crack under pressure.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I wish you could have seen Hawksby when he was in the witness box,’ said William. ‘Even the judge was impressed.’

Beth got the message and followed his lead. ‘But didn’t Booth Watson give him a hard time?’

‘No, he didn’t even cross-examine him. He’d obviously decided there was nothing to be gained from it.’

‘And what was Faulkner like on the stand?’

‘Impressive,’ admitted William, ‘if not altogether convincing. He looked a little over-rehearsed and kept putting the blame on his wife.’

‘Surely the jury won’t like that.’

‘Booth Watson took Christina apart yesterday.’ William immediately regretted saying ‘Christina,’ and moved quickly on. ‘And Faulkner put the boot in today. He also made a promise that took us all by surprise, although I don’t think he has any intention of keeping it.’

‘That he’d gift the Rubens to the Fitzmolean?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I rang the gallery during the lunch recess, and Tim Knox told me that Booth Watson had phoned to tell him Faulkner would be donating the Rubens as soon as the trial was over.’

‘That sounds to me distinctly like a bribe,’ said William, as the bus came to a halt in the Fulham Road. ‘Surely the judge will be able to work that out?’

‘Perhaps you should give Faulkner the benefit of the doubt for a change.’

‘I fear that’s exactly what the jury might do. But it will take a lot more than that to convince me he hasn’t been in possession of the Renbrandt for the past seven years.’

‘Do you think we’ll ever be able to go a whole day without discussing either case?’

‘That will depend on whether your father is released and Faulkner is locked up for a very long time.’

‘But what if it’s the other way around?’