Nothing Ventured

33

‘Sir Julian, you may call your next witness.’

‘I am unable to do so, m’lud. Although subpoenas were issued yesterday as you directed, the court’s bailiff has been unable to serve writs on either Mr. Stern or Mr. Fortounis.’

‘Then we will have to wait until they have been served,’ said the judge.

‘That might not be for some time, m’lud.’

‘What makes you think that, Sir Julian?’

‘I’m told that Mr. Fortounis returned to his home in Nicosia a few days before the trial opened, and has not been seen or heard of since.’

‘Who is the source of your information?’

‘The proprietor of the Admiral Nelson public house in West Ham Grove, where he was a regular.’

‘And Mr. Stern?’

‘It appears that he flew out of Birmingham airport late last night.’

‘Let me guess,’ said the judge, ‘also on a flight bound for Nicosia.’

‘And as he’d booked a one-way ticket, the bailiff may have some difficulty in enforcing your edict, for as I’m sure you are aware, m’lud, Britain has no extradition treaty with Cyprus.’

‘Then I shall issue a directive that Mr. Stern’s assets will be seized, and that he will be arrested should he ever set foot in this country again. I suppose it’s too much to hope that like Bolingbroke, banishment will prove an even harsher punishment for him than incarceration.’

No one offered an opinion.

Mr. Llewellyn rose from his place. ‘May I approach the bench, My Lords?’

Lord Justice Arnott nodded. Mr. Llewellyn and Sir Julian walked to the front of the court to join their lordships. They spoke in hushed voices to the three judges for some time before Lord Justice Arnott raised a hand and began conferring with his colleagues.

‘What are they talking about?’ Beth whispered to Grace.

‘I have no idea. But I suspect we’re about to find out.’

‘Will all parties involved in the Miles Faulkner case please go to court number fourteen,’ boomed out a voice over the tannoy, ‘as the jury is about to return.’

Several people who’d been standing around in the lobby stopped chattering, while others stubbed out cigarettes before making their way quickly back to the courtroom. William joined Commander Hawksby, DCI Lamont, lawyers, journalists, and the simply curious, as the bailiff led his charges into court to resume their places in the jury box.

Once they had all settled, the clerk said, ‘Will the foreman please rise.’

The foreman rose from his place at the end of the front row.

‘Have you reached a verdict on all three counts?’ asked Lord Justice Nourse.

‘We have, Your Honor,’ replied the foreman.

The judge nodded to the clerk of the court.

‘Mr. Foreman, do you find the defendant, Mr. Miles Faulkner, guilty or not guilty of the theft of a Rembrandt painting entitled The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild from the Fitzmolean Museum in London?’

‘Not guilty, Your Honor.’

Faulkner allowed himself a smile. Booth Watson showed no emotion. William frowned.

‘And on the second count, that the defendant was an accomplice in that theft. How do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty.’

Lamont cursed under his breath.

‘And on the third count, namely that of receiving goods that he knew to be stolen, namely the said painting by Rembrandt, how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?’

‘By a majority of ten to two, Your Honor, we find the defendant guilty.’

Loud chattering erupted in the well of the court, and several journalists rushed out to grab the nearest available phone and report the verdict to their news desks. The judge waited until the court had settled before turning to the prisoner.

‘Will the defendant please rise,’ said the clerk.

A less confident figure rose slowly in the dock, stumbled forward, and gripped the railing to steady himself.

‘Miles Faulkner,’ said the judge gravely. ‘You have been found guilty of receiving stolen goods, namely a work of art of national importance. Because of the seriousness of your crime, I wish to spend a few days considering what punishment is appropriate. I shall therefore delay passing sentence until next Tuesday morning at ten o’clock.’

‘What’s he up to?’ said Hawksby as Booth Watson heaved himself to his feet.

‘My Lord, may I request that my client’s bail be extended until that date?’

‘I will allow that,’ said Mr. Justice Nourse, ‘on the condition that he hands in his passport to the court. And I am sure, Mr. Booth Watson, that you will spell out the consequences to your client should he fail to appear before me in this courtroom next Tuesday morning.’

‘I will indeed, Your Honor.’

‘Mr. Booth Watson and Mr. Palmer, would you be kind enough to join me in my chambers.’

‘What’s he up to?’ repeated the commander.

The courtroom was packed long before Lord Justice Arnott and his two colleagues made their entrance at ten o’clock the following morning.

Lord Justice Arnott placed a red folder on the bench in front of him and bowed to the court. He then took his place in the center chair, rearranged his long red gown, and adjusted his spectacles before opening the folder and turning to the first page.

The courtroom had fallen so silent that he had to look up to make sure they were all in attendance. He peered down at the expectant faces and then at the prisoner in the dock before delivering his final judgment. He felt sorry for Rainsford.

‘I have in my life as a judge presided over many cases,’ Arnott began, ‘and in each one I have attempted to remain detached and emotionally uninvolved, so as to ensure that justice is not only done, but seen to be done.

‘However, I fear that in this case, I did become emotionally involved. It became clear to me after hearing Mr. Stern’s evidence, that an injustice might have been done. That feeling was reinforced when Professor Abrahams brought his expertise to bear on this case. I and my colleagues were finally persuaded of this during the cross-examination of Detective Sergeant Clarkson, whose frank and honest evidence was a credit to his profession.

‘Although the real perpetrators of this crime may never be apprehended, I am in no doubt that Arthur Edward Rainsford was falsely charged with the murder of Gary Kirkland, his friend and business partner. I therefore order that the verdict of the original trial be overturned.’ A cheer went up, which only died down when the judge frowned, making it clear he hadn’t finished. ‘A judgment of this type should never be taken lightly,’ he continued. ‘I do not consider the jury at the original trial is to blame for the verdict it reached, as they took a detective inspector’s word at face value, and because of that man’s duplicity, they were never allowed to consider the missing page from the statement Mr. Rainsford gave to the police on the evening of his arrest, with the result that a grave injustice was done to an innocent man. It gives me considerable pleasure not only to release the prisoner, but to make it clear that there never was, and never should have been, a stain on this man’s character. Mr. Rainsford, you are free to leave the court.’

Beth and Joanna Rainsford were among the first to leap in the air and applaud as the curtain finally came down. However, the gesture that Arthur would remember long after all the fury of battle had subsided came when Mr. Llewellyn left his place on the Crown’s bench, walked across to the dock, and shook hands with the defendant. Arthur had to bend down to hear his words above the clamor of the crowd.

‘For the first time in my life, sir,’ whispered Llewellyn, ‘I am delighted to lose a case.’

Mr. Justice Nourse took off his gown, discarded his wig, and was pouring himself a glass of malt whiskey when there was a knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ he said. The door opened, and Booth Watson and Palmer joined him in his den.

‘While I’m doing the honors, can I get you anything, BW, Adrian?’

‘No, thank you, Martin,’ said Booth Watson as he took off his wig. ‘I know you won’t believe this, but I’m still trying to lose weight.’

‘Adrian?’

‘Yes, please, judge,’ said Palmer. ‘I’ll join you in a malt if I may.’

‘Do sit down, both of you,’ said the judge as he handed prosecuting counsel his drink. He took a sip of whiskey, and waited for them both to settle before he spoke again. ‘I wanted a private word with you, BW, but I felt Adrian should be present so that no misunderstanding could arise at a later date.’

Booth Watson raised an eyebrow, which he would never have considered doing in court.

‘I’m curious to know if your client is serious about his intention to donate his Rubens to the Fitzmolean?’

‘I have no reason to believe he isn’t,’ said Booth Watson. ‘But if you feel it’s important, I could certainly find out and let you know.’

‘No, no. I was simply curious. And while you’re here, allow me to congratulate you both on the way you conducted your cases. I think you could fairly describe the result as a score draw.’

‘I don’t think my client sees it that way,’ said Booth Watson.

‘Perhaps he should have accepted my offer,’ said Palmer, draining his glass.

‘Dare I ask?’ said the judge.

‘The Crown would have dropped the charge of theft if he’d pleaded guilty to receiving.’

‘So the jury got it right,’ said Nourse, before taking another sip. ‘The other half, Adrian?’

‘Thank you, judge.’

‘And you, BW, are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

‘No, thank you, Martin. I have a consultation with my client in a few minutes’ time, so I’d better be on my way.’

‘Yes, of course, BW, see you on Tuesday morning.’

Booth Watson rose from his chair and turned to leave.

‘And perhaps you could let me know if your client hands over the Rubens to the Fitzmolean, as he said he would under oath,’ he paused, ‘before Tuesday.’

Booth Watson nodded, but didn’t comment.

Palmer took another sip of whiskey and waited for the door to close before asking, ‘Did I just witness a subtle bit of arm twisting?’

‘Certainly not,’ said the judge, raising his glass. ‘I have already decided Mr. Faulkner’s fate, although I confess that should he show the slightest sign of remorse, there is one concession I just might be willing to consider. But then, on the other hand, I might not.’

‘Why do you think he asked you that?’ said Faulkner.

‘Judges have been known to make concessions at the last moment, but only if they sense genuine remorse.’

‘How genuine?’

‘If you were to hand over the Rubens to the Fitzmolean before Tuesday, I have reason to believe his lordship might consider that a genuine act of contrition.’

‘And what could I expect in return?’

‘Nourse is far too shrewd to give anything more than the suggestion of a hint, but it’s in his power to decide between the maximum tariff for the offense, of four years, or the minimum, of six months. There’s even the possibility of a suspended sentence and a fine of ten thousand pounds — but it’s only a possibility, so don’t get your hopes up.’

‘As you know, BW, I don’t give a damn about the fine. But if I had to spend even six weeks in jail, heaven knows what havoc Christina could cause in my absence.’

‘Does that mean you are willing to donate the Rubens to the Fitzmolean?’

‘It means I’ll think about it.’

‘Before Tuesday.’

Arthur fell asleep at ten o’clock, which was slightly embarrassing for the rest of the family as they were all enjoying a celebratory dinner at San Lorenzo, his favorite restaurant, where he was welcomed as if he’d never been away.

‘Lights out at ten,’ he explained. ‘After nearly three years, it’s not an easy habit to break.’

‘What’s the first thing you’ll do when you wake up tomorrow morning?’ asked Grace.

‘At six o’clock,’ said Arthur.

‘Sausage, eggs, bacon, and beans?’ suggested William.

‘Scrambled egg that isn’t out of a packet, and perhaps I’ll allow myself a sliver of smoked salmon, some toast that isn’t burned, and a cup of steaming hot coffee with milk that isn’t powdered,’ responded Arthur.

‘And after breakfast?’

‘I shall take a long walk in the park before going shopping. I’ll need a new suit if I’m to look smart when I return to work tomorrow morning.’

‘Why not take a break before going back to work,’ suggested Sir Julian. ‘Go on holiday.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘I’ve already had a three year break. No, I intend to return to the office as soon as possible.’

‘Could you bear to put it off for one more day, Dad?’ asked Beth. ‘You and Mum have been invited to the Fitzmolean tomorrow for the unveiling of the Rembrandt, and I expect every one of you to be present for my moment of triumph.’

‘Your moment of triumph?’ said William.

Everyone laughed except Arthur, who had fallen asleep again.

Court number fourteen was packed long before ten in the forenoon, and, like a theater audience, they chatted among themselves as they waited for the curtain to rise.

Commander Hawksby, DCI Lamont, DS Roycroft, and DC Warwick were seated a couple of rows behind Mr. Adrian Palmer QC, the prosecuting counsel.

Mr. Booth Watson QC and his instructing solicitor, Mr. Mishcon, sat at the other end of the bench, discussing the coverage their client had received in the national press that morning. They agreed that it couldn’t have been much better.

Miles Faulkner standing next to Christ adorned several front pages, along with the words Booth Watson had written and his client had repeated verbatim: ‘Of course it’s sad to part with one’s favorite painting, not unlike losing an only child, but my Rubens couldn’t have gone to a better home than the Fitzmolean.’

The press benches along one side of the courtroom were so crowded that several old-timers who’d been unable to find a seat were left standing behind their less illustrious colleagues. Once the sentence was delivered, they would race to the nearest available telephone and report the judge’s decision to the duty editor.

The Evening Standard would be the first on the street, and it already had its front page headline set in type: FAULKNER SENT DOWN FOR X YEARS. Only the number needed to be filled in. The crime correspondent had submitted two stories the night before, and a sub-editor would decide which one would go to press.

From seven o’clock that morning, a queue of the simply curious and the morbid had begun to form outside the public entrance of the Royal Courts of Justice, and within minutes of a court official opening the door, every seat in the gallery had been taken. All of those present knew the curtain would rise as ten o’clock struck on the southwest tower of St. Paul’s. Not that any of those cloistered in the court would be able to hear the cathedral chimes.

The moment Mr. Justice Nourse appeared, the chattering ceased, giving way to an air of expectation. The judge took his place in the high-backed red leather chair, looked down upon his kingdom, and surveyed his subjects, feigning no interest in the fact that he’d never seen his court so packed. He returned their bow, and placed two red folders on the bench.

William turned to look at Faulkner as he took his place in the dock. In a dark blue suit, white shirt, and Old Harrovian tie, he looked more like a city stockbroker on his way to work than a prisoner who was about to be dispatched to Belmarsh. He stood tall, almost proud, as he faced the judge, outwardly appearing calm and composed.

Mr. Justice Nourse opened the first red folder marked JUDGMENT, and glanced across at the prisoner before he began to read his handwritten script.

‘Mr. Faulkner, you have been found guilty of receiving stolen goods, and not some insubstantial bauble of little significance, but a national treasure of incalculable value, namely Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild. I have no doubt that you were in possession of that unique work of art for some considerable time, probably for the seven years after it was stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum, and that you never had any intention of returning it to its rightful owner. Had your wife not dispatched the painting to England without your approval, it would probably still be hanging in your home in Monte Carlo.’

Mr. Adrian Palmer allowed himself a wry smile on behalf of the Crown.

‘You are not, Mr. Faulkner,’ continued the judge, ‘as some tabloids would have us believe, a gentleman thief who simply enjoys the thrill of the chase. Far from it. You are in fact nothing more than a common criminal, whose sole purpose was to rob a national institution of one of its finest treasures.’

Booth Watson shifted uneasily in his seat.

The judge turned to the next page of his script, before pronouncing, ‘Miles Edward Faulkner, you will pay a fine of ten thousand pounds, the maximum I am permitted to impose, although I consider it to be woefully inadequate in this particular case.’ He closed the first red folder and shuffled uneasily in his seat. Faulkner had to agree with him that the amount was ‘woefully inadequate,’ and avoided a smirk at the thought of getting off so lightly.

The judge then opened the second folder and glanced at the first paragraph before he spoke again. ‘In addition to the fine, I sentence you to four years’ imprisonment.’

Faulkner visibly wilted as he stared up at the judge in disbelief.

The judge turned the page and looked down at a paragraph he had crossed out the night before, and rewritten that morning.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘I am bound to admit that I was moved by your generosity in donating Rubens’s Christ’s Descent from the Cross to the Fitzmolean Museum. I accept that it must have been a considerable wrench for you, to have parted with the pride of your collection, and it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge this generous gesture as a genuine sign of remorse.’

‘He’s going to waive the fine,’ whispered the commander, ‘which Faulkner won’t give a damn about.’

‘Or perhaps reduce the sentence,’ said William, who couldn’t decide whether to look at the judge or Faulkner.

Faulkner didn’t flinch, desperately hoping to hear one word, and it wasn’t ‘fine.’

‘Therefore, I have decided,’ continued the judge, ‘perhaps against my better judgment, to also show some magnanimity, and to suspend your sentence, with the clear direction that should you commit any other criminal offense, however minor, during the next four years, the full term of your prison sentence will automatically be reinstated.’

Faulkner considered his generous gesture, as the judge had so kindly described it, to have been well worthwhile.

‘You are therefore free to leave the court, Mr. Faulkner,’ said the judge, in a tone that suggested he was already regretting his decision.

William was livid, and didn’t leave anyone nearby in any doubt about how he felt. Lamont was speechless, and Hawksby reflective. After all, Mr. Justice Nourse had said any other criminal offense, however minor.

When Beth heard the news later that afternoon, she simply said, ‘If I had to choose between Faulkner going to prison for four years or the Fitzmolean ending up with a priceless treasure, I wouldn’t have to give it a second thought.’

‘I was rather hoping for the best of both worlds,’ said William. ‘The Fitzmolean would get the Rubens and Faulkner would spend the next four years languishing in Belmarsh.’

‘But which side would you have come down on if you were only given the choice between Faulkner spending four years in jail, or the Fitzmolean having the Rubens for life?’

‘On the side of the Fitzmolean, of course,’ said William, trying to sound as if he meant it.