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