William, ignoring his sister’s gimlet eye.
“Three things, completely unconnected, which, had the jury been made aware of at the time, might well have caused them to reach a different verdict.” Sir Julian couldn’t resist pacing up and down before he delivered his closing statement. “In all my years at the Bar, I have never known a murderer who wouldn’t have settled for a plea of guilty to manslaughter and a reduced sentence.”
“And the second reason?” asked Grace.
“The length of time before Arthur is eligible for parole.”
“Twelve years,” said William.
“Precisely. Because Mr. Justice Melrose is known in the trade as ‘Life Means Life’ Melrose. I checked his record last night, and he’s presided over twenty-four murder trials during his time on the Crown Court bench when the defendant was found guilty. Arthur is the only one he gave a minimum term of twelve years. Why would ‘Life Means Life’ Melrose break the habit of a lifetime? Could it be that he also wasn’t convinced Arthur was guilty?”
“And the third thing?” asked Grace.
“We have William to thank for that.”
Once again, Sir Julian couldn’t resist a brief perambulation around the room before sharing his thoughts. He pulled at the lapels of a gown he wasn’t wearing before he spoke.
“You told me, William, that when you first mentioned Arthur’s name to SO Rose, his immediate response was, ‘If Rainsford’s a murderer, I’m Jack the Ripper.’ In my experience, a senior prison officer would never admit, even in private, that any prisoner just might be innocent.”
“So does that mean you’ll take the case, Father?” asked Grace.
“We already have, my dear. And with it, we take on the considerable task of uncovering fresh evidence to convince the DPP that they should order a retrial. Because if they don’t, our personal opinions are irrelevant.”
“Not quite, Sir Julian,” said Arthur, “because I’m delighted that my future son-in-law knows I’m innocent.”
26
The phone began to ring.
“Who would even consider calling us on Christmas Day?” demanded Sir Julian. “And just as I’m about to carve the turkey.”
“Mea culpa,” said William, “I’m afraid I might have told the office where I’d be.”
“Then you’d better go and answer it while the rest of us enjoy our Christmas lunch. Beth, would you prefer a leg or breast?”
William quickly left for his father’s study and picked up the ringing phone. “William Warwick.”
“Christina Faulkner. Happy Christmas, William.”
“Happy Christmas, Christina. Where are you calling from?”
“Monte Carlo.”
“Unwrapping presents, no doubt.”
“No, wrapping them up, actually, which is why I called. I need you to come and join me as soon as possible so I can give you your present, which I’m looking at now.”
“I’ll have to call my boss,” said William, who would have happily left immediately. “And as long as he gives his blessing, I could fly over tomorrow afternoon.”
“No later than that,” said Christina, “because once I’ve finished packing, all sixty-nine crates will be loaded onto Miles’s yacht.”
“Will you also be on board?”
“No, that’s not part of my plan. Once the Christina—named in happier times—has set sail for Southampton, I’ll be flying back to Heathrow. I’ll then be driven to Limpton Hall to wrap up some more of my presents, which have to be ready in time for the removers who will be turning up the following morning and taking them to Southampton, where they’ll also be placed on board the Christina. It’s all in the timing.”
“Dare I ask what happens after that?”
“All will be revealed when I see you in Monte Carlo tomorrow. Give me a call when you know which flight you’re on, and I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
“I’ll phone you back once I’ve spoken to the commander. Good-bye, Christina, and happy Christmas.” William put the phone down and returned to the dining room. How much he wanted to tell them, and Beth in particular, that by this time tomorrow he might be in possession of the Rembrandt. He sat down next to his fiancée, to find an empty plate in front of him.
“You missed the main course, my boy. But not to worry, I’m sure there’ll be some pudding left over.”
“Ignore him,” said his mother. “We haven’t even started yet. Joanna’s been telling us what she’s been up to in Arthur’s absence.”
William smiled at Beth’s mother, as he helped himself to some brussel sprouts.
“When Arthur first went to prison,” said Joanna, “we all assumed that the company would be wound up. But we quickly discovered that Hamish was made of sterner stuff when he continued to run the office as if