across to a large crate and tapping it firmly.
“Are you absolutely convinced that’s the right one?” said Faulkner.
“Yes,” said William, more out of bravado than conviction.
“I see, commander, that a young rookie is now running your department,” said Faulkner.
“Open it,” said Hawksby.
The harbor master stepped forward and, assisted by two of his team, began to extract the nails one by one until they were finally able to prise the crate open. Once they’d removed several layers of covering, they were greeted by six Syndics from Amsterdam, who peered back at them.
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” said Hawksby. The commander stepped forward and told Faulkner he was under arrest, then read him his rights. Lamont thrust Faulkner’s hands behind his back, handcuffed him, and frogmarched him off the yacht as four constables carried the second crate slowly down the gangway before placing it carefully in the back of the Black Maria next to its unidentified companion.
“How could you possibly have known which case the Rembrandt was in?” Lamont asked William once they were back on shore.
“I wasn’t absolutely sure,” admitted William, “but it was the only one that had a large circular impression where the original label must have been. Faulkner obviously switched the labels, but he didn’t notice that the crate he chose was considerably larger than the one that contains the Rembrandt, or that a circular mark had been left on the Rembrandt’s crate where the original label must have been ripped off.”
“You might make a detective after all,” said Hawksby.
“So what’s in the other crate?” demanded Lamont.
“I’ve no idea,” said William. “We’ll only find out after it’s been delivered to the Fitzmolean as the label clearly instructs us to do.”
Mrs. Faulkner had remained in the Bentley observing the whole operation from a distance. She didn’t move until she saw Miles had been arrested, when she leaped out of her car and ran towards the dockside shouting, “Stop them! Stop them!”
Mike Harrison was only a yard behind as they both watched the Christina heading out of the harbor toward the open sea.
“On what grounds?” Harrison asked once he’d caught up with her.
“They’ve still got my pictures on board.”
“That would be quite hard to prove,” said Harrison, “when the captain is probably only carrying out your husband’s orders.”
“Whose side are you on?” demanded Christina.
“Yours, Mrs. Faulkner, and once your husband is safely locked up, I feel sure you’ll find a way of getting them all back.”
“But he’ll come after me,” protested Christina.
“I don’t think so,” said Harrison.
“Right, lads,” said Hawksby. “Time to return the Rembrandt to its rightful owner, along with whatever’s in the other crate.”
“Sorry to bother you,” said a man who looked even more distressed than Mrs. Faulkner. “But that bloke you’ve just arrested owes me two hundred and seventy-four pounds for his cab fare.”
“Which I fear you won’t be seeing for some time,” said Lamont. “I suggest you contact his lawyer, a Mr. Booth Watson QC at Lincoln’s Inn. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige you.”
“A job well done, DC Warwick,” said Hawksby, as William joined him in the back of his car, and the little convoy set off for London. “You can be proud of the role you played.”
William didn’t respond.
“What’s the problem?” asked the commander. “We’ve arrested Faulkner, and got the Rembrandt back, plus a possible bonus in the other crate that we couldn’t have expected. What more could you possibly ask for?”
“Something’s not quite right,” said William.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But Faulkner was smiling when you arrested him.”
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