crate, some more in hope than expectation. They waited in silence for the ceremony to be repeated. First the lid was lifted by the keeper, then the packing chips were removed, before the layers of muslin were finally peeled away to reveal that Rembrandt had a genuine rival.
A collective gasp went up as a magnificent depiction of Christ’s descent from the cross by Peter Paul Rubens was revealed.
“How generous of Mr. Faulkner,” said one of the patrons, while another ventured, “Two for the price of one. We are indeed blessed.”
“Shall I hang it next to the Rembrandt?” asked the keeper.
“I’m afraid not,” said the director. “In fact I must ask you to place it back in the crate and nail the lid down.”
“Why?” demanded another of the patrons. “The label on the crate clearly states that the painting is the property of the Fitzmolean.”
“It does indeed,” said the director. “And I can’t deny that this remarkable painting would have adorned our collection, and attracted art lovers from all over the world. But unfortunately, I received a letter this morning from a Mr. Booth Watson QC who pointed out that the labels on the two crates had obviously been switched by someone, but certainly not his client. Mr. Faulkner had always intended to return the Rembrandt, and is delighted to know that it is safely back in its rightful place. However, the Rubens, which has been in Mr. Faulkner’s private collection for the past twenty years, must be returned to him immediately.”
William now understood why Faulkner had been smiling when he was arrested, but still couldn’t resist asking, “Where’s he going to hang it? In his cell?”
“Of course, I immediately sought legal advice,” said the director, ignoring the interruption, “and our solicitors confirmed that we have no choice but to accede to Mr. Booth Watson’s demand.”
“Did they give a reason?” asked the keeper.
“It was their opinion that if a dispute over ownership were to result in litigation, not only would we lose, but it would be extremely costly. For the time being, the painting will be placed in secure storage until the board makes a final decision, though I have no reason to believe they will disagree with our legal advisers and instruct me to return the Rubens to Mr. Faulkner.”
Some of the patrons and guests continued to admire the Rubens, aware they would never see it again. William only turned away when the lid of the crate was finally nailed down. A cold shiver went down his spine when he turned to see Beth deep in conversation with Christina Faulkner. He wondered if Christina was telling her the truth about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo.
* * *
Mr. Booth Watson didn’t acknowledge Sir Julian as they passed each other in the corridor.
“No prizes for guessing whom he’s about to have a consultation with,” said Grace. “What’s the speculation in the robing room?”
“Faulkner’s looking at six years at least, possibly eight, but it doesn’t help that the tabloids keep referring to him as a modern-day Raffles, rather than the common criminal he is.”
“But it’s the judge who’ll decide the length of his sentence, not the press,” said Grace.
“That’s assuming the jury doesn’t acquit him. You can be sure he’ll have a well-honed story by the time he appears in the witness box, and will deliver it with conviction.”
They left the prison at the same time as Booth Watson entered the interview room.
“Good morning, Miles,” he said, slumping down into the chair opposite his client. “I do wish you’d stayed put in Melbourne and watched the rest of the Test match, as I recommended.”
“But if I had,” said Faulkner, “my entire art collection would now be on the other side of the world.”
“Not if you’d allowed me to handle Warwick in Southampton before he got off the Christina.”
“Who’s Warwick?”
“The young detective who visited your wife in Monte Carlo, came to an arrangement with her, and then sealed the deal in bed later that night.”
“Then you’ll be able to run rings around Warwick when you get him in the witness box.”
“If he ever gets into the witness box. He certainly wouldn’t if I was advising the other side. I’d let an old pro like Hawksby take the stand, not Warwick. So for now we’ll have to forget him and concentrate on your defense, which is frankly looking a bit frayed at the edges.”
“What are they charging me with?”
Booth Watson extracted a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “‘That you did knowingly