Nothing Ventured(101)

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.





34


“Your Royal Highness, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. My name is Tim Knox, and as the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the official unveiling of Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild. The Syndics, as you know, were taken from the museum just over seven years ago, and some thought they would never return. However, such was our confidence that they would eventually come home, we have never allowed another painting to hang in its place.”

A spontaneous round of applause followed. The director waited for silence before he continued.

“I will now invite Her Royal Highness to unveil the lost masterpiece.”

The Princess Royal stepped up to the microphone. “Before I do, Tim,” she said, “can I remind you that my great-grandfather opened this museum over a hundred years ago. I trust that when I pull this cord, something my family have considerable experience in doing, there will be a Rembrandt on the other side and not a faded rectangle where The Syndics once hung.” Everyone laughed. Princess Anne pulled the cord, and the red curtain parted to allow them all to admire the painting, some of them for the first time. William glanced at its bottom right-hand corner to make sure the RvR was in place before he joined in the applause.