Nothing Ventured(82)
Grace took a thick file out of her briefcase and placed it on the table.
“Let me begin…”
* * *
“Let me begin,” said Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, as he faced a small gathering of friends and staff, “by welcoming you all to what my colleague Beth Rainsford has described as the ‘opening of the crates ceremony.’ Once the Rembrandt has been removed from its crate and returned to its rightful place, we will then open the second crate and discover what hidden treasure is inside.”
Get on with it, William wanted to say.
Beth contented herself with, “I can’t wait.”
“When you’re ready, Mark,” said the director.
Mark Cranston, the keeper of paintings, stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid of the first crate as if he were a conjuror, to reveal a mass of small polystyrene chips that his team took some time clearing, only to discover that the painting was wrapped in several layers of muslin. Cranston delicately peeled each layer away until the long-lost masterpiece appeared.
The rapt audience gasped, and a moment later burst into spontaneous applause. The works manager and his crew carefully lifted up the canvas and gently lowered the painting into its frame, securing it with tiny clamps. A second round of applause broke out when the picture was hung on its waiting hooks to once again fill a space that had been unoccupied for seven years.
“Welcome home,” said the director.
The assembled gathering gazed in awe at the six Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, who returned their admiration with disdain. It was some time before the keeper suggested that they should now open the other crate, although it was clear that some of the patrons were reluctant to be dragged away from their long-lost companions.
Eventually they all joined the director around the second 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.”