Nothing Ventured(84)

Dressed in a simple, well-cut gray Armani suit with a single string of pearls, Mrs. Faulkner stepped into the witness box as if she owned it, and delivered the oath in a quiet but assured manner.

Mr. Palmer rose from his place and smiled across at his principal witness.

“Mrs. Faulkner, you are the wife of the defendant, Mr. Miles Faulkner.”

“I am at present, Mr. Palmer, but not for much longer, I hope,” she said, as her husband glared down at her from the dock.

“Mrs. Faulkner,” said the judge, “you will confine yourself to answering counsel’s questions, and not offering opinions.”

“I apologize, My Lord.”

“How long have you been married to the defendant?” asked Palmer.

“Eleven years.”

“And you have recently sued him for divorce on the grounds of adultery and mental cruelty.”

“Is this relevant, Mr. Palmer?” asked the judge.

“Only to show, Your Honor, that the relationship between the two of them has irretrievably broken down.”

“Then you have achieved your purpose, Mr. Palmer, so move on.”

“As you wish, Your Honor: This trial, as you will know, Mrs. Faulkner, concerns the theft of The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, by Rembrandt, a work of art the value of which is incalculable, and is acknowledged by art aficionados to be a national treasure. So I must ask you when you first became aware of the painting.”

“A little over seven years ago, when I saw it hanging in the drawing room of our home at Limpton Hall.”

“A little over seven years ago,” repeated Palmer, looking directly at the jury.

“That is correct, Mr. Palmer.”

“And did your husband tell you how he had acquired such a magnificent work of art?”

“He was evasive to begin with, but when I pressed him, he told me he’d bought the picture from a friend who was in financial trouble.”

“Did you ever meet this friend?”

“No, I did not.”

“And when did you become aware that the painting had in fact been stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum?”

“A couple of weeks later when I saw it on the News at Ten.”

“Did you tell your husband about that news report?”

“Certainly not. I was far too frightened, as I knew only too well how he would react.”

“Understandably.”

“Mr. Palmer,” said the judge firmly.

“I apologize, Your Honor,” said Palmer, with a slight bow, well aware that he had made his point. He turned back to the witness. “And when you could no longer bear the deception, you took it upon yourself to do something about it.”

“Yes, I felt that if I did nothing, I would be condoning a crime. So when my husband was away in Australia last Christmas, I packed up the painting and sent it back to England on our yacht, with clear instructions that it should be returned to the Fitzmolean.”

Booth Watson scribbled a note on the pad in front of him.

“But weren’t you worried about the consequences of that decision when your husband returned?”

“Extremely worried, which is why I made plans to leave the country before he got back.”

Booth Watson made a further note.

“Then why didn’t you do so?”

“Because Miles somehow found out what I was planning, and took the next flight back to London to try and prevent me from giving back the painting to its rightful owner.” She bowed her head shyly.

“And when did you next see your husband?”

“In Southampton, when he boarded our yacht, and was so desperate not to lose the Rembrandt, he switched the labels with one on another crate.”

Booth Watson made a third note.

“But this attempt to fool the police failed.”

“Thankfully yes, but only because a detective from Scotland Yard, who’d traveled to Southampton to collect the painting, became suspicious and insisted that another crate should be opened. That’s when they discovered the missing Rembrandt.”

The journalists’ pencils didn’t stop scribbling.

“And thanks to your courage and fortitude, Mrs. Faulkner, this national treasure once again hangs on the wall of the Fitzmolean Museum.”

“It does indeed, Mr. Palmer, and I recently visited the museum to witness the masterpiece being rehung in its rightful place. It gave me great pleasure to see how many members of the public were, like me, enjoying the experience.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Faulkner. No more questions, Your Honor.”

Booth Watson looked across at the jury, who appeared to be on the point of bursting into applause when Mr. Palmer sat down.

“Mr. Booth Watson,” said the judge, “do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”

“I most certainly do, Your Honor,” said Booth Watson, heaving himself up from his place and smiling sweetly at the witness.

“Do remind me, Mrs. Faulkner, when it was you first saw the Rembrandt?”

“Seven years ago, at our home in the country.”

“Then I’m bound to ask, what took you so long?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” said Christina.

“I think you know only too well what I’m getting at, Mrs. Faulkner. But let me spell it out for you. Quite simply, if you knew seven years ago that the painting had been stolen, why wait until now to inform the police?”