Nothing Ventured(85)
“I was waiting for the right opportunity.”
“And that opportunity didn’t arise for seven years?” said Booth Watson, sounding incredulous.
Christina hesitated, allowing Booth Watson to thrust the knife in deeper.
“I would suggest, Mrs. Faulkner, that the opportunity you were actually waiting for, was to steal your husband’s entire art collection while he was safely on the other side of the world?”
“But I didn’t plan…” She hesitated, giving Booth Watson the opportunity to twist the knife.
“I think you’d been planning this outrageous piece of grand larceny for some considerable time, Mrs. Faulkner, and simply used the Rembrandt as a ploy to give yourself a better chance of getting away with it.”
A babble of whispered conversations broke out in the court, but Booth Watson waited patiently for silence to return, before he slowly extracted the knife.
“Did you, Mrs. Faulkner, while your husband was in Melbourne, have all the artworks at his home in Monte Carlo packed up and taken to the port, where they were placed in the hold of your husband’s yacht?”
“But half of them would have been mine in any case,” protested Christina.
“I’m well aware that you are suing your husband for divorce,” said Booth Watson, “as my learned friend so subtly reminded us, but in this country, Mrs. Faulkner, it is traditional to let the courts decide what portion of a man’s wealth should be allocated to his wife. Clearly you weren’t willing to wait.”
“But it was only about a third of the collection.”
“Quite possibly, but after the yacht had set sail from Monte Carlo for Southampton with one-third of your husband’s art collection on board, what did you do next?”
Christina bowed her head once again. William frowned.
“As you appear unwilling to answer my question, Mrs. Faulkner, allow me to remind you exactly what you did. You took the next flight back to London, traveled down to your country home, and once again set about removing every painting in the house.”
One or two members of the jury gasped, while Booth Watson waited patiently for the witness to reply. When no reply was forthcoming, he turned a page of his notes and continued. “The following morning, a removal van turned up at the house, loaded the paintings, and, as instructed by you, took them to Southampton to await the arrival of your husband’s yacht, so that they too could be placed on board. So, you’ve now got two-thirds of the collection,” said Mr. Booth Watson, glowering at his victim, who could only stare back at him like a mesmerized rabbit caught in the headlights.
“And even that wasn’t enough for you,” Booth Watson continued, “because you then instructed the captain of the yacht that you would be coming aboard with the intention of sailing to New York so you could go straight to your husband’s apartment on Fifth Avenue and relieve him of the rest of his fabled collection. Then, like the owl and the pussycat, you hoped to sail away for a year and a day in your beautiful pea-green boat, or to be more accurate, your husband’s beautiful yacht.”
“But none of this alters the fact that Miles stole the Rembrandt in the first place, and then switched the labels on the crates to try and prevent it being returned to the Fitzmolean.”
William smiled.
The judge nodded sagely, causing Booth Watson, like a master helmsman, to change tack.
“Allow me to ask you a simple question, Mrs. Faulkner,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Would you describe your husband as a clever man?”
“Clever, manipulative, and resourceful,” came back the immediate reply.
“I’m therefore bound to ask you, Mrs. Faulkner, if he’s such a clever, manipulative, and resourceful man, why would he have switched the label to another crate which contained a painting worth even more than the Rembrandt that the Crown are claiming he stole?” Booth Watson didn’t give the witness a chance to reply before he added, “No, Mrs. Faulkner, it is you who is clever, manipulative, and resourceful, and that is what made it possible for you to almost get away with stealing one of the most valuable art collections on earth, while at the same time plotting to have my client sent to prison for a crime he did not commit. No further questions, Your Honor.”
THE CROWN V. RAINSFORD
“Sir Julian, you may call your first witness.”
“Thank you, m’lud. I call Mr. Barry Stern.”
“Is this the detective inspector who was the Crown’s principal witness at the original trial?” inquired the judge on behalf of his colleagues.
“Yes, m’lud. And I’ve had to subpoena him as he is no longer a police officer, and therefore must be considered a hostile witness.”
“I hope you’re going to produce some fresh evidence, Sir Julian, and not just take us all on a fishing trip.”
“I believe I will, m’lud, but, like you, I am willing to stretch the legal boundaries a little if it means there’s the slightest chance that an innocent man will finally be granted justice.”
Lord Justice Arnott didn’t look pleased, but satisfied himself with a frown as the courtroom door opened and a stocky man in his early fifties, with a crew cut, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, appeared. Stern took his place in the witness box and delivered the oath without once looking at the card the clerk held up. He then glared across at defense counsel like a boxer waiting for the bell to ring.