Nothing Ventured(92)
“She’s quite right. I have owned The Syndics for seven years.”
The jury were now staring at the defendant in disbelief.
“Are you admitting to the theft?” asked Booth Watson, feigning surprise. The jury too appeared to be confused, while Mr. Palmer QC looked suspicious. Only the judge remained impassive, while Faulkner just smiled.
“I’m not quite sure I understand what you are suggesting,” continued Booth Watson, who understood exactly what his client was suggesting.
“I wonder, sir,” said Faulkner, turning to the judge, “if I might be allowed to show the court the painting that has been hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room of my home in Hampshire for the past seven years, in order to prove my innocence?”
Now even Mr. Justice Nourse looked puzzled. He glanced across at Mr. Palmer, who shrugged his shoulders, so he turned his attention back to defense counsel.
“We wait with interest, Mr. Booth Watson, to find out what your client has in store for us.”
“I am most grateful, Your Honor,” said Booth Watson. He nodded to his junior, who had positioned herself by the entrance to the court. She opened the door and two heavily built men entered carrying a large crate, which they placed on the floor between the judge and the jury.
“My Lord,” said Palmer, leaping to his feet, “the Crown was given no warning of this unscheduled charade by the defense, and I would ask you to dismiss it for what it is.”
“And what might that be, Mr. Palmer?”
“Nothing more than a stunt to try to distract the jury.”
“Then let’s find out if it does, Mr. Palmer,” said the judge. “Because I suspect the members of the jury are as curious as I am to discover what’s inside the box.”
Everyone’s eyes remained fixed on the crate as the packers became unpackers. They first extracted the nails, followed by the polystyrene chips, and finally the muslin, to reveal a painting that left some gasping, others simply bemused.
“Mr. Faulkner, would you be kind enough to explain how it’s possible that Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild comes to be in this court,” said Booth Watson, “and not, as your wife claimed earlier, hanging on a wall of the Fitzmolean Museum?”
“Don’t panic, Mr. Booth Watson,” said Faulkner to a man who never panicked. “The original is still hanging in the Fitzmolean. This is nothing more than an exceptional copy, which I purchased from a gallery in Notting Hill just over seven years ago, and have the receipt to prove it.”
“So this,” said Booth Watson, “is the painting your wife has been looking at for the past seven years, under the mistaken impression that it was the original?”
“I’m afraid so, sir, but then Christina has never shown any real interest in my collection, other than how much it was worth. Which in this case was five thousand pounds.”
“Mr. Faulkner,” said the judge, looking closely at the painting, “how can a layman like myself be sure this is a copy and not the original?”
“By looking at the bottom right-hand corner, My Lord. If this was the original, you would see Rembrandt’s initials, RvR. He rarely left a painting unsigned. To be fair, that’s something else my wife was unaware of.”
“While I accept your explanation, Mr. Faulkner,” said Booth Watson, “I am still at a loss to know how the original, now safely back in the Fitzmolean, came into your possession.”
“To understand that, Mr. Booth Watson, you have to first accept that I am well known as a collector throughout the art world. Each year I receive hundreds of unsolicited catalogs for art exhibitions, as well as several requests to buy paintings, often from old families who do not want anyone to know that they are experiencing financial difficulties.”
“Do you ever buy any of these works?”
“Very rarely. I’m far more likely to make my purchases from a respected dealer or an established auction house.”
“But that still doesn’t explain how the original Rembrandt came into your possession.”
“A few weeks ago someone offered to sell me a painting that he claimed was a Rembrandt. As soon as he described the work, I knew it had to be the one stolen from the Fitzmolean.”
“Why did you make that assumption?” asked the judge.
“It’s almost unknown, My Lord, for a Rembrandt to come on the market. Almost all of his works are owned by national museums or galleries. Very few are still in private hands.”
“So if you knew the painting was stolen,” said Booth Watson, “why did you have anything to do with it?”
“I confess that I couldn’t resist the challenge. However, when I was told I would have to travel to Naples to view the painting, I realized it had to be the Camorra who had stolen it. I should have walked away. But like a footballer who’s convinced he’s about to score the winning goal, I charged on.”
Booth Watson had never cared much for that particular metaphor but ran with it. “And did you score the winning goal?”
“Yes and no,” said Faulkner. “I flew to Naples, where I was met by a smartly dressed young lawyer accompanied by a couple of thugs who never once opened their mouths. I was then driven to a rundown part of town which is a no-go area, even for the police. I’ve never seen such poverty in my life. And the only pictures on the walls of the tenement blocks were either of the Virgin Mary or the pope. I was taken down a long flight of stone steps into a dimly lit basement, where there was a large painting propped up against the wall. I only needed one look, to know it was the real thing.”