Nothing Ventured(93)
“What happened next?”
“The bargaining began, and it quickly became clear they wanted to be rid of the painting, so we settled on a hundred thousand dollars. I knew, and they knew, that it was worth a hundred times that amount, but they weren’t exactly overwhelmed with potential buyers. I told them I would hand over the money the day the painting was returned to the Fitzmolean. They said they’d be in touch, but didn’t even offer to drive me back to the airport. I had to walk some distance before I came across a taxi.”
“And when you got back home, did you tell anyone about your experience?”
“I had to share what I’d been through with someone, so I foolishly told Christina. I never thought she’d take advantage of it, and even lie under oath.”
“And the gentlemen you’d met in Italy didn’t keep to their side of the bargain and return the picture to the Fitzmolean.”
“The Camorra rarely stray beyond their own territory,” said Faulkner. “I heard nothing for over a month, so I assumed the deal must be off.”
The judge made a note.
“But it wasn’t?”
“No. The two thugs who I’d met at the airport turned up at my home in Monte Carlo in the middle of the night with the painting, and demanded their hundred thousand dollars. One of them was brandishing a knife.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“I was. Especially when they told me they would first slit the throats of the six Syndics, one by one, and then mine if I didn’t pay up.”
The judge made another note.
“You had a hundred thousand dollars cash on hand?”
“Most people who want to sell me one of their family heirlooms, Mr. Booth Watson, don’t expect to leave with a check.”
“What did you do next?”
“The following morning I rang the captain of my yacht and told him that a large crate would shortly be arriving at the dockside. He was to take it to Southampton and personally deliver it to the Fitzmolean Museum in London.”
“And, Your Honor,” said Booth Watson, “if the Crown so wishes, I can call Captain Menegatti, who will confirm that those were indeed the instructions Mr. Faulkner gave him.”
“I bet he will,” muttered William, “if he wants to keep his job.”
“You flew to Australia the following day, assuming that your orders would be carried out.”
“Yes. I had hoped my wife would come with me, but she changed her mind at the last moment. It turned out she had an assignation with a younger man.”
William clenched his fists to try and stop himself trembling.
“But then she was well aware I had tickets for the Boxing Day Test in Melbourne,” continued Faulkner, “which meant I wouldn’t be returning to England before the New Year.”
“But you returned to England halfway through the match?”
“Yes, Captain Menegatti called me at my hotel in Melbourne to tell me that my wife had turned up at the yacht, not with the single crate I’d told him about, but with my entire Monte Carlo collection. She then instructed him to take them all to Southampton, where she would meet up with him before going on to New York.”
“How did you react?”
“I caught the next plane back to London, and it didn’t take a twenty-three-hour flight to work out what she was up to. As soon as I landed at Heathrow, I took a taxi to my home in Hampshire, aware I didn’t have a moment to lose.”
“Why didn’t you ask your driver to pick you up?” asked Booth Watson.
“Because it would have alerted Christina that I was back in the country, and that was the last thing I needed.”
“And was your wife at home when you turned up?”
“No, she wasn’t, and neither were my artworks, which I discovered were also on their way to Southampton. I only got there just in time to stop them being shipped off to New York.”
“So you then boarded the yacht, and gave instructions for the artworks to be returned to your homes in Hampshire and Monte Carlo—”
“With one notable exception,” interrupted Faulkner. “I had always intended to return the Rembrandt to the Fitzmolean whatever the consequences.” Once again he turned to face the jury, this time giving them his “sincere look.”
“But before you could do that, the police charged on board, arrested you, and accused you of having switched the labels on two of the crates so you could keep possession of the Rembrandt.”
“That, Mr. Booth Watson, is a farcical suggestion, for three reasons. Firstly, I was only on board the yacht for a few minutes before I was arrested, so it’s obvious my wife had already informed the police that the Rembrandt was still on board. Secondly, the label for the Fitzmolean must have been switched by her before the pictures were even loaded in Monte Carlo.”
“But why would she switch the labels, and then tell the police that the Rembrandt was still on board?” asked Booth Watson, innocently.
“Because if I was arrested, there would be nothing to stop her sailing off to New York and stealing the rest of my collection, which she had clearly been planning to do while I was safely on the other side of the world.”
“You said there was a third reason, Mr. Faulkner.”
“Yes, there is, Mr. Booth Watson. Commander Hawksby was accompanied by two other police officers. They had obviously been briefed by my wife that the Rembrandt was on board. What would have been the point of switching the labels when the harbor master had the authority to open every one of the crates? No, what Christina planned was that I would be arrested, and at the same time I’d lose my Rubens. She not only switched the labels, but knew she would be depriving me of my favorite painting.”