Abrahams checked his watch and put the file back in his briefcase. ‘I ought to get moving if I’m going to make my flight,’ he said, as he rose from his chair. ‘Can’t afford to be late for my mother. She’s probably already at the airport waiting for me.’
Grace accompanied Abrahams back to terminal two, and before he went through to the departures gate she thanked him once again and asked, ‘Can I tell my father that you’d be willing to appear as an expert witness, if there’s a retrial?’
‘I wouldn’t have wasted your time if I hadn’t been willing to do that, young lady. However, I still need to see Rainsford’s original two-page statement that was presented as evidence in court before I’ll know if I’d be wasting mine.’
Professor Abrahams boarded his plane for Warsaw just as William landed in Nice. As William only had hand luggage, he headed straight for passport control and was among the first to step out into the concourse, where he was greeted by a man holding up a placard reading WARWICK.
He sank into the back seat of a Bentley and tried to compose his thoughts before meeting up with Christina Faulkner again. However, the driver had other ideas.
By the time they reached the Villa Rosa, William knew the driver’s views on everything from the Pompidou Centre, designed by an Englishman, to the Common Market, which Britain should never have joined in the first place. However, he didn’t once raise the only subject William would have liked to know more about: Mr and Mrs Faulkner.
A vast pair of wrought-iron gates swung open when the car was still a hundred yards from the entrance. They turned into a long drive lined with tall cypress trees on both sides, which ended in front of a handsome belle époque villa that made Limpton Hall look like a country cottage.
As William stepped out of the car, the front door opened and Christina emerged to greet him. He kissed her on both cheeks as if she were a French general. She took him by the hand and led him into a spacious hall that was crammed with wooden crates of different sizes. He only needed to look at the faded outlines on the walls to imagine what might have been there just the day before. He was beginning to understand why Christina needed her husband to be away for a month if she was to carry out her plan.
‘Still one left to pack,’ she said as he followed her through to the drawing room, where a single framed canvas remained in its place above the mantelpiece.
William gazed in awe at a painting that even an amateur like himself instantly recognized as a work of genius. He took a Fitzmolean postcard out of his pocket and checked the right-hand corner of the canvas to confirm that Rembrandt’s characteristic signature, RvR, was in place. Having done so, he returned his gaze to the six pompous Syndics dressed in their long black gowns with stiff white ruffled collars, holding wide-brimmed black hats as they luxuriated in their exalted position as members of Amsterdam society.
‘I can see you like your Christmas present,’ said Christina.
Grace phoned her father within minutes of arriving back at her flat in Notting Hill, and gave him a detailed report of her meeting with the professor.
‘I do believe the time
has come for me to call the Director of Public Prosecutions and make an appointment to see him before any of my colleagues return from their Christmas breaks,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I need to get a trial date pencilled in to the court calendar as soon as possible.’
‘That might not be so easy,’ suggested Grace.
‘There are always cancelled slots that need to be filled. I’ll just have to make sure my name is near the top of the list.’
‘But why should the DPP pick you rather than any of the other equally worthy applicants?’
‘I’ll tell you why, Grace, but not over the phone.’
William kept a close eye on the packers as the heavy brigade carefully lowered the Rembrandt into its custom-built crate before carrying it into the hall to join its companions.
Every one of the crates had a large square sticker attached to it, declaring ‘Property of Mrs Christina Faulkner. To remain on board’. The only exception was the Rembrandt, which had an even larger circular sticker that read, ‘Property of the Fitzmolean Museum, Prince Albert Crescent, London SW7. To be collected’.
‘Are you confident,’ said Christina, ‘that the commander will be on the dockside waiting to welcome the Christina’s distinguished passengers when they arrive in Southampton?’
‘He’ll be the first person on board the moment we dock, with the cavalry not far behind,’ said William. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow, as soon as the paintings are all on board.’
‘He’ll only be interested in one of them.’
‘What’s going to happen to the rest?’ asked William, although he assumed Christina was unlikely to reveal their final destination.
‘Next stop, New York, where they’ll be joined by a remarkable collection of modern American artists who are presently residing in our Manhattan apartment.’
‘But by the time the yacht docks, your husband could be standing on the dockside waiting for you.’
‘No, I don’t think so. After Melbourne Miles plans to fly to Sydney so he’ll be among the first to see in the New Year, by which time all his paintings will be hanging in their new home – my new home.’
William didn’t waste his time asking her where that might be.
Grace and her father spent the evening holed up in his study.
‘The next thing Professor Abrahams needs to do,’ said Grace, ‘is study Arthur’s original two-page statement that was presented in court. He did warn me that it could also prove that Arthur has been lying and the jury got it right.’