Nothing Ventured (Detective William Warwick 1)

‘Scrambled egg that isn’t out of a packet, and perhaps I’ll allow myself a sliver of smoked salmon, some toast that isn’t burnt, and a cup of steaming hot coffee with milk that isn’t powdered,’ responded Arthur.

‘And after breakfast?’

‘I shall take a long walk in the park before going shopping. I’ll need a new suit if I’m to look smart when I return to work tomorrow morning.’

‘Why not take a break before going back to work,’ suggested Sir Julian. ‘Go on holiday.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘I’ve already had a three-year break. No, I intend to return to the office as soon as possible.’

‘Could you bear to put it off for one more day, Dad?’ asked Beth. ‘You and Mum have been invited to the Fitzmolean tomorrow for the unveiling of the Rembrandt, and I expect every one of you to be present for my moment of triumph.’

‘Your moment of triumph?’ said William.

Everyone laughed except Arthur, who had fallen asleep again.

Court number fourteen was packed long before ten in the forenoon, and, like a theatre audience, they chatted among themselves as they waited for the curtain to rise.

Commander Hawksby, DCI Lamont, DS Roycroft and DC Warwick were seated a couple of rows behind Mr Adrian Palmer QC, the prosecuting counsel.

Mr Booth Watson QC and his instructing solicitor, Mr Mishcon, sat at the other end of the bench, discussing the coverage their client had received in the national press that morning. They agreed that it couldn’t have been much better.

Miles Faulkner standing next to Christ adorned several front pages, along with the words Booth Watson had written and his client had repeated verbatim: ‘Of course it’s sad to part with one’s favourite painting, not unlike losing an only child, but my Rubens couldn’t have gone to a better home than the Fitzmolean.’

The press benches along one side of the courtroom were so crowded that several old timers who’d been unable to find a seat were left standing behind their less illustrious colleagues. Once the sentence was delivered, they would race to the nearest available telephone and report the judge’s decision to the duty editor.

The Evening Standard would be the first on the street, and it already had its front page headline set in type: ‘Faulkner sent down for X years’. Only the number needed to be filled in. The crime correspondent had submitted two stories the night before, and a sub-editor would decide which one would go to press.

From seven o’clock that morning, a queue of the simply curious and the morbid had begun to form outside the public entrance of the Royal Courts of Justice, and within minutes of a court official opening the door, every seat in the gallery had been taken. All of those present knew the curtain would rise as ten o’clock struck on the south-west tower of St Paul’s. Not that any of those cloistered in the court would be able to hear the cathedral chimes.

The moment Mr Justice Nourse appeared, the chattering ceased, giving way to an air of expectation. The judge took his place in the high-backed red leather chair, looked down upon his kingdom and surveyed his subjects, feigning no interest in the fact that he’d never seen his court so packed. He returned their bow, and placed two red folders on the bench.

William turned to look at Faulkner as he took his place in the dock. In a dark blue suit, white shirt and Old Harrovian tie, he looked more like a city stockbroker on his way to work than a prisoner who was about to be dispatched to Pentonville. He stood tall, almost proud, as he faced the judge, outwardly appearing calm and composed.

Mr Justice Nourse opened the first red folder marked ‘Judgment’, and glanced across at the prisoner before he began to read his handwritten script.

‘Mr Faulkner, you have been found guilty of receiving stolen goods, and not some insubstantial bauble of little significance, but a national treasure of incalculable value, namely Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild. I have no doubt that you were in possession of that unique work of art for some considerable time, probably for the seven years after it was stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum, and that you never had any intention of returning it to its rightful owner. Had your wife not dispatched the painting to England without your approval, it would probably still be hanging in your home in Monte Carlo.’

Mr Adrian Palmer allowed himself a wry smile on behalf of the Crown.

‘You are not, Mr Faulkner,’ continued the judge, ‘as some tabloids would have us believe, a gentleman thief who simply enjoys the thrill of the chase. Far from it. You are in fact nothing more than a common criminal, whose sole purpose was to rob a national institution of one of its finest treasures.’

Booth Watson shifted uneasily in his seat.

The judge turned to the next page of his script, before pronouncing, ‘Miles Edward Faulkner, you will pay a fine of ten thousand pounds, the maximum I am permitted to impose, although I consider it to be woefully inadequate in this particular case.’ He closed the first red folder and shuffled uneasily in his seat. Faulkner had to agree with him that the amount was ‘woefully inadequate’, and avoided a smirk at the thought of getting off so lightly.

The judge then opened the second folder and glanced at the first paragraph before he spoke again. ‘In addition to the fine, I sentence you to four years’ imprisonment.’

Faulkner visibly wilted as he stared up at the judge in disbelief.

The judge turned the page and looked down at a paragraph he had crossed out the night before, and rewritten tha

t morning.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘I am bound to admit that I was moved by your generosity in donating Rubens’ Christ’s Descent from the Cross to the Fitzmolean Museum. I accept that it must have been a considerable wrench for you, to have parted with the pride of your collection, and it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge this generous gesture as a genuine sign of remorse.’

‘He’s going to waive the fine,’ whispered the commander, ‘which Faulkner won’t give a damn about.’

‘Or perhaps reduce the sentence,’ said William, who couldn’t decide whether to look at the judge or Faulkner.