Nothing Ventured

‘Behave yourself, Grace,’ said her father. ‘Although I must confess I’ve used up all my markers.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ said Arthur.

‘It was worth playing the long game,’ said Sir Julian, without explanation. ‘However, as we only have an hour, Arthur, we must use the time constructively. First, I should tell you that I intend to call only three witnesses.’

‘Will I be one of them?’ asked Arthur.

‘No point,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Appeal hearings are held in front of three judges, not a jury, and you have nothing new to tell them. They will only be interested in any fresh evidence.’

‘So who will you be calling?’

‘The two police officers who gave evidence at the original trial.’

‘But they’re hardly likely to change their stories.’

‘You’re probably right. However, William has received some information from an unimpeachable source that might make their original testimony look a little less credible. However, our principal witness will still be Professor Abrahams. Grace has been dealing directly with him, so she’ll take you through the evidence he has compiled, and, more importantly, his conclusions.’

Grace took a thick file out of her briefcase and placed it on the table.

‘Let me begin . . .’

‘Let me begin,’ said Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, as he faced a small gathering of friends and staff, ‘by welcoming you all to what my colleague Beth Rainsford has described as the “opening of the crates ceremony”. Once the Rembrandt has been removed from its crate and returned to its rightful place, we will then open the second crate and discover what hidden treasure is inside.’

Get on with it, William wanted to say.

Beth contented herself with, ‘I can’t wait.’

‘When you’re ready, Mark,’ said the director.

Mark Cranston, the keeper of paintings, stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid of the first crate as if he were a conjuror, to reveal a mass of small polystyrene chips that his team took some time clearing, only to discover that the painting was wrapped in several layers of muslin. Cranston delicately peeled each layer away until the long-lost masterpiece appeared.

The rapt audience gasped, and a moment later burst into spontaneous applause. The works manager and his crew carefully lifted up the canvas and gently lowered the painting into its frame, securing it with tiny clamps. A second round of applause broke out when the picture was hung on its waiting hooks to once again fill a space that had been unoccupied for seven years.

‘Welcome home,’ said the director.

The assembled gathering gazed in awe at the six Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, who returned their admiration with disdain. It was some time before the keeper suggested that they should now open the other crate, although it was clear that some of the patrons were reluctant to be dragged away from their long-lost companions.

Eventually they all joined the director around the second crate, some more in hope than expectation. They waited in silence for the ceremony to be repeated. First the lid was lifted by the keeper, then the packing chips were removed, before the layers of muslin were finally peeled away to reveal that Rembrandt had a genuine rival.

A collective gasp went up as a magnificent depiction of Christ’s descent from the cross by Peter Paul Rubens was revealed.

‘How generous of Mr Faulkner,’ said one of the patrons, while another ventured, ‘Two for the price of one. We are indeed blessed.’

‘Shall I hang it next to the Rembrandt?’ asked the keeper.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the director. ‘In fact I must ask you to place it back in the crate and nail the lid down.’

‘Why?’ demanded another of the patrons. ‘The label on the crate clearly states that the painting is the property of the Fitzmolean.’

‘It does indeed,’ said the director. ‘And I can’t deny that this remarkable painting would have

adorned our collection, and attracted art lovers from all over the world. But unfortunately, I received a letter this morning from a Mr Booth Watson QC who pointed out that the labels on the two crates had obviously been switched by someone, but certainly not his client. Mr Faulkner had always intended to return the Rembrandt, and is delighted to know that it is safely back in its rightful place. However, the Rubens, which has been in Mr Faulkner’s private collection for the past twenty years, must be returned to him immediately.’

William now understood why Faulkner had been smiling when he was arrested, but still couldn’t resist asking, ‘Where’s he going to hang it? In his cell?’

‘Of course, I immediately sought legal advice,’ said the director, ignoring the interruption, ‘and our solicitors confirmed that we have no choice but to accede to Mr Booth Watson’s demand.’

‘Did they give a reason?’ asked the keeper.