Nothing Ventured

Three judges entered court twenty-two and took their places on the bench, Lord Justice Arnott presiding, while his two learned friends would be in attendance and on hand to discuss the finer points of the law.

Lord Justice Arnott settled in the centre chair and rearranged his red robe while everyone in the courtroom resumed their seats. Sir Julian liked to believe that judges were like cricket umpires – impartial and fair – and although he and Lord Justice Arnott had crossed swords several times in the past, he’d never known him to be unjust.

‘Sir Julian,’ said the judge, peering benevolently down from on high. ‘My colleagues and I have spent some considerable time going over the evidence from the original trial, at which the defendant was convicted of the murder of his business partner, Mr Gary Kirkland. Our sole interest in these proceedings is the presentation of any fresh evidence that might suggest a miscarriage of justice took place on that occasion. I would therefore ask you, Sir Julian, to bear that in mind.’

‘I will indeed, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, rising from his place. ‘However, it may be necessary from time to time to refer back to the original trial. But I will do everything in my power not to try Your Lordship’s patience.’

‘I am obliged, Sir Julian,’ said Lord Justice Arnott, not sounding at all obliged. ‘Perhaps you would now proceed with your opening statement.’

THE CROWN V. FAULKNER

In court fourteen, Mr Booth Watson was coming to the end of his opening statement. Following Mr Adrian Palmer QC’s submission on behalf of the Crown, the jury could have been forgiven for thinking that Miles Faulkner was the devil incarnate, whereas when Mr Booth Watson resumed his place, they might have been under the illusion that his client was one step away from being canonized.

‘You may call your first witness, Mr Palmer,’ said Mr Justice Nourse, looking down from on high.

‘We call Mrs Christina Faulkner,’ said Palmer.

The moment the journalists seated in the press gallery set eyes on the striking woman as she entered the court, few of them were in any doubt whose picture would be dominating their front pages the following morning.

Dressed in a simple, well-cut grey Armani suit with a single string of pearls, Mrs Faulkner stepped into the witness box as if she owned it, and delivered the oath in a quiet but assured manner.

Mr Palmer rose from his place and smiled across at his principal witness.

‘Mrs Faulkner, you are the wife of the defendant, Mr Miles Faulkner.’

‘I am at present, Mr Palmer, but not for much longer, I hope,’ she said, as her husband glared down at her from the dock.

‘Mrs Faulkner,’ said the judge, ‘you will confine yourself to answering counsel’s questions, and not offering opinions.’

‘I apologize, My Lord.’

‘How long have you been married to the defendant?’ asked Palmer.

‘Eleven years.’

‘And you have recently sued him for divorce on the grounds of adultery and mental cruelty.’

‘Is this relevant, Mr Palmer?’ asked the judge.

‘Only to show, Your Honour, that the relationship between the two of them has irretrievably broken down.’

‘Then you have achieved your purpose, Mr Palmer, so move on.’

‘As you wish, Your Honour. This trial, as you will know, Mrs Faulkner, concerns the theft of The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, by Rembrandt, a work of art the value of which is incalculable, and is acknowledged by art aficionados to be a national treasure. So I must ask you when you first became aware of the painting.’

‘A little over seven years ago, when I saw it hanging in the drawing room of our home at Limpton Hall.’

‘A little over seven years ago,’ repeated Palmer, looking directly at the jury.

‘That is correct, Mr Palmer.’

‘And did your husband tell you how he had acquired such a magnificent work of art?’

‘He was evasive to begin with, but when I pressed him, he told me he’d bought the picture from a friend who was in financial trouble.’

‘Did you ever meet this friend?’

‘No, I did not.’