William immediately scribbled a note and passed it across to the Crown’s QC.
‘That still doesn’t explain your lavish lifestyle, or your ability to collect valuable works of art.’
‘The truth is that, despite my family having owned Limpton Hall for over four centuries, some years ago the government issued a compulsory purchase order on my land, as they wanted to build a six-lane motorway right through the middle of it, leaving me with the house and just a couple of hundred acres. I opposed the order and took them to court, but sadly lost on appeal. However, what the government ended up paying me in compensation allowed me to pursue my lifelong interest in art. And thanks to one or two shrewd investments on the stock market over the years, I have managed to build up a reasonable collection.’
William made a second note.
‘Which no doubt you intend to pass on to the next generation,’ said Booth Watson, looking down at a list of well-prepared questions.
‘No, sir. I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Sadly my wife had no interest in having children, and as I do not want to break up the collection, I have decided to leave my entire estate to the nation.’
Miles turned and smiled at the jury, just as Booth Watson had instructed him to. He was rewarded with one or two of them smiling back at him.
‘Now I’d like to turn to one painting in particular, Mr Faulkner, The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild by Rembrandt.’
‘Without question a masterpiece,’ said Faulkner. ‘I’ve admired it since the day I first saw it as a schoolboy when my mother took me to visit the Fitzmolean.’
‘The Crown would have us believe that you admired the painting so much, you stole it.’
Miles laughed. ‘I admit,’ he said, looking at the jury once again, ‘that I’m an art lover, even an art junkie, but I am not, Mr Booth Watson, an art thief.’
‘Then how do you explain your wife’s claim, under oath, that you have been in possession of the Rembrandt for the past seven years?’
‘She’s quite right. I have owned The Syndics for seven years.’
The jury were now staring at the defendant in disbelief.
‘Are you admitting to the theft?’ asked Booth Watson, feigning surprise. The jury too appeared to be confused, while Mr Palmer QC looked suspicious. Only the judge remained impassive, while Faulkner just smiled.
‘I’m not quite sure I understand what you are suggesting,’ continued Booth Watson, who understood exactly what his client was suggesting.
‘I wonder, sir,’ said Faulkner, turning to the judge, ‘if I might be allowed to show the court the painting that has been hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room of my home in Hampshire for the past seven years, in order to prove my innocence?’
Now even Mr Justice Nourse looked puzzled. He glanced across at Mr Palmer, who shrugged his shoulders, so he turned his attention back to defence counsel.
‘We wait with interest, Mr Booth Watson, to find out what your client has in store for us.’
‘I am most grateful, Your Honour,’ said Booth Watson. He nodded to his junior, who had positioned herself by the entrance to the court. She opened the door and two heavily built men entered carrying a large crate, which they placed on the floor between the judge and the jury.
‘My Lord,’ said Palmer, leaping to his feet, ‘the Crown was given no warning of this unscheduled charade by the defence, and I would ask you to dismiss it for what it is.’
‘And what might that be, Mr Palmer?’
‘Nothing more than a stunt to try to distract the jury.’
‘Then let’s find out if it does, Mr Palmer,’ said the judge. ‘Because I suspect the members of the jury are as curious as I am to discover what’s inside the box.’
Everyone’s eyes remained fixed on the crate as the packers became unpackers. They first extracted the nails, followed by the polystyrene chips and finally the muslin, to reveal a painting that left some gasping, others simply bemused.
‘Mr Faulkner, would you be kind enough to explain how it’s possible that Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild comes to be in this court,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and not, as your wife claimed earlier, hanging on a wall of the Fitzmolean Museum?’
‘Don’t panic, Mr Booth Watson,’ said Faulkner to a man who never panicked. ‘The original is still hanging in the Fitzmolean. This is nothing more than an exceptional copy, which I purchased from a gallery in Notting Hill just over seven years ago, and have the receipt to prove it.’
‘So this,’ said Booth Watson, ‘is the painting your wife has been looking at for the past seven years, under the mistaken impression that it was the original?’