‘What did you do next?’
‘The following morning I rang the captain of my yacht and told him that a large crate would shortly be arriving at the dockside. He was to take it to Southampton and personally deliver it to the Fitzmolean Museum in London.’
‘And, Your Honour,’ said Booth Watson, ‘if the Crown so wishes, I can call Captain Menegatti, who will confirm that those were indeed the instructions Mr Faulkner gave him.’
‘I bet he will,’ muttered William, ‘if he wants to keep his job.’
‘You flew to Australia the following day, assuming that your orders would be carried out.’
‘Yes. I had hoped my wife would come with me, but she changed her mind at the last moment. It turned out she had an assignation with a younger man.’
William clenched his fists to try and stop himself trembling.
‘But then she was well aware I had tickets for the Boxing Day Test in Melbourne,’ continued Faulkner, ‘which meant I wouldn’t be returning to England before the New Year.’
‘But you returned to England halfway through the match?’
‘Yes, Captain Menegatti called me at my hotel in Melbourne to tell me that my wife had turned up at the yacht, not with the single crate I’d told him about, but with my entire Monte Carlo collection. She then instructed him to take them all to Southampton, where she would meet up with him before going on to New York.’
‘How did you react?’
‘I caught the next plane back to London, and it didn’t take a twenty-three-hour flight to work out what she was up to. As soon as I landed at Heathrow, I took a taxi to my home in Hampshire, aware I didn’t have a moment to lose.’
‘Why didn’t you ask your driver to pick you up?’ asked Booth Watson.
‘Because it would have alerted Christina that I was back in the country, and that was the last thing I needed.’
‘And was your wife at home when you turned up?’
‘No, she wasn’t, and neither were my artworks, which I discovered were also on their way to Southampton. I only got there just in time to stop them being shipped off to New York.’
‘So you then boarded the yacht, and gave instructions for the artworks to be returned to your homes in Hampshire and Monte Carlo—’
‘With one notable exception,’ interrupted Faulkner. ‘I had always intended to return the Rembrandt to the Fitzmolean whatever the consequences.’ Once again he turned to face the jury, this time giving them his ‘sincere look’.
‘But before you could do that, the police charged on board, arrested you and accused you of having switched the labels on two of the crates so you could keep possession of the Rembrandt.’
‘That, Mr Booth Watson, is a farcical suggestion, for three reasons. Firstly, I was only on board the yacht for a few minutes before I was arrested, so it’s obvious my wife had already informed the police that the Rembrandt was still on board. Secondly, the label for the Fitzmolean must have been switched by her before the pictures were even loaded in Monte Carlo.’
‘But why would she switch the labels, and then tell the police that the Rembrandt was still on board?’ asked Booth Watson, innocently.
‘Because if I was arrested, there would be nothing to stop her sailing off to New York and stealing the rest of my collection, which she had clearly been planning to do while I was safely on the other side of the world.’
‘You said there was a third reason, Mr Faulkner.’
‘Yes, there is, Mr Booth Watson. Commander Hawksby was accompanied by two other police officers. They had obviously been briefed by my wife that the Rembrandt was on board. What would have been the point of switching the labels when the harbour master had the authority to open every one of the crates? No, what Christina planned was that I would be arrested, and at the same time I’d lose my Rubens. She not only switched the labels, but knew she would be depriving me of my favourite painting.’
‘At least the Rubens has been returned to its rightful owner, along with the rest of your collection.’
William noticed that Booth Watson gave his client a slight nod.
‘Yes, it has, Mr Booth Watson. Tim Knox, the director of the Fitzmolean, accepted that a genuine mistake had been made and kindly returned the Rubens to my home at Limpton Hall. However, after a few days, I began to have second thoughts. As you will know, the Fitzmolean’s collection of Dutch and Flemish paintings is second only to that of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I began to wonder if Rubens’ Christ’s Descent from the Cross had found its rightful home, and after much soul searching, I have decided to make a gift of the painting to the nation, so that others can have as much pleasure from it as I have had over the past thirty years.’
Word perfect, thought Booth Watson, looking at the jury. He was now convinced that at least half of them were on his client’s side.
‘And finally, I must ask you, Mr Faulkner, if, before this recent regrettable misunderstanding, you have ever been charged with a criminal offence?’
‘No, sir, never. However, I must confess that when I was at art school, I once pinched a traffic policeman’s helmet and wore it to the Chelsea Arts Club ball. I ended up spending a night in jail.’