‘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.’
‘And when did you become aware that the painting had in fact been stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum?’
‘A couple of weeks later when I saw it on the News at Ten.’
‘Did you tell your husband about that news report?’
‘Certainly not. I was far too frightened, as I knew only too well how he would react.’
‘Understandably.’
‘Mr. Palmer,’ said the judge firmly.
‘I apologize, Your Honor,’ said Palmer, with a slight bow, well aware that he had made his point. He turned back to the witness. ‘And when you could no longer bear the deception, you took it upon yourself to do something about it.’
‘Yes, I felt that if I did nothing, I would be condoning a crime. So when my husband was away in Australia last Christmas, I packed up the painting and sent it back to England on our yacht, with clear instructions that it should be returned to the Fitzmolean.’
Booth Watson scribbled a note on the pad in front of him.
‘But weren’t you worried about the consequences of that decision when your husband returned?’
‘Extremely worried, which is why I made plans to leave the country before he got back.’
Booth Watson made a further note.
‘Then why didn’t you do so?’
‘Because Miles somehow found out what I was planning, and took the next flight back to London to try and prevent me from giving back the painting to its rightful owner.’ She bowed her head shyly.
‘And when did you next see your husband?’
‘In Southampton, when he boarded our yacht, and was so desperate not to lose the Rembrandt, he switched the labels with one on another crate.’
Booth Watson made a third note.
‘But this attempt to fool the police failed.’
‘Thankfully yes, but only because a detective from Scotland Yard, who’d traveled to Southampton to collect the painting, became suspicious and insisted that another crate should be opened. That’s when they discovered the missing Rembrandt.’
The journalists’ pencils didn’t stop scribbling.
‘And thanks to your courage and fortitude, Mrs. Faulkner, this national treasure once again hangs on the wall of the Fitzmolean Museum.’
‘It does indeed, Mr. Palmer, and I recently visited the museum to witness the masterpiece being rehung in its rightful place. It gave me great pleasure to see how many members of the public were, like me, enjoying the experience.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Faulkner. No more questions, Your Honor.’
Booth Watson looked across at the jury, who appeared to be on the point of bursting into applause when Mr. Palmer sat down.
‘Mr. Booth Watson,’ said the judge, ‘do you wish to cross-examine this witness?’
‘I most certainly do, Your Honor,’ said Booth Watson, heaving himself up from his place and smiling sweetly at the witness.
‘Do remind me, Mrs. Faulkner, when it was you first saw the Rembrandt?’
‘Seven years ago, at our home in the country.’
‘Then I’m bound to ask, what took you so long?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,’ said Christina.
‘I think you know only too well what I’m getting at, Mrs. Faulkner. But let me spell it out for you. Quite simply, if you knew seven years ago that the painting had been stolen, why wait until now to inform the police?’
‘I was waiting for the right opportunity.’
‘And that opportunity didn’t arise for seven years?’ said Booth Watson, sounding incredulous.
Christina hesitated, allowing Booth Watson to thrust the knife in deeper.
‘I would suggest, Mrs. Faulkner, that the opportunity you were actually waiting for, was to steal your husband’s entire art collection while he was safely on the other side of the world?’
‘But I didn’t plan...’ She hesitated, giving Booth Watson the opportunity to twist the knife.
‘I think you’d been planning this outrageous piece of grand larceny for some considerable time, Mrs. Faulkner, and simply used the Rembrandt as a ploy to give yourself a better chance of getting away with it.’
A babble of whispered conversations broke out in the court, but Booth Watson waited patiently for silence to return, before he slowly extracted the knife.
‘Did you, Mrs. Faulkner, while your husband was in Melbourne, have all the artworks at his home in Monte Carlo packed up and taken to the port, where they were placed in the hold of your husband’s yacht?’
‘But half of them would have been mine in any case,’ protested Christina.
‘I’m well aware that you are suing your husband for divorce,’ said Booth Watson, ‘as my learned friend so subtly reminded us, but in this country, Mrs. Faulkner, it is traditional to let the courts decide what portion of a man’s wealth should be allocated to his wife. Clearly you weren’t willing to wait.’
‘But it was only about a third of the collection.’
‘Quite possibly, but after the yacht had set sail from Monte Carlo for Southampton with one-third of your husband’s art collection on board, what did you do next?’
Christina bowed her head once again. William frowned.
‘As you appear unwilling to answer my question, Mrs. Faulkner, allow me to remind you exactly what you did. You took the next flight back to London, traveled down to your country home, and once again set about removing every painting in the house.’
One or two members of the jury gasped, while Booth Watson waited patiently for the witness to reply. When no reply was forthcoming, he turned a page of his notes and continued. ‘The following morning, a removal van turned up at the house, loaded the paintings, and, as instructed by you, took them to Southampton to await the arrival of your husband’s yacht, so that they too could be placed on board. So, you’ve now got two-thirds of the collection,’ said Mr. Booth Watson, glowering at his victim, who could only stare back at him like a mesmerized rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘And even that wasn’t enough for you,’ Booth Watson continued, ‘because you then instructed the captain of the yacht that you would be coming aboard with the intention of sailing to New York so you could go straight to your husband’s apartment on Fifth Avenue and relieve him of the rest of his fabled collection. Then, like the owl and the pussycat, you hoped to sail away for a year and a day in your beautiful pea-green boat, or to be more accurate, your husband’s beautiful yacht.’
‘But none of this alters the fact that Miles stole the Rembrandt in the first place, and then switched the labels on the crates to try and prevent it being returned to the Fitzmolean.’
William smiled.
The judge nodded sagely, causing Booth Watson, like a master helmsman, to change tack.
‘Allow me to ask you a simple question, Mrs. Faulkner,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Would you describe your husband as a clever man?’
‘Clever, manipulative, and resourceful,’ came back the immediate reply.
‘I’m therefore bound to ask you, Mrs. Faulkner, if he’s such a clever, manipulative, and resourceful man, why would he have switched the label to another crate which contained a painting worth even more than the Rembrandt that the Crown are claiming he stole?’ Booth Watson didn’t give the witness a chance to reply before he added, ‘No, Mrs. Faulkner, it is you who is clever, manipulative, and resourceful, and that is what made it possible for you to almost get away with stealing one of the most valuable art collections on earth, while at the same time plotting to have my client sent to prison for a crime he did not commit. No further questions, Your Honor.’