‘Would you condemn a man to spend the rest of his life in jail on such flimsy evidence?’ asked Mrs Parish, weighing in for the first time. ‘My children refer to everyone by their first names, even celebrities they’ve never met.’
‘He didn’t know the telephone number of the flat he claimed he’d lived in for the past ten years!’ chipped in juror number eight.
This silenced Mrs Parish, but only for a moment.
‘Don’t forget,’ she came back, ‘they tried to trap Rashidi on where he bought his suits and that backfired spectacularly.’
‘If Rashidi was innocent,’ asked another woman, ‘why wouldn’t he face Sir Julian in the witness box?’
‘The judge told us to ignore that,’ Pugh reminded her. ‘It’s his legal right not to have to give evidence.’
‘But if he wasn’t in charge of the drugs factory,’ asked juror number two, ‘what was he doing there at midnight?’
Several jurors nodded.
‘I just think he’s a wrong ’un,’ piped up juror number nine, who the foreman had thought was asleep.
‘As the superintendent pointed out,’ said Pugh, ‘he conveniently fitted the profile for a drugs baron.’
‘I’m bound to say,’ said juror number two, ‘I wasn’t convinced that Lamont was telling us the whole truth.’
‘Try not to forget,’ came in Mrs Longstaff, the third dissenter, ‘that he was prepared to sacrifice his career rather than see an innocent man go to jail.’
‘That’s his story, but I’ve got a feeling there’s more to it than that.’
‘Like what?’ demanded Mrs Longstaff.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted juror number six.
‘The judge told us to make our decision on the evidence presented in court, not speculation,’ the foreman reminded them.
This silenced everyone for a few moments, until another juror piped up.
‘If Rashidi was no more than a casual weekend customer, then why pose as an immigrant worker?’
‘I was once caught in a brothel,’ admitted Pugh. ‘I can tell you I would have posed as anything to make sure my wife didn’t find out.’
‘He doesn’t have a wife,’ snapped back the same juror.
‘But he does have a mother,’ Mrs Longstaff countered.
‘Who wasn’t willing to appear in court to even confirm her son lived with her at The Boltons,’ the foreman reminded them.
‘Besides, Rashidi doesn’t look like a drug lord to me,’ Mrs Longstaff added.
Several members of the jury groaned, and the foreman realized that reaching a unanimous verdict might not prove quite as straightforward as he’d originally thought. He didn’t feel any differently after they’d taken a break for lunch. The same arguments were voiced again and again during the afternoon, after the foreman had made it clear that everyone must be allowed to express their personal opinion. However, he hadn’t meant the same opinion several times.
The foreman glanced at his watch and when, an hour later, none of the three dissenters had shown any sign of changing their minds, he suggested they call it a day and resume the following morning. At last he’d found something on which they could all agree.
‘Is it my imagination,’ said Sir Julian, ‘or has William not bothered to shave today?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s called designer stubble, my dear,’ replied his wife. ‘All the rage.’
‘Not in Nettleford, it isn’t. Let’s just be thankful that Commander Hawksby isn’t here.’
‘But he is,’ said Marjorie. ‘He and his wife are on the other side of the gallery admiring the Rembrandt.’
‘Remind me of her name,’ whispered Sir Julian.
‘Josephine. And their children are Ben and Alice.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do—’ Sir Julian began as Beth’s parents joined them.
‘Good evening Arthur, Joanna,’ said Sir Julian, giving Beth’s mother a kiss on the cheek. ‘Have you noticed that William seems to have forgotten to shave today?’
‘Is that a capital offence?’ asked Arthur, grinning.
‘It is in our family,’ said Marjorie. ‘But more important, how’s Beth? She seems to be anxious about something.’
‘And why wouldn’t she be?’ said Sir Julian. ‘It’s not every day the museum unveils a Vermeer, and it was Beth who made it possible.’
‘True,’ said Arthur. ‘But like you, Marjorie, I get the impression there’s something she’s not telling us.’
‘Could she be pregnant again?’ asked Joanna. ‘I do hope so, because I so enjoy being a grandmother.’
‘Me too,’ said Marjorie. ‘The twins are growing up so fast. Only yesterday—’
‘What are you lot plotting behind my back?’ asked Beth as she walked across to join them.
‘Perhaps you can explain why—’ began Sir Julian.
‘Shh,’ said Marjorie, as a waiter handed him a glass of champagne.
‘We were talking about the twins,’ said her mother, ‘and how quickly they’re growing up.’
‘Artemisia is almost crawling, while her brother looks on...’
The sharp tap of a gavel on a lectern caused them all to turn around, to see the museum’s director standing on a raised platform smiling down at them.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Thank you for joining us on this auspicious occasion. In a few moments we will unveil the gallery’s latest acquisition, The White Lace Collar by Vermeer, a bequest made possible by our most generous benefactor, Christina Faulkner.’
A warm round of applause followed, and William glanced across the room to see Christina standing next to a distinguished-looking gentleman who must have been a shade over six foot, and considerably older than her usual consorts. His trim white beard, greying hair and tanned face suggested he’d spent more time at sea than on land.
‘But before we unveil this masterpiece, I have an announcement to make. Sam Waterstone, the Keeper of Pictures, will be retiring at the end of the month, having served the Fitzmolean for over thirty years, so I considered it appropriate that he should perform the unveiling ceremony.’
Beth smiled as her head of department ambled up to the microphone, looking like a dishevelled schoolmaster. He turned an academic gaze on the guests as if they were a bunch of unruly students.
‘Thank you, Tim,’ he began. ‘Johannes Vermeer of Delft was unquestionably one of the foremost Dutch masters of the seventeenth century. Sadly, he only lived to the age of forty-three, and just thirty-four of his pictures survive, so we are indeed privileged to own one of them.’
Without another word he stepped back and pulled a cord. A pair of velvet curtains parted to reveal The White Lace Collar.
Gasps were followed by loud applause.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ said the director, and turning to the audience he added, ‘Before I allow you all to continue enjoying this special occasion, I have another announcement to make, and one that I suspect won’t come as a complete surprise to some of you. It gives me great pleasure to tell you that Sam’s successor as Keeper of Pictures will be our very own, and very special, Beth Warwick.’
This time the applause was even louder, and several people turned around to smile at the new Keeper.
‘Beth,’ continued the director, ‘has played a leading role in securing three of the museum’s most treasured masterpieces: the long-lost Rubens, the fabled Rembrandt, and now this magnificent Vermeer. When Sam recommended Betty should take his place, it took me a nanosecond to agree, and the board confirmed her appointment this morning.’
William squeezed Beth’s hand. ‘I’m so proud of you, Keeper,’ he said, as the rest of the family gathered around to congratulate her.
‘I couldn’t have done it without you and Christina,’ she whispered.