Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘But in this case, as I understand it,’ said Lord Justice Arnott, ‘you will be attempting to prove the exact opposite, namely that a sheet of paper was removed, not added.’

  ‘That is correct, Your Honour. And if you’ll allow me to examine the evidence in your presence, I believe I will also be able to establish whether it was Arthur Rainsford or DI Stern who lied under oath. Because they can’t both have been telling the truth.’ The professor now had everyone in the courtroom’s close attention.

  ‘Beyond reasonable doubt?’ asked Arnott, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Scientists don’t deal in doubt, Your Honour. It’s either fact or fiction.’

  This silenced his lordship.

  ‘But in order to prove my case, Your Honour, I will need your permission to leave the witness box and conduct an experiment.’

  The judge nodded. Professor Abrahams stepped down from the box and walked across to a machine that looked like a desktop photocopier. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and turned to face the judges.

  ‘Your Honour, may I suggest,’ said Grace, ‘that you and your colleagues join us so we can all follow the experiment more closely?’

  Lord Justice Arnott nodded, and all three judges left the bench and descended into the well of the court, where they were joined by both counsel to form a ring around the ESDA.

  ‘Pay attention,’ said Abrahams, as he always did when he was about to address the students at his lectures. ‘No one has suggested,’ he began, ‘that Mr Rainsford didn’t initial the first page of his statement that was later produced as evidence in court. The only dispute is whether there were three pages rather than two. And if I’m to prove that, I will require the original two-page statement.’

  ‘This has been agreed by both sides, My Lords,’ interjected Grace.

  Arnott nodded to the clerk, who handed the original statement to Professor Abrahams.

  ‘Now, I suspect,’ said Abrahams, ‘that we will all need to be reminded of the wording of the original statement. I repeat, there is no dispute concerning page one from either party.’ He began to read.

  ‘My name is Arthur Edward Rainsford. I am fifty-one years old and currently reside at 32 Fulham Gardens, London SW7. I am the sales director of a small finance company that specializes in investing in burgeoning pharmaceutical companies.

  ‘On 5 May 1983 I travelled to Coventry by train to meet a potential new investor. Following that meeting, we had lunch together. When the bill came, I presented my company credit card and was embarrassed when it was declined, as this was hardly the way to impress a potential client. I was extremely angry, and contacted our finance director, Gary Kirkland, to find out how this could have been possible. He assured me that there was nothing to worry about, and that it must simply be a banking error. He suggested that I drop by the office on my way home that evening, when he would go over the accounts with me. I later regretted that I had lost my temper, and I should never have – ’

  The professor put the first page down and picked up the second.

  ‘This, as you know,’ he said to his attentive audience, ‘is the second page of the statement given in evidence, although Mr Rainsford still maintains it is in fact the third page.’ He began to read again.

  ‘ – struck him. I immediately realized when I saw the deep gash on the back of his head that he must have hit the edge of the mantelpiece or the brass fender as he collapsed to the floor. The next thing I recall was hearing a siren, and a few moments later half a dozen policemen stormed into the room. One of them, a Detective Inspector Stern, arrested me, and later charged me with the murder of Gary Kirkland, one of my oldest friends. I will regret his death for the rest of my life.

  Arthur Rainsford

  I have read this statement in the presence of DI Stern and DC Clarkson.’

  Professor Abrahams stopped for a moment to make sure he still had the attention of his students. Satisfied, he continued. ‘I now want you to turn your attention to the ESDA machine – the Electrostatic Detection Apparatus. I’m about to place this second page on the ESDA’s bronze plate. Are there any questions?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Good. I will now cover the page with a sheet of Mylar film, before sealing it.’

  The professor took a small roller from his box of tricks, and proceeded to roll it backwards and forwards over the Mylar film until he was confident that he’d eliminated any air bubbles. Next, he took a thin metal device from his bag, explaining that it was a corona. It made a faint buzzing sound when he turned it on. He held it an inch above the plate and scanned it back and forth over the page several times.

  ‘What’s the corona doing?’ asked Lord Justice Arnott.

  ‘It’s bombarding the Mylar film with positive charges, Your Honour, which will be attracted to any indentations on the page.’

  Once he’d completed the task, the professor switched off the corona and announced, ‘I am now ready to sprinkle some photocopy toner over the surface of the paper, after which we’ll quickly discover if my experiment has served its purpose or has been a complete waste of time.’

  The attentive audience, heads down, stared at the piece of paper as the professor lifted one side of the bronze plate, before sprinkling the page with minute, pepper-like black filings that ran down its surface and disappeared into a narrow trough at the bottom of the plate. Once he was satisfied the paper had been completely covered with filings, he lowered the bronze plate back in place, and peered down at his handiwork.

  ‘Look at Arthur,’ whispered Grace.

  Sir Julian glanced up at the defendant, who was still standing in the dock. Arthur didn’t seem to be in any doubt about what the result would be, whereas Lord Justice Arnott and his two colleagues still appeared sceptical, and Mr Llewellyn downright unconvinced.

  Professor Abrahams bent over the machine and placed a sheet of sticky-backed plastic carefully on top of the Mylar film, then deftly peeled the film from the plate. Finally, he separated the sticky-backed plastic sheet from the film, and placing a blank sheet of white paper behind it, held it up for everyone to see.

  No one could have failed to observe the unmistakable impressions on the missing page.

  Mr Llewellyn still looked unimpressed when Lord Justice Arnott said, ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough, professor, to read out the words that are indented on the page, as I have a feeling you may have done this before.’

  ‘On several occasions, Your Honour. But I should warn you that there are bound to be some gaps. But first may I remind you of the final sentence on the first page, before I move on to the disputed second page.’ The judge nodded. ‘I later regretted that I had lost my temper with him, and I should never have . . .’ The Professor took a large magnifying glass from his bag and studied the indented page closely before he continued.

  ‘done so before I heard side story. On arrival back Euston S I took taxi to our,’ he hesitated, ‘office in Marylebone. When I open the door I saw heavily built ma rush wards me. I held op the doo for him, but barged past me and to street. I didn’t think about at tim but ater realiz he co have be the mur erer. I went s up to Gary’ offi on the loor, and fo im pread on t floor by the mant piec. I rush across bu it was ready late. Someon must ave

  The professor turned to the third page of the statement and continued, ‘struck him.’ One or two of those standing around the machine burst into applause, while the others remained stony silent.

  ‘Thank you, professor,’ said Lord Justice Arnott, before adding, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you please return to your seats.’

  Grace waited until everyone had settled before she rose from her place and said, ‘No more questions, My Lords,’ and collapsed onto the bench.

  ‘Chapeau,’ her father whispered, touching his forehead with the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘Mr Llewellyn, do you wish to cross-examine this witness?’ asked Lord Justice Arnott.

  Professor Abrahams braced himself for the Crown’s rebuttal.


  ‘No, My Lords,’ said the Crown’s chief advocate, barely moving from his place.

  ‘We are in your debt, Professor Abrahams,’ said Lord Justice Arnott. ‘I’m only glad that your mother lives in Warsaw, and that you dropped by to see us on your way to visit her. You may step down.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said the professor, before leaving the stand and gathering up his box of tricks.

  Grace wanted to hug him as he walked across the room and winked at Arthur, before leaving the court.

  ‘Do you have any more witnesses, Sir Julian?’ asked Lord Justice Arnott.

  ‘Just one, My Lords. Detective Sergeant Clarkson, the other signatory to Mr Rainsford’s original statement. He has been subpoenaed to appear before your lordships at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Then we will adjourn until then.’

  Sir Julian bowed, and remained standing until the three judges had gathered up their copious notes and departed.

  ‘Do you think Clarkson will actually turn up tomorrow?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ replied her father.

  31

  THE CROWN V. FAULKNER

  ‘PLEASE STATE YOUR name and occupation, for the record,’ said Mr Booth Watson.

  ‘Miles Adam Faulkner. I’m a farmer.’

  ‘Mr Faulkner, the court has heard that you own an impressive art collection, as well as homes in New York and Monte Carlo, an estate in Hampshire, a yacht and a private jet. How can that be possible if you’re a farmer?’

  ‘My dear father left me the farm in Limpton, along with three thousand acres.’

  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?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir, but then Christina has never shown any real interest in my collection, other than how much it was worth. Which in this case was five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Mr Faulkner,’ said the judge, looking closely at the painting, ‘how can a layman like myself be sure this is a copy and not the original?’

  ‘By looking at the bottom right-hand corner, My Lord. If this was the original, you would see Rembrandt’s initials, RvR. He rarely left a painting unsigned. To be fair, that’s something else my wife was unaware of.’

  ‘While I accept your explanation, Mr Faulkner,’ said Booth Watson, ‘I am still at a loss to know how the original, now safely back in the Fitzmolean, came into your possession.’

  ‘To understand that, Mr Booth Watson, you have to first accept that I am well known as a collector throughout the art world. Each year I receive hundreds of unsolicited catalogues for art exhibitions, as well as several requests to buy paintings, often from old families who do not want anyone to know that they are experiencing financial difficulties.’

  ‘Do you ever buy any of these works?’

  ‘Very rarely. I’m far more likely to make my purchases from a respected dealer or an established auction house.’

  ‘But that still doesn’t explain how the original Rembrandt came into your possession.’

  ‘A few weeks ago someone offered to sell me a painting that he claimed was a Rembrandt. As soon as he described the work, I knew it had to be the one stolen from the Fitzmolean.’

  ‘Why did you make that assumption?’ asked the judge.

  ‘It’s almost unknown, My Lord, for a Rembrandt to come on the market
. Almost all of his works are owned by national museums or galleries. Very few are still in private hands.’

  ‘So if you knew the painting was stolen,’ said Booth Watson, ‘why did you have anything to do with it?’

  ‘I confess that I couldn’t resist the challenge. However, when I was told I would have to travel to Naples to view the painting, I realized it had to be the Camorra who had stolen it. I should have walked away. But like a footballer who’s convinced he’s about to score the winning goal, I charged on.’

  Booth Watson had never cared much for that particular metaphor but ran with it. ‘And did you score the winning goal?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Faulkner. ‘I flew to Naples, where I was met by a smartly dressed young lawyer accompanied by a couple of thugs who never once opened their mouths. I was then driven to a run-down part of town which is a no-go area, even for the police. I’ve never seen such poverty in my life. And the only pictures on the walls of the tenement blocks were either of the Virgin Mary or the pope. I was taken down a long flight of stone steps into a dimly lit basement, where there was a large painting propped up against the wall. I only needed one look, to know it was the real thing.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The bargaining began, and it quickly became clear they wanted to be rid of the painting, so we settled on a hundred thousand dollars. I knew, and they knew, that it was worth a hundred times that amount, but they weren’t exactly overwhelmed with potential buyers. I told them I would hand over the money the day the painting was returned to the Fitzmolean. They said they’d be in touch, but didn’t even offer to drive me back to the airport. I had to walk some distance before I came across a taxi.’