Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

‘No thank you, Martin. I have a consultation with my client in a few minutes’ time, so I’d better be on my way.’

  ‘Yes of course, BW, see you on Tuesday morning.’

  Booth Watson rose from his chair and turned to leave.

  ‘And perhaps you could let me know if your client hands over the Rubens to the Fitzmolean, as he said he would under oath,’ he paused, ‘before Tuesday.’

  Booth Watson nodded, but didn’t comment.

  Palmer took another sip of whisky and waited for the door to close before asking, ‘Did I just witness a subtle bit of arm twisting?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said the judge, raising his glass. ‘I have already decided Mr Faulkner’s fate, although I confess that should he show the slightest sign of remorse, there is one concession I just might be willing to consider. But then, on the other hand, I might not.’

  ‘Why do you think he asked you that?’ said Faulkner.

  ‘Judges have been known to make concessions at the last moment, but only if they sense genuine remorse.’

  ‘How genuine?’

  ‘If you were to hand over the Rubens to the Fitzmolean before Tuesday, I have reason to believe his lordship might consider that a genuine act of contrition.’

  ‘And what could I expect in return?’

  ‘Nourse is far too shrewd to give anything more than the suggestion of a hint, but it’s in his power to decide between the maximum tariff for the offence, of four years, or the minimum, of six months. There’s even the possibility of a suspended sentence and a fine of ten thousand pounds – but it’s only a possibility, so don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘As you know, BW, I don’t give a damn about the fine. But if I had to spend even six weeks in jail, heaven knows what havoc Christina could cause in my absence.’

  ‘Does that mean you are willing to donate the Rubens to the Fitzmolean?’

  ‘It means I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Before Tuesday.’

  Arthur fell asleep at ten o’clock, which was slightly embarrassing for the rest of the family as they were all enjoying a celebratory dinner at San Lorenzo, his favourite restaurant, where he was welcomed as if he’d never been away.

  ‘Lights out at ten,’ he explained. ‘After nearly three years, it’s not an easy habit to break.’

  ‘What’s the first thing you’ll do when you wake up tomorrow morning?’ asked Grace.

  ‘At six o’clock,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Sausage, eggs, bacon and beans?’ suggested William.

  ‘Scrambled egg that isn’t out of a packet, and perhaps I’ll allow myself a sliver of smoked salmon, some toast that isn’t burnt, and a cup of steaming hot coffee with milk that isn’t powdered,’ responded Arthur.

  ‘And after breakfast?’

  ‘I shall take a long walk in the park before going shopping. I’ll need a new suit if I’m to look smart when I return to work tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why not take a break before going back to work,’ suggested Sir Julian. ‘Go on holiday.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘I’ve already had a three-year break. No, I intend to return to the office as soon as possible.’

  ‘Could you bear to put it off for one more day, Dad?’ asked Beth. ‘You and Mum have been invited to the Fitzmolean tomorrow for the unveiling of the Rembrandt, and I expect every one of you to be present for my moment of triumph.’

  ‘Your moment of triumph?’ said William.

  Everyone laughed except Arthur, who had fallen asleep again.

  Court number fourteen was packed long before ten in the forenoon, and, like a theatre audience, they chatted among themselves as they waited for the curtain to rise.

  Commander Hawksby, DCI Lamont, DS Roycroft and DC Warwick were seated a couple of rows behind Mr Adrian Palmer QC, the prosecuting counsel.

  Mr Booth Watson QC and his instructing solicitor, Mr Mishcon, sat at the other end of the bench, discussing the coverage their client had received in the national press that morning. They agreed that it couldn’t have been much better.

  Miles Faulkner standing next to Christ adorned several front pages, along with the words Booth Watson had written and his client had repeated verbatim: ‘Of course it’s sad to part with one’s favourite painting, not unlike losing an only child, but my Rubens couldn’t have gone to a better home than the Fitzmolean.’

  The press benches along one side of the courtroom were so crowded that several old timers who’d been unable to find a seat were left standing behind their less illustrious colleagues. Once the sentence was delivered, they would race to the nearest available telephone and report the judge’s decision to the duty editor.

  The Evening Standard would be the first on the street, and it already had its front page headline set in type: ‘Faulkner sent down for X years’. Only the number needed to be filled in. The crime correspondent had submitted two stories the night before, and a sub-editor would decide which one would go to press.

  From seven o’clock that morning, a queue of the simply curious and the morbid had begun to form outside the public entrance of the Royal Courts of Justice, and within minutes of a court official opening the door, every seat in the gallery had been taken. All of those present knew the curtain would rise as ten o’clock struck on the south-west tower of St Paul’s. Not that any of those cloistered in the court would be able to hear the cathedral chimes.

  The moment Mr Justice Nourse appeared, the chattering ceased, giving way to an air of expectation. The judge took his place in the high-backed red leather chair, looked down upon his kingdom and surveyed his subjects, feigning no interest in the fact that he’d never seen his court so packed. He returned their bow, and placed two red folders on the bench.

  William turned to look at Faulkner as he took his place in the dock. In a dark blue suit, white shirt and Old Harrovian tie, he looked more like a city stockbroker on his way to work than a prisoner who was about to be dispatched to Pentonville. He stood tall, almost proud, as he faced the judge, outwardly appearing calm and composed.

  Mr Justice Nourse opened the first red folder marked ‘Judgment’, and glanced across at the prisoner before he began to read his handwritten script.

  ‘Mr Faulkner, you have been found guilty of receiving stolen goods, and not some insubstantial bauble of little significance, but a national treasure of incalculable value, namely Rembrandt’s The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild. I have no doubt that you were in possession of that unique work of art for some considerable time, probably for the seven years after it was stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum, and that you never had any intention of returning it to its rightful owner. Had your wife not dispatched the painting to England without your approval, it would probably still be hanging in your home in Monte Carlo.’

  Mr Adrian Palmer allowed himself a wry smile on behalf of the Crown.

  ‘You are not, Mr Faulkner,’ continued the judge, ‘as some tabloids would have us believe, a gentleman thief who simply enjoys the thrill of the chase. Far from it. You are in fact nothing more than a common criminal, whose sole purpose was to rob a national institution of one of its finest treasures.’

  Booth Watson shifted uneasily in his seat.

  The judge turned to the next page of his script, before pronouncing, ‘Miles Edward Faulkner, you will pay a fine of ten thousand pounds, the maximum I am permitted to impose, although I consider it to be woefully inadequate in this particular case.’ He closed the first red folder and shuffled uneasily in his seat. Faulkner had to agree with him that the amount was ‘woefully inadequate’, and avoided a smirk at the thought of getting off so lightly.

  The judge then opened the second folder and glanced at the first paragraph before he spoke again. ‘In addition to the fine, I sentence you to four years’ imprisonment.’

  Faulkner visibly wilted as he stared up at the judge in disbelief.

  The judge turned the page and looked down at a paragraph he had crossed out the night before, and rewritten tha
t morning.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I am bound to admit that I was moved by your generosity in donating Rubens’ Christ’s Descent from the Cross to the Fitzmolean Museum. I accept that it must have been a considerable wrench for you, to have parted with the pride of your collection, and it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge this generous gesture as a genuine sign of remorse.’

  ‘He’s going to waive the fine,’ whispered the commander, ‘which Faulkner won’t give a damn about.’

  ‘Or perhaps reduce the sentence,’ said William, who couldn’t decide whether to look at the judge or Faulkner.

  Faulkner didn’t flinch, desperately hoping to hear one word, and it wasn’t ‘fine’.

  ‘Therefore, I have decided,’ continued the judge, ‘perhaps against my better judgement, to also show some magnanimity, and to suspend your sentence, with the clear direction that should you commit any other criminal offence, however minor, during the next four years, the full term of your prison sentence will automatically be reinstated.’

  Faulkner considered his generous gesture, as the judge had so kindly described it, to have been well worthwhile.

  ‘You are therefore free to leave the court, Mr Faulkner,’ said the judge, in a tone that suggested he was already regretting his decision.

  William was livid, and didn’t leave anyone nearby in any doubt about how he felt. Lamont was speechless, and Hawksby reflective. After all, Mr Justice Nourse had said any other criminal offence, however minor.

  When Beth heard the news later that afternoon, she simply said, ‘If I had to choose between Faulkner going to prison for four years or the Fitzmolean ending up with a priceless treasure, I wouldn’t have to give it a second thought.’

  ‘I was rather hoping for the best of both worlds,’ said William. ‘The Fitzmolean would get the Rubens and Faulkner would spend the next four years languishing in Pentonville.’

  ‘But which side would you have come down on if you were only given the choice between Faulkner spending four years in jail, or the Fitzmolean having the Rubens for life?’

  ‘On the side of the Fitzmolean, of course,’ said William, trying to sound as if he meant it.

  34

  ‘YOUR ROYAL HIGHNESS, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Tim Knox, and as the director of the Fitzmolean Museum, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the official unveiling of Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild. The Syndics, as you know, were taken from the museum just over seven years ago, and some thought they would never return. However, such was our confidence that they would eventually come home, we have never allowed another painting to hang in its place.’

  A spontaneous round of applause followed. The director waited for silence before he continued.

  ‘I will now invite Her Royal Highness to unveil the lost masterpiece.’

  The Princess Royal stepped up to the microphone. ‘Before I do, Tim,’ she said, ‘can I remind you that my great-great-grandfather opened this museum over a hundred years ago. I trust that when I pull this cord, something my family have considerable experience in doing, there will be a Rembrandt on the other side and not a faded rectangle where The Syndics once hung.’ Everyone laughed. Princess Anne pulled the cord, and the red curtain parted to allow them all to admire the painting, some of them for the first time. William glanced at its bottom right-hand corner to make sure the RvR was in place before he joined in the applause.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Knox. ‘But tonight, you are going to get two for the price of one, because you cannot have failed to notice that there is a second painting waiting to be unveiled. But for now, enjoy a glass of champagne and admire the Rembrandt, before we introduce you to our latest acquisition.’

  William didn’t budge as he continued to admire the painting he’d first seen in Monte Carlo, and had wondered if he’d ever see again. He didn’t notice the commander standing by his side until he broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Congratulations, William,’ said Hawksby. ‘This has been a personal triumph for you.’

  ‘It was a team effort, sir,’ said William, reluctantly taking his eyes off the picture and turning to his boss.

  ‘Balls. It would never have been returned to its rightful place if you hadn’t joined the team. However, just to warn you, as soon as we get back to the Yard, I shall be reporting to the commissioner and taking all of the credit.’

  William smiled. ‘I’m delighted Jackie was invited this evening,’ he said, looking across the room to see her chatting to Beth. ‘She did so much of the spadework before I even arrived on the scene.’

  ‘I agree. And although she’s been demoted, I’m pleased the department hasn’t lost her altogether. But that has created a problem, because Art and Antiques is only allowed one detective constable.’

  William accepted the rule that if you were the last to join a unit, and cutbacks had to be made, you’d be the first to leave. He just hoped he wasn’t going back on the beat.

  ‘I’m afraid, William, we’ll have to move you to another department, but not before you’ve taken your sergeant’s exam.’

  ‘But I’m not eligible to do that for at least another year, sir.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Warwick. That’s why I’m putting you on the graduates’ accelerated promotion scheme, which you tried so hard to avoid when you first joined the force.’

  William wanted to protest, but was well aware it was a battle he couldn’t win. ‘And what department do you have in mind for me, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t decided between drugs, fraud and murder.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of murder, sir, although I’ll be eternally grateful for your help in ensuring my future father-in-law was released.’

  ‘Never mention that in public or private again,’ said Hawksby as Arthur drifted across to join them.

  ‘I can’t wait to see what’s behind the other curtain,’ Arthur said. ‘Beth’s been making such a fuss about it.’

  ‘And she’s right to do so,’ said William, ‘but all I can say is you won’t be disappointed.’

  Tim Knox tapped his champagne glass with a spoon several times before everyone had stopped talking and turned to face him.

  ‘In the past,’ he said, ‘we have always considered The Syndics to be the star of our galaxy, but when this second curtain is opened, I wonder if you will consider that a genuine rival has joined the firmament.’

  Without another word, he pulled the cord to reveal Rubens’ Christ’s Descent from the Cross, to gasps, followed by thunderous applause.

  ‘This amazing addition to our collection,’ he continued, once the ovation had subsided, ‘has been made possible by the incredible generosity of the well-known collector and philanthropist Mr Miles Faulkner. As he is with us this evening, I ask you all to raise a glass and drink his health.’

  ‘Count me out,’ muttered William, despite the cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and the clinking of glasses.

  ‘Count me in,’ said Beth, raising her glass, ‘while he’s still got so many more rare gems on his walls that we’d be happy to see hanging in the Fitzmolean.’

  ‘I’d hang him first,’ said William.

  ‘I think I’d better go and rescue my father,’ said Beth, ‘and take him home. It’s getting close to his bedtime, and we mustn’t forget that he’s going back to work tomorrow.’

  William nodded. ‘I’ll join you in a moment,’ he said, unable to tear himself away from the Rubens.

  ‘I shall miss my favourite work of art,’ said a voice from behind him.

  William swung round to see Faulkner also admiring the Rubens, but he refused to acknowledge him. That didn’t stop Faulkner from saying, ‘Should you ever find yourself in New York, Constable Warwick, do give me a call, because I’d like to invite you round to my apartment on Fifth Avenue for a drink.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ said William, almost spitting out the words.

  Faulkner leant forward and whispered in his ear, ‘Becau
se then I can show you the original.’

  About the Author

  JEFFREY ARCHER, whose novels and short stories include the Clifton Chronicles, Kane and Abel and Cat O’ Nine Tales, has topped the bestseller lists around the world, with sales of over 275 million copies.

  He is the only author ever to have been a number one bestseller in fiction, short stories and non-fiction (The Prison Diaries).

  A member of the House of Lords for over a quarter of a century, the author is married to Dame Mary Archer, and they have two sons, two grandsons and a granddaughter.

  ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER

  THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES

  Only Time Will Tell The Sins of the Father

  Best Kept Secret Be Careful What You Wish For

  Mightier than the Sword Cometh the Hour

  This Was a Man

  NOVELS

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President? Kane and Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honour As the Crow Flies Honour Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune False Impression

  The Gospel According to Judas

  (with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)

  A Prisoner of Birth Paths of Glory Heads You Win

  SHORT STORIES

  A Quiver Full of Arrows A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings The Collected Short Stories

  To Cut a Long Story Short Cat O’ Nine Tales

  And Thereby Hangs a Tale Tell Tale

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt Exclusive The Accused

  Confession Who Killed the Mayor?

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume One – Belmarsh: Hell

  Volume Two – Wayland: Purgatory

  Volume Three – North Sea Camp: Heaven