All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  Mo leaned forward and snapped off the radio, glancing over at Kate to see how she was taking it.

  ‘Alright?’ she asked.

  ‘Better than that,’ Kate said. ‘Because, just think … today it all ends. Everything. For better or for worse.’

  ‘I’ll be there beside you all the way,’ said Mo encouragingly.

  ‘And I’ll never have words enough to thank you,’ Kate replied, sitting back against the warmth of the leather passenger seat, silently blessing her good fortune in having a pal like Mo. ‘Do you know, I once read a quote that said a friend is someone who’ll help you to move house. But you know what the definition of a true friend is?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Mo asked, slowing the Jeep down at traffic lights.

  ‘Someone who’ll help you to move a body in the middle of the night and then never speak of it again.’

  For a moment the two women just looked at each other, then smiled.

  TESS

  Friday, 9.55 a.m.

  I’m late into court this morning (nothing to wear, missed bus, heavy traffic, etc.). But I think the actual subliminal reason is because I wanted to avoid facing Will for as long as I possibly could. Puerile, I know, given that we’re going to be sitting in court together for the day, but still.

  By the time I get into the jury room, Moany Mona looks like she’s just about to send out a search party to look for me.

  ‘There you are!’ she barks, as everyone else looks over at me, all lined up and ready to move. ‘You almost delayed this court session, you know. I’d kindly remind you to be punctual in future.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter lamely, hobbling over to join the end of the line, eyes constantly attuned to where Will is. Hard to miss him though, given that he’s about a foot taller than everyone else here. He’s just three in front of me as it happens, sandwiched in between Daphne and Mai. He turns around and gives me a tiny smile, but instead of acknowledging it, I blush, ignore him and pretend I didn’t see.

  I’ve got the bad luck to have Edith beside me though, who misses absolutely nothing. She looks first at Will, then at me, then nudges Jess beside her.

  ‘I think I just won a bet,’ she says, a bit too knowingly for my liking, before we’re ushered through the doors and on into court number seven.

  *

  It’s a charged atmosphere in court today and Hilda Cassidy wastes absolutely no time in calling her late witness to the stand. Jasper Adams turns out to be quite a short man, even Sandra the Court Registrar is towering over him and she herself is petite. He’s wearing a bow tie with an immaculately pressed tweed suit that’s creased so sharply down the front you could probably cut yourself on it. Gay or else living with his mammy, I immediately decide, giving him the once over.

  My eyes then veer across to Kate, sitting serenely composed in a long, elegant cream suit today. First time, I think, that I’ve ever seen her looking calm and not totally on edge. Damien, on the other hand, is sitting right behind Oliver Daniels, eyes focused like lasers on this new witness, taking absolutely everything in.

  Anyway, Jasper takes the oath and coughs discreetly into a hanky as Hilda launches straight into her first question.

  ‘Dr Adams,’ she says clearly, hands clamped behind her back. ‘Would you care to tell us when you first met Mrs Kate King?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he says in a thin, reedy voice. ‘Mrs King first contacted me back in April of last year. I was lecturing in UCD at the time and while one doesn’t like to blow one’s own trumpet, it seems she’d heard I was one of the country’s foremost experts on seventeenth-century Dutch Masters.’

  ‘Modest bugger, isn’t he?’ Beth whispers into my ear and I can’t help smiling.

  ‘Can you tell us Mrs King’s reason for getting in touch with you?’

  ‘She came to see me at the university and told me that her husband was in the process of purchasing the painting in question, A Lady of Letters. And as he was expected to pay a vast amount of money for it, she merely wished to know a little more about it, just out of curiosity and nothing else. Most prudent of her, I thought at the time. After all, it’s a work of some note. Who wouldn’t wish to know more?’

  ‘And what were you able to tell Mrs King at this point?’

  ‘Regrettably, very little. Although the painting is an important one, it seems that it had disappeared into private hands in the last century and little is known of its whereabouts since the early 1900s onwards. However, I was able to confirm a rather interesting backstory about it, namely that it’s rumoured to be cursed. Tracing back to the late-eighteenth century, it appears that during the French Revolution, it was in the hands of the Marquis of Montmarcy, a loyal advisor to Louis VI, who was subsequently executed during the Terror.’

  ‘Your Honour, is this meandering history lesson really necessary?’ says Oliver, straight up on his feet, red-faced. ‘Rumours of curses and speculation about the painting’s history are hardly relevant. This is a court of law, not a college lecture theatre.’

  ‘I’ll allow it,’ says Judge Simmonds. ‘But keep to the point,’ she adds as a warning to Hilda.

  ‘Dr Adams,’ Hilda goes on smoothly. ‘Am I right in thinking that was the end of your dealings with Katherine King?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘She very kindly invited me to her birthday party, where the painting was to be unveiled. Regrettably, however, I was unable to attend as my mother was unwell at the time.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Hilda asks politely.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s a martyr to her piles.’

  Titters around the court at that, but Hilda ploughs on, undeterred.

  ‘However, some months ago, you did begin to conduct more extensive investigations into the painting’s history, is that right?’

  ‘Correct,’ says Jasper, wiping his nose with the hanky again in an affected little gesture. ‘When first approached by the Defence in relation to this court case, I was asked to dig a little deeper into the painting’s remarkable history. During the course of these investigations, some new information came to light and then, just a few days ago, I received the concrete proof I’d been hoping for. Which naturally brings me here today.’

  ‘Tell us what it was that you discovered, Dr Adams,’ says Hilda, ‘in your own time.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he nods. ‘It seems that Mr King purchased the painting from a perfectly reputable auction house in London in spring of last year. To neither party in this case do I apportion any wrongdoing on that score. After all, although the phrase “caveat emptor” generally holds true, in this case we can exonerate both parties of any blame attached to purchasing the painting in question.’

  A few puzzled mumblings throughout the court at that, which Judge Simmonds silences with a hammer of her gavel.

  ‘Please elaborate further for us, Dr Adams,’ Hilda prompts.

  ‘Of course,’ Jasper says in the thin little voice. ‘You see, Damien King acquired A Lady of Letters from art dealers who enjoy the highest reputation internationally. They had naturally authenticated the painting prior to the sale and conclusively proved that it was in fact a particularly rare late-period Rembrandt. One that had been in private hands, for the past number of decades. Legally, that’s all they were obliged to do, you know. When selling any painting, any vendor’s primary obligation is to prove that it is indeed an original.’

  ‘And what of the painting’s provenance?’ Hilda probes.

  ‘Ah, now this is where it gets really interesting,’ he replies.

  ‘For those among the jury who may be unfamiliar with the term,’ says Hilda, ‘perhaps you’d explain what art dealers mean when they speak of provenance?’

  ‘By all means,’ Jasper says, turning to face the jury box this time, where we’re all looking a bit confused, knowing that something potentially game-changing is coming, but not having a clue what it might be. ‘When we speak of a painting’s provenance, it’s generally more of a moral issue, really.’

 
; ‘Go on,’ says Hilda.

  ‘Provenance, you see, is a term we use to describe the chronology of ownership, not just of paintings, but of archives, manuscripts, and even printed books. Its use is primarily to help authenticate historical objects, as so many forgeries can be uncannily accurate.’

  ‘And was such a document available for A Lady of Letters?’

  ‘No, it would seem not. However, this wouldn’t be unusual for a painting of this age. Given that A Lady of Letters has been around since the late-seventeenth century, it would in fact be highly unusual for a document of provenance to still be in existence.’

  ‘So the painting was authenticated in other ways prior to the Prosecution purchasing it?’

  ‘Yes, naturally. Any art historian would first look at the brushwork and of course the signature, before dating the materials and carrying out a full Morellian analysis. This is a technique we use to examine an artist’s repeated stylistic details which again all contribute to establishing the veracity of a painting.’

  ‘However, in addition to that, you have since made one other significant discovery of note?’

  ‘Yes, that’s absolutely right,’ says Jasper a bit smugly, actually looking like he’s enjoying all the attention. ‘And it was a difficult task for me, as you can appreciate. A Lady of Letters has been held in private collections for many decades now. And that in itself gave me my first hint that there might be more to this than met the eye.’

  ‘Will you elaborate?’

  There’s not as much as a whisper or a cough to be heard as we all strain forward in our seats to hear. Even the press corps have stopped tapping away on their iPads and all eyes totally focus on the witness box.

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ says Jasper, almost puffing up with the importance of what he’s about to tell us. ‘It certainly hasn’t been easy, but I’ve found that it’s possible to trace the painting all the way from the seventeenth century, right through to the turn of the last century. It seems then that A Lady of Letters surfaced in a small auction house in the USA. In New York, to be exact. This was during the First World War and the year, I think you’ll find, is quite significant.’

  ‘Can you tell us the year?’

  ‘1915. May 1915, to be precise.’

  ‘Go on, please,’ says Hilda.

  ‘Then subsequent to my research, just a few days ago I was successfully able to confirm that the painting was purchased from this auction house for a record price.’

  ‘Purchased by who, exactly?’

  ‘By a Sir Hugh Lane.’

  Ripples throughout the court at the name and once again Judge Simmonds has to call for silence.

  ‘For those on the jury who may not be aware,’ says Hilda, ‘would you tell the court exactly who Sir Hugh Lane was, and the fate that befell him?’

  ‘Certainly,’ says Jasper, looking like a man whose moment in the spotlight has finally come. ‘Sir Hugh was a noted Irish art collector and as you know, made sizable donations to the world-famous gallery here in Dublin which today bears his name. However, he was unfortunate enough to be a passenger on the RMS Lusitania in May 1915, where sadly he perished, along with some twelve hundred other poor souls.’

  ‘And is it fair to assume,’ says Hilda, both her hands on the witness box now, ‘given that Sir Hugh had just paid such a great deal for the painting in the exact same month he travelled, that it would have journeyed with him as he made the transatlantic crossing?’

  ‘Of course we can never say for certain,’ says Jasper, ‘but in my opinion, I think we can safely assume that he would most definitely have taken the painting with him. It’s thought that Sir Hugh was travelling with many other noted artworks too, a Degas and a Monet included. All would naturally have been sealed in lead-lined cases and safely stowed in the cargo holds of the ship, as was standard practice at the time. Naturally it’s not for us to deduce as to how such a painting – and I’m sure many others along with it – subsequently came to reappear in private collections around the world.’

  ‘But what conclusion would you draw, Dr Adams?’

  Pin-drop silence as every eye in the room is focused on him.

  Jasper coughs once again into his hanky before answering. ‘That it certainly can’t have been through honest means.’

  ‘Do you mean that it was looted?’

  ‘Most likely, yes. The Lusitania sank in shallow water a mere few nautical miles from the Cork coastline and was, and is to this day, readily accessible. It’s been rumoured for decades now that illegal looting has gone on. How else can we account for a painting such as this one miraculously resurfacing? It can never be proven beyond all doubt, but it is my firm belief that this is what happened. After all, the painting was being stowed in an air-tight, lead-lined casket. It would have survived the sinking intact. And clearly, it did.’

  ‘I must object most strenuously,’ Oliver huffs and puffs, straight up on his feet. ‘Rumours have no place in a court of law, Your Honour. Besides, what proof does Dr Adams have that links Sir Hugh Lane to the painting?’

  ‘You’re about to see,’ says Hilda, before striding over to her desk and taking a sheaf of papers offered to her by one of her junior counsels. ‘Your Honour, may I submit this as exhibit A? You’ll find it’s a record from the archives of the Feinberg and Son art dealership on Park Avenue in New York. Sadly this dealership went out of business during the Depression, but Dr Adams managed to unearth a record of the sales transaction from the private archives of the family’s descendants.’

  Judge Simmonds takes her copy and then Hilda steps over to the jury box and hands us each a sheet of photocopied A4 paper, then reads it out to the court. It’s difficult to make out, the writing on it is so spidery and scrawly, but I can clearly see the name Feinberg and Son at the top of the page, and the name Hugh Lane at the bottom. And there it is, dated and everything, A Lady of Letters, purchased on 1st May, 1915 for fifty thousand dollars.

  After Hilda finishes reading it out loud, instead of a hush in court, there’s now full-on murmuring. Even from up here in the jury box, you can clearly hear one word being bandied about: looting. The painting was more than likely looted from the wreck of the Lusitania. It must have been, there’s no other possible explanation.

  I look around the jury box and accidentally catch Will’s eye. He’s nodding, as if he’d always suspected there was more to this case than met the eye and now he’s been proved right.

  And then my eye wanders back to Damien King, who looks, there’s no other word for it, thunderous.

  *

  No sooner do we have time to digest this latest twist than Hilda calls her last and final witness.

  ‘The Defence now calls Mrs Kate King,’ is announced to a crescendo of astonishment from around the court. I swear I can even see one press hack’s jaw physically drop, like something out of a cartoon.

  ‘Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans,’ hisses Minnie from behind me, ‘I think I’m going to need one of my heart pills after all this excitement.’

  ‘Never saw that one coming,’ says Beth.

  Nor, it’s safe to say, did any of the rest of us. But then Kate always seemed so nervy and edgy throughout this, it almost feels like a sacrificial lamb is about to go to the slaughter. As if a woman who’s been accused of witchcraft is about to be flung into a pit surrounded by villagers with pitchforks shouting ‘burn the witch!’

  Not for the first time since this all started, I have the hugest surge of sympathy for the woman, in spite of horrible things I’ve read and heard about her since all this started. Because no one deserves what Kate King now has to go through. Absolutely no one.

  Calmly, moving almost balletically, she glides across the court, steps up to the witness box and takes the oath. Her voice is soft, so quiet in fact that it’s almost a strain to hear her. Every eye in the whole court is trained on that beautiful, angular face as Hilda steps up to question her.

  ‘Mrs King,’ she begins. ‘This case, as you can imagine, ha
s been the subject of much speculation and conjecture since we opened.’

  ‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ Kate says, immediately putting me in mind of Grace Kelly in Rear Window. The posture, the blonde elegance, that whisper of a voice; everything.

  ‘Now, Mrs King, I’m about to ask you a hypothetical question, but one that it appears no one else in this room, not even my learned friend, has even considered asking,’ says Hilda.

  ‘By all means,’ says Kate quietly.

  ‘Should the jury award in your favour, and should the good people of the jury decide A Lady of Letters be established as your rightful property, what are your intentions towards it? What will you do with such a prize? Sell it on at a profit for your own gain, perhaps? If we’re to believe what we read in the papers, certainly a great many people appear to think that’s the case. Or maybe keep it as a trophy to show off on your drawing room wall?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Kate says, raising her voice a little so we can all hear her a bit better this time. ‘Admittedly, maybe those were my intentions when the case first began, but Mr Jasper Adams’s testimony has changed everything for me.’

  ‘So what would your intentions be, should the result of this case go in your favour?’

  ‘My intentions,’ says Kate to a dead silence around the court, ‘would be to fulfil the wishes of the late Sir Hugh Lane. He intended that A Lady of Letters should be kept here in Ireland and exhibited publicly in Dublin, for everyone to see.’