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  A long silence followed, while the other three waited for Sir Julian to pick up his Gladstone bag and disappear, also never to be seen again.

  ‘But I do believe you, Arthur,’ he said quietly. ‘I am now in no doubt that you did not murder your partner.’

  Arthur looked up in disbelief to see the distinguished QC smiling at him.

  ‘What finally convinced you, Father?’ asked William, ignoring his sister’s gimlet eye.

  ‘Three things, completely unconnected, which, had the jury been made aware of at the time, might well have caused them to reach a different verdict.’ Sir Julian couldn’t resist pacing up and down before he delivered his closing statement. ‘In all my years at the Bar, I have never known a murderer who wouldn’t have settled for a plea of guilty to manslaughter and a reduced sentence.’

  ‘And the second reason?’ asked Grace.

  ‘The length of time before Arthur is eligible for parole.’

  ‘Twelve years,’ said William.

  ‘Precisely. Because Mr Justice Melrose is known in the trade as “Life Means Life” Melrose. I checked his record last night, and he’s presided over twenty-four murder trials during his time on the Crown Court bench when the defendant was found guilty. Arthur is the only one he gave a minimum term of twelve years. Why would “Life Means Life” Melrose break the habit of a lifetime? Could it be that he also wasn’t convinced Arthur was guilty?’

  ‘And the third thing?’ asked Grace.

  ‘We have William to thank for that.’

  Once again, Sir Julian couldn’t resist a brief perambulation around the room before sharing his thoughts. He pulled at the lapels of a gown he wasn’t wearing before he spoke.

  ‘You told me, William, that when you first mentioned Arthur’s name to SO Rose, his immediate response was, “If he’s a murderer, I’m Jack the Ripper.” In my experience, a senior prison officer would never admit, even in private, that any prisoner just might be innocent.’

  ‘So does that mean you’ll take the case, Father?’ asked Grace.

  ‘We already have, my dear. And with it, we take on the considerable task of uncovering fresh evidence to convince the DPP that they should order a retrial. Because if they don’t, our personal opinions are irrelevant.’

  ‘Not quite, Sir Julian,’ said Arthur, ‘because I’m delighted that my future son-in-law knows I’m innocent.’

  26

  THE PHONE BEGAN to ring.

  ‘Who would even consider calling us on Christmas Day?’ demanded Sir Julian. ‘And just as I’m about to carve the turkey.’

  ‘Mea culpa,’ said William, ‘I’m afraid I might have told the office where I’d be.’

  ‘Then you’d better go and answer it while the rest of us enjoy our Christmas lunch. Beth, would you prefer a leg or breast?’

  William quickly left for his father’s study and picked up the ringing phone. ‘William Warwick.’

  ‘Christina Faulkner. Happy Christmas, William.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Christina. Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Monte Carlo.’

  ‘Unwrapping presents, no doubt.’

  ‘No, wrapping them up, actually, which is why I called. I need you to come and join me as soon as possible so I can give you your present, which I’m looking at now.’

  ‘I’ll have to call my boss,’ said William, who would have happily left immediately. ‘And as long as he gives his blessing, I could fly over tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘No later than that,’ said Christina, ‘because once I’ve finished packing, all sixty-nine crates will be loaded onto Miles’ yacht.’

  ‘Will you also be on board?’

  ‘No, that’s not part of my plan. Once the Christina – named in happier times – has set sail for Southampton, I’ll be flying back to Heathrow. I’ll then be driven to Limpton Hall to wrap up some more of my presents, which have to be ready in time for the removers who will be turning up the following morning and taking them to Southampton, where they’ll also be placed on board the Christina. It’s all in the timing.’

  ‘Dare I ask what happens after that?’

  ‘All will be revealed when I see you in Monte Carlo tomorrow. Give me a call when you know which flight you’re on, and I’ll send a car to pick you up.’

  ‘I’ll phone you back once I’ve spoken to the commander. Goodbye, Christina, and happy Christmas.’ William put the phone down and returned to the dining room. How much he wanted to tell them, and Beth in particular, that by this time tomorrow he might be in possession of the Rembrandt. He sat down next to his fiancée, to find an empty plate in front of him.

  ‘You missed the main course, my boy. But not to worry, I’m sure there’ll be some pudding left over.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said his mother. ‘We haven’t even started yet. Joanna’s been telling us what she’s been up to in Arthur’s absence.’

  William smiled at Beth’s mother, as he helped himself to some brussel sprouts.

  ‘When Arthur first went to prison,’ said Joanna, ‘we all assumed that the company would be wound up. But we quickly discovered that Hamish was made of sterner stuff when he continued to run the office as if Arthur was still out on the road.

  ‘Meanwhile Arthur set up office in his cell at Pentonville, while I sat at his desk in Marylebone. I wrote to him every day, keeping him up to date.’

  ‘But what happened when someone made an appointment to see the chairman, only to find that he was in prison?’ asked Grace.

  ‘After a while I took his place and even began to travel around the country visiting the company’s clients. I was pleasantly surprised by how few of them deserted us.’

  ‘Reputation is the shield of the righteous in difficult times,’ said Sir Julian.

  ‘Who said that?’ asked William.

  ‘I did, you insolent child. But please continue, Joanna. You’d lost your accountant, and your bank must also have been apprehensive.’

  ‘Barclays did everything they could to help,’ said Joanna, ‘but it was Kleinwort Benson who came to our rescue and gave the investors the confidence to stick with us. And then, when we least expected it, we had a stroke of luck.’

  Everyone at the table stopped eating.

  ‘Gary Kirkland hadn’t written a will, and his son Hugh inherited everything, including his father’s gift for figures, so he now sits in Gary’s old office and accounts for every penny the company spends. And before you ask, unlike his father, he’s happily married.’

  ‘So does that mean the company’s back on track?’ asked Grace.

  ‘No, we’re just about breaking even, but once Arthur returns, we should soon be showing a profit.’

  ‘No pressure then,’ said Sir Julian as the phone rang again. ‘Are we having our Christmas lunch in the BT Tower?’ he asked, letting out an exaggerated sigh. ‘As it’s bound to be for you, William, why don’t you invite whoever it is to join us in the hope that we won’t be interrupted again.’

  William scurried out of the room and returned to his father’s study. He grabbed the phone, assuming it would be the commander. ‘William Warwick.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you on Christmas Day,’ said a voice that could only have hailed from New York, ‘but I need to speak to Ms Grace Warwick on a personal matter.’

  ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Leonard Abrahams.’

  ‘Please hold on, Mr Abrahams, and I’ll let her know you’re on the phone.’

  William quickly returned to the dining room. ‘It’s for you, Sis. Leonard Abrahams?’

  ‘Would you tell whoever it is, Grace, that we were rather hoping to have one course at which the whole family are present.’

  ‘I think it might be the professor,’ said Grace.

  ‘Then you’d better speak to him immediately,’ said Sir Julian, his tone suddenly changing.

  Grace nodded and quickly left the room.

  ‘Professor Abrahams, it’s Grace Warwick. I’m sorry to have kept you w
aiting.’

  ‘No, Ms Warwick, it is I who should apologize. I wouldn’t have considered disturbing you on Christmas Day if it hadn’t been urgent, but I thought you’d want to know that I’ll be in London tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news. Where will you be staying?’

  ‘Probably in an airport lounge. I only have a four-hour layover before my connecting flight for Warsaw, where I’ll be visiting my dear mother. We Jews are cunning,’ the professor added. ‘We always know when you Gentiles are on holiday, and as long as we’re back at our desks the day after Boxing Day, you don’t even notice we’ve been away.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Have you had a chance to read the trial depositions I sent you?’

  ‘I’ve only glanced through them. But I’ll work on them more thoroughly during my flight, so by the time I reach Heathrow I should be able to give you a preliminary opinion.’

  ‘I’ll book a room at the Airport Hilton, so we’re not disturbed. What time should I expect you?’

  ‘I’m on Pan Am flight 716 out of JFK, landing around 10.20 in the morning, your time.’

  ‘Then I’ll be at the arrivals gate waiting for you.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. But how will you recognize me?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve read your book.’

  ‘It’s a few years since that photo was taken,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Ms Warwick, and once again, I apologize for having disturbed you on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought. I know my father will be delighted to hear your news.’

  Grace slipped back into the dining room and took her seat without a word, although William noticed the nod that passed between the two lawyers.

  ‘Allow me to warn all of you,’ said Sir Julian as Marjorie passed him the brandy butter, ‘that should anyone consider calling while Her Majesty is delivering her Christmas message to the nation at three o’clock, the phone will go unanswered, even if it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  William checked in at Heathrow just after nine the following morning. He didn’t tell Beth where he was going, and she didn’t ask. A ticket for Nice was waiting for him at the BA counter.

  Much to his father’s disapproval, he had called Scotland Yard only moments after the Queen’s message had ended. The switchboard put him straight through to the commander’s home.

  When Hawksby heard William’s news, he said, ‘Book yourself onto the first available flight to Nice. If Mrs Faulkner is in possession of the Rembrandt, we can’t afford to keep her waiting. Whatever happens, let me know immediately, no matter what time of the day or night, because I won’t be getting much sleep until I find out.’

  William fastened his seat belt as the plane taxied out onto the north runway.

  Grace was dropped off at Heathrow just after ten, and checked the arrivals board to find that Pan Am flight 716 was running twenty minutes late. She bought a copy of the Guardian and a cappuccino, sat down and waited.

  When LANDED flicked up on the board next to flight 716, she took her place behind a barrier heaving with impatient greeters.

  Professor Abrahams was among the first passengers to come through the gate, as his luggage was being transferred directly to a connecting flight for Warsaw. He came to a halt and scanned the crowd. When she spotted him, Grace was taken by surprise. The photograph on the back of his book didn’t reveal that he was barely five feet tall. But his massive domed forehead and thick pebble glasses made him instantly recognizable, even if the yellow tracksuit and the latest Nike trainers did come as something of a surprise.

  ‘I always wear a tracksuit on a long-haul flight,’ he explained as they shook hands. ‘I got the idea from Joan Collins, but unlike her, I don’t change back for the photographers before getting off the plane.’

  ‘I thought we’d walk across to the Hilton,’ said Grace. ‘It’s not far, and as there’s always a long queue for a taxi, we’ll probably get there quicker.’

  ‘And save a few dollars,’ said the professor as they walked the short distance to the hotel, chatting about everything except the one subject that was on both of their minds. Grace had booked a suite for two hours, and the receptionist handed her the room key thinking they were an unusual couple to be booking a private room at that time in the morning.

  As Grace made the professor a cup of steaming black coffee, he took a file out of his briefcase and placed it on the table between them. He began to turn the pages while giving her a running commentary, as if he were teaching a bright undergraduate attending one of his lectures on how his particular expertise might – he kept repeating the word ‘might’ – be of assistance in the Rainsford case. Once he’d turned the last page, he dealt with all of Grace’s queries with an assurance that didn’t brook contradiction. By the time he’d answered her last question, Grace knew she’d found the right man.

  Abrahams checked his watch and put the file back in his briefcase. ‘I ought to get moving if I’m going to make my flight,’ he said, as he rose from his chair. ‘Can’t afford to be late for my mother. She’s probably already at the airport waiting for me.’

  Grace accompanied Abrahams back to terminal two, and before he went through to the departures gate she thanked him once again and asked, ‘Can I tell my father that you’d be willing to appear as an expert witness, if there’s a retrial?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have wasted your time if I hadn’t been willing to do that, young lady. However, I still need to see Rainsford’s original two-page statement that was presented as evidence in court before I’ll know if I’d be wasting mine.’

  Professor Abrahams boarded his plane for Warsaw just as William landed in Nice. As William only had hand luggage, he headed straight for passport control and was among the first to step out into the concourse, where he was greeted by a man holding up a placard reading WARWICK.

  He sank into the back seat of a Bentley and tried to compose his thoughts before meeting up with Christina Faulkner again. However, the driver had other ideas.

  By the time they reached the Villa Rosa, William knew the driver’s views on everything from the Pompidou Centre, designed by an Englishman, to the Common Market, which Britain should never have joined in the first place. However, he didn’t once raise the only subject William would have liked to know more about: Mr and Mrs Faulkner.

  A vast pair of wrought-iron gates swung open when the car was still a hundred yards from the entrance. They turned into a long drive lined with tall cypress trees on both sides, which ended in front of a handsome belle époque villa that made Limpton Hall look like a country cottage.

  As William stepped out of the car, the front door opened and Christina emerged to greet him. He kissed her on both cheeks as if she were a French general. She took him by the hand and led him into a spacious hall that was crammed with wooden crates of different sizes. He only needed to look at the faded outlines on the walls to imagine what might have been there just the day before. He was beginning to understand why Christina needed her husband to be away for a month if she was to carry out her plan.

  ‘Still one left to pack,’ she said as he followed her through to the drawing room, where a single framed canvas remained in its place above the mantelpiece.

  William gazed in awe at a painting that even an amateur like himself instantly recognized as a work of genius. He took a Fitzmolean postcard out of his pocket and checked the right-hand corner of the canvas to confirm that Rembrandt’s characteristic signature, RvR, was in place. Having done so, he returned his gaze to the six pompous Syndics dressed in their long black gowns with stiff white ruffled collars, holding wide-brimmed black hats as they luxuriated in their exalted position as members of Amsterdam society.

  ‘I can see you like your Christmas present,’ said Christina.

  Grace phoned her father within minutes of arriving back at her flat in Notting Hill, and gave him a detailed report of her meeting with the professor.

  ‘I do believe the time
has come for me to call the Director of Public Prosecutions and make an appointment to see him before any of my colleagues return from their Christmas breaks,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I need to get a trial date pencilled in to the court calendar as soon as possible.’

  ‘That might not be so easy,’ suggested Grace.

  ‘There are always cancelled slots that need to be filled. I’ll just have to make sure my name is near the top of the list.’

  ‘But why should the DPP pick you rather than any of the other equally worthy applicants?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why, Grace, but not over the phone.’

  William kept a close eye on the packers as the heavy brigade carefully lowered the Rembrandt into its custom-built crate before carrying it into the hall to join its companions.

  Every one of the crates had a large square sticker attached to it, declaring ‘Property of Mrs Christina Faulkner. To remain on board’. The only exception was the Rembrandt, which had an even larger circular sticker that read, ‘Property of the Fitzmolean Museum, Prince Albert Crescent, London SW7. To be collected’.

  ‘Are you confident,’ said Christina, ‘that the commander will be on the dockside waiting to welcome the Christina’s distinguished passengers when they arrive in Southampton?’

  ‘He’ll be the first person on board the moment we dock, with the cavalry not far behind,’ said William. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow, as soon as the paintings are all on board.’

  ‘He’ll only be interested in one of them.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to the rest?’ asked William, although he assumed Christina was unlikely to reveal their final destination.

  ‘Next stop, New York, where they’ll be joined by a remarkable collection of modern American artists who are presently residing in our Manhattan apartment.’

  ‘But by the time the yacht docks, your husband could be standing on the dockside waiting for you.’