Page 42

‘In exchange for a lesser sentence,’ Ross reminded him with some feeling.

‘Something else you two haven’t told me about?’ asked Alice.

‘Christina’s looking particularly radiant this evening,’ said William, quickly changing the subject.

Alice looked across to see Christina and Wilbur chatting to the Countess. ‘She clearly adores her new husband,’ she said.

‘And he’s a marked improvement on the old one,’ commented Ross, without looking in Faulkner’s direction.

•••

‘Come across anyone who might assist my latest cause?’ Miles asked Booth Watson, as they stood apart from the rest of the crowd.

‘Possibly,’ said Booth Watson. ‘I think you’ll find Ms Eleanor Bates might just prove ideal for what you have in mind.’

‘What are her particular qualifications for the job?’ asked Miles.

‘None that I can think of,’ admitted Booth Watson, ‘except for the fact she detests your ex-wife as much as you do, and certainly doesn’t want her to be the next chair of the Fitzmolean when Sir Nicholas retires.’

‘In which case, she sounds like the ideal candidate.’

‘Then I’d better introduce the two of you before we leave this evening,’ said Booth Watson.

Miles glanced around the room. ‘Which one is she?’

‘The lady hovering near the Countess, hoping to be introduced,’ said Booth Watson, ‘but I don’t think Dr Warwick will oblige her.’

‘An added bonus,’ said Miles, as Beth led the Countess up onto the stage, while ignoring Ms Bates.

‘Don’t forget to look surprised when you first see the drawing,’ said Booth Watson.

•••

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ Sir Nicholas began, ‘it’s my pleasure, as chairman of the Fitzmolean, to invite the Countess of Wessex to unveil the gallery’s latest acquisition,Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, by Rembrandt.’

Warm applause greeted the Countess as she approached the microphone. She glanced down at her notes.

‘What a real pleasure it is to be with you all this evening.’ She paused, looked up and said, ‘That’s the opening line of almost every speech I make, the only change being morning for afternoon or evening,’ she confessed, which brought laughter and a ripple of applause. ‘But I will let you into a little secret,’ she continued, abandoning her script. ‘I first visited the Fitzmolean as a child with my mother, and fell in love with the Dutch school. An affair that has lasted for the past twenty years. So it’s wonderful that, thanks to the generosity of so many people, not least one particular donor who wishes to remain anonymous, that the museum has been able to obtain this important masterpiece, which has the rare distinction of being signed by the master.’

The Countess had to pause as loud applause followed.

‘I would also like to thank the gallery’s director, Dr Beth Warwick, whose reputation has grown over the years andrightly goes far beyond these walls, ensuring that the Fitzmolean is now justly considered to be among the leading museums in the capital.’

‘Not for much longer,’ whispered Miles, who was standing at the back of the gathering; but only Booth Watson heard the comment.

‘So, it gives me considerable pleasure to unveil …’ Her hand edged towards a gold cord, but at the last minute she paused once again before saying, ‘I do hope there’s a Rembrandt behind there, because quite recently I was invited to Plymouth to unveil a statue of Sir Francis Drake only to find, when I pulled the cord, it was Sir Walter Raleigh staring down at me.’

Laughter broke out as she pulled the cord, followed by a tumultuous burst of applause when the guests saw theAngelfor the first time.

Beth happily joined in the applause, but when she turned to take a closer look at the unique drawing, she immediately sensed something was missing. She took a second look and stopped applauding, but it wasn’t until her gaze reached the bottom of the picture that she realized what that something was.

How could it be possible, was her first reaction, when only hours before she’d seen the original being hung by the keeper of pictures before she went home to change. She looked down at the keeper, who’d also stopped applauding and turned ashen grey. He was staring at Beth in disbelief, a puzzled look on his face.

The enthusiastic reception continued unabated until first one and then another of the guests began whispering among themselves, until finally the whispers became louder and louder as they all realized it was Rembrandt’s signature that was missing and they were looking at a fake.

Beth became painfully aware that the guests were no longer staring at the drawing, but at her, as they waited for an explanation. She didn’t have one. She glanced across at the Countess who had somehow managed to retain an air of professional dignity, even if she wasn’t sure what she was expected to do next. A freelance photographer began snapping away, aware this might be one of those rare occasions when he would see his work on the front page of every national newspaper.

William’s first reaction was to look across at Miles Faulkner, who greeted him with a warm smile followed by a mock salute. William couldn’t hide his anger and began thumping the side of his leg with a clenched fist. He wanted to march across the room and arrest the damn man. Even though they both knew who the guilty party was, what offence could he charge him with? Suspicion wasn’t proof.