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CHAPTER 23

‘W HAT ARE WE HOPING TO achieve?’ asked Ross as Danny drove out of the Yard onto Victoria Street.

‘I’m not quite sure myself,’ admitted William, ‘but if the “Titled Lady” referred to in the Christie’s catalogue is Lady Hartley, we’re going to have to tread carefully, remembering she’s recently lost her husband, and her only son is locked up in a Saudi jail charged with a murder he didn’t commit.’

‘And the real mystery,’ said Ross, ‘is how did she ever come into contact with Miles Faulkner?’

‘I think it’s more likely she crossed paths with Booth Watson, remembering – after all – her husband was the Home Secretary. We’ll have to be especially careful, as it’s possible the wily old lawyer even represents her.’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Ross.

‘Rebecca,’ said William. ‘A force to be reckoned with. Sergeant Pankhurst visited Bucklebury yesterday afternoon and had a word with the vicar, amongst others, who told her he met Booth Watson at the wake.’

‘Help!’ said Ross. ‘That means everything we say could be reported back to Booth Watson within minutes of us leaving.’

‘And to Faulkner seconds later, and remembering that, I’ve prepared a list of questions we need answers to, and have divided them between us.’

‘Of course you have,’ said Ross, as William handed him a long list of questions, which he began to study.

‘We’re sorry to impose on you at this particular time, Lady Hartley, but …’

By the time they reached Bucklebury a couple of hours later, they were confident they had their good cop/good cop routine in place. They just hoped Her Ladyship would be willing to play her part.

While Danny parked the car in the drive outside Hartley Hall, William rapped once on an ancient oak door and took a pace back. A few moments later, the door was answered by a frail old lady, who didn’t seem surprised to find two policemen standing on her doorstep.

‘Do come in, Chief Superintendent,’ she said after William had shown her his warrant card. ‘I’ve been expecting you for some time.’ This took both of them by surprise, as it wasn’t on their list of possible responses.

Lady Hartley didn’t speak again until she had accompanied them into the drawing room. Once they were settled, she said, ‘You have to understand, I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been desperate.’

‘Done what?’ enquired Ross, coming off script.

‘Sold the Constable painting of the old mill at Bucklebury for five hundred thousand pounds to that kind gentleman,’ said Lady Hartley, looking up at the faded rectangle on the wall above her, where the painting had hung for over two hundred years.

‘But that’s not a crime,’ suggested William, as he took the seat opposite her.

‘It is when you know it wasn’t by the master,’ said Lady Hartley. ‘Even though it was painted by Breck LaFave, one of Constable’s most accomplished pupils, it can’t be worth more than a few thousand pounds at most.’

‘I think it might be wise to consult a lawyer before you say anything else, Lady Hartley,’ said William, a suggestion he had never made in the past when someone was in the middle of a confession. To his surprise Ross nodded, closed his notebook and put his pen back in his pocket, as William had also abandoned the script.

‘No, I can’t do that,’ said Lady Hartley firmly. ‘I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I deceived the poor man, so I have to get it off my chest.’

‘The poor man,’ said William, repeating her words.

‘Mr Booth Watson,’ said Lady Hartley, ‘a distinguished QC, who was a friend of my late husband.’

‘Do you know Mr Booth Watson well?’ ventured William. Back on script.

‘No. I have to admit I’d never come across him before he attended my husband’s funeral … But, even worse,’ continued Lady Hartley, ‘I sold Mr Faulkner something that wasn’t mine to sell.’

This time William did remain silent, as he suspected she was about to reveal something of real importance.

‘He seemed genuinely interested in Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence, which never belonged to the family in the first place. If truth be told, we should have returned the Fair Copy to its rightful owner years ago. However, I did throw in the six letters Jefferson wrote to David Hartley, MP, my late husband’s distinguished ancestor.’

‘Six?’ repeated William.

‘Yes. They were all dated and signed by the former president.’

‘But there are only five on offer in Christie’s catalogue,’ Ross said hoping to elicit a response.

‘So he’s decided to sell the letters?’ said Lady Hartley, clearly surprised. ‘Well, who can blame him, when I cheated him out of half a million.’ She paused for a moment before she added, ‘But that’s strange, because I can assure you there were six letters.’

‘Do you have any idea,’ asked William, ‘why he would have kept the sixth letter?’

Lady Hartley didn’t reply for some time, before she said, ‘I suppose it might have been the one in which Jefferson asked Mr Hartley to return the Fair Copy to him in the fullness of time.’

‘I have to tell you Lady Hartley,’ said William, ‘that Mr Faulkner has offered up for auction at Christie’s in New York, not only the five letters but Jefferson’s Fair Copy of the Declaration.’

The old lady looked humbled, but didn’t speak.

‘I don’t suppose your late husband kept a copy of that particular letter, by any chance?’ threw in Ross.

‘Why should he bother to, Inspector, when he knew all six of them off by heart?’

This statement rendered them both speechless.

‘I’m not sure I understand, Lady Hartley,’ William eventually managed.

‘It’s quite simple really. He didn’t need to make a copy of any of them, because he kept the words in his head.’

‘But why would he do that?’ asked William, genuinely puzzled.

‘It’s a long-held Hartley tradition,’ she explained, ‘passed down from generation to generation, that the firstborn must be able to recite the Declaration of Independence off by heart before their twelfth birthday; if they could do so they would receive a hundred guineas. Quite an incentive, I think you’ll agree.’

‘As well as all six letters?’ pressed William.

‘Which my husband would recite at midday on the fourth of July every year.’

‘And did your son carry on with this tradition?’ asked Ross.

‘Yes, along with my grandson, Robert, who was word-perfect long before his twelfth birthday, and deserved every penny of his hundred guineas so I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t aware what was in that letter,’ said Lady Hartley. ‘Frankly, I have been dreading the day Mr Faulkner returned and quite rightly demanded his five hundred thousand pounds back.’

‘I don’t think you need worry about that any longer, Lady Hartley,’ said William. ‘We think it’s quite likely the kind gentleman in question has already destroyed that letter, because, with it out of the way, he’s convinced he’ll make a fortune by selling the Declaration.’

‘But that would be dishonest,’ said Lady Hartley, sounding genuinely shocked.

‘It would indeed,’ said William.

Lady Hartley remained silent for a moment, before she said, ‘Before I offer you a cup of tea, Chief Superintendent, can I ask you if you’re going to arrest me?’

‘Not today, Lady Hartley,’ said William, ‘but you could play an important role in helping us arrest the “kind gentleman”.’

···

‘Not a woman to be underestimated,’ said William as he climbed into the car and looked back at the old lady who was waving at them.

‘To think we’ve been trying to get the better of Faulkner for the past twenty years,’ said Ross, ‘and she managed it after one meeting.’

‘And even more important,’ said William, ‘she finally confirmed the reason Faulkner visited Prince Ahmed at the Dorchester in the middle of the night. It doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to work out what Faulkner would have expected in return for removing the one witness who could not only bring down Prince Ahmed but also stop him making a vast fortune without lifting a finger.’

‘So it will be greed that gets both of them in the end,’ said Ross with some feeling.

‘The most common vice for explaining most crimes,’ said William, ‘but the first thing I’ll have to do when we get back to the Yard is phone the Foreign Office and warn Trevelyan that Simon Hartley’s life is in danger, so he can brief our man in Riyadh.’

‘Sir Bernard Anscombe,’ said Ross.

‘As you already know the Ambassador, perhaps you should return to Saudi, see Hartley and get him to repeat the wording of the all-important letter that Faulkner has clearly destroyed?’

‘I can’t go back to Riyadh,’ said Ross.

‘Why not?’

‘Khalil would work out within minutes why I’d returned. Don’t forget, he thinks I’m Declan O’Reilly, the Irish Minister of Marine and Natural Resources. However, Faulkner is presumably unaware that there’s another person who knows the wording of that letter of by heart.’

‘Simon’s son, Robert,’ said William, ‘who Lady Hartley said could recite the Declaration and the six letters long before his twelfth birthday.’

‘For which he was well paid,’ said Ross.

‘The Hartley heritage,’ they both repeated in unison.

‘So my next problem,’ said William, ‘is how to get in touch with young Robert Hartley before Faulkner realizes that he’s just as much of a threat as his father.’

‘That’s something you can leave to me.’

‘But how can you possibly have come across Robert Hartley?’ asked William as they joined the motorway and headed back towards London.

‘Don’t ask,’ said Ross.

···

Prisoner number 147296 stood in front of the Governor at ‘Ulaysha Prison, his arms and legs bound in shackles.

‘I need you to do a job for me,’ said the Governor, as if he was asking him to make him a cup of tea. ‘However, I can assure you, your reward won’t be in heaven.’ He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed ten cellophane packets, each containing a thousand dollars – far more than the usual payment when the Governor needed to call on O’Driscoll’s particular skills. However, this job was likely to end in a judicial inquiry with witness statements, even if they wouldn’t be able to interview the suspect, as he would have been summarily executed long before an inquiry could take place.

The Governor wasn’t the only person who’d worked that out.

‘If you expect me to kill Hartley,’ said the prisoner calmly, ‘I won’t do it for less than a hundred thousand.’

The Governor hadn’t anticipated how much Simon Hartley had taught a willing pupil during the past two months. He was about to tell him to get lost when he remembered that, as his execution was set for Sunday afternoon, O’Driscoll would only be around for a few more days, so he was confident he would be able to retrieve most of the money.

But O’Driscoll hadn’t finished bargaining.

‘And I’m not interested in cash,’ he said. ‘The full amount must be transferred to my wife’s account in Dublin before I’ll lift a finger, and even then, I’ll need to hear her voice on the other end of the line confirming she’s received the money.’

‘You don’t trust me?’ said the Governor, attempting to look surprised.

‘Frankly, Governor, your word isn’t worth a riyal, let alone a hundred thousand dollars, but I’ll leave the choice to you.’

‘You’re not the only available candidate for the job,’ the Governor reminded him.

‘But I’m the only one,’ said O’Driscoll, ‘who won’t be around when they want to interview the suspect.’

The Governor knew when he’d run out of options.