David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

The only sound in court was the sobbing in the witness box. Pugh pulled out a large white handkerchief and offered it to his witness. ‘Compose yourself, Mrs Buckley,’ he said. ‘You only have to answer one question. I put it to you once more that you committed both these murders. Is that true?’

Still Rosalind Buckley gave no reply.

‘I ask you once more, Mrs Buckley.’ Pugh was now talking to her as he might comfort a crying child. ‘Is it true?’

Rosalind Buckley looked up at the judge. ‘Do I have to answer that question, my lord?’

Mr Justice Browne knew his duty. ‘You need not incriminate yourself, Mrs Buckley,’ he said firmly, ‘you have a right to remain silent if you choose.’

Rosalind Buckley looked down at the floor. She wiped her eyes once more. Powerscourt noticed that everybody around him seemed to be holding their breath.

‘Yes,’ she whispered finally, ‘most of it is true.’

There was a sudden shout from the prisoner in the dock. Horace Buckley might not have wanted to die, but he felt nothing but overwhelming pity for his wife at this moment.

‘No! No!’ he shouted. ‘It’s not true! It’s not true! I killed them! I killed them both! Please believe me!’

‘Silence in court! Take the prisoner away! Take him below!’ Sir Rufus was to say afterwards that he had never seen Mr Justice Browne so angry. Horace Aloysius Buckley was weeping as they led him away. Mrs Buckley was prostrate in the witness box. The judge took up his gavel once again and banged it furiously on the desk.

‘This court is adjourned until three o’clock this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Sir Rufus, Mr Pugh, Inspector Maxwell, Chief Inspector Wilson, I wish to see you all in my chambers at half-past one.’

William Alaric Piper’s first American visitor arrived shortly before ten o’clock that morning. Cornelius P. Stockman stared incredulously at the new sign outside the gallery. He stared even more incredulously as Piper came out to greet him in person in the street.

‘How kind of you to come and see us, Mr Stockman, at a time like this. Look,’ he pointed dramatically at the words ‘The Salisbury Gallery’ above the door, ‘a new business is going to rise, like the fabulous phoenix, from the ashes of the old. But come in, Mr Stockman, I have much to tell you, and much to show you. I have not been idle since your last visit.’

Piper sat the American down in his little office. He told him of de Courcy’s treachery, how a partnership founded in trust had been broken by betrayal. He told Stockman that all communications with the forger had been conducted from de Courcy’s private address; how the paintings were brought into the gallery, hidden away among the normal traffic, how de Courcy would tell him that he had discovered these paintings in country houses where the owners were so hard up for money they were willing to part with their inheritance.

‘I wonder, Mr Stockman,’ Piper went on, ‘if even in America, that great land of freedom and opportunity, a rotten apple sometimes finds its way into the barrel and corrupts all it encounters. I hope not, I do hope not. I pray that you may never encounter such depth of treachery in your own country, that it is confined to the more decadent purlieus of Europe.’

Piper shook his head. Stockman wasn’t quite sure what purlieus meant. But he couldn’t give his fellow countrymen exemption from betrayal.

‘I’m afraid, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘that even in America we are confronted almost daily with behaviour such as this. Riches in my country are meant to be the fruit, the reward of honest endeavour and hard work. Far too many seek to attain them by fraud and deception.’

Piper looked sad at this transatlantic intelligence. ‘But business must go on, Mr Stockman. A man must work. He must follow his profession. He must pursue his calling. Come, I have something to show you upstairs.’

Piper led the way to the small chamber on the top floor. He had placed six paintings on their easels, the light falling softly on the bodies of the naked women. ‘See, Mr Stockman,’ he said, ‘this is the original of your Sleeping Venus by Giorgione. Without my knowledge this wretch de Courcy sent off to the forging manufactory and had a copy produced, this one opposite.’

Two naked Venuses confronted each other, both sleeping peacefully in the summer sun of an Italian afternoon. Stockman inspected them carefully.

‘I shall, of course, remove the fake, Mr Stockman,’ said Piper, preparing to pull a cloth over the Orlando Blane, ‘and here we have the first four of the eleven other paintings you asked for.’ Another four nudes, some voluptuous, some plump, some slender, all beautiful, were lying on beds and couches to titillate Cornelius P. Stockman. He could see them now, in the little gallery he had built off the main body of his mansion. He saw himself relaxing after a long day at the office, peeping in to inspect his treasures.

‘Don’t throw away the fake, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘the lady is so beautiful I wouldn’t mind having two of her.’ He contemplated his future hoard. ‘You carry on, Mr Piper,’ he said. ‘Let me know when you have reached a dozen.’

The courtroom was packed by a quarter to three, fifteen minutes before the judge was due to reopen the case after the adjournment. Powerscourt was in his place behind Charles Augustus Pugh, flanked by Johnny Fitzgerald and Lady Lucy. Two rows behind, Orlando Blane and Imogen Foxe were there to witness the final scenes. The bookmaker among the journalists, still penned in very tight together, was calculating his losses. Horace Aloysius Buckley in the dock looked as if his composure had finally deserted him. He kept staring at his wife, now flanked by two stout policemen, sitting a mere fifteen feet away from him. Neither Pugh nor Sir Rufus Fitch were in court. Chief Inspector Wilson and Inspector Maxwell were not present either. The clerk of the court under the judge’s bench was looking suspiciously at the crowd, still gossiping at the back of his court as if they were in the Royal enclosure at Ascot.

At five to three the jury filed in and took their places. This would be their last afternoon in the spotlight of publicity. Two minutes later the two lawyers took their places, both looking very solemn.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Mr Justice Browne began, looking at the twelve good men and true, ‘this has been a most unusual case. I thank you for your forbearance and your patience in listening to the evidence. And the unusual features have not stopped yet.’

Mr Justice Browne paused and shuffled through the notes in front of him. ‘I was informed before luncheon today that the Crown have lost confidence in their case. There will be no final statement to you from Sir Rufus Fitch. In these circumstances it is only proper that Mr Pugh should also forgo his final statement.’

There was an uproar in court. One of the newspapermen rose to his feet and fled the court. He could just catch the late afternoon editions. Mr Justice Browne looked at the crowd sternly. He hoped he never had to try a case like this again in his entire life. It was like being the referee at a football match.

‘Silence!’ he said firmly. He paused until total silence returned to his courtroom. ‘Any more disturbance, from any quarter,’ he looked at the society ladies at the back with especial ferocity, ‘and this court will be cleared until the conclusion of this case. Nobody will be allowed back.’

He turned again to the jury. ‘The prosecution case may have collapsed, but we still need a verdict in this case. The prisoner has been brought here on the most serious charge a citizen of these islands can face, a charge of murder. Had the verdict been against him, it would have been my unhappy duty to pronounce sentence upon him in the manner prescribed by the law, that of being taken from this place and hung by the neck until he was dead.’