David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Buckley shuddered. Pugh was writing notes on his pad. Powerscourt wondered if the judge sometimes referred to as Hanging Browne regretted having to let Buckley off.

‘In the different circumstances in which we find ourselves this afternoon,’ the judge went on, ‘it is equally important that we follow the correct procedures. Mr Buckley has had to endure a trial with the full majesty of the law. It is important that he receives a proper discharge, that he leaves the court without a stain on his character. I am therefore asking you to retire and consider your verdict. My instruction to you is that you should find for the defendant. When the prosecution have lost confidence in their own case, this means, in effect, that they too consider Mr Buckley innocent of the charges brought. You can have no doubt, after the manner in which he has conducted the defence over the past few days, that that is also the opinion of Mr Pugh. I therefore ask you to retire.’

The jury shuffled out. Normally Mr Justice Browne would have followed them out to await the verdict in his own rooms. But he stayed in his place.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The society ladies were almost bursting with the need to talk to each other. Sir Rufus Fitch was looking at the papers in his next case. Charles Augustus Pugh sat lost in thought. This would be the most brilliant success of his career.

Fifteen minutes. Powerscourt could bear it no longer. He thought of the weeks spent looking for the evidence that could acquit Horace Buckley of murder. He remembered the fateful encounter in Lincoln Cathedral, a pale Buckley led away to the great doors to be arrested at the end of Evensong. He thought of his expedition to Corsica, himself and Lady Lucy hurtling down the Aregno road, followed by unknown gunmen. He thought of his meeting with Orlando Blane and Imogen in the snowstorm in Norfolk, Orlando’s blood dripping on to the white ground. ‘For God’s sake, Pugh,’ he scribbled, ‘what are the bloody jury doing out there?’ Pugh’s reply was quick. ‘They don’t want it to seem too quick. Probably drinking the court’s disgusting tea before they come back.’

Twenty minutes. At last the jury filed back into court, sighs of relief from the public gallery threatening to enrage the judge once more. The clerk read out the charge, the foreman looking nervous as he faced the judge.

‘Horace Aloysius Buckley is charged with the murder of Mr Christopher Montague and with the murder of Mr Thomas Jenkins. Do you, the jury, find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

There was a long pause before the foreman replied. Lady Lucy told Powerscourt afterwards that she was sure they were going to find him guilty after all.

‘Not guilty,’ said the foreman. There was pandemonium in court. The newspapermen shot for the door in one movement, running as fast as they could, elbowing the society ladies out of their way as they went. Expensive hats, valuable bags, elegant gloves were thrown to the ground as they fled Mr Justice Browne and the verdict of the jury.

‘Mr Buckley,’ boomed the judge, ‘you are free to leave this court. You are discharged without a stain on your character.’ The judge turned and departed to his private quarters. Orlando Blane was embracing Imogen Foxe with a passion rarely seen in Court Three benches away from the jury. Johnny Fitzgerald hugged Lady Lucy. Mrs Buckley, a bowed and dejected figure, was led away by the two policemen. There was an air of great happiness and rejoicing as the crowd left the court. Pugh still looked solemn. Only one person was looking miserable. The defendant, Horace Aloysius Buckley, recently acquitted on two charges of murder, should have been the happiest person in the Central Criminal Court. He was the most dejected. He looked as if victory had turned into defeat before his eyes. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the retreating back of his wife and her police escort. When they vanished from his view, he sat down in the dock where he had been on trial for his life and began to weep.

Flushed with his success with Cornelius P. Stockman, Piper sought out Lewis B. Black in his hotel. He repeated his denunciation of Edmund de Courcy with even greater vigour than before. He protested his own ignorance of the forgeries in de Courcy’s house in Norfolk. He told Black that he was trying to start again, to recover from this terrible setback to his gallery. He offered Black a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds, two and a half thousand more than he had paid for Orlando Blane’s fake Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Black had consulted a leading firm of London solicitors that morning. They pointed out the length of time it would take for any case to come to court. They told him that he would, most probably, have to remain in England for the duration. They pointed out that the details of the case would be splashed all over the newspapers in Britain and America. Such publicity might be disagreeable. They pointed out, with all the delicacy they could muster, that the defence counsel would do their utmost to make Black look at best an innocent American abroad, more likely a fool.

‘That’s two and a half thousand more than I paid for the painting, Mr Piper,’ Black said, looking at the cheque.

‘I felt it was the least I could do, Mr Black, after all de Courcy put you through. Now, if you let me have the painting, I will take it away and have it destroyed.’ Piper had noted that the fake Reynolds was hanging in pride of place above the mantelpiece in Black’s private sitting room. Black looked up at his very own forgery.

‘Do you mind, Mr Piper, if I keep the painting? I did pay for it. I’ve gotten rather attached to it.’ Black was putting the cheque into his breast pocket.

Piper was backing away towards the door, keen to escape with so little damage.

‘Tell me, Mr Piper,’ asked Lewis B. Black, ‘who should I say the painting is by? Back in America, I mean.’

William Alaric Piper smiled. ‘Say it’s of the school of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr Black,’ he replied. ‘The country houses of England are full of paintings described like that. Most of the time, they leave out “of the school of”. I can’t think why.’

‘Congratulations, sir. Magnificent performance in court!’ The clerk of Pugh’s chambers was clapping him on the back. His junior was skipping up and down for joy. An impromptu celebration party was taking place in the room lined with files where Powerscourt and Pugh had first discussed the trial. Imogen was whispering to Orlando not to drink too much champagne. Johnny Fitzgerald was drinking Pugh’s health perched on the side of his desk.

‘Don’t mind telling you, Powerscourt,’ Pugh had dispensed with glasses and was quaffing deeply from a great magnum of Bollinger, ‘I wasn’t sure we were going to make it at the start. Not sure at all.’ He laughed his enormous laugh and took another swig. Powerscourt hoped it wouldn’t sit too unhappily alongside the gin and water he had consumed throughout the trial.

Two more people joined the party. Lady Lucy had taken pity on Mr Buckley, his eyes still red from weeping. She gave him a glass of champagne. He was a free man.

‘Could I just have a private word, Mr Pugh?’ said Buckley quietly. Pugh brought him over to the corner of the room by the window. A couple of blackbirds were hopping about on the lawn outside. ‘If they bring my wife to trial, Mr Pugh, could you defend her? I would pay for it, of course.’

Charles Augustus Pugh placed his magnum on a shelf and put his arm round Buckley’s shoulders. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to undertake the case personally,’ he said. ‘It might be thought that I had been instrumental in bringing her to trial in the first place after the events of the last few days. But I promise you I shall find for you the best defence lawyer in London.’