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Mr. Booth Watson looked across at his client and smiled. “Can I ask you to state your full name and occupation for the record?”
“Miles Adam Faulkner, and I’m a farmer.”
“May I begin, Mr. Faulkner, by asking you about the evening of May the seventeenth, 1986, when you held a dinner party for some friends at your country home, Limpton Hall, in Hampshire.”
“Business colleagues as well as friends,” said Faulkner, “some of whom I’ve known for over twenty years.”
“And the purpose of the dinner party was purely social?”
“No, sir. We are a group of like-minded people who have been successful in our professional lives, and now feel the time has come to give something back to society.”
“Highly commendable,” said Booth Watson. The judge frowned. “Do you have any particular good causes in mind?”
“We are all lovers of the arts, in its many different forms, and feel strongly that culture can play a positive role in the education of young people.”
“Particularly acting,” murmured Sir Julian, “and being able to remember your lines when working from a prepared script.”
“Most commendable,” purred Booth Watson.
“Tread carefully, Mr. Booth Watson,” said the judge wearily.
“At least the judge can see what they’re up to,” whispered Grace.
“Yes, but will the jury?” retorted her father.
“I do apologize, m’lud,” said Booth Watson, not looking at all apologetic. “However, Mr. Faulkner, are you able to confirm that you recently donated two major works of art from your collection, worth several million pounds, to one of our national museums?”
“Yes, I sadly parted with a Rembrandt and a Rubens, but I’ve had so much pleasure from them in my lifetime, that it will give me even greater pleasure to know how many young people,” he paused, “and not so young, are now able to enjoy them.” He turned and smiled at the jury, just as Booth Watson had instructed him to do at that point, and was rewarded by one or t
wo of them returning his salutation.
“Now, I’d like to turn to the one charge being made against you, namely that on the night of May the seventeenth, you were found to be in possession of twelve grams of cocaine for your personal use.”
“Well, if I had been, it would have been enough to last for a year.”
Clare wrote, How does he know twelve grams would be enough to last for a year? and passed the note to Grace.
“Remembering that you are under oath, Mr. Faulkner, could you tell the court if you have ever taken a controlled substance in your life?”
“Yes, sir. I once smoked a joint when I was at art school, but it made me feel sick, so I didn’t bother to try another one.”
“So, you deny that Mr. Adrian Heath went to your home on May the seventeenth and offered to sell you twelve grams of cocaine for eight hundred pounds?”
“I don’t recall the exact sum, Mr. Booth Watson, but as Mr. Heath testified, it was for the finest Royal Beluga caviar, supplied by Fortnum and Mason.”
Clare wrote down £20, underlined it, and passed it to Sir Julian, who smiled and nodded.
“And you’d never met Mr. Heath before that night?”
“No, never. I was horrified when I learned of his tragic death, and at the same time somewhat mystified.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Faulkner?” asked BW innocently.
“I was mystified as to how two Scotland Yard detectives just happened to arrive on the scene of the crime moments before the murder took place.”
“Stop there, Mr. Faulkner,” interrupted the judge. Looking across at the jury, he said, “You must dismiss those words from your minds.”
“But they won’t,” whispered Sir Julian, “as Faulkner knows only too well.”
