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.’
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.