7 The Theft, Recovery and Forensic Investigation of ’s Madonna of the Yarnwinder Martin Kemp

On 27 August 2003, I was sitting under an umbrella on the terrace of the Villa Vignamaggio,1 above Greve in Chianti, a villa once owned by the Gherardini family, and haunted by the shade of a famous daughter known as , when Thereza Wells, my former research student and co-author, called to report the theft of the Duke of Bucceluch’s treasured Leonardo painting, the Madonna of the Yarnwinder, from Drumlanrig Castle in the Scottish bor- ders. The news is as yet hazy. It seems that some men driving a VW Golf GTI had abruptly removed it, shortly before the rooms were to close to the public that day. They had overpowered the female custodian and threatened her with a knife. I received the call when I was in the process of writing a new book on Leonardo, for Oxford University Press, which involves, of course, a discussion of the Madonna of the Yarnwinder.2 A coincidence of the worst kind. The Madonna of the Yarnwinder is among the most clearly documented of Leonardo’s compositions. We know that it was commissioned in by Florimond Robertet, Secretary of State to the invading French King, shortly before Leonardo’s departure from the city, in December 1499. The artist was actively working on the picture in Florence in 1501, and it can reasonably be identified with the “small picture by his hand that has recently arrived here [in Blois],” recorded in a letter of 1507 from the Florentine Ambassador to the French court.3 A “Madonna with a Child in her arms” subsequently appears in two inventories of the possessions of Leonardo’s long-term assis- tant, Salaì. The lists were drawn up in 1525, so that Salaì’s assets could be divided equitably between his sisters, following his death the previous year.4 If this is the Madonna of the Yarnwinder – and there are no other obvious can- didates – Leonardo must have produced two paintings of this subject, one delivered to Robertet and one remaining with the artist.

87 N. Charney (ed.), Art Crime © The Editor(s) 2016 88 Terrorists: Policing, Investigation and Terrorism

Of the very many copies and variants that survive, it has long been recognized that two are of major account. One has long been in the pos- session of the Dukes of Buccleuch. The other was once in the distinguished 19th-century collection of the Marquises of Lansdowne, and is now in a pri- vate collection. Technical examination has demonstrated conclusively that Leonardo was involved in the execution of both paintings, undertaking major revisions as both paintings evolved beside each other in his work- shop, even if assistants helped in a subsidiary way in making the finished works. These two paintings are almost certainly those that are documented, but we do not know which was received by Robertet and which remained in Leonardo’s own hands.

The theft

The press story inevitably runs in two phases. First comes the narrative of the dramatic snatch. The police issue information. They are seeking a white Volkswagen Golf GTI, five-door saloon car, registration number H596 VRP, which contained four men, one of them wearing a large white hat. The car was last seen locally on the Thornhill to Durisdeer Road at about 11:15 hours. Two of the men are described: “1) in his early 40’s, 5 feet 10 inches tall, slim build and clean shaven, he was wearing brown shoes, cream trousers with black belt, a cream T-shirt, brown Nubuck leather jacket, a light colored brown baseball cap and round framed glasses; 2) in his late 40s, 5 feet 10–11 inches tall, slim build and clean shaven. He was wearing black trousers, black shoes, cream long sleeved shirt, sleeveless taupe colored safari type jacket with lots of pockets and a light cream colored wide-brimmed hat.” CCTV pictures and e-fit images are issued, with appeals for informa- tion. One shows the man in the flat-brimmed white hat and his partner in crime scuttling into the white Golf before speeding to the exit of the estate. Next, experts are wheeled out to assess the painting and to confirm its authorship. A series of arbitrary pronouncements are made by scholars, most of whom have not seen the painting in the original, and invariably without reference to the technical evidence. They should know better. The pro- nouncements resemble those made about the Raphael Madonna of the Pinks that London’s has purchased. The quality of the quoted comments on whether it is really by Raphael are for the most part dire. The same applies to the reactions, even by accomplished scholars, about the recently discovered Leonardo portrait of a young lady on vellum.5 I decide to do just one interview, with Godfrey Barker of The Sunday Times, not because I like the paper (and I have been misquoted and badly treated on three occasions by The Times), but because I have dealt with him before, and found him to be a serious and responsible journalist.6 I explain that there is no lost “original,” that both paintings are of high status. He reads back my quotes for his piece, and I confirm that they are OK. There are things in the Martin Kemp 89 story that I would question, but I did not write it, and I recognize that he is bound to report views with which I might not agree. In the various press reports, the quoted value of the painting fluctuates wildly according to whether it is considered “autograph” or a studio “copy.” The upper estimates are in the £50 million range. The Duke (John Montagu Scott Douglas) is deeply affected by the loss, and feels that he has let Britain down. The greatest immediate worry is that it has been stolen by lower league thieves trying to move into the big time, who will find that the work is unsaleable and will decide that it is best to destroy it. The myth of the “Mr. Big” who is hoarding a great secret collection by commissioning thefts remains a fantasy. The police contact me to ask if there are features that will infallibly identify the painting as the real thing, if they recover it or what purports to be it. Not too difficult, I explain. Two officers from the Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary visit me in my house, and I take them through unpublished evidence of the scientific examinations of both versions. They are fascinated, not least because they can recognize similarities with the kind of scientific forensic work they use in their own investigations of crimes. Unhappily, the question about means of identification is framed in anticipation of the Duke’s panel being found eventually, and not because they have recovered it. There is still no sign of the painting, and the trail seems to have gone cold. For the moment, and we hope it is only for a short time, we have to reply on comparing the results of a very thorough analysis of the Lansdowne Madonna, conducted by the Opificio delle Pietre Dure in Florence, with the lower resolution IR reflectogram of the Duke’s stolen painting and an old x-ray plate. We pray that the Buccleuch Madonna will be restored to its owner. And we wait. The Duke follows up a suggestion that the painting is in Milan. This leads nowhere. A reconstruction is shown in September on the BBC program, Crimewatch, in the hope of jogging witnesses’ memories. My best guess is that, after a gap of some years, the new possessors of the painting will, via intermediaries, contact the loss adjustors who have been acting for the insurers, and that they will attempt to strike a lucrative deal for its return. The thieves may, in the meantime, have been using their “asset” as security in major criminal deals, as in the drugs trade. At least this will mean that the painting is being looked after. As damaged goods, it would be worth less to them.

Restored to the Duke

Then, early in October 2007, a detective constable from the Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary calls the Department of the History of Art in Oxford, asking if I will contact him. Even before calling back, I feel a rising sense of optimism. The police indicate that the painting may have been recovered, 90 Terrorists: Policing, Investigation and Terrorism and ask for confirmation about tests that would confirm that any recovered painting is indeed the one that was stolen, and not a clever replacement. I explain that the unpublished IR reflectograms would provide about as good forensic evidence as they might wish. No forger would know about the under-drawing in the detail that we did. They ask if I will travel to Edinburgh to look at the picture they have in their hands. I am very sorry to say that I cannot go on the date they suggest, which falls during the frantic first days of term. It also coincides with the run-in to the opening of the exhibition, Seduced. Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now that Marina Wallace and myself are curating, with Joanne Bernstein, at the Barbican Art Gallery. Michael Clarke, Director of the National Gallery in Edinburgh, looks at it in my stead. He knows his way around old master paintings and can of course make an informed judgment. I arrange to visit Edinburgh on 24 October, which is my first free day. In the meantime, on Friday 5 October, the recovery of the Madonna is announced to the press. announced:

Police in south-west Scotland said last night that they had recovered the painting, in an operation also involving detectives from the Scottish drugs enforcement agency, the Scottish organised crime agency and Strathclyde police. Chief Inspector Mickey Dalgleish, who led the inves- tigation, said the force was “extremely pleased” at its recovery. “For four years police staff have worked tirelessly on the theft and with help from the public we have been able to track down the painting.”

Four men have been arrested, three from Lancashire and one from Glasgow. The Lancashire trio are later named as Robert Graham, John Doyle and Marshall Ronald, a solicitor from Skelmersdale. Another man from Glasgow, Michael Brown, later appears in court. More pictures of cars are issued, including a blue Rover, together with a CCTV image of a male person whom the police want to interview. The man is described as being about 5’10 to 6’ tall, slim build with dark hair and a beard. It is subsequently learned David Boyce, a corporate partner in the respected Anglo-Scots law firm HBJ Gateley Wareing, had been charged, and that the painting had been recovered from the lawyer’s West Regent Street offices. Another lawyer who worked for the firm, Calum Jones, has also been implicated and was said by The Scotsman to have been acting as a go-between for two parties by scrutinizing a contract that would have allowed an English firm to “secure legal repatriation” of the painting from an unidentified party. The picture is now accorded a value of £37 million, though other papers cite widely divergent values. The trial and its strange result will feature later in our story. However, joy at the recovery of the Madonna and the arrests is tempered. Johnnie, the Duke of Buccleuch, had died a month earlier on 4 September Martin Kemp 91

2007, aged 83. He knew that there were moves afoot, but did not live to know definitely that his beloved Leonardo would be restored to his family.

More forensics

I fly to Scotland, as agreed, taking off from Birmingham for Edinburgh. I am met by a police car to ferry me to the conservation studios of the National Gallery. There, entering precisely the same room in which we had first inspected the picture 17 years earlier, my heart leaps to see the small panel lying on a covered table with the delighted conservation staff, Jacqueline Ridge and Lesley Stevenson and two members of the team of detectives. Even from a distance, its radiant intensity declared that the police had indeed got their woman (and baby), so to speak. The panel, apart from possible scuffing in one corner, appeared to have suffered no damage, either from its wrenching from its display case, or dur- ing its subsequent life in captivity. The fragile paper labels on the reverse were still intact. It is obviously the real thing, but the police are interested in the hard forensic evidence that I had promised. We take the painting into a smaller room down a corridor, where a new and more potent IR apparatus is now housed, linked directly into a computer that delivers the images to its screen. As we move the camera over the surface, we not only see features of the under-drawing that were earlier apparent (but unpublished), but also other aspects that the older equipment had not picked up. We complete the exam- ination for the immediate purposes of identification, but do not at this stage record everything we will need to bring the examination up to the level we had conducted on its sister painting. I leave Edinburgh in high spirits. I write a report for the police, summarizing the results of the analysis. I am also asked to provide a formal statement, covering everything I knew and could remember from before the theft onwards. Two officers from Dumfries visit me in Oxford, and painstakingly record in longhand my answers to a series of questions, in chronological order. My answers are finally read back to me with ponderous care, and I sign the statement as true. The idea that I might be a suspect briefly crosses my mind, but it is apparent that the police are determined that there should be no loose ends and no gaps, if they are to achieve the prosecutions they desire.

In the dock

The last act in the drama to date involves the trial of the five men charged by the police. They were accused of conspiring to extort £4.25 million for the return of the Madonna of the Yarnwinder. The trial took place at the High Court in Edinburgh over eight weeks in the spring of 2010. Those who appeared in the dock were a motley crew. The account that emerged in the 92 Terrorists: Policing, Investigation and Terrorism trial is riven with inconsistencies, and I doubt whether the full truth is yet known, but the broad outline of events is reasonably clear. The two Liverpool men in the dock were sharp operators. Robert Graham, a publican, and his friend John Doyle, had set themselves up as private inves- tigators and established an online business, Stolen Stuff Reunited, which aspired to get crooks to return stolen material that proved to have little value (other than to the original owners). They clearly had their underworld contacts, and it seems to have been Doyle who indirectly or directly estab- lished a line of communication with the thieves. Graham then involved the Lancashire solicitor Marshall Ronald, who might best be described as a mav- erick. Realizing that they needed Scottish expertise, Ronald contacted David Boyce of the lawyers HBJ Gateley Wareing in Glasgow, with whom he had earlier done business. Boyce in turn involved Callum Jones in the same firm. The next move was to make contact with the loss adjustor, Mark Dalrymple, who was acting for the Duke’s insurers. Dalrymple, who seems to have been the only one who can be said to have behaved entirely properly, immediately informed the police, on the under- standing that strict secrecy must be maintained. The police then set up their own sting, with officers acting as intermediaries and representatives of the Duke. It was agreed by the intermediary that he was to pay £2m into the law firm’s client account. He guaranteed that “he and no other person acting on his behalf ...has given any notification or information relating to the terms of the said agreement (nor will do so until after the completion date) to the law enforcement agencies.” In order to massage the transaction, Ronald apparently used £350,000 of a client’s money to secure the release of the painting from the criminals. It remains somewhat unclear as to precisely who planned to obtain how much money from the various transactions involved in the painting’s return. There was the possibility of a substantial reward and an expectation of some other kinds of payments. The English trio were clearly hoping to profit handsomely at the end of the day. There is, of course, also the excitement of being involved with such a big story, and the glamour of association with Leonardo. Even a sober Glasgow solicitor can be forgiven a frisson of excitement at the thought of a stolen painting by Leonardo being handed over in his office. We might ask, however, whether members of the legal profession should be forgiven for not informing the police. The five charged gave what seem to me to be thin excuses for not doing so. After complex negotiations, a meeting was set up on the solicitors’ offices in West Regent Street in Glasgow, with the promise that the painting itself would be present. The undercover police officers, whose true identity was not known to the other participants, attended the meeting. Jones told them that “the lady” was close by, as Ronald had assured him. Jones introduced the officers to Ronald, Graham and Doyle in the boardroom of the law firm. The painting was then extracted from a black case carried by Doyle. It was Martin Kemp 93 obviously the real thing. Having blocked all routes of escape, the police moved briskly in, surprising the men assembled there with their precious charge. The Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary were rightly proud of their operation. As one of the officers said to me, “I normally deal with muggings and slashings.” In March, I travel from Italy, where I had been staying for two months at the Villa I Tatti, owned by Harvard. I had been asked to testify about the painting itself, and the advice I had given the police. I was rather surprised to be called to testify, since whether the picture was actually a Leonardo or not did not seem to me to affect the case of extortion. The court chamber is unexpectedly cavernous, with serried ranks of what I take to be lawyers – considerable numbers of them – together with other observers, including the press. I can see why the law is so expensive. The accused sit in a glum row. I give an account of the visual evidence we have assembled about the painting’s authorship, under examination by the prosecutor. I try to give a lively and accessible account of the painting’s qualities and of the scientific examination, explaining how we can be sure that the work that has been recovered is the same as that which had been stolen. I sense that those in the court are pleased to have a diversion into a realm outside the main legal grind. The painting itself is on show in the National Gallery, at the Mound in Edinburgh, where it remains for the time being. I go to pay my respects. The panel is beautifully framed, mounted and lit. It looks stunning, and more than holds its own with Raphael’s Bridgewater Madonna in the same room. Raphael’s composition, in which the infant Christ surges across his mother’s lap, is the younger artist’s own homage to Leonardo’s seminal invention. At some point the main players in the court drama decamp to the gallery to become directly acquainted with the star actor in their drama. On 22 April, the news arrives in Italy that the jury had returned its ver- dicts on the previous day. I was astonished to learn that majority “not proven” verdicts had been given to Ronald, Graham and Doyle, while the Glasgow solicitors, Jones and Boyce were found unanimously not guilty. “Not proven” in Scots law allows a jury to say that the case against the accused has not been demonstrated to their total satisfaction, but stops short of declaring the accused incontrovertibly not guilty. I can only imagine that something had gone badly wrong in the prosecution. Perhaps the extortion charge was not the right one. Doyle argued that if they had been found guilty, no stolen art would ever come back again. It seems to me that the actions of the English trio were such as to encourage thieves to think that stealing paintings could be a profitable enterprise for all involved, includ- ing the intermediaries. In any event, the result confirms my view, from involvement in other cases of art in court, that the law at this level involves elaborate and horribly costly rituals acted out by lawyers according to arcane internal rules in which common sense and natural justice are all too readily 94 Terrorists: Policing, Investigation and Terrorism obscured. I feel for the police, who are still doing their best. On 6 July 2010, it is reported that the police have interviewed Ronald, the Lake District solicitor, over allegations he embezzled £800,000 from a client to fund the recapture of the painting. It must be galling to the police that Ronald is cur- rently pursuing a claim that he is owed £4.25 million for his part in safely restoring the painting to its rightful owner. Worst of all, at the end of the day, the actual thieves have not been brought to justice.

Notes

1. An earlier version of this chapter appeared in The Journal of Art Crime (Spring 2014). 2. Martin Kemp, Leonardo (Oxford University Press, 2004). 3. Leonardo da Vinci. I documenti e le testimonianze contemporanee, ed. Edoardo Villata, Ente Raccolta Vinciana (Castello Sforzesco: Milan, 1999), p. 208, no. 240. 4. Villata, pp. 278–287, no. 333. 5. Martin Kemp and Pascal Cotte, La Bella Principessa: the Story of a New Masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci (Hodder & Stoughton, 2010). 6. Godfrey Barker, “Rich Pickings” Sunday Times, Focus (31 August 2003), p. 19.