‘I understand that the current rate is around a fifth of the work’s market value,’ confirmed the curator. This seemed to finally silence her.
‘But that doesn’t explain why so many treasures are returned so quickly,’ said a voice from the middle of the crowd.
‘I was about to come to that,’ said the curator, a little sharply. ‘If an artwork has not been stolen to order, even the most inexperienced fence will avoid it.’
He quickly added, ‘Because …’ before the American woman could demand ‘Why?’
‘… all the leading auctioneers, dealers and galleries will have a full description of the missing piece on their desks within hours of its being stolen. This leaves the thief in possession of something no one is willing to handle, because if it were to come onto the market the police would swoop within hours. Many of our stolen masterpieces are actually returned within a few days, or dumped in a place where they are certain to be found. The Dulwich Art Gallery alone has experienced this on no fewer than three separate occasions in the past ten years, and, surprisingly, very few of the treasures are returned damaged.’
This time, several ‘Whys?’ emanated from the little gathering.
‘It appears,’ said the curator, responding to the cries, ‘that the public may be inclined to forgive a daring theft, but what they will not forgive is damage being caused to a national treasure. I might add that the likelihood of a criminal being charged if the stolen goods are returned undamaged is also much reduced.
‘But, to continue my little tale of the edition of thirteen,’ he went on. ‘On September 6th 1997, the day of Diana, Princess of Wales’s funeral, just at the moment the coffin was entering Westminster Abbey, a van drove up and parked outside the main entrance of Huxley Hall. Six men dressed in National Trust overalls emerged and told the guard on duty that they had orders to remove The Reclining Woman and transport her to London for a Henry Moore exhibition that would shortly be taking place in Hyde Park.
‘The guard had been informed that because of the funeral, the pick-up had been postponed until the following week. But as the paperwork all seemed to be in order, and as he wanted to hurry back to his television, he allowed the six men to remove the sculpture.
‘Huxley Hall was closed for the two days after the funeral, so no one gave the incident a thought until a second van appeared the following Tuesday with the same instructions to remove The Reclining Woman and transport
her to the Moore exhibition in Hyde Park. Once again, the paperwork was in order, and for some time the guards assumed it was simply a clerical error. One phone call to the organisers of the Hyde Park exhibition disabused them of this idea. It became clear that the masterpiece had been stolen by a gang of professional criminals. Scotland Yard was immediately informed.
‘The Yard,’ continued the curator, ‘has an entire department devoted to the theft of works of art, with the details of many thousands of pieces listed on computer. Within moments of being notified of a crime, they are able to alert all the leading auctioneers and art dealers in the country.’
The curator paused, and placed his hand back on the lady’s bronze bottom. ‘Quite a large piece to transport and deliver, you might think, even though the roads were unusually empty on the day of the theft, and the public’s attention was engaged elsewhere.
‘For weeks, nothing was reported of The Reclining Woman, and Scotland Yard began to fear that they were dealing with a successful “stolen to order” theft. But some months later, when a petty thief called Sam Jackson was picked up trying to remove a small oil of the second Duchess from the Royal Robing Room, the police obtained their first lead. When the suspect was taken back to the local station to be questioned, he offered the arresting officer a deal.
‘“And what could you possibly have to offer, Jackson?” the Sergeant asked incredulously.
‘“I’ll take you to The Reclining Woman,” said Jackson, “if in return you only charge me with breaking and entering” - for which he knew he had a chance of getting off with a suspended sentence.
‘“If we recover The Reclining Woman,” the Sergeant told him, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” As the portrait of the second Duchess was a poor copy that would only have fetched a few hundred pounds at a boot sale, the deal was struck. Jackson was bundled into the back of a car, and guided three police officers across the Yorkshire border and on into Lancashire, where they drove deeper and deeper into the countryside until they came to a deserted farmhouse. From there, Jackson led the police on foot across several fields and into a valley, where they found an outbuilding hidden behind a copse of trees. The police forced the lock and pulled open the door, to discover they were in an abandoned foundry. Several scraps of lead piping were lying on the floor, probably stolen from the roofs of churches and old houses in the vicinity.
‘The police searched the building, but couldn’t find any trace of The Reclining Woman. They were just about to charge Jackson with wasting police time when they saw him standing in front of a large lump of bronze.
‘ “I didn’t say you’d get it back in its original condition,” said Jackson. “I only promised to take you to it.”’
The curator waited for the slower ones to join in the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, or simply to nod their understanding.
‘Disposing of the masterpiece had obviously proved difficult, and as the criminals had no wish to be apprehended in possession of stolen goods to the value of over a million pounds, they had simply melted down The Reclining Woman. Jackson denied knowing who was responsible, but he did admit that someone had tried to sell him the lump of bronze for PS1,000 - ironically, the exact sum the fifth Duke had paid for the original masterpiece.
‘A few weeks later, a large lump of bronze was returned to the National Trust. To our dismay, the insurance company refused to pay a penny in compensation, claiming that the stolen bronze had been returned. The Trust’s lawyers studied the policy carefully, and discovered that we were entitled to claim for the cost of restoring damaged items to their original state. The insurance company gave in, and agreed to pay for any restoration charges.
‘Our next approach was to the Henry Moore Foundation, asking if they could help in any way. They studied the large lump of bronze for several days, and after weighing and chemically testing it, they agreed with the police laboratory that it could well be the metal which was cast into the original sculpture bought by the fifth Duke.
‘After much deliberation, the Foundation agreed to make an unprecedented exception to Henry Moore’s usual practice, and to cast a thirteenth edition of The Reclining Woman, provided the Trust was willing to cover the foundry’s costs. We naturally agreed to this request, and ended up with a bill for a few thousand pounds, which was covered by our insurance policy.
‘However, the Foundation did make two provisos before agreeing to create this unique thirteenth edition. Firstly, they insisted that we never allow the statue to be put up for sale, publicly or privately. And secondly, if the stolen sixth edition were ever to reappear anywhere in the world, we would immediately return the thirteenth edition to the Foundation so that it could be melted down.
‘The Trust agreed to abide by these terms, which is why you are able to enjoy the masterpiece you see before you today.’
A ripple of applause broke out, and the curator gave a slight bow.
I was reminded of this story a few years later, when I attended a sale of modern art at Sotheby Parke-Bernet in New York, where the third edition of The Reclining Woman came under the hammer and was sold for $1,600,000.
I am assured that Scotland Yard has closed the file on the missing sixth edition of The Reclining Woman by Henry Moore, as they consider the crime solved. However, the Chief Inspector who had been in charge of the case did admit to me that if an enterprising criminal were able to convince a foundry to cast another edition of The Reclining Woman, and to mark it ‘6/12’, he could then dispose of it to a ‘stolen to order’ customer for around a quarter of a million pounds. In fact, no one can be absolutely sure how many sixth editions of The Reclining Woman are now in private hands.
THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER …