Update: Four held over £1m antiques burglary at entrepreneur's home
Four men have been arrested in connection with a £1m robbery at the country home of an entrepreneur.
Burglars
scaled a 7ft (2m) high wall at Sir Christopher Evans' home in Bibury,
Gloucestershire, on 9 July and took jewellery and antiques.Four men aged 40, 41, 42 and 43, were arrested in the Cheltenham and Evesham areas on suspicion of burglary, Gloucestershire Police said.
A force spokesman said the men remain in custody while inquiries continue,
Among the jewellery stolen in the raid were an engagement ring belonging to Sir Christopher's wife Lady Anne and a signet ring belonging to her late father.
'Devastating effect'
Sir Christopher, an internationally renowned life sciences entrepreneur and originally from Port Talbot, South Wales, had offered a "substantial" reward to catch those responsible.Speaking in July, he said the couple had lived in Bibury for many years and had "never encountered anything like this before".
"The burglary has had a particularly devastating effect on my wife Anne as many of the pieces of jewellery, silver and ceramics have huge sentimental value for us both," he said.
"There are many small value and large items that have been stolen but they all have the same emotional and sentimental impact."
The Great Chinese Art Heist
Strange
how it keeps happening, how the greatest works of Chinese art keep
getting brazenly stolen from museums around the world. Is it a
conspiracy? Vengeance for treasures plundered years ago? We sent Alex W.
Palmer to investigate the trail of theft and the stunning rumor: Is the
Chinese government behind one of the boldest art-crime waves in
history?
The patterns of the
heists were evident only later, but their audacity was clear from the
start. The spree began in Stockholm in 2010, with cars burning in the
streets on a foggy summer evening. The fires had been lit as a
distraction, a ploy to lure the attention of the police. As the vehicles
blazed, a band of thieves raced toward the Swedish royal residence and
smashed their way into the Chinese Pavilion on the grounds of
Drottningholm Palace. There they grabbed what they wanted from the
permanent state collection of art and antiquities. Police told the press
the thieves had fled by moped to a nearby lake, ditched their bikes
into the water, and escaped by speedboat. The heist took less than six
minutes.
A month later, in Bergen,
Norway, intruders descended from a glass ceiling and plucked 56 objects
from the China Collection at the KODE Museum. Next, robbers in England
hit the Oriental Museum at Durham University, followed by a museum at
Cambridge University. Then, in 2013, the KODE was visited once more;
crooks snatched 22 additional relics that had been missed during the
first break-in.
Had they known exactly
what was happening, perhaps the security officials at the Château de
Fontainebleau, the sprawling former royal estate just outside Paris,
could have predicted that they might be next.
With
more than 1,500 rooms, the palace is a maze of opulence. But when
bandits arrived before dawn on March 1, 2015, their target was
unmistakable: the palace's grand Chinese Museum. Created by the last
empress of France, the wife of Napoleon III, the gallery was stocked
with works so rare that their value was considered incalculable.
In
recent years, however, the provenance of those treasures had become an
increasingly sensitive subject: The bulk of the museum's collection had
been pilfered from China by French soldiers in 1860 during the sack of
Beijing's Old Summer Palace.
In the low
light before daybreak, the robbers raced to the southwest wing and
shattered a window. They climbed inside, stepping over broken glass, and
swiftly went to work dismantling the empress's trove. Within seven
minutes, they were gone, along with 22 of the museum's most valuable
items: porcelain vases; a mandala made of coral, gold, and turquoise; a
Chimera in cloisonné enamel; and more.
The
police arrived quickly, but there was little to be done. Before
vanishing, the criminals had emptied a fire extinguisher, spraying its
snowy foam perhaps in the hopes that it would erase their fingerprints,
hide their footprints, and remove any lingering clue as to who they
were. “The thieves knew what they were doing and exactly what they
wanted,” the museum's president, Jean-François Hebert, told the press.
They were “probably very professional.” The theft, he added, was a
“terrible shock.” But maybe it shouldn't have been.
In
the years since the Fontainebleau heist, the robberies have continued
throughout Europe—sometimes in daring, cinematic fashion. The full scale
of the criminality is impossible to pinpoint, because many heists never
make the headlines. Security officials and museum boards are sometimes
reluctant to publicize their own failures, both to avoid embarrassment
and to save on the cost of security upgrades.
But
the thefts that were made public bear striking similarities. The
criminals are careful and professional. They often seem to be working
from a shopping list—and appear content to leave behind high-value
objects that aren't on it.
In each
case, the robbers focused their efforts on art and antiquities from
China, especially items that had been looted by foreign armies. Many of
these objects are well documented and publicly known, making them very
hard to sell and difficult to display. In most cases the pieces have not
been recovered; they seem to simply vanish.
After
that first robbery, in Stockholm, a police official told the press that
“all experience says this is an ordered job.” As the heists mounted, so
did the suspicion that they were being carried out on instructions from
abroad. But if that was true, an obvious question loomed: Who was doing
the ordering?
For much of the 20th
century, China's leaders hardly seemed to care about the country's lost
and plundered antiquities. Art was a symbol of bourgeois decadence, fit
for destruction rather than preservation. By the early 2000s, however,
China was growing rich and confident, and decidedly less Communist. The
fate of the country's plundered art was seized upon as a focus of
national concern and pride.
Suddenly a
new cadre of plutocrats—members of the country's growing club of
billionaires—began purchasing artifacts at a dizzying pace. For this new
breed of mega-rich collector, buying up Chinese art represented a
chance to flash not just incredible wealth but also exorbitant
patriotism.
But less conspicuous
campaigns to lure art back to China were initiated, too. One of the
country's most powerful corporate conglomerates, the state-run China
Poly Group, launched a shadowy program aimed at locating and recovering
lost art. Poly—an industrial giant that sells everything from gemstones
to missiles—was run by a Communist Party titan who staffed the project
with officials connected to Chinese military intelligence.
The
government, meanwhile, was sanctioning its own efforts via a web of
overlapping state agencies and Communist Party–affiliated NGOs. In 2009,
a year before the Stockholm heist, the efforts got more serious.
Beijing announced that it planned to dispatch a “treasure hunting team”
to various institutions across the U.S. and Europe. Museums were left
clueless about the purpose of the mission. Were the Chinese coming to
assess collections, to conduct research, or to reclaim objects on the
spot? More importantly, who, exactly, were the visitors gathering
information for?
When an eight-person
team arrived at New York's Metropolitan Museum, it was led by an
archaeologist and largely composed of employees from Chinese state media
and Beijing's palace museum. As the group poked around and asked about
the art on display, one participant, a researcher named Liu Yang who had
gained some notoriety for his zeal in cataloging China's lost
treasures, sleuthed through the museum's long corridors, looking for
objects he might recognize. The visit ended without incident, but the
shift in tactics was evident: China was no longer content to sit back
passively and hope for the return of its art. The hunt was on.
Soon, all across Europe, thefts began.
Those looking for
China's lost art have plenty of targets. According to one widely cited
government estimate, more than 10 million antiquities have disappeared
from China since 1840. The works that mean the most to the Chinese are
the ones that left during the so-called Century of Humiliation, from
1840 to 1949, when China was repeatedly carved up by foreign powers. The
modern Communist Party has declared its intent to bring China back from
that period of prolonged decline, and the return of looted objects
serves as undeniable proof—tangible, visible, and beautiful proof—of the
country's revival.
By far the most
important pieces are those that were hauled away by British and French
troops in 1860 after the sacking of the Old Summer Palace. In China
today, it's difficult to overstate the indignity still associated with
the looting of the palace, which had served as a residence to the last
Chinese dynasty. Its gardens, art, and architecture were said to be
among the most beautiful in the world. The palace held an array of
wonders, not the least of which was a fountain adorned with 12 bronze
heads representing the animals of the Chinese zodiac.
“The government in China doesn't think they're stolen objects. They think they belong to them."
When
European troops reached the garden, the desecration of the palace became
a mad frenzy. Soldiers stripped it of everything they could carry. The
zodiac heads were wrenched from their bases and hauled away as trophies.
When the soldiers had removed all they could, they torched what
remained—retribution, they said, for the torture and murder of British
envoys who'd attempted to negotiate with the Chinese. The grounds of the
palace were so large and so intricate that the 4,500 troops needed
three days to burn everything.
Most of
the plunder was taken back to Europe and either tucked away in private
collections or presented as gifts to royal families. Queen Victoria of
Britain was given a pet Pekingese dog, the first of its kind ever seen
in Europe. Unabashed by its provenance, she named it Looty.
In
China, the memory of the Old Summer Palace's destruction remains
vivid—and intentionally so. The site has been kept as ruins, the better
to “stir feelings of national humiliation and patriotism,” as one
Chinese academic put it. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before
those feelings transformed into action.
Of course, not
all of the art that's finding its way home to China is being snatched
off museum walls in the dead of night or wrangled back by aggressive
bureaucrats. The country's new elite are helping, too.
“The
Chinese don't need a coordinating campaign,” says James Ratcliffe, the
director of recoveries and general counsel at the Art Loss Register.
“There are enough Chinese collectors with a huge amount of money who
want the pride of acquiring this art.”
In
2016, for the first time, China had more billionaires than the United
States. Many of the country's nouveau riche have taken to art collecting
with a giddy enthusiasm. In 2000, China represented 1 percent of the
global-art-auction market; by 2014, it accounted for 27 percent. The
market for historical Chinese art is so frenzied that even seemingly
mundane pieces of Chinese art can electrify the scene at auction houses.
In
2010, a 16-inch Chinese vase went up for sale at an auction house in an
unremarkable suburb of London. The starting price was $800,000. Half an
hour later, the final bid—reportedly from an anonymous buyer from
mainland China—was $69.5 million. Though the provenance of this vase was
mysterious, similar objects with traceable histories of looting have
proved valuable. “Buying looted artwork has become high-street fashion
among China's elite,” Zhao Xu, the director of Beijing Poly Auction,
told China Daily.
Their
desires adhere to a nationalistic logic: The closer an object's
connection to China's ignominious defeats, the more significant its
return. In recent years, vases, bronzeware, and a host of other items
from the Old Summer Palace have all sold for millions. Behind these
purchases is almost always a well-connected Chinese billionaire eager to
demonstrate China's modern resurgence on the world stage.
In
2014, a taxi driver turned billionaire named Liu Yiqian paid $36
million for a small porcelain “chicken cup,” coveted because it was once
a part of the imperial collection. (According to the Wall Street Journal,
he completed his purchase by swiping his Amex card 24 times and
promptly stoked controversy by drinking from the dish.) A few months
later, he paid an additional $45 million for a Tibetan silk tapestry
from the Ming era. “When we are young, we are indoctrinated to believe
that the foreigners stole from us,” Liu once told The New Yorker.
“But maybe it's out of context. Whatever of ours [the foreigners]
stole, we can always snatch it back one day.” (Liu Yiqian did not
respond to requests for comment.)
Huang
Nubo has a similarly patriotic interest in China's art. Tall and
broad-shouldered, with a ruddy complexion and close-set eyes, he's the
kind of billionaire who makes other billionaires jealous: He's an
accomplished adventurer, one of the few people alive to have visited
both the North and South Poles and summited the world's seven
tallest peaks (he's topped Everest three times). When I met him at his
office in Beijing, he had just returned from an expedition in western
China, where he'd reached the top of the world's sixth-tallest mountain.
Huang
made his money by building one of the country's most powerful real
estate conglomerates, a task he undertook after spending ten years as an
official in the publicity department of the Communist Party. His
passion for Chinese culture has helped make him famous, and through an
effort called the National Treasures Coming Home campaign, he's focusing
on the reclamation of lost relics.
After
the second break-in at the KODE, Huang contacted the museum. He wanted
to fly to Bergen and tour the closed China exhibit. Once there, he was
shown a collection of marble columns taken from the Old Summer Palace.
Huang began to weep and told the museum director that the columns had no
business being displayed in Norway. He donated $1.6 million to KODE,
which he says was to upgrade its security. (A spokesman for KODE said
the agreement did not concern security.) Soon thereafter the museum
shipped seven of the marble columns back to China to be displayed at
Peking University on permanent loan. (Huang denies any connection
between his donation and the return of the columns.) The looting of the
columns and their open display in a European museum “were our disgrace,”
he told China Daily, and their return represented “dignity returned to the Chinese people.”
In
addition to visiting the KODE, Huang had toured the Château de
Fontainebleau, not long before it was robbed. I asked him what he had
heard about the theft and the rumor that the stolen relics had made
their way back to China. He tightened his face into a small smile and
laughed. “I only heard about it,” he said. “[That they might go back to
China] is a good suggestion, in terms of result, but it encourages more
stealing. I think it's because Chinese relics have good prices on the
market nowadays.”
In the face of
China's repatriation campaign—and the recent robberies—museums are now
scrambling. Some have stood their ground, arguing the legitimacy of
their acquisitions or touting the value to the Chinese of sharing their
culture abroad. Others have quietly shipped crates of art back to China,
in hopes of avoiding trouble with either the thieves or the government.
In
2013, for instance, two of the famed zodiac heads, the rabbit and the
rat, from the estate of the French designer Yves Saint Laurent, were
handed over after a planned auction was scuttled. Officials in China
told Christie's, the auction house, that if the heads were ever sold
off, there would be “serious effects” on the firm's business. (Not long
after the heads were returned, Christie's became the first international
fine-art auction house to receive a license to operate independently in
China.)
Many institutions, though,
have begun beefing up security. Certainly no museum has been more
bedeviled by all of this than the KODE Museum in Bergen, Norway, on the
country's rugged southwestern coast. The twice-robbed KODE may not be a
household name, but it's apparently well-known to the people stealing
China's lost antiquities.
Located on
Bergen's picturesque central square, the museum is just three blocks
from the local police headquarters. After it was robbed for a second
time, in January 2013, Roald Eliassen was eventually hired as director
of security. Eliassen is a former cop. He's brawny and compact, with a
windburned face and messy gray hair. “I read about the thefts in the
newspaper,” he told me. “I thought, ‘How could this happen?’ Once, okay.
Twice…well, that's not good.”
During
the KODE's first robbery, in 2010, police say the alarms never even
sounded. The intruders rappelled through a glass ceiling and grabbed
dozens of pieces: imperial seals, elegant vases, and more.
Three
years later, the scheme was even more sophisticated. Just after 5 A.M.
on a Saturday, criminals set fire to two cars far from the museum. Once
the police had dispatched units to respond, two robbers entered offices
adjoining the KODE and smashed through a glass wall into the museum's
China exhibit. Cops sped to the scene, but the burglars were in and out
in two minutes. “They were very exact,” a police official told me. They
took 22 items, ignoring more valuable pieces in favor of grabbing
specific ones: delicate statues, intricate vases, imperial seals.
The
police managed to arrest six men but determined they were merely foot
soldiers, unwilling or unable to share useful information about who had
hired them. “The thieves didn't think of this themselves,” the police
official said. Eliassen offered a simple explanation of what happened:
“We had objects that somebody wanted, and he hired someone to take
them.”
When I visited Bergen, the China
exhibit was closed to the public for renovations after a security
upgrade, which included the installation of an imposing series of
sliding gates and metal doors. A guard stood watch nearby. Inside the
gallery, the space was mostly empty. Anything light enough to be carried
had been moved into storage, and the heavy items—white marble statues
and pillars and big-bellied Buddhas—were covered in clear tarp.
At
the KODE, there was a silver lining to that second heist. Amid all the
unwanted attention, authorities got a lucky tip about a piece taken in
the first break-in. They were told it had made its way back to China and
was now on display at a Shanghai airport. But even this possibility
came with its own frustrations: Bergen police lacked the power to follow
up, and Norwegian officials, wary of upsetting a delicate relationship
with China, did nothing. “If we say an item is in China, they say,
‘Prove it,’ ” said Kenneth Didriksen, the head of Norway's art-crime
unit. So, he told me, they stood down. “We don't want to insult anyone.”
Eliassen
believed that the best thing for the museum to do was to protect the
art that remained. The pieces were probably never coming back. “The
government in China doesn't think they're stolen objects,” he said.
“They think they belong to them. They won't take it seriously, won't
follow the trail. That's the biggest problem.”
Even
art-crime experts, though, are quick to acknowledge that the situation
might look different from China's perspective. Noah Charney, a professor
of art history and founder of the Association for Research into Crimes
Against Art, says that when it comes to winning back their lost art, the
Chinese can't imagine how such a thing would be wrong. “It's almost
like there's a fog around it from a criminological perspective,” he
said. “It's like another planet, in terms of the way people think about
what art is, what authenticity is, what is socially unacceptable to do.”
On a gray day
in Beijing, I visited the grounds of the Old Summer Palace. Today the
site is a popular destination for tourists and school field trips. It
has not been rebuilt; the point of the park is its state of destruction.
I'd
come to meet with Liu Yang, who'd been a member of the treasure-hunting
delegation to the Met in New York City. In his office, Liu keeps a lone
photo on the wall—an aerial shot of the park. In it, the site looks
like a bombed-out war zone, with barren patches where statues and
monuments once stood. “It was a Chinese fairy tale,” he told me, “and it
was destroyed by foreign armies.”
Liu
is mild-mannered and scrupulously polite. For 20 years he's been a
player in China's battle to get its art back, but even today he feels
his work is just beginning. He showed me a book he'd published, a
comprehensive inventory of the palace's lost treasures. The pages were
filled with sticky notes and handwritten notations, and as he flipped
through, he pointed out photos of items held by some of the world's
best-known museums.
Of course, he'd
been to many of them, sometimes under odd circumstances. “My most
troublesome experience was at the Metropolitan Museum in New York,” Liu
said. “Everyone was very nervous. They called a Chinese lawyer and gave
me the phone so she could tell me that the museum had no items from the
Old Summer Palace and that all their items were held via legal means.”
(A spokesman for the Met denied that any such call took place.)
“We will never give up, we will never stop—no matter the effort. We need [the Chinese] people to see that everything that belonged to us is coming back.”
Liu says
curators in the UK were less defensive. “When I told them these objects
were taken, they barely reacted,” Liu said. “They just showed me their
records of which generals took what. They're very direct about it. They
don't hide it.”
Still, he's not
surprised when a museum clamps down once he begins sniffing around.
After a visit to the Wallace Collection, in central London, he says, he
noticed the museum's website no longer listed the objects he'd asked
about. (A spokesman for the Wallace Collection said those objects were
temporarily removed to be prepared for an exhibition and are now on
display.)
It didn't much matter; Liu
had a good idea of what was housed there. He knows the collections of
foreign museums inside and out, and museum officials know him, too, even
if they don't have much enthusiasm for his research. A few years ago,
he had visited the Château de Fontainebleau, and his book had been
published right before the sensational robbery there. After the crime,
he got a panicked phone call. “I was the first person to learn the news
about the robbery there, about 30 minutes after it happened,” he told
me. “The museum staff contacted me in very broken Chinese. They said,
‘These items were stolen right after your book was published, and your
book was the first catalog of the Old Summer Palace. Do you see a
connection?’ ” He says he politely suggested that they maybe tell other
museums to improve their security. (Officials at the Château de
Fontainebleau did not respond to requests for comment.)
Liu
seems ambivalent toward the plight of burgled museums, especially a
place like the Fontainebleau, which he says holds more looted Chinese
art than any other institution on earth and advertises the collection's
origins as plunder from the sacking of the Old Summer Palace.
“Displaying these objects in European museums is like a theft
itself—they're just showing it off without concern,” Liu said. “I know
that we won't get everything back in my lifetime,” he continued. “We
will never give up, we will never stop—no matter the effort. We need
[the Chinese] people to see that everything that belonged to us is
coming back.”
The
biggest prize of all, and the most elusive, is the set of zodiac heads
from the fountain at the Old Summer Palace, five of which remain
missing. “For 100 years we've been looking,” Liu said. Despite his
persistence, it's likely that if the 12 zodiac heads are someday
re-united and the glorious fountain is re-established, it would not be
through the work of a researcher like him, or even thanks to the big
spending of a patriotic billionaire like Huang Nubo. Instead, it would
be due to the efforts of one of China's richest, most powerful, and most
impenetrable entities, a corporation that's been in on the hunt since
the very beginning: China Poly.
Even among China's elite class of state-controlled behemoths, the China Poly Group is unique for its power and its varied pursuits. According to Fortune,
last year it had declared assets of $95.7 billion, almost twice the GDP
of Croatia. Its art-repatriation campaign—begun by its former
president, the military-intelligence chief He Ping—is now run by an
offshoot firm called Poly Culture, which manages the company's
burgeoning antiquities collection. In 2000, the same year as Poly
Culture's founding, Poly managed to buy back three of the Old Summer
Palace's zodiac heads. It's since added a fourth, while a fifth and
sixth are housed at China's National Museum and a seventh is kept at the
Capital Museum.
“The heads represent
our feelings for the entire nation; we love them and we weep for them,”
said Jiang Yingchun, the CEO of Poly Culture. We were sitting at a large
conference table high up in the company's Beijing headquarters, with a
view of the smog-drenched skyline. Jiang was reclining in a black
leather chair and smoking an e-cigarette. In the corner of the room, an
air filter hummed quietly.
“We can try
many ways to get the heads back,” he told me without much elaboration.
“The auction is just one method.” It was not the technique that
mattered, he seemed to be saying, but the result: The heads must return.
“We can't ignore that the art was taken illegally,” even if it was
being well cared for, he said. “If you kidnapped my children and then
treated them well, the crime is still not forgiven.”
Poly
has long worked hand in hand with the Chinese state and the Communist
Party. For decades the company operated as the commercial arm of the
People's Liberation Army, peddling weapons around the world while also
buying and selling art—and running a global information network to
locate lost antiquities. That operation was reportedly once described by
the company as a long-term “retrieve action” to reclaim treasures
“robbed away from China by western powers.” (Officials for the company
didn't respond to written requests to elaborate on this program or to
questions about the recent spate of art crimes.)
His
e-cigarette depleted, Jiang excused himself for another meeting and
handed me off to a curator from the Poly Museum. She proudly offered to
show me the recovered zodiac heads. At the entrance to the museum, I
noticed a wooden plaque. Many items in the collection, it announced, had
been “recovered from overseas and saved from being lost to the nation.”
The
curator guided me toward a dark, carpeted room in the rear of the
museum. Inside, each of the four revered heads—the ox, the tiger, the
monkey, and the pig—had been given its own display case, in which it sat
atop purple velvet cushioning.
“The
first time I saw them, I was so excited,” the curator told me. She spoke
in a low, reverential whisper. She was a student then and remembered
how, on the day the heads were officially returned, her entire school
had watched the ceremony on television. Students wept at their desks.
I
asked if she thought the rest would ever be returned. There had been
nothing but fakes and false leads for years, and the best guess seemed
to be that the remaining five were hidden away in private collections
somewhere in Europe. She paused and walked forward to admire the
growling bronze tiger head. “Their return is the deepest hope of the
Chinese people,” she said. “It's a very sad and hard history for us.
When the heads come back, we will finally feel the power of our
country.”
'SCUMBAG'
The court heard he opened an antique shop called the Dolls House, in Harwich, and another called Scrooge, in Manningtree.
He earned his victims’ trust by initially selling items and paying them - but then the money stopped coming.
In total, Clelland admitted scamming people out of items worth around £400,000 – after protesting his innocence for three years.
Among them was a stamp collection and other goods belonging to one customer said to be worth £300,000.
Another fraud related to using £31,530 cash belonging to 64-year-old Richard Browning-Smith.
Mr Browning-Smith, from Manningtree, told the Sun Online: “Mr Clelland had opened two antique shops, one in Harwick and another in Manningtree. In the window he said he would do valuations on gold, silver and family heirlooms.
“So I asked him to do that but the items never came back, as he stole them.
“My great uncle [Geoffrey Wear] served in World War One and there were two medals stolen with his name, along with Essex Yeomanry, engraved on them.
“He was also awarded the Russian medal which was given to any Commonwealth active member of the Armed services who showed particular deeds of valour. That was also stolen.
“Also taken was his 9 Carat gold vesta case, a vital item for soldiers in trench warfare as this kept their matches dry as they needed to smoke to help with nerves, especially if going over the top.
"All the medals have Geoffrey Wear on them and I'm still hopefully I will get them back somehow. He’s stolen my heritage.”
The 64-year-old, a retired insurance agent, added: “Recently I was with the Royal British Legion in Belgium at the Menin Gate Ypres to commemorate 100 years since the end of WW1. I could have worn these medals to honour his name as I am my great uncle’s nearest surviving relative.”
Mr Browning-Smith said Clelland preyed on vulnerable victims.
He said: “I asked him to do the valuations for insurance purposes at the end of November 2015. I was in a very vulnerable position as my father had died in January 2015…I didn’t feel good at the time.
“It’s been a very stressful time, it doesn’t help my bipolar, what he did has affected me. Mr Clelland preyed on vulnerable people. He’s scum. When he gets sentenced, I hope he gets 20 years in prison. For three years he was saying he was not guilty. I will go to see him get sentenced.”
Mr Browning Smith said Clelland stole around 20 to 30 items from him, including his father’s coin collection which was made up of around 500 to 1,000 coins.
Another victim was 79-year-old Eileen Tyrer, from Dovercourt.
She said: "My husband gave him a Penny Black worth £700 as well as silver coins.
"There was a tin box I wish I have never given him. There was quite a bit of stuff worth £3,000. It was a horrible time.
"But the police have been absolutely wonderful and I can't thank them enough."
Judge David Turner QC adjourned sentence until September 28 and told Clelland: “The overwhelming likelihood is there will be a prison sentence.”
He said Clelland would get credit for his pleas at the “59th minute” because it avoided a number of “quite vulnerable people from a true ordeal”.
Vile conman who preyed on vulnerable victims in £400k scam stole man’s priceless World War One family medal collection
Daniel Clelland admitted scamming people out of items worth around £400,000 – after protesting his innocence for three years
A
MAN who had three of his great uncle’s World War One medals stolen by
an antiques dealer conman described him as a “scumbag” who preyed on
vulnerable victims.
Daniel Clelland, 44, admitted six offences of fraud by false representation at Chelmsford Crown Court on Tuesday.He earned his victims’ trust by initially selling items and paying them - but then the money stopped coming.
In total, Clelland admitted scamming people out of items worth around £400,000 – after protesting his innocence for three years.
Among them was a stamp collection and other goods belonging to one customer said to be worth £300,000.
Another fraud related to using £31,530 cash belonging to 64-year-old Richard Browning-Smith.
Mr Browning-Smith, from Manningtree, told the Sun Online: “Mr Clelland had opened two antique shops, one in Harwick and another in Manningtree. In the window he said he would do valuations on gold, silver and family heirlooms.
“So I asked him to do that but the items never came back, as he stole them.
“My great uncle [Geoffrey Wear] served in World War One and there were two medals stolen with his name, along with Essex Yeomanry, engraved on them.
“He was also awarded the Russian medal which was given to any Commonwealth active member of the Armed services who showed particular deeds of valour. That was also stolen.
“Also taken was his 9 Carat gold vesta case, a vital item for soldiers in trench warfare as this kept their matches dry as they needed to smoke to help with nerves, especially if going over the top.
"All the medals have Geoffrey Wear on them and I'm still hopefully I will get them back somehow. He’s stolen my heritage.”
The 64-year-old, a retired insurance agent, added: “Recently I was with the Royal British Legion in Belgium at the Menin Gate Ypres to commemorate 100 years since the end of WW1. I could have worn these medals to honour his name as I am my great uncle’s nearest surviving relative.”
Mr Browning-Smith said Clelland preyed on vulnerable victims.
He said: “I asked him to do the valuations for insurance purposes at the end of November 2015. I was in a very vulnerable position as my father had died in January 2015…I didn’t feel good at the time.
“It’s been a very stressful time, it doesn’t help my bipolar, what he did has affected me. Mr Clelland preyed on vulnerable people. He’s scum. When he gets sentenced, I hope he gets 20 years in prison. For three years he was saying he was not guilty. I will go to see him get sentenced.”
Mr Browning Smith said Clelland stole around 20 to 30 items from him, including his father’s coin collection which was made up of around 500 to 1,000 coins.
Another victim was 79-year-old Eileen Tyrer, from Dovercourt.
She said: "My husband gave him a Penny Black worth £700 as well as silver coins.
"There was a tin box I wish I have never given him. There was quite a bit of stuff worth £3,000. It was a horrible time.
Judge David Turner QC adjourned sentence until September 28 and told Clelland: “The overwhelming likelihood is there will be a prison sentence.”
He said Clelland would get credit for his pleas at the “59th minute” because it avoided a number of “quite vulnerable people from a true ordeal”.
How An FBI Sting Operation Helped NC Recover Its Copy Of The Bill Of Rights
In an effort to tell more stories from throughout North Carolina, WFAE has launched a new collaboration with Our State magazine. In this report, Our State's
Jeremy Markovich has the story of a priceless document that was stolen
during the Civil War, and recovered in an FBI sting operation 138 years
later.
This
story starts in a small room, on the third floor of the old Capitol
building in Raleigh. In April of 1865, in the closing days of the Civil
War, a Union soldier came into this room, looked through cabinets and
found a folded up piece of parchment. That parchment turned out to be
North Carolina’s original copy of the Bill of Rights.
"When the Bill of Rights was proposed in Congress, they created 14 original copies, one for each of the original states and one that the federal government kept," explained state archivist Sarah Koonts. "And North Carolina's was sent to us, and it has had a long and interesting journey."
That is an incredible understatement. Because over the next 138 years, the document itself was missing. We now know that a Union soldier sold the Bill of Rights to a family in Indiana for $5. That family kept it for more than a century before selling it to an antiques dealer named Wayne Pratt, who used to be a regular on the Antiques Roadshow on PBS.
In 2003, Pratt and his associates tried to sell the document to the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia for $4 million. And that’s when then-North Carolina Gov. Mike Easley received a surprise phone call.
"I remember being up in the Southwest bedroom at a desk working on a State of the State address when I got this call that Governor Rendell from Pennsylvania was on the other line and wanted to speak to me," Easley said.
And Pennsylvania’s governor told Easley that somebody wanted to sell a copy of the Bill of Rights that was stolen from North Carolina.
"And I told him I was certainly surprised to hear that it had surfaced again because there's only two other times to my recollection,” Easley said. “And that I certainly want to figure out a way to get it. I did not want to give it up to Pennsylvania or anybody else, and it was our property and we would take that position."
After that, a lot of people get involved – including the FBI – and a special agent named Robert Wittman, who specialized in recovering priceless documents and works of art.
"Probably the most valuable piece that I ever recovered was the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights. The value on that has placed it close to $100 million — if it could be sold," Wittman said.
"In other words, if it could be brought legitimately to market and marketed to the collector societies, it can actually bring as much as $100 million," he added. "True reality though, of course, is zero because it belongs to the state of North Carolina. It's owned by the people of North Carolina. And, therefore, it can't be sold. It can't be passed. So it's actually zero."
So it’s worth a lot and nothing at the same, "the case with all stolen art," Wittman said.
Wittman and the FBI put together a sting operation. First, they got the National Constitution Center's then-CEO Joe Torsella to play along.
"What I assumed at the beginning of this was us calling and saying we’re going to buy it, why don’t you bring it over next Tuesday," Torsella said. "What wasn’t really clear to us, in the beginning, was how real this was going to need to be."
It was so real that Torsella and his attorneys negotiated a deal with Pratt, and on March 18, 2003, they showed up in the conference room of a Philadelphia law firm with paperwork and a check.
“So we actually had a check drawn up on the National Constitution Center,” Wittman said.
A cashier’s check for $4 million that was shown to the sellers when they arrived.
He added, “Of course it was not going to be paid, but we had it there."
Wittman was in the room undercover playing a wealthy philanthropist. The lawyer for the seller went into the room, looked over the paperwork and checked out the check.
"That's when he made the phone call, it was almost like a drug deal in some respect," he said. "You know, you see the money then you make the phone call to have the drugs delivered. And in this case it wasn't drugs. It was the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights."
A bike messenger showed up with a cardboard carrier. Wittman opened it up and took a look.
"I said, ‘That's really a neat looking piece, isn't it?’ It was like, ‘Wow that's the Bill of Rights,'" Wittman said. "It was just a eureka moment."
Right after that, someone in the room gave the signal to the five FBI agents waiting in another room to come in.
"He (the seller) was a bit surprised," Wittman recalled.
A few hours later, Governor Easley got another surprise phone call.
"And he said we got it," Easley said. "I said, 'Got what? What are you talking about?' He said, 'We got the Bill of Rights.'"
Two weeks after that, the Bill of Rights was flown back to Raleigh on the private jet of FBI Director Robert Mueller. It would take five years of legal wrangling with Pratt and others before, in 2008, the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights was officially declared to be property of the state. So, where is it now?
In a vault underneath the state archives building in downtown Raleigh.
"The main concern that we have with having this document on display all the time is fading," Koonts said. "When it was out of the state's custody, it was exposed to a lot of light a lot of natural and fluorescent light. So it is extremely faded in spots and we have been advised by an outside conservator to not have it on permanent display."
But from time to time, it does come out as part of an exhibit, and it usually draws a big crowd – proof that the Bill of Rights can’t belong to one of us, but it can belong to all of us.
For more on how the North Carolina’s copy of the Bill of Rights stayed hidden for 138 years, and how it was proven that a really old piece of parchment really belonged to the state, you can find the answers in the newest episode of Away Message, Our State magazine’s podcast about hard to find people, places, and things.
"When the Bill of Rights was proposed in Congress, they created 14 original copies, one for each of the original states and one that the federal government kept," explained state archivist Sarah Koonts. "And North Carolina's was sent to us, and it has had a long and interesting journey."
That is an incredible understatement. Because over the next 138 years, the document itself was missing. We now know that a Union soldier sold the Bill of Rights to a family in Indiana for $5. That family kept it for more than a century before selling it to an antiques dealer named Wayne Pratt, who used to be a regular on the Antiques Roadshow on PBS.
In 2003, Pratt and his associates tried to sell the document to the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia for $4 million. And that’s when then-North Carolina Gov. Mike Easley received a surprise phone call.
"I remember being up in the Southwest bedroom at a desk working on a State of the State address when I got this call that Governor Rendell from Pennsylvania was on the other line and wanted to speak to me," Easley said.
And Pennsylvania’s governor told Easley that somebody wanted to sell a copy of the Bill of Rights that was stolen from North Carolina.
"And I told him I was certainly surprised to hear that it had surfaced again because there's only two other times to my recollection,” Easley said. “And that I certainly want to figure out a way to get it. I did not want to give it up to Pennsylvania or anybody else, and it was our property and we would take that position."
After that, a lot of people get involved – including the FBI – and a special agent named Robert Wittman, who specialized in recovering priceless documents and works of art.
"Probably the most valuable piece that I ever recovered was the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights. The value on that has placed it close to $100 million — if it could be sold," Wittman said.
"In other words, if it could be brought legitimately to market and marketed to the collector societies, it can actually bring as much as $100 million," he added. "True reality though, of course, is zero because it belongs to the state of North Carolina. It's owned by the people of North Carolina. And, therefore, it can't be sold. It can't be passed. So it's actually zero."
So it’s worth a lot and nothing at the same, "the case with all stolen art," Wittman said.
Wittman and the FBI put together a sting operation. First, they got the National Constitution Center's then-CEO Joe Torsella to play along.
"What I assumed at the beginning of this was us calling and saying we’re going to buy it, why don’t you bring it over next Tuesday," Torsella said. "What wasn’t really clear to us, in the beginning, was how real this was going to need to be."
It was so real that Torsella and his attorneys negotiated a deal with Pratt, and on March 18, 2003, they showed up in the conference room of a Philadelphia law firm with paperwork and a check.
“So we actually had a check drawn up on the National Constitution Center,” Wittman said.
A cashier’s check for $4 million that was shown to the sellers when they arrived.
He added, “Of course it was not going to be paid, but we had it there."
Wittman was in the room undercover playing a wealthy philanthropist. The lawyer for the seller went into the room, looked over the paperwork and checked out the check.
"That's when he made the phone call, it was almost like a drug deal in some respect," he said. "You know, you see the money then you make the phone call to have the drugs delivered. And in this case it wasn't drugs. It was the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights."
A bike messenger showed up with a cardboard carrier. Wittman opened it up and took a look.
"I said, ‘That's really a neat looking piece, isn't it?’ It was like, ‘Wow that's the Bill of Rights,'" Wittman said. "It was just a eureka moment."
Right after that, someone in the room gave the signal to the five FBI agents waiting in another room to come in.
"He (the seller) was a bit surprised," Wittman recalled.
A few hours later, Governor Easley got another surprise phone call.
"And he said we got it," Easley said. "I said, 'Got what? What are you talking about?' He said, 'We got the Bill of Rights.'"
Two weeks after that, the Bill of Rights was flown back to Raleigh on the private jet of FBI Director Robert Mueller. It would take five years of legal wrangling with Pratt and others before, in 2008, the North Carolina copy of the Bill of Rights was officially declared to be property of the state. So, where is it now?
In a vault underneath the state archives building in downtown Raleigh.
"The main concern that we have with having this document on display all the time is fading," Koonts said. "When it was out of the state's custody, it was exposed to a lot of light a lot of natural and fluorescent light. So it is extremely faded in spots and we have been advised by an outside conservator to not have it on permanent display."
But from time to time, it does come out as part of an exhibit, and it usually draws a big crowd – proof that the Bill of Rights can’t belong to one of us, but it can belong to all of us.
For more on how the North Carolina’s copy of the Bill of Rights stayed hidden for 138 years, and how it was proven that a really old piece of parchment really belonged to the state, you can find the answers in the newest episode of Away Message, Our State magazine’s podcast about hard to find people, places, and things.