The Duke of Wellington, Kidnapped!

by Alan Hirsch

  In addition, Chandler’s report notes, “There is no reason to suppose that he made this admission with any ulterior motive, i.e.,—for him or his father to obtain money from a newspaper for the ‘true story’ of the theft.”

  What then was the motive for John Bunton coming forward in 1969, four years after his father’s conviction? In its 2012 article breaking the news that John was the culprit, the London Guardian explained that Bunton had “panicked when he was arrested and fingerprinted in Leeds in July 1969 for a minor offense. He was worried that he had left his prints at the National Gallery or on the stolen painting” and figured he would be better off telling police than if they discovered the truth themselves. The Guardian presumably based its assessment of Bunton’s motive on the DPP file from Bunton’s 1969 arrest and confession, in which Chandler’s report states that the confession was “only made because Bunton, who following his arrest at Leeds had had his fingerprints taken for the first time, believed that he had left them at the National Gallery or on the stolen painting, and thought that he would be treated more leniently by the courts if he admitted his guilt.”

  But Bunton claims this account of his motives is inaccurate. In fact, he knew he had left no prints behind but was concerned, nevertheless, that he would somehow be discovered and prosecuted in the future. He decided to confess because “he was already in custody and thought he might as well be killed as a sheep than a lamb, and thought if they didn’t prosecute him now they wouldn’t be able to prosecute him in the future.”

  As noted, Bunton wasn’t charged, and the authorities did not release his name to the media. Bunton speculates that the police “regarded the case as closed. They didn’t want any kerfuffle. They were probably embarrassed by the whole episode, convicting the wrong man. . . . They shoved the whole thing under the rug as quickly as possible.”

  In fact, the DPP file establishes that the authorities took John Bunton’s confession seriously, investigated it exhaustively, and indeed came to believe it. Why then did they not prosecute Bunton? Chandler’s report noted that doing so would not exonerate Kempton. Even in John’s account, Kempton had possessed the painting for several years. Accordingly, Kempton was “quite clearly an accessory after the fact,” and thus “his conviction would appear to be still good in law.” The case file shows that government attorneys researched the matter thoroughly, with one memorandum citing and summarizing numerous cases to establish that Kempton’s involvement after the fact, receiving and holding onto goods he knew to have been stolen, may have constituted animus furandi (intent to steal) under the law.

  But the matter wasn’t so simple. Since it couldn’t be shown that John Bunton intended to keep the painting permanently, his act of taking it did not constitute theft under the odd Larceny Act. Accordingly, Kempton’s receipt of (and caretaking of) the painting arguably did not constitute receipt of stolen goods. However absurd, Kempton had essentially received and concealed legally borrowed goods. But there was also the matter of the frame. As the author of this legal memorandum declared, “the destruction of the frame by the father is evidence of an animus furandi.”

  Far be it from Kempton being wrongly punished, he had gotten off easy. As the Chandler report acknowledged, if John Bunton’s confession was true, Kempton had committed elaborate perjury at his trial. Although the report did not discuss this point, criminal defendants are rarely prosecuted for perjury, especially when they are found guilty of the underlying offense. Prosecuting Kempton for taking the fall, while defensible (especially since he had shielded the actual wrongdoer from prosecution), would hardly be a great use of prosecutorial resources. One unsigned memorandum in the DPP file discussed the pros and cons of prosecuting John Bunton for the theft while declaring without explanation, “I do not think we need pursue the matter of Kempton Bunton’s perjury.”

  As for prosecuting John, well, the same defense made by Kempton at his trial would be available to John: He never intended to deprive the National Gallery of the painting permanently and therefore was not guilty of theft. The jury had accepted that argument in Kempton’s case, and there was no reason to think that another jury would find differently. Was it worth going through another lengthy trial so that John Bunton, like his father, would serve a few months in prison? Besides, John was probably headed for prison anyway on account of the auto theft that had brought forth his confession to the Goya theft in the first place.

  Internal DPP documents suggest that the authorities were of two minds about the matter. The aforementioned unsigned memorandum opines that “all the surrounding circumstances tend to point to John as the actual thief” but notes that Kempton and Kenneth Bunton “refused to make [written] statements and obviously would be unreliable witnesses,” leaving the difficulty of prosecuting John “solely on his own admission,” especially in a matter “so stale.” However, the author of the memorandum ruefully concluded, “The press have got hold of this and I feel that it would be difficult not to take action.”b

  The press “getting hold” of it angered John Bunton. The DPP file includes a letter from him complaining that his statement had obviously been divulged to print reporters and the BBC and that “I was told before making the statement that it would be a private statement”

  Ultimately, that is exactly what the authorities did—nothing. (And the press failed to hold them to account.) While they took their time reaching that decision, John Bunton anxiously awaited word. On July 11, Bunton’s solicitor, Richard Vaughan, sent a letter to the DPP brimming with impatience. The letter noted Bunton’s heretofore clean record and urged that “all proceedings against him be concluded at the earliest possible opportunity” and that “we should be obliged if you would let us know as soon as possible when a decision has been reached upon the reports relating to the painting.”

  Vaughan’s missive apparently spurred action. He received an instant reply, dated July 14, from a DPP official named P. J. Palmes, informing him that a decision would be reached within the next few days. As it happens, the very next day Palmes received Chandler’s report. A little over a week later, in a letter dated July 24, Palmes informed New Scotland Yard that he would not propose prosecuting John Bunton, because “in my view, there is not sufficient evidence that he had the requisite intent of permanently depriving the owners of the painting or the frame at the time of the taking.” The quirk in the larceny law that had spared his father (mostly) also spared John Bunton, although Palmes failed to mention that in saying that there was insufficient evidence of intent to steal the frame, he was implicitly disagreeing with the jury that had convicted Kempton on that count. Palmes added, “I do not propose taking any proceedings for perjury against Kempton Bunton for any apparently false evidence he gave at his trial,” but he offered no explanation for that decision.

  In a terse letter dated July 24, Palmes gave Vaughan the good news: “It is not proposed to take any proceedings against your client John Bunton in respect of the taking of the Goya painting from the National Gallery in 1961.”

  Philosophers and psychologists consider inaction a species of action, but government agencies don’t necessarily see things that way. The government saw no reason to inform the media of the decision not to reopen the Goya case. No press conference was held, no statement released. The media forgot about the matter. Concern about adverse publicity proved unfounded.

  Had the media remained vigilant, it would have learned that the decision not to prosecute stemmed from the nuance of the larceny law and that the authorities in fact believed that John Bunton, not Kempton, had stolen the painting. The winner from the media’s neglect was the government (which wanted no publicity); the loser was anyone concerned with historical accuracy. For several decades, almost everyone assumed that Kempton Bunton was indeed the thief.

  Of course, John Bunton was not completely out of the woods. In his July 24 letter, DPP spokesman Palmes wrote, “As far as the offense respecting the van is concerned, the Director will not be intervening in that case.” Bu
nton’s liability for stealing the van and driving without insurance rested in the hands of the Leeds police. Here again, he proved fortunate. They allowed him to plead guilty and get off with a fine of £200. John Bunton had stolen a valuable painting and two automobiles (the getaway car in 1961 as well as the one that landed him in trouble eight years later) and never served a day in prison.

  His ability to escape punishment reached a rather ridiculous point evocative of O. Henry’s The Cop and the Anthem, in which the protagonist, Soapy, cannot land in jail despite his best efforts. John Bunton had testified at his father’s trial, even as an Identikit of him circulated widely, without being spotted as the Bloxham who had returned the painting. Four years later, even when he confessed to the crime, nothing happened.

  From that point on, John and Kempton, and John’s brothers Kenneth and Tommy, maintained the tightly kept family secret. Pamela Smith, the only other person in on the secret, died in the early 1970s. Kempton died in 1976, his obituary identifying him as the man who had stolen the Goya.

  John Bunton, for his part, went on to live a long and happy life. Like his father, he worked various jobs as a driver (taxi, chauffeur, bus, delivery van, ice cream truck) all over England. That changed when he met his future wife, Irene Richardson, whom he married in 1974. His wife stayed home raising their three children and tending to nine German shepherds (over twenty years), while John worked as a mechanic for twenty years before establishing a household furniture removal business, which he ran until his retirement in 2012.

  Christopher Bunton notes that his father combined an entrepreneurial spirit with impressive mechanical ability: “He would go to auctions monthly to purchase broken typewriters and lawn movers, which he would fix up and sell to supplement his income.” Chris also notes that, during his upbringing, his father was never out of work and never broke the law. (Indeed, John claims never to have broken the law after 1969, and no evidence contradicts him.) John loves boats, and he took his children on several boat trips as well as ferry holidays to Norway, Belgium, Holland, and the Norfolk Broads.

  The son who helped make Kempton Bunton famous became, certainly by comparison to his father, a font of stability and responsibility.

  Chapter 23: A HERO FOR OUR TIME

  If in centuries hence, novelists, dissertation writers, or documentarians want to understand modern times with reference to a single story, they could do worse than study the kidnapping of The Duke of Wellington and its long aftermath. From a police force besieged by cranks and actively seeking assistance from cranks (such as psychics), to a justice system ill equipped to ferret out false confessions and too willing to take the path of least resistance, to a newspaper with an uncanny instinct for self-promotion procuring the purloined painting—from start to finish the caper exhibits features that reflect both the farcical and serious sides of modern times, especially the bit character who thrust himself onto center stage.

  One could see Kempton Bunton as a perfect hero. Unselfishly motivated by a good cause? Check. Willing to take risks for that cause? Check. Eager to protect others? Check. Stoical when caught and punished? Check. An ordinary man who through imagination and daring thrusts himself upon history and becomes a name? Check.

  While his particular cause may seem puny, Kempton Bunton recognized it as a subset of something larger. We can mock the idea that old people need easier access to television, but, as Bunton himself at times insisted, the very smallness of this cause arguably accentuates a larger evil. With the poor in our midst suffering endless deprivations and indignities, must we gratuitously add to their plight by denying them the tiniest daily pleasures and palliatives? And, of course, Bunton’s crimes with respect to The Duke of Wellington were not random acts to raise funds for charity. Rather the immediate trigger was the expenditure of a large amount of money—including the very taxpayers’ dollars that could alleviate pain and poverty—on a single work of art. One needn’t be a philistine to question the priorities of advanced Western societies and lament that the well-to-do have the luxury of valuing ornaments while others struggle for subsistence.

  But, of course, an opposite narrative is equally available. Kempton Bunton was not a historian, a philosopher, or a statesman, and certainly not a connoisseur of art. He lacked any understanding of how masterful works of art can elevate civilization—indeed, how they can even provide insight, however indirectly, into the kinds of social issues he felt so passionately about. His command of history was questionable too. Aside from a few puerile attacks, Bunton never gave the Duke of Wellington much thought, never considered whether a society might need men like him (as icons as well as on the battlefield itself), much less why the world might prosper from masters like Goya. Accordingly, he was not one to appreciate the possibility that a portrait of the duke by Goya might actually have importance. And to the extent Bunton ever asked himself whether a society can afford to accommodate thievery, even by well-meaning crusaders, the answers he received were weak and self-serving. Kempton Bunton a hero? It is just as easy to see him as a man of grandiose plans and fundamental ignorance—a lethal combination. When we add in his outsized, dramatized self-perception, we have the recipe for a tragic buffoon rather than a hero.

  Indeed, there is a strong Falstaffian quality to Kempton Bunton, embracing everything from his name to his girth to his colorful language, his inflated self-image and his comic, antic nature. Through the sheer largeness of his gestures, however weird, Bunton staked out a position on life’s stage, forced us to notice him and even admire his audacity. Falstaff is both heroic and a tragic buffoon. Might we say the same thing about Kempton Bunton?

  Perhaps, but the more one learns about the man, the more one recoils as well. A combination of three traits creates serious uneasiness about Bunton. First, zealotry. It is one thing to attach oneself to a cause, quite another to be so consumed by the cause that one loses all perspective. Let us posit that old people should be allowed to watch television or, more broadly, that more should be done to assist the plight of the poor—not just in England circa 1960 but in most places at most times. Let us even posit for the sake of argument that governments should spend little on the arts, or at least should prioritize them less than assisting the poor. Let us go one step further and posit that the BBC licensing fee was foolish, even cruel. And to complete the circle, let us assume that the government should not have spent a substantial sum to keep Goya’s Portrait of the Duke of Wellington in England. (The painting ending up in the United States would hardly have amounted to cosmic injustice.) Even if we posit all that, Kempton Bunton’s reaction was overwrought.

  By any measurement, stealing the painting and attempting to ransom it off was sheer folly. Moreover, anyone could see as much except someone so blinded by his cause as to ignore all competing considerations, not to mention all rational calculations of means and ends. Such zealotry became all too common in the twentieth century. We’ve witnessed more than a few people (first Japanese pilots, then Middle Eastern terrorists) who have forfeited their own lives to inflict maximum suffering. Small-time zealots like Kempton Bunton cause infinitely less harm, but to the extent they are driven by excessive attachment to an idea, they reflect the same temperamental flaw, a destructively passionate intensity.

  Bunton also exhibited a second dubious trait that even more directly ties to the Zeitgeist: his lust for the limelight. Andy Warhol is often quoted as predicting a world in which everyone would enjoy fifteen minutes of fame. In the program accompanying an exhibition of his work in Sweden in 1968, Warhol did proclaim, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” It appears that Warhol was drawing on a discussion he had had two years earlier (1966, the year after Kempton Bunton turned himself in) with the accomplished American photographer Nat Finkelstein. At least according to Finkelstein, Warhol remarked to him that “everyone wants to be famous,” and Finkelstein replied, “Yeah, for about fifteen minutes, Andy.”

  Regardless of who gets credit for the sentiment, it pr
oved prophetic—increasingly so in the world of social media to emerge in the twenty-first century. Almost anyone reasonably resourceful and perseverant can achieve a brief appearance in the limelight, often for something trivial and transient. Because even fleeting flame can be alluring, the daily fare of social media and cyberspace more broadly includes a fair amount of craziness (not to mention dishonesty and malice). Increasingly, the talented and talentless alike exploit technology and play to our society’s collective weakness for real and contrived thrills and diversion. The man who brought New York to a standstill by walking across a tightrope connecting the World Trade Center towers in 1974 is the subject of several books and documentaries. Just a decade earlier, Kempton Bunton exploited the same aesthetic weakness. It is hard to imagine a better instance of Everyman making himself Somebody and briefly commanding the stage. Zealotry combined with that instinct for fifteen minutes of fame—does that not make Kempton Bunton the quintessential man for (or slightly ahead of) our time?