by Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace
( Sir Charles Sheridan - 11 )
Robin Paige
Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, 8 May, 1903 Ashmolean Museum, Oxford
The Ashmolean Museum, the oldest public museum in Britain, houses the University of Oxford’s unrivaled collection of art and antiquities from Europe, the Middle East, and Asia.
The Ashmolean Museum, Arthur MacGregor
“Oh, sir!” the boy cried excitedly, as John Buttersworth stepped into the conservation laboratory in the basement of the Ashmolean. “The shipment from Crete has arrived at last! Shall we open it, sir?”
Buttersworth regarded the large wooden crate in the middle of the floor. He did not mind the administrative routine of his post as Curator of Classical Collections, and he particularly enjoyed the business of setting up exhibits, such as the display of items from the Knossos excavation, scheduled to open next week. But the happiest moments in his life came when he could indulge his heart’s true passion: holding and fondling the objects themselves, each one with its own beauty, its own history, its own secret story. Ah, yes, the shipment from Crete. He rubbed his hands together.
“Well, then, my boy,” he exclaimed. “By all means, let’s have a go at it!”
Ned Lawrence fetched a long screwdriver and a hammer so ancient that it might have been mislaid from a Roman collection, and eagerly attacked the crate. Buttersworth stood to one side, admiring the deft way the boy handled the tools. Robust and sturdy, young Lawrence had the maturity and discipline of someone much older, and he stood out from all the other Oxford lads who hung about the museum, professing an interest in antiquities and begging to go on the local digs. He was a great favorite among the staff, all of whom felt that, as an archaeologist, he had the stuff in him to go far.
In a few moments, Ned had the lid up and off. Inside, packed in clean straw, were a number of smaller crates, with a large envelope on top. Buttersworth opened the envelope, removed a typed inventory, and began to compare the numbers with those stamped on the small crates that Ned lifted out and stacked to one side. There were nearly a dozen of them.
Buttersworth took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them on his pocket-handkerchief. “Let’s start with this one,” he said, nodding at the top crate. “It should contain a five-inch Roman green glass pitcher.”
Ned placed the small crate on the bench and applied the hammer and screwdriver until the top came loose. Buttersworth pushed the straw aside and carefully lifted out a small blown-glass pitcher. Turning it in his hands, he gave an involuntary sigh of purely sensual pleasure. The piece was exquisite, the shape round and voluptuous, the design delicate and skillfully executed. Originally, the glass had been a translucent green, but after nearly two millennia in an alkaline soil, it had taken on a metallic irridescence. The surface was a dancing rainbow of yellows, reds, and blues.
Ned seemed to be holding his breath, his eyes fixed on the pitcher. For a moment, neither spoke as Buttersworth held it up and turned it slowly, so that it caught and reflected the light.
“It’s perfect,” Ned said at last, reverentially. “Who owned it, I wonder-and what happened to him?” He paused, wrinkling his forehead. “No, it would have belonged to a woman, wouldn’t it? I wonder how she got it. What did she think of it? Did she admire it because it was so beautiful? Or was it just something to hold-what? Wine? Water?”
Buttersworth smiled. This was what he liked most about young Lawrence: his desire, rare in one so young, to know the unknowable, to ask questions and imagine answers. If he were really determined to become an archaeologist, this desire of his was essential, for the quest for answers was what drove men of Buttersworth’s profession. The need to know the who, what, how, and why of these ancient objects-some with their own intrinsic aesthetic value, others plain and insignificant-looking, still others monstrous and ugly, yet beautiful in their ugliness. The need to understand, to unearth, to investigate, to analyze, and, above all, to appreciate, to feel.
Buttersworth beamed at his protege. “Good questions, lad. But there is another also to be answered.” He set the pitcher safely on the shelf and stepped back. “The real question is how such a fragile object managed to survive all the forces that have been set against it throughout the centuries. And not just natural forces, either. There have been vandals in every age, and Philistines who wouldn’t recognize the value of a piece like this beyond the price it would bring.” He rubbed his hands again. “Now, let us see what other treasures we have been sent.”
They had just completed the inventory when a bell rang, signaling that Buttersworth was wanted in the reception area. Still engrossed with the objects, Buttersworth sent Ned off to find out what was needed. Some moments later, he was back. He closed the door behind him and spoke in a low voice.
“There’s a lady in the hallway, sir. She refuses to wait upstairs. She insists on speaking to you privately.”
Intent on a rose-colored glass ampulla from the first century, Buttersworth spoke absently. “A lady, eh? What does she want?”
Ned frowned. “Wouldn’t give her name or state her business. She might be a patron, but-” He shrugged.
Buttersworth put down the perfume bottle with an inward sigh. Maintaining cordial relations with wealthy benefactresses was one of his duties, but certainly not his favorite. He was much better with objects-the older the better, of course-than with people, and he was never at his best with women, who often wanted to complain about something or other, usually something inconsequential.
“Well, I suppose I must,” he said, resigned. “Show her in, Ned. And I should like you to go upstairs and ask Mr. Gilkes for the catalogue of Roman glass in storage. There are one or two objects I want to compare.”
With a show of exaggerated formality, Ned opened the door and bowed the lady in. She was modestly dressed in a dark walking suit, dark gloves, and a blue straw hat with an unassuming silk bow. Her face was swathed in a dark blue veil, but through its folds, Buttersworth could see that it was quite striking. The nose, especially-classic, very like the nose on a piece of ancient Greek statuary. And the eyes, blue and set wide apart. He did not know her-had he ever seen her, he would surely not have forgotten that stunning Grecian profile-and from her unpretentious dress, he judged that she was not one of the museum’s patronesses, those elegant ladies who swept in with an air of ostentatious wealth and offered him their hands as if they owned the place.
She did not offer her hand. “You are John Buttersworth?” Her voice was low, pleasant, cultured. A lady’s secretary, perhaps.
“I am.” Buttersworth cleared his throat. “How may I be of service, madam?”
“I understand that you are the Ashmolean’s expert on classical antiquities.”
Buttersworth inclined his head. “I have that honor.”
“Very well, then. My employer has asked me to bring these items to you. She would like your opinion of their value.” The veiled woman produced a brown leather pouch from her purse and placed it on the table.
Their value? Buttersworth was momentarily amused. The Ashmolean was not a pawnshop. But the woman might be acting as an agent for a potential donor. There would certainly be no harm in having a look. He loosened the drawstring and emptied five small objects onto the table, each one tidily wrapped in tissue paper. He chose one, undid the tissue, and held in his hand the effigy of a large beetle, covered with a turquoise glaze.
Surprised, he reached into his pocket for his jeweler’s loupe, pushed his spectacles onto his forehead, and put the loupe in his left eye. Squinting, he examined the beetle’s underside, which was engraved w
ith intaglio hieroglyphics. The piece was a seal, the hieroglyphics mirror images of the impressions they would make in wax or clay. An Egyptian scarab, Eighteenth Dynasty, he thought. A pretty piece of faience, of the sort that often turned up in the Cairo bazaars.
“Mmm,” he said.
The woman said nothing.
The second item proved to be a small polished stone of a smoky color, with three rectangular faces, the ends cut as triangles. The rectangles were covered with intaglio designs. Buttersworth’s pulse quickened. It was a Minoan prism seal from Crete, Bronze Age, perhaps fifteenth century B.C. It was rare, quite rare, and very beautiful.
With growing excitement, he unwrapped the remaining three pieces and held them in the palm of his hand. They had the polished sheen of semiprecious gems, and each bore intaglio engravings. He recognized them as Hellenistic seal-stones, the red cornelian, the green olivine, the blue chalcedony. Fine pieces, very fine indeed, and Buttersworth felt an intense stirring of desire, of the sort that some men felt for beautiful women. He should certainly be pleased-more than that, he should be thrilled-to have them in the Ashmolean’s collection.
He repocketed his jeweler’s loupe, replaced his spectacles, and managed to refocus his attention from the specimens to the woman-now, with more than a little curiosity. These stones did not have the look of a casual collection. Their appearance in a group suggested that the person who assembled them had possessed a well-trained eye, the patience of an experienced collector, and rather a lot of money.
Buttersworth felt a flutter of unease. He had learned to be careful when it came to business of this sort. One of his jobs was to protect the museum from any threat of scandal, a task that he had recently to undertake. “How did you say your mistress came by these?” he asked tentatively.
“I did not say.” If the woman found the question offensive, she did not reveal it. Behind her veil, her expression was unperturbed.
“Do you know if she has similar pieces?”
She gave a slight smile. “Perhaps,” she said, in a tone of ambiguous promise. “I cannot be sure, but I think it likely.”
So there were others! Buttersworth almost stammered in his eagerness: “And… and it is her intention to… to sell them?”
But of course one had to be careful, oh, yes, indeed, very careful. The museum had all too many critics these days. One had to be absolutely certain that any acquisition was appropriately documented and came without even a whisper of illegitimacy. Even as he reminded himself of this, however, Buttersworth was mentally reviewing the possible sources of funds by which the Ashmolean might acquire these pieces, and the others-oh, yes, the others, certainly-before they vanished into the greedy hands of a private collector, as had the Marlborough Gemstones some thirty years before. The Ashmolean had wanted desperately to acquire that marvelous collection when the seventh duke sold them, but had unfortunately lacked the funds. Christie’s had knocked them down to thirty-five thousand guineas.
At the thought of the Marlborough Gemstones, Buttersworth’s fluttering uneasiness began to take on a more solid form, and he frowned. Was it possible that these gemstones were He reached for the Minoan prism seal to have another look, but the woman was already rewrapping the pieces and replacing them carefully in the leather pouch.
“I cannot speak to my employer’s future intentions,” she said. “But I assume from your look of interest that these items are of some value. I was asked to inquire how much they are worth.”
“I am unable to say exactly,” Buttersworth replied warily. “The individual items would be worth more as part of a collection, the value of which of course depends upon its breadth and scope. However, you may tell your employer that if she wishes to dispose of them, the museum might be willing to make an offer.”
Might be willing? John Buttersworth almost betrayed himself with a guilty chuckle. He would give his eyeteeth to have those seal-stones.
“Thank you.” The woman put the pouch into her purse. “I shall report your interest to the Duchess. That is, to my employer.” She bit her lip in sudden vexation at the slip of tongue that gave too much away. Coloring, obviously flustered, she raised her chin. “Good day, sir.”
Buttersworth stared at the closed door. The Duchess. The woman could only have been speaking of the Duchess of Marlborough, whose residence, Blenheim Palace, was not above seven miles away. And then a thought struck him, a thought of such enormity that it fairly took his breath away. Perhaps the entire collection of Marlborough Gemstones had not been auctioned, as was thought! Perhaps there were others. Perhaps He frowned. But why should it be the Duchess of Marlborough who was making this inquiry, when the gems-if these were indeed part of the original collection-had belonged to the family of the Duke? And how would the Duke respond if he were to discover at some later date that the Duchess, unauthorized, had sold his family heirlooms? Given what he knew about the Duke’s efforts to reestablish the Marlborough treasures after the reprehensible spoiliations of his father and grandfather, he doubted if the response would be favorable.
Upon reflection, John Buttersworth began to feel that the Ashmolean might not be so anxious, after all, to possess those classical gems.
CHAPTER TWO
Friday, 8 May Blenheim Palace
Some respectable looking young women, in the service of middle-class and fashionable families, are connected with burglars and have been recommended to their places through their influence.
London Labour and the London Poor (1861), Henry Mayhew
Kitty had finally learnt to make her way about the great house without getting lost.
When she first came into service at Blenheim some three months before, she could go about only in the company of one of the other housemaids, and she was frequently turned around. The Duke’s house-the palace, everybody called it, which in Kitty’s opinion it certainly was, being an awfully grand place, filled with enormous paintings and all sorts of ornaments on the walls and shelves-was a confusing labyrinth of corridors and rooms, and rooms inside of rooms. She so often found herself turned around when she went out of one and into another that it was like riding on a merry-go-round, and when you got off, you were dizzy and had not an idea in your silly head where you were.
Kitty, of course, was not new to service, although she did not intend to make it her life’s work. She had been employed in several great houses-not very long in any, to be sure, but long enough to get a good character and not call attention to her departure-and Blenheim Palace was like most of the others, except in one important regard. It was seriously understaffed. Even Mrs. Raleigh, the head housekeeper, had admitted the difficulty, when Kitty, during her interview, expressed some surprise that there were only ten housemaids. Ten!
“Why, at Welbeck Abbey,” she had said, nodding at the letter of character signed by the Duchess of Portland’s housekeeper, “we had fourteen housemaids, and the house was ever so much smaller than… this.” The words this monstrosity had been on the tip of her tongue, but she thought it better to keep her opinion to herself. Still and all, why anybody should actually want to live in such a place was beyond her imagining.
“The family is small,” Mrs. Raleigh said in a conciliatory tone, “just the Duke and Duchess and their two little boys. And of course we always bring in help from the village when we have a large number of guests.” She brushed back an escaped wisp of sparse, graying hair. Quite an elderly, frail-looking woman she was, Kitty thought, to have charge of such a large house, especially without the staff to keep it proper.
Mrs. Raleigh was continuing in a sniffy tone. “All the housemaids gladly share the work. I feel sure that you will not find your duties exceedingly arduous.”
Kitty suppressed a laugh. She knew exactly what “gladly share the work” meant, and what the duties would be, especially with only ten pairs of hands-ten! — to share the labor. She knew, too, that it was getting much harder to find experienced housemaids these days, what with girls wanting to work in factories, or running
off to the cities to make something of themselves. She had no fear that her application would be rejected, even though she had asked for the top wage: twenty-two pounds a year, to be paid monthly.
She was right. She was hired on the spot, and she pretended not to notice Mrs. Raleigh’s vast sigh of relief when she said that she was available to begin her duties the next day.
Like the other country houses in which Kitty had been employed, Blenheim had its own order of duties. If she wanted to get along in her work, the first thing she had to do was to learn the house’s schedule, its rules, who was responsible for what, and where people were supposed to be at any given time. It also helped, of course, to know who really had the authority, which was not always as immediately obvious as it might seem from the Order of Duties posted in the housemaids’ sitting room.
The first candle of the day was lit at six A.M. in Housemaids Heights, the southeast tower where the housemaids, kitchen maids, laundresses, and stillroom maids slept, two together in small rooms as bare as cells in a nunnery. Kitty shared her cell with Ruth, a tidy, earnest young woman whose family lived in nearby Woodstock, with whom she had quickly struck up a friendship. It was particularly useful, Kitty had found, to have a friend who was well-acquainted with the local village.
Combed and pinned and aproned, the ten housemaids made their way downstairs for two hours of morning chores-opening draperies, sweeping carpets with wet tea leaves to absorb the dust, dusting furniture, polishing brasses, lighting fires in bedrooms and dressing rooms and seeing that the coal-scuttles were properly filled, and carrying brass jugs of hot water to ladies and gentlemen-all this before assembling for breakfast in the servants’ hall, where the daily dish of above-stairs gossip was served up together with hot tea, cold meat pie, and a great deal of teasing and practical jokery among the porters and hall boys and pages and odd men (the men who did all the odd jobs). The six footmen took their breakfasts and other meals in the butler’s pantry, so Kitty did not often see Alfred, the chap who had been at Carleton House and Welbeck Abbey with her. Which was just as well, she told herself, for she regretted having encouraged his attentions-not because she hadn’t enjoyed them, but because one shouldn’t mix business and pleasure. And also because having once encouraged him, she couldn’t seem to discourage him. Now he was writing notes to her, foolish little love notes, which was dangerous. In some households, it could mean that both of them would be sacked.