Robin Paige: Death at Blenheim Palace

The Hoard-a dozen major pieces of fine jewelry and tableware, perhaps the most exciting cache of Celtic gold and silverwork ever unearthed in England. It had been one of the Ashmolean’s most popular exhibits until some six months before, when the museum had abruptly closed it-for cleaning and conservation, officials said. The truth was that the Hoard had been stolen. Suspicion had fallen on a recently hired char woman, who, it appeared, possessed a remarkable talent as a screwsman (or in this case, a screws-woman) and had made copies of all the necessary keys. Charles Sheridan, known to his friends and associates as an amateur sleuth of some reputation, had been instrumental in the Hoard’s recovery. He felt he could hardly claim any credit in the business, however, since his involvement had been entirely fortuitous.

It was an interesting story. Mr. Rupert Dreighson of Castlegate Hall, some fifteen miles from Oxford, had retired from a profitable career as the owner of a string of drapers’ shops in Liverpool and Manchester and, now that he could afford such things, had become an enthusiastic collector of Celtic antiquities. In his passionate search for treasures to add to his collection, Mr. Dreighson had suggested to antiquities dealers that if a hoard should happen to turn up, he would be willing to pay a handsome price for it. Of course, everyone knew that such a transaction would have to take place on the wrong side of the law, for one who dug up a cache of gold and silver objects was required to turn over everything to the Crown. But these days there were a great many collectors who possessed more money than scruples, and the legalities were frequently disregarded.

In the event, Mr. Dreighson was delighted when an unknown lady-a well-bred woman of quiet demeanor and modest dress-called upon him at Castlegate Hall one day and offered to sell him an antique golden earring, with the suggestion that if he were interested, several similar pieces might be available, the price to be negotiated. The earring’s workmanship being quite extraordinary and Dreighson, being confident that it was without a doubt the real thing, handed over the money without demur, expressing an enthusiastic interest in the remainder of the collection.

Within a few days, he received a letter describing the pieces in detail and quoting a price for the whole. While the amount was high enough to raise Dreighson’s eyebrows, he was not the sort of man to quibble when it came to something he wanted as badly as he wanted this. Arrangements were made, the required amount was deposited, in cash, in the designated London bank, and the collection-a dozen pieces of great beauty and rarity-was safely settled in Dreighson’s capacious private vault.

And there it might have safely remained, if Rupert Dreighson had not been a braggart. He could not resist the temptation of showing off his newly acquired treasures to a friend from London, who had come for a weekend’s fishing to Castlegate Hall. A few days later, the friend happened to bump into Lord Charles Sheridan, and casually mentioned that a chap in Oxfordshire had privately got his hands on something rather remarkable, which-dash it all-had not come up for auction so others might’ve had a go at it. Charles, who had heard a whisper of rumor about the Warrington Hoard going missing, made a discreet inquiry at the Ashmolean, and Buttersworth was forced to admit the theft.

The next bit of business proved surprisingly easy. Under the guise of having a gold Celtic bracelet to sell, Charles arranged an introduction to Mr. Dreighson and talked his way into the Castlegate vault. Then, armed with the Ashmolean’s catalog and documentary photographs of the Warrington Hoard, he confronted Dreighson, who gave him a cock-and-bull story about buying the lot from a pair of navvies who had turned it up while digging a drain in a field in Essex. But the story soon fell apart and the truth about the clandestine purchase emerged.

Dreighson, of course, claimed that he had not had an idea in the world that the pieces were stolen property, that he had purchased them fair and square, and that they were his. But a visit from the museum’s solicitor persuaded him of the wisdom of returning the items in exchange for the addition of his name to the patron’s list-a distinction that would polish Mr. Dreighson’s prestige quite brightly indeed, and allow him to shine like a star among all the other retired drapers in the kingdom.

The Ashmolean, of course, was overjoyed at having regained the Hoard without having to admit publically that it had been lost. But Charles did not share in the general pleasure, for while the stolen property had been returned, the thieves were still at large. As was to be expected, inquiries at the bank turned up nothing; the account had been opened under the unrevealing name of George Smith and closed immediately upon the withdrawal of the money. The postal address also yielded no clues. What troubled Charles most was the apprehension that this theft might be just one of several. He had recently heard, for instance, of a theft at the Duke of Portland’s establishment in Nottinghamshire, which could only have been carried out by a ring of clever thieves, some of them working as servants.

“By the way,” Charles said, looking around, “I haven’t seen Ned Lawrence today-your young helper. Does he still come to the museum?”

Charles had met young Lawrence during his dealings over the Hoard and had been impressed with the boy’s knowledge of the local archaeological sites and his passion for exploring. Since Charles planned to be near Oxford for a few days-he and Kate, his wife, were staying with the Marlboroughs at Blenheim-he thought he might drive the Panhard to Chipping Norton for a look at the Rollright Stones, a Neolithic stone circle which, in Charles’s view, held every bit as much interest as the more famous Stonehenge. Young Lawrence might like to come along.

“Ned?” Buttersworth asked. “Oh, yes, I wouldn’t part with the boy-although I’d be glad to lend him to you, if there’s something you want him to do.” He smiled. “He’d be delighted to lend you a hand, you know, if you had another investigation. He was enormously impressed with the way you handled that business with Dreighson.”

Charles chuckled. “I know. He offered to come on as my assistant-without pay. Watson to my Holmes, he said. Very keen.”

“That’s Ned,” Buttersworth said, amused. “Like most boys his age, he loves adventure. Too much Stevenson, I’m afraid. He’d sail off to Treasure Island in a minute. However, he’s far above other boys in his competence and his range of interests.” He smiled. “Why, he reads the newspaper’s police reports as religiously as he reads his lessons.” His smile faded. “Something of a sad story, though, and rather a mystery. His family, that is.”

“Oh?” Charles asked.

“His father is an Irish gentleman of some consequence named-” He stopped, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “On second thought, perhaps Ned would rather tell you himself, if the opportunity arises. Were you thinking of taking him out with you?”

“I was,” Charles said, “if he can be spared. My wife and I are staying with the Marlboroughs, so I’ll be in the area for a few days.”

Buttersworth seemed to hesitate. “With the Marlboroughs, you say. At Blenheim, I take it.”

Charles nodded. “I’d like Ned to see the Rollright Stones, if he’s not been there already. I want to encourage his interest in archaeology-although I suppose he’ll be disappointed to hear that I don’t have a case he can help investigate.”

“Oh, by all means, take him with you,” Buttersworth said. Behind his glasses, his eyes became more intent. “But speaking of cases-”

“There’s not been another theft, I hope,” Charles said warily.