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.
Buttersworth fluttered a hand. “Oh, no. At least, not here at the museum, I’m glad to say. It’s only that-” He broke off, obviously troubled. “But perhaps I shouldn’t mention it. It is only speculation, after all. My suspicions, if that’s what they are, are probably quite unfounded.”
Charles waited, feeling that there was more here than the man wanted to say-more, perhaps, than he wanted to hear.
“On the other hand,” Buttersworth went on after a moment, “since you are staying with the Marlboroughs, perhaps I ought to-” He looked in both directions up and down the hall, then lowered his voice. “I was visited by a rather remarkable woman on Friday, you see.” He paused.
“Remarkable in what way?” Charles asked.
“Well, her appearance, for one thing. Her nose, quite classical, exactly like that of Sappho, whose bust we have in our collection.” Buttersworth seemed to reflect on this phenomenon for a moment.
“And this remarkable woman-” Charles prompted.
Buttersworth started. “Ah, yes. Well, she claimed to represent her employer. Wanted my opinion on several antique pieces.”
Charles smiled. “I shouldn’t think such a request would be all that unusual, in your line of work.”
“It was not the request, it was the items themselves. One was a rather ordinary scarab seal-people are always fetching those things home from holiday in Egypt. But she also had a Minoan prism seal and three very fine Greek seal stones, and she suggested that there were more.”
Charles tipped his head to one side, remembering Dreighson’s story-when the truth had finally been forced out of the man-of being visited by a woman who had sold him an earring. “I see,” he said. “I suppose you thought of the Dreighson affair.”
“I did,” Buttersworth said ruefully. “But I was also reminded of the Marlborough collection. The Marlborough Gemstones.” He paused. “I suppose you know of them.”
“Ah, yes,” Charles said reflectively. “A large assemblage of very fine gemstones-more than seven hundred, as I recall-gathered at enormous expense by the fourth duke. And sold by the seventh duke, who needed the money to keep the palace going.” He smiled crookedly. “Alas, they went for just thirty-five thousand guineas, although they were said to have been worth twice that.”
Buttersworth cleared his throat. “But there’s something else, you see,” he said, distinctly uneasy. “The woman who brought the stones-she let it slip that she had been sent by the Duchess.”
“The Duchess?” Charles repeated with a chuckle. “Come now, Buttersworth. You can’t be serious.”
“I know,” Buttersworth said gloomily. “Well, of course it could only be the Duchess of Marlborough. And I wondered, you see… Of course, it was just a thought, but I couldn’t help asking myself whether some of the gemstones might have escaped the auction block, after all, and were now being offered for sale, clandestinely. Although I must say,” he added quickly, “that it does seem rather strange. The Duchess was Consuelo Vanderbilt before she married the Duke, as you know. The Marlboroughs’ pockets are said to be empty, but I doubt that a Vanderbilt would need money. Or, if she did, that she would stoop to sell the Duke’s family jewels.”
Buttersworth’s story, Charles thought, was highly unsettling, and not because the Duchess would be involved in anything underhanded. “There may be a scheme afoot that doesn’t involve the Marlboroughs,” he said, thinking of the Dreighson affair. “A plot of which the Duke and Duchess know nothing.”
“It’s possible,” Buttersworth agreed. He gave Charles an anxious look. “You’ll keep it in mind while you’re there?”
“I shall,” Charles said. “I shall indeed.”
Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace
CHAPTER FOUR
