Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR ROBIN PAIGE’S MYSTERIES
“For those who take their mysteries with dashes of period drama,
Death in Hyde Park
should be on their list of must-reads.” —
Booksreviewindex.com
“Gypsy prophecies, sing-a-longs at the pub, a possible ghost or two: There’s something for everyone. And if you don’t fall in love with Glamis Castle, you haven’t a wee dram o’ romance in your soul.”—
Kirkus Reviews
“Enough danger and intrigue to keep readers turning the pages, which are filled with vivid historical detail.”
—
Booklist
“I read it with enjoyment . . . I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”
—Anne Perry
“Wonderfully gothic . . . A bright and lively re-creation of late-Victorian society.”—Sharan Newman
“Robin Paige’s detectives do for turn-of-the-century technology and detection what Elizabeth Peters’s Peabody and Emerson have done for Victorian Egyptology.”
—
Gothic Journal
“An original and intelligent sleuth . . . a vivid re-creation of Victorian England.”—Jean Hager, author of
Blooming Murder
The Victorian Mysteries by Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
Beatrix Potter Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors
Copyright © 2005 by Susan Wittig Albert and Bill Albert.
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eISBN : 978-0-425-20237-1
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CAST OF CHARACTERS * Indicates historical persons
Blenheim Palace: Residents and Visitors
*Charles Richard John Spencer-Churchill (Sunny),
the ninth Duke of Marlborough and master of Blenheim Palace
*Consuelo Vanderbilt Spencer-Churchill,
the twelfth Duchess of Marlborough and mistress of Blenheim Palace
Charles, Lord Sheridan,
Baron Somersworth and amateur forensic detective
Lady Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan,
aka Beryl Bardwell, author of a number of popular novels
*Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill,
son of Randolph and Jennie Churchill, first cousin to the Duke, and Member of Parliament
*Gladys Deacon,
unconventional American beauty who dazzled European society in the early 1900s, the Duke’s lover
Lord Henry Northcote (Botsy),
Miss Deacon’s suitor
Blenheim Staff
Mr. Stevens,
butler
Alfred,
footman
Mrs. Raleigh,
housekeeper
Kitty, Ruth, Bess,
housemaids
Mr. Meloy,
estate agent
Badger,
fishery manager
Woodstock Residents and Visitors
Bulls-eye
Dawkins
Ashmolean Museum Staff
John Buttersworth,
Curator of Classical Antiquities
*T. E. Lawrence (Ned),
museum volunteer, amateur antiquarian, later the legendary Lawrence of Arabia
We shape our dwellings, and afterwards our dwellings shape us.
—Sir Winston Churchill
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?”