Death at Blenheim Palace

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“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.

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