One of the benefits of working in old buildings is that they often conceal secrets that are just waiting to be discovered. Before joining the V&A, I used to work at St Paul’s Cathedral, one of the world’s most iconic buildings and filled with glorious art. In the Cathedral’s crypt, I found a fascinating object displayed under a glass – a workman’s cap from the 17th century, which someone had found in the roof space in 1928. The cap was a hugely personal object and reminded me that hundreds of years ago a real, living person had helped build or looked after the very same building that I was now restoring. It wasn’t long before I was making interesting discoveries myself that would give me further clues about the people who had built the place. When I was working high up on a scaffolding, far away from anyone’s view, I found signs and symbols on the stonework left by ancient stonemasons. However, my most interesting discovery happened while repairing the pointing on the masonry. Tucked between the blocks of stones, I found huge amount of ancient oyster shells. I was told that oysters and beer were a common diet in 17th century London and the stonemasons had found a good use for their leftover lunch by inserting the shells with mortar into the gaps between the stones, although there may also be a technical reason why the addition of shells is a good idea. I must confess that these tangible discoveries brought me closer to the real 17th century craftsmen and draughtsmen than any of their creations.
The V&A may not be as old as St Paul’s Cathedral, but it is certainly a great treasure trove for someone who is interested in finding mysterious bits of evidence left by people from the past. Every so often, my colleagues and I stumble on the most peculiar items hidden inside some of the objects we work on.
These discoveries are similar to the ‘time capsules’ I found at St Paul’s and they take us into different periods in the museum’s past. They may be signatures or scribbles usually written somewhere on the supports at the backs of objects or inside pedestals by the people who built them. Or they may be items that have been lost or deliberately stashed inside a monument during its creation. Nevertheless, what links these finds is that they were left by those unknown or long-forgotten people who worked in the museum long time ago, the craftsmen who looked after the building and its contents and constructed the monuments and mounts that support them. For us, the conservators and technicians, it is hugely exciting to find traces of our predecessors, as we are often unable to find record of them in our files. This is because it was fairly uncommon, until recent years, to record treatments or write down the names of the craftsmen who looked after the objects. It is interesting that these people knew that they would be forgotten and therefore they secretly hid reminders of their existence, in a hope that one day someone would discover them. Subsequently, as we have been working on major renovation projects in many of the museum’s galleries, we have been slowly able to discover these hidden treasures – insights in to a pocket of life that existed before any of us got here.
Discoveries made in the British Sculpture Galleries and the Medieval and Renaissance galleries
Between 2005 and 2009 we worked on two large parallel projects creating the Dorothy and Michael Hintze Galleries and the Medieval and Renaissance galleries. We were required to transfer large monuments and other sculptural objects from various gallery spaces in order to display them in a more suitable areas and arrangements as part of the Museum’s Future Plan. We dismantled numerous large monuments and rebuilt them in the newly refurbished gallery spaces. As you can imagine, this was an extremely complicated and laborious task and took years to accomplish. However, despite the heavy work it was hugely interesting to learn how the monuments had been constructed in the past.
As we were taking apart some of the larger monuments, we occasionally discovered interesting articles at the back of them. Amongst the mix of cement, mortar and odd bits of chicken wire, we occasionally found old newspapers tucked amongst the rubble. These newspapers and materials gave us clues about the dates that different galleries had been installed in the past.
We discovered that a major refurbishment in the present Dorothy and Michael Hintze Galleries could be dated to the late forties thanks to a note that we found, which was signed by the mason Mr O Barnes and the craftsman Mr Ellis on 27th May 1948. The note was found behind the Misericordia relief which was attached to the brick wall in several sections with cement, plaster, hessian and loose bricks. The object is displayed today in the Paul and Jill Ruddock gallery adjacent to the main entrance.
We found that monuments that had been installed in the 1960s had vast amounts of cement, which seems then to have been a popular material to use. As we were carefully trying to release the monuments from their cement and brick backings we occasionally found interesting bits of debris tucked inside. While we were taking apart a 17th century alabaster and marble tomb monument dedicated to Sir Moyle and his wife Lady Elizabeth Finch, deep inside the structure we discovered, among the debris of old cigarette stubs, cigarette papers and sweet wrappers a message in a bottle.
The message was an old time sheet, which had been scrolled inside a bottle of Pepsi. The piece of paper did not say how much the person would have had earned, but it gave us valuable information about the the company that had been commissioned to install the monument. The sheet was signed by Mr Grealish who had been employed by J. Whitehead & Sons. Ltd who were based in Kennington, Oval. Curious to learn more about the company I found a mention of them on a website called Mapping the Practise and Profession of Sculpture in Britain and Ireland 1851-1951. Apparently J. Whitehead & Sons. Ltd were a multi-generational firm of funerary sculptors, undertakers and marble merchants who specialised in a variety of services including Church restorations. The company was active from 1880 until 1985.
We also found an old torn up bag of mortar and rendering mix, which gave us useful information about the material the brick core was constructed with.
What did we do with all this material?
As we were bringing more and more of these wonderful items in our studio we had to sort out a place to store them. We took photographic record of the finds, filed the most significant items in our conservation records and placed some off the items back inside the monuments.
In my next post I’ll tell you about more interesting finds including a secret parcel.
Very interesting piece . Now waiting to learn about secret parcel!
Jut loved reading this! Thank you for sharing your experiences. I wish I could say that I had worked at such significant and wonderful places – you’re very fortunate :)
I hope that you left your own notes as you reconstructed the monuments! But I’ll understand if you don’t tell us.
According to me this post is really valuable post which change your views.
I am the John Joe who wrote the message in the bottle. I think I would been aged 9 or 10 so this would be 1968/9? My dad James Grealish was a marble mason and worked for Whiteheads from about 1948 until he retired. Memories are a bit vague but I used to accompany my dad a few times when he worked the odd Saturday, normally to museums/churches. The main highlight would be visiting the museum cafe and perhaps getting a Pepsi 😀
This is such a cool perspective! It makes me think about how history isn’t just in the big artifacts, but also in the everyday things people left behind. I actually found a similar vibe when exploring different voice options on Choicer Voicer; it’s like uncovering hidden gems from different eras. Makes you wonder what stories these old buildings and objects could tell if they could talk.
It’s incredible how ordinary debris left behind by workers can turn into such intimate historical artifacts centuries later. I often think about how much history is hidden just out of sight, whether it’s tucked behind centuries-old masonry or buried beneath the turf of an historic nine-hole golf course that has seen generations come and go. Finding those oyster shells must have made the daily lives of those stonemasons feel remarkably immediate and human.
I like the idea of finding unexpected things hidden inside old buildings and everyday objects. Small discoveries like that can tell you a lot about how a place was used and what life was like at the time. It also makes you look at https://thechoicervoicergames.com museum collections differently, because there can be a whole story behind something that seems ordinary at first.
What a lovely reminder that buildings hold these intimate traces of the people who made them — that workman’s cap under glass really stuck with me. I’ve had a similar thrill on a much smaller scale, turning old family photos into huge halftone wall pieces with a multi-page poster generator, and suddenly noticing tiny details in the background that I’d never seen before. It makes you wonder how much of any image, or any building, we simply walk past without really looking.
What a lovely reminder that buildings hold these tiny human traces—that workman’s cap and the stonemasons’ marks really stuck with me. I’ve had a similar fascination with the hidden layers inside objects, which is partly why I built a tool to print large images across multiple pages, so you can zoom into details like that oyster shell or faded wall markings at poster scale. Do you ever find that conserving these finds tells you more about the people than the finished building itself?
What a lovely reminder that objects carry the fingerprints of real people—that workman’s cap and the stonemasons’ marks give me the same feeling as finding an old inscription. I spend a lot of time thinking about the traces we leave behind, though in my case it’s the digital kind: hidden EXIF, GPS, and AI metadata embedded in photos. It’s a different sort of time capsule, but if you ever want to see what your own images are quietly revealing, I use an image metadata inspection tool that makes those invisible layers visible before deciding what to keep.
What a lovely reminder that the most human stories are often hidden in plain sight—that 17th-century workman’s cap says more about the cathedral’s builders than any plaque ever could. I’ve had similar (if less dramatic) moments restoring old family photos, where the background itself tells a story; I often end up using background removal tools to isolate an object or figure so those small details aren’t lost. Do you ever find that conserving an object means deciding which parts of its history to preserve versus hide?
What a lovely reminder that even the most utilitarian objects can become accidental time capsules — that 17th-century workman’s cap really stayed with me. It makes me think about how the things we make and use every day carry quiet traces of the people behind them, something I’m reminded of in my own work with custom drinkware manufacturing, where a simple bottle or mug often ends up treasured for decades. I’d love to know whether the V&A has ever found similar personal items hidden inside objects rather than buildings.
What a lovely reminder that objects carry the fingerprints of real people—that workman’s cap and the stonemasons’ marks really stuck with me. In our work producing custom stationery and lifestyle goods, we often think about this too: a notebook or small everyday object can outlast its maker and end up telling a story decades later. I’d be curious whether the V&A team ever deliberately leaves traces for future conservators to find?
What a lovely reminder that even the most utilitarian objects can carry a human story — those stonemasons’ marks and the workman’s cap really stuck with me. I run a business making modern outdoor gear, and I often wonder what future conservators might make of the tiny personal touches our workers leave behind on the products that pass through our hands. Do you find those accidental traces more revealing than the official records?
What a lovely reminder that buildings hold traces of the people who made them — that 17th-century workman’s cap really stuck with me. I’ve had a similar experience cataloguing old painted surfaces, where matching a faded pigment to its original specification felt like its own small act of recovery; I ended up using a HEX to Pantone conversion tool to pin down the closest reference for documentation. Do you ever find that colour evidence in these hidden spaces helps date a discovery, or are the objects themselves usually the more reliable clue?
What a lovely reminder that the smallest traces — a workman’s cap, a stonemason’s mark, a few oyster shells — are what actually humanize these grand old buildings. I get a milder version of that same thrill when I dig into old game config files and find a sensitivity setting someone tuned years ago; it’s oddly personal, like a fingerprint left behind. It’s why I ended up building a mouse sensitivity converter for 50+ FPS games, so a player’s own hard-won settings don’t get lost when they move between titles. Do you find that these hidden objects tell you more about the builders than any official record does?
What a great reminder that the most ordinary objects—a workman’s cap, a few oyster shells—can carry the most human stories. I’ve had a similar experience with something much less grand: preserving small fragments of daily life in a daily color memory game, where noticing tiny details is the whole point. I love that your discovery was purely accidental, which makes me wonder how many other secrets are still tucked between those stones, waiting for the next pair of curious eyes.
What a lovely reminder that buildings are basically time capsules waiting to be opened — that workman’s cap really stuck with me, since it turns an anonymous construction site into a story about a real person. I’ve had a similar itch for hidden traces ever since I started playing a daily word ladder game, where each guess peels back a layer and you never quite know what the next step reveals. Do you find that these small, personal finds tell you more about a building’s history than the official records do?
What a lovely reminder that buildings hold these intimate traces of the people who worked on them — that workman’s cap in the crypt really stayed with me. I’ve had a similar feeling chasing down small clues in a very different context: I run Pinpoint Today, where the daily LinkedIn puzzle hides its answer behind five cryptic clues, and the real satisfaction is in piecing together what each one is quietly pointing to. It’s a much smaller mystery than an oyster shell in the masonry, but I think that same instinct — noticing what was left behind and asking who put it there — is what keeps both historians and puzzle-solvers hooked. Did the shells turn out to be a deliberate offering, or just the leftovers of a very good lunch?
What a lovely reminder that buildings hold these deeply human traces—that workman’s cap in the crypt really stuck with me. I’ve had a similar feeling digging through archived puzzle clues, where a single leftover word hints at the person who wrote it years ago; keeping a full archive of past puzzles means those small traces never quite get lost. Do you find that these hidden objects change how you approach conserving the building itself, knowing someone once stood exactly where you are?
What a lovely reminder that buildings are basically time capsules waiting to be opened. I had a similar feeling of connection to the past when I started creating my own word puzzle and realized how small, everyday details are what make history feel personal. The oyster shells tucked between stones are such a perfect example — they tell a story no official record ever could. Do you ever wonder what future conservators might find hidden in our own buildings?
It’s amazing how a simple workman’s cap or a handful of oyster shells can collapse the centuries and make you feel connected to the people who built these places. I’ve had a similar fascination with how personal artifacts—like a spontaneous recording—can carry a moment across time, which is why I enjoy experimenting with tools like interactive voice dubbing games to preserve those little slices of personality. Do you think these hidden finds were left intentionally as time capsules, or are they just accidental echoes of daily life?
What a lovely reminder that everyday objects—oyster shells, a workman’s cap—can carry such personal weight across centuries. I’ve had a similar feeling of discovery while exploring my own digital traces; I used a private timeline viewer to map years of location history and was genuinely surprised by the forgotten places that surfaced, like little time capsules of my own routine. Do you think these accidental discoveries feel more meaningful precisely because they weren’t meant to be found?