hwango

Wallace felt like an archaeologist opening an ancient crypt. Partly this was because the room he was about to enter had been sealed for so long and held the promise of containing fabulous treasures, and partly because, based on the stench, it quite possibly also contained something that was dead.

“Eeugh!” The groundskeeper who had pried open the door for him covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. In spite of the sort of things a groundskeeper was likely to get on his sleeve, this was undoubtedly an improvement. Wallace pressed a scented handkerchief to his nose and hurried inside.

Wallace got a look at just how bad the conditions were and despaired. It was a shame that the place had been left to go to ruin as it had, but it was a crime that no one had removed the art before leaving it do to so.

“Dear God, but Uncle did own a lot of crap,” said a voice from the doorway. Wallace turned to see Theodore Fortean grimacing in disgust at everything his eyes fell upon. Fortean, it turned out, viewed the inheritance of his uncle’s estate as a terrible nuisance, and was therefore not disposed to speak kindly of the man.

“Your uncle was known to be an…avid collector,” Wallace conceded politely. He had also been known for being somewhat indiscriminate when it came to what he collected. “However, I’m quite sure that some real works of art also made it into his care. That piece,” he said, pointing, “I’m fairly certain is an original…”

Wallace trailed off into silence. He had, out of the corner of his eye, spotted something that captured his attention completely. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be! He raced across the room, nearly tripping over a shapeless carving of some sort. Wallace squinted in the dim light at the dusty canvas and then gasped in amazement, an act that he regretted immediately. After a moment of undignified retching, he pointed shaky finger at the huge painting before him.

“For this piece I can guarantee a buyer!” Wallace crowed in triumph. “I believe it to be nothing less than an original Amyris Toom!”

Both Fortean and the groundskeeper stared at him blankly. Wallace gestured emphatically at the painting, as if that could somehow make them understand how amazing a find it was. The groundskeeper, at least, tried to show some interest.

“Pity about the mold on it,” he said.

“No, no!” Wallace said. “That’s part of the painting. This is none other than Amyris Toom’s Still Life with Venerable Sandwich!”

“You mean to tell me that you’re excited about a painting of a moldy sandwich,” said Fortean with disdain, “and you also know someone idiot enough to want to buy it from me?”

Wallace ached to explain the artistic and cultural significance of the piece, but even he realized how hopeless that was with his current audience. Instead, he tried to focus on the latter point.

“Indeed! Lord Checkering is well-known for his interest in Toom’s work. He would surely jump at the chance to own this…uh…” Wallace could see that something was amiss. Forean was purpling with unconcealed fury.

“Checkering,” Fortean ground out through his teeth. He then embarked on the most astonishing tirade against the man. Apparently, he had single-handedly blocked many of Fortean’s attempts at political advancement, scuttled promising business deals, married and subsequently divorced Fortean’s sister, and committed a considerable number of other sins, many of which sounded fanciful, and some of which sounded physically impossible. “I would rather see the wretched thing burned than know it was to hang in his home and bring him even one iota of happiness.”

“Ah. Well, you could simply put it up at auction, I suppose. I’m sure there would be other interested parties.” Wallace could not bear the thought that it might remain there amidst all of the filth and neglect, slowly succumbing to rot and mildew.

“I’ll think about it,” Fortean said, and then turned on his heel and left. The groundskeeper shrugged, and then also departed, though he was kind enough to leave a lantern. Wallace remained behind in the gloom and searched for more hidden treasure.

* * *

Eventually, Fortean’s desire to extract some tangible benefit from the estate of his uncle convinced him to put up for auction those various pieces that Wallace identified as valuable. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until the Tooms went up on the block, and Wallace discovered that the quiet man in the corner of the room was none other than Checkering. Fortean couldn’t be bothered to attend the event himself, it appeared, but it seemed unlikely that word wouldn’t get back to him if Checkering secured the painting. Perhaps someone else would outbid the man?

A preposterous hope. Checkering crushed opposing bids with intimidating excess. The bidding was brief but exciting. The story was sure to circulate among the social elite and reach Fortean. Well, that was unfortunate. But it wasn’t as if the blame were really Wallace’s, after all, and what could Fortean do besides get angry about the situation? And at least the painting would go to someone who would care for it properly.

After the close of the auction, Checkering came to personally take possession of his new prize. Wallace was on site to authenticate the piece and sign off on some official paperwork. The pair of them walked together, led by a man from the auction house to the room that housed the painting.

“If I may be permitted, I would like to congratulate you on such a fine acquisition,” Wallace said as they made their way through the maze of hallways. “Such a remarkable piece, is it not?”

“It is hideous beyond imagining, is what it is,” Checkering said. Wallace found himself speechless. “I cannot wait to see my guests squirm and flounder as they try to think of a way to compliment me on it.” The man’s grin was positively malevolent.

Wallace trailed along behind the other two men in a stupor after that. Did no one truly appreciate art anymore? Eventually he was jolted out of his personal fog by an acrid, smoky smell.

“Faugh, what is that reek?” Checking said, waving his hand in front of his face. Their guide rushed forward in alarm, and cried out in horror after throwing open the door. Wallace ran up behind him, looked inside, and added his own cry of despair.

Fortean was there, standing beside the Tooms. He waved cheerily when he saw the look on Checkering’s face, and he smiled at Wallace.

“I must say, you were right. He really did want the painting. And it was quite a lot of money. Still, this is so much better than money. I say, the air’s getting a bit thick in here. Perhaps I should open this window?”

Soft plumes of smoke twisted their way skyward, drifting in the gentle breeze.