by David Haynes
He dressed quickly while listening to the wind gallop down the chimney and thunder into the room.
It had been many years since a caring hand had touched the décor, yet it was clear someone had cared for it once. A portrait hung above the fireplace but it had been abandoned to dust and grime and the faces of those it captured were obscured. Slee stood on his toes and peered closer. If anyone possessed the desire, it would not take much work to bring it back to life. He rubbed his thumb over the corner revealing the artists initials: I.T. This was not a name he was familiar with but by no means did he possess the encyclopaedic knowledge of Mr Sutcliffe. His belly grumbled a long utterance of discontent. He would examine the pictures systematically after he had eaten and not before. That was how he been taught.
He stepped outside the room and realised he had absolutely no concept of the dimensions or layout of the house. He was at the end of a gloomy and unlit corridor but at the end was daylight and it was that beacon he followed. All along the walls were more paintings of differing sizes. He scarcely looked at them though, for his mind was set on satisfying his stomach.
“Good morning!” he called. He reached for his pocket watch but quickly realised it remained in his waistcoat, wherever that may be.
“Hello?” he called again.
In answer a clock chimed the hour of ten. Have I really slept so late? he thought and followed the sound. Immediately at the end of the corridor was a galleried landing overlooking the hallway below. He briefly noticed more paintings hanging on the walls and realised his task was more significant than first thought. Cataloguing the number he had seen so far would take more than a day and he fancied he had only seen but a small portion of the entire collection.
He followed the stairs down to the hallway and stopped. Corridors led off in every direction. “Hello?” he called yet again.
The hallway was grand by any standards, or at least it had been. For once there was not a single picture to be seen. Instead the walls were festooned with the heads of every single animal imaginable. Slee turned in a rapid circle. There were stags and bears and the big cats from Africa. There was bison beside fox and gazelle beside stoat. Much of the art he had seen portrayed men killing beasts and vice-versa but all were matched equally in mortal battle. This was different and he had no taste for such grotesque displays of slaughter.
“If you would care to step this way, sir?”
Slee jumped for he had not heard anyone approaching. A silver-haired man bowed before him and his hand indicated the route Slee should take.
“Of course,” Slee replied. “And where is your master?”
“He shall be along directly, sir, but he wished you to take breakfast as soon as you woke.”
Slee obeyed the direction and once again found he was walking along a gloomy art gallery. There must have been more than thirty works along this passage alone.
“If you please, sir.”
The servant stopped and indicated the room he wished Slee to step into. The room, as with the others he had so far entered, was dark and dismal. Great claret drapes hung in lavish folds to the floor but their elegance had long since faded and now they simply covered the beauty which lay beyond.
“Can we not open the curtains? I am quite sure I shall not be able to see to eat.” He walked toward the curtains.
“You must not, sir!” The servant’s voice was in contrast to his manner and size. “My master will not allow it!”
Slee stopped in his tracks. The words of both the servant and Mr Sutcliffe rang in his ears. ‘Succeed here, Slee and you shall be made partner.’
He turned away. “Very well but at least bring more lamps.”
“As you wish. Please take a seat. I shall be along with your breakfast presently.” His voice was calm again.
Slee sat down at the table and swirled his fingers through the thick layer of dust covering it. Only one place had been set but the table could easily accommodate twenty guests, perhaps more. In days gone by, this room would no doubt have been the scene of many a party but evidently those days were long gone.
Quite why the servant had been so eager to prevent him from opening the curtains was unclear but his voice had been extremely insistent. Nevertheless, Slee was ravenous and the little exchange had done little to change that fact.
He waited impatiently for a few moments before taking one of the two lamps and walking around the room. He had been in aristocrat’s houses before, with Mr Sutcliffe, but never before had he seen quite so many paintings in one place. Apart from the barbaric display in the hallway, it seemed every other available space had been filled with artwork. It would surely take days to catalogue it all properly. It was a terrible shame that all of them seemed to be covered in a lifetime’s worth of dust and grime. It rendered them little more than wallpaper.
He completed a circuit of the room and paused beside one of the paintings. The frame was nothing exceptional, indeed it appeared most, if not all, of the hangings he had seen so far would need the expert touch of a framer to bring them back to life. He rubbed his thumb over the corner of the canvas and took a step back. The same faded initials had been etched into the paint, I.T.
“If you please, sir.”
Slee turned around to see the servant place the breakfast on the table.
“Would there be anything else, sir?”
Slee immediately took his seat and looked down at the glorious array of food. A plate containing bacon, eggs, black pudding and two slices of fried bread had been set down. Beside the plate was a pot of steaming coffee and a silver rack of sliced toasted bread. A small pot of golden honey completed the picture. Slee could barely stand to contain his fervour to make a pig of himself but he poured himself a cup of coffee instead.
“No, that will be all, thank you.” He raised the cup to his lips and waited for the servant to leave before setting about the food like a wild beast.
He had eaten his third mouthful when he realised something rather peculiar. The food had absolutely no taste whatsoever. It was completely bland to his palate. He took a sip of the coffee and that too held none of the sharp bitterness he was accustomed to. Perhaps he had sustained a chill from being out in the storm last night and a mild fever was disturbing his sense of taste. He consumed the remainder of his breakfast with a feeling of mild disappointment.
When at last he had finished, he sank back against the chair. His belly was satisfied but the part of his mind which craved the pleasure of eating salty, smoked bacon was not.
“It was to your liking, Mr Slee?”
Slee turned, expecting to see the servant standing beside him. Instead he was greeted by another. He moved his chair to stand but the other man held his hand out.
“No need to stand. I must apologise for my lateness but there were matters to which I was forced to attend. You slept well?”
Slee recognised the man as his host. “I did indeed, Lord Feltham. It is I who must apologise. My tardiness last evening was unforgivable. My only excuse is that of a broken carriage and a fall. May I ask, sir, who it was that delivered me to the safety of your home?”
Feltham smiled. “That was my man, Thomas, who I believe has made you feel welcome and delivered to you one of his wondrous Stonegate breakfasts?”
Slee looked down at his clean plate. “Then I am doubly thankful to him for it was a breakfast fit for a king.”
Feltham walked around the table and took a seat. Although the room was as dark as a winter’s night, Slee could see the other man’s weary countenance quite easily. He appeared to be the victim of a malaise or of insomnia.
“Mr Slee, I am reliably informed Mr Sutcliffe is the most prestigious art dealer in all of England.”
Slee nodded. “He is, sir.”
Feltham smiled yet his voice was utterly joyless. “Then he shall find the Stonegate Collection to be a perfect match to his reputation.”
“I am quite sure he shall. I will, of course, be required to catalogue the collection prior to any…
arrangement.” He left out the obvious financial implications for in situations such as this it was uncouth to raise such matters.
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Then I shall begin immediately. There is one matter I must address though, if I may?”
Feltham nodded but his oiled hair remained static.
“The collection is considerably larger than either myself or Mr Sutcliffe imagined. Recording each and every canvas may take a number of days. I do not wish to presume but…”
Feltham raised a hand and stood. “Consider the house your own, Slee. My man will tend your every need and we shall meet again for supper. Shall we say seven?”
“Thank you, Lord Feltham.” Slee rose and bowed his head.
A moment of silence passed between them before Feltham once again spoke. “There is one condition upon which I must insist.”
“Of course.”
“There are paintings which have lived under this roof for a great many years. They are without value yet I wish them gone. If you wish to acquire my collection you will take these paintings without question and without examination as part of the arrangement.”
Slee did not understand what was being asked of him. Was he really being given a collection of art in return for nothing?
“I would have to confer with Mr Sutcliffe but I see no reason why I should not accept such a gracious offer. It is most generous.” He paused for he needed to choose his words carefully. “And these paintings would not increase the…settlement?” Mr Sutcliffe had already provided an estimate for the collection and if Slee could return with more than was expected, he would surely make partner. If only one of the worthless paintings should happen to be worth something, anything, then his life would be changed forever. He may even keep one for himself.
“Not at all. I wish them gone, that is all.” Feltham turned away. “You may start on the gallery beside your room. Good day, Mr Slee.”
Slee was alone again with just the remnants of his tasteless breakfast for company. Where was this worthless collection he spoke of? If he could find it, he could see which one to take for his own. Mr Sutcliffe had no idea of its existence and so one missing portrait or one missing landscape would not be missed. Slee smiled. This was turning into a very worthwhile assignment after all.
*
He worked in contented silence throughout the afternoon. The paintings on the landing beside his room were of wonderful quality. The darkness of the house, although grim and depressing, kept the damaging rays of the sun at bay and with it, kept the oils fresh and vibrant. This was not to say they were perfect, they were not. The layer of grime and dust, which obscured the artists’ careful brushwork, had left its own scars for which Slee did not have the tools or expertise to repair. He had sufficient tools at his disposal to allow for their creators’ names to be exposed once more though.
Someone within the Feltham family had at one time or another possessed a keen eye for works of rising value. He was prepared for the works of regional artists but not for those of national significance and he could only guess at their worth. Yet his mind was distracted for he thought only of what fortune his new station would bring him. He would be poor no longer and at last he would possess the means by which to support a wife, and in time a family. He could feel his heart beating faster at the thought. They would not take on too much debt for the business of art was not as secure as some, but they would…
A great commotion came from his room, jarring him painfully from his happy reverie. He turned and looked back along the dark corridor toward his bedroom door. It was closed and although he had been lost in his thoughts, he was sure none had passed this way. He stepped toward the bedroom and listened at the door.
He could hear nothing but he had not been mistaken in either the direction or volume of the disturbance. He pushed open the door.
“Hello?” he called.
Inside, the room was as he had left it this morning except for one difference. The painting which had been fixed to the wall above the fireplace now lay on the floor, face down. He walked over and knelt beside it. On the rear was written, ‘The Feltham Family. Stonegate Manor 1878.’
Slee picked it up and hung it back in its place. The fall had not dislodged any of the grime and the artist’s work, except for the signature, remained hidden. The storm had quietened since last night but the rain continued to drum a steady beat on the windows. Perhaps a gust of wind coursing down the chimney had dislodged the painting and sent it crashing to the floor. It mattered not for there was no obvious damage to the painting or frame.
Slee left the room, carefully closing the door behind him. He had no wish to spend any more time than necessary in that dismal space. Besides, his ledger would not fill itself.
Eventually when the poor quality lamps cast nothing but a weary halo upon the art, he was forced to stop. As late as he had risen, it had been a long and tiring day. He could not recall spending quite so much time staring at paintings in all his life. Nevertheless, it had been a satisfying endeavour and progress had been steady. He only hoped things would progress as smoothly tomorrow then he might be back on the coach to York by tomorrow evening.
He followed the corridor to the staircase and descended into the savage zoo once again. Stonegate Manor was an impressive house yet it felt unloved and without warmth. He longed to leave it behind and return to London where he was sure his fortune would be awaiting him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The hallway was gloomy and only two candelabra had been filled with burning candles. The light was insufficient to give rise to anything but flickering shadows.
“I have not thanked you for bringing me into the warmth last night. You have my thanks.”
The servant’s stooped shadow crawled across the wall toward him. “It is unnecessary to thank me, sir. How may I be of assistance?”
“Has my luggage arrived yet? The driver informed me he would be sending it on once he repaired the coach. I have only the clothes you see before you and I do not wish for your master to think me oafish.”
“I am afraid the road is impassable. The rain has not abated for the last three days and has rendered it a mire. I shall bring something suitable to your room. Would you care to bathe before dinner, sir?”
Slee shook his head. “Thank you but no.” From behind him, the clock sounded six. “Just the clothes, please.”
Slee dressed and left his room as quickly as he could. He had almost started to clean the painting in his room, but it would not do to soil the clothes the servant had delivered for they evidently belonged to Lord Feltham. There was something dreadfully depressing about a painting which had been left to rot unseen in a lifeless house; depressing and disturbing.
He glanced at the grandfather clock as he passed it in the hall. He was early for dinner but a few minutes would not matter. The clock stood sentry between a stag and a tiger as if keeping the two brutes apart and it chimed the half hour as he passed.
He knocked on the dining room door and entered. The passage of the day had not made it any less cheerless but at least the gloom was now punctured by a satisfactory number of lamps. As much as it depressed him, he could almost understand why paintings in invisible parts of the house were left uncared for, but not in a room such as this. This was a grand space in which to exhibit and show off Lord Feltham’s great taste and wealth. How could he allow such a travesty to continue for so long?
He approached the painting he had briefly examined earlier. He stared at the name again and traced his fingers over the letters. He would make a point of asking Lord Feltham who I.T. was over dinner.
“Stop!” Feltham’s voice boomed.
Slee dropped his hand and turned quickly. “I am sorry, sir. I did not mean…”
Feltham did not allow him to finish. His face resembled that of a snarling creature in his zoo. “This painting and the others you see in this room belong to the collection I spoke of this morning. You will remember my words or our arr
angement is at an end.”
Slee felt his face flush with embarrassment. “Of course. I did not know these were the paintings in question. I beg your forgiveness.”
Almost immediately, Feltham’s expression returned to the tired ambivalence he had displayed that very morning. “It is I who must apologise, my dear fellow. My manners have deserted me.” He gestured toward the table. “Come, we shall drink a glass of claret and talk of other matters.”
He poured two glasses and set them on the table. “Now, Slee, tell me of London. It is so very long since I have ventured beyond these dreary walls and we did all so enjoy visiting.”
It was not lost on Slee that Feltham had used the word ‘we’ in his remark, but he had not seen sign of any other residents during his time there. He doubted he meant the servant.
Slee took his seat and regaled Lord Feltham with stories about London and the latest fashions, and of course the railway. The stories appeared to please him and it made Slee feel a little better for his indiscretion with the painting. The steady flow of fine claret did not harm matters either.
