Page 7

Edmund Garner leaned back in the high-backed chair of his spacious sitting room, the embers in the fireplace casting shifting ribbons of light across the walls. The room itself spoke volumes of his status: plush burgundy wallpaper, gold-framed portraits of various European landscapes, and shelves of leather-bound books that had never truly been read. Shadows danced across a large portrait mounted above the mantel—his latest acquisition, a painting of Edgar Allan Poe, which he’d managed to snatch from a struggling estate sale at a fraction of its presumed worth.

He sighed, swirling a glass of Amontillado between his thumb and forefinger. The wine glowed a deep amber in the fire’s flicker. He found grim pleasure in the irony: Edgar Allan Poe’ chilling story ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ was said to have brought the drink to public attention, and here was Edmund, sitting before the author’s likeness, sipping that very drink. A slight smile tugged at his lips.

“All very fitting, don’t you think?” he murmured, raising the glass as if to toast the figure in the painting. Poe’s painted eyes stared back, haunting and inscrutable.

Just then, a soft buzz interrupted the quiet. Edmund glanced at the small marble-topped side table, where his mobile phone vibrated insistently. He huffed, annoyed at the disturbance but nonetheless leaning forward to pick it up. The screen read: Fontaine Williams.

He stared at the name for a few beats. “Could she be more predictable?” he said under his breath, considering ignoring the call. Then, with a resigned shrug, he swiped to answer.

“Good evening, Fontaine,” he said, injecting a note of polite indifference into his tone.

“Edmund,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare pretend courtesy with me. You’ve gone and bought that Poe portrait from my grandfather’s estate, haven’t you? I just found out.”

He stifled a smile. “I might have, yes. Why does that concern you?”

Her response came in a furious rush, “Because you took advantage of our family’s misfortune, that’s why! That painting was worth far more than you paid. Grandfather must be rolling in his grave.”

Edmund took a long sip of the Amontillado, savoring the taste, letting the silence linger before he spoke. “Well, I can’t be blamed if others fail to recognize an item’s true value at auction, Fontaine. If you want to be angry, direct it at those who handled your grandfather’s estate sale. I simply appeared with my checkbook at the right moment.”

“You’re despicable,” she hissed, voice trembling with fury. “I know you made sure you were one of the only bidders! You prey on people when they’re vulnerable. That painting was part of our family’s heritage—Grandfather’s pride. And you stole it for a pittance.”

He tapped the side of his glass. "Your grandfather's pride led him into debt if memory serves. Careless business decisions, substantial losses… these things tend to land precious heirlooms in the open market. I merely seized an opportunity."

Fontaine’s voice quaked, edging on heartbreak. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Edmund Garner. One day, you’ll regret how you’ve profited from other people’s hardships.”

At that, Edmund let out a dry chuckle. “So you believe in karma, is that it? I’m touched by your concern. But truly, if it’s any consolation, I’m looking at the portrait right now—quite a handsome piece, especially at such a bargain price.”

She began shouting, though her exact words were half lost to his ear when he pulled the phone away. He pressed the button to end the call. For a moment, his phone glowed in the dim light before he set it back on the side table.

He couldn’t resist a short laugh. “People do love to moralize when they lose out on a deal.” Finishing his Amontillado in one swig, he placed the glass beside the phone. He studied Poe’s painted face again, then spoke lightly. “And now to bed. I’ve had enough drama for the night, haven’t I, Mr. Poe?”

He rose, stretching. The room around him was tastefully decorated: thick velvet drapes in a deep green, a plush rug that swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and the gentle glow of the fireplace that cast dancing shadows across the furniture. Softly, he headed for the hallway when a sudden knock shattered the hush.

He halted, brow furrowing. “What now?” Another knock echoed through the door. “Bremner!” he called, impatience creeping into his voice. “What is it? I told you no disturbances tonight. Very well—come in!”

The door inched open, revealing his butler, Bremner, who looked apologetic. Bremner was a tall, thin man well past his sixties, with neatly combed silvery hair and a slight stoop in his posture. He wore a perfectly pressed black suit and white gloves that had once been fashionable among old aristocratic households. His face bore an expression of mild worry.

“Sir,” the butler began with a slight bow. “I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s a visitor here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Edmund demanded, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel which read nearly midnight. “Did you bother to ask this person why he thought a call so late was acceptable?”

Bremner inclined his head. “Yes, sir. He was insistent. An elderly gentleman, quite stooped and coughing. He apologized for the late intrusion and said he was a friend of Lord Maguire’s. He claimed Lord Maguire told him you’d be the best man to speak to regarding a potential purchase—a rare Stanley Spencer painting, soon to be authenticated.”

That piqued Edmund’s interest at once. His annoyance at the hour began to give way to excitement. “A Stanley Spencer? If it’s genuine, that’s no trivial prospect.” He rubbed his chin. “And he specifically asked for me?”

“Indeed, sir. He said that if anyone had the resources—or the will—to buy such a piece, it’d be Mr. Edmund Garner. He is currently waiting in your business study.”

Edmund flicked a look at the empty glass on the table, then back at Bremner. “All right. This changes things.” He straightened his jacket, his mind already racing about the possibility of acquiring another gem for his collection. “But at this hour?” He thought for a moment. The man must be desperate. That might mean a chance for a bargain.

Bremner cleared his throat delicately. “He did seem… anxious, sir. Unwell, too. I offered him some water, but he declined.”

Edmund waved a dismissive hand. “He’s either truly ill or playing the sympathy card. No matter.” He walked over to the mantel, the glow of the fire casting his shadow across Poe’s portrait. “I suppose that’s all, then. You can retire for the night, Bremner. I’ll handle this.”

“Sir, are you sure?” Bremner asked, concern flickering in his eyes. “I mean, if the gentleman is unwell—”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with an elderly invalid,” Edmund said curtly. “And I’d rather not have staff hovering about. If he’s come this late, it’s likely he wants the matter kept private. So off to bed with you.”

Bremner gave a slight bow. “Yes, sir. Good night, Mr. Garner.” He backed out, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone again, Edmund glanced once more at Poe’s calm, painted expression. “Strange night, indeed,” he mumbled, crossing the threshold into the corridor. The soft glow of wall sconces guided him toward the far end, where a wide door with polished brass handles led to his business study—the room he used for more clandestine negotiations.

He paused outside the door, recalling quickly the times he'd secured lucrative deals in that very study with unsuspecting sellers who thought they were outsmarting him. Usually, he was the one who walked away victorious. A smile spread over his lips.

He opened the door to find the space gently lit by a single brass lamp on the wide oak desk. The drapes were drawn, shutting out the night. A large Persian rug covered the floor, and a small fireplace stood unlit on one side, leaving the room a bit cool.

In the center of the room sat a high-backed chair, facing away from the door. The old man occupied it. He wore a scuffed overcoat pulled tight around narrow shoulders. Beside him, a plain wooden walking stick leaned, testament to frailty. Edmund cleared his throat.

“Good evening,” he said, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. “I understand you have news of a Stanley Spencer piece?”

The figure offered a raspy cough. Up close, Edmund saw that his neck was wrapped in a thin scarf, and a hat lay on his lap. What was visible of his hair was gray, almost white. His voice emerged low, as though weighed with age. “Yes… yes, sorry for the lateness, Mr. Garner. I… had no choice. Time is of the essence as I have a critical debt that must be paid.” Another cough shook him. “Lord Maguire indicated you might… be the buyer I need.”

Edmund circled around, stopping near the unlit fireplace so he could see the man's face. The visitor kept his face turned down. "Lord Maguire was correct," Edmund said, trying to sound friendly. "I have a keen interest in noteworthy art. Especially if it's undervalued."

The stranger nodded slowly. “Stanley Spencer… not fully authenticated, you see. There’s some… damage. Possibly a minor restoration required.” He let out a string of hoarse coughs.

“Ah,” Edmund said, his pulse quickening. If the painting was damaged, that meant a chance to argue down the price. “A pity. But perhaps fixable, yes?” He gestured vaguely at a sideboard where a decanter of brandy awaited. “Would you care for a drink?”

The man shook his head feebly, hand trembling over the chair’s armrest. “No… no, thank you. I’m not well enough for spirits.”

Edmund forced a sympathetic frown he didn’t feel. “Of course.” He turned his back, moving to the sideboard, pouring himself a small measure of brandy. With his face away from the old man, he allowed himself a triumphant grin. Damaged, un-authenticated… The man was clearly desperate for a sale. This could be a windfall. “I’ve always admired Spencer’s work,” Edmund said casually, swirling the amber liquid. “Might be a lovely addition to my personal collection—or for future sale at a tidy profit if I restore it.”

The old man coughed again. “Yes… I suspect you’d find it quite… profitable.” A reluctant laugh rattled from his lips.

Edmund, glass in hand, pivoted to face his guest. “Yes indeed, though if the piece is truly compromised, I may have to offer a modest sum. I trust you understand that.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang. “But let’s discuss specifics, shall—”

He stopped short. The man had begun to rise from the chair. At first, Edmund thought it was a labored attempt, but then, with startling swiftness, the figure straightened. The stooped posture vanished, replaced by an almost towering stance. The walking stick clattered to the floor, echoing off the walls.

Edmund’s heart lurched. “What…?” His voice faltered.

In one swift motion, the man’s hand flew up to his own face, tugging at the wrinkled skin along his jaw and cheeks. Layers of skin tore off in his hands, revealing a thinner, sharper face; eyes cold and piercing.

Edmund’s grip slackened on the brandy glass as fear shot up through his entire body, his mind not grasping what he had just seen. “What… What is this!?”

No reply came—only a predatory glare. Edmund saw the flash of steel, a hooked knife held tightly in the intruder’s hand. Horror clutched Edmund’s chest. This was no elderly seller, but a killer who’d used the guise of frailty to gain access.

“Oh God, Bremner—!” Edmund shouted reflexively, voice cracking. He doubted the butler would hear him. The thick walls, the hour, plus Edmund’s explicit dismissal of staff assistance… He was effectively alone.

The intruder lunged with shocking agility, closing the distance in an instant. Edmund scrambled sideways, brandy sloshing out of his glass, but the killer swung the blade in an arc. Pain exploded in Edmund’s abdomen, a hot, ripping sensation. He choked on his own scream, stumbling backward.

His mind reeled in disbelief. Blood soaked through his shirt, each heartbeat intensifying the pressure. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the rug. He heard a dull ring in his ears, overshadowing even the sound of the killer’s ragged breathing.

He staggered, one hand pressed to his wound. Crimson stained his palm. “No… p-please…” he gasped, voice barely audible. The killer’s eyes were fierce, unmerciful.

Lurching toward the door, Edmund made a final, desperate attempt to escape. But his legs weakened, folding beneath him. He crashed to his knees, agony flaring with every movement. The intruder stepped forward, overshadowing him like a dark specter. The knife gleamed, spattered with Edmund’s blood.

Trembling, Edmund looked across the room in a daze, his vision tunneling. Above the unlit fireplace, that wide space on the wall seemed to yawn at him—a reminder of the painting he’d planned to hang there, perhaps the splendid Spencer to impress his guests. How he would have loved to have unveiled it at lavish dinners…

A strangled breath escaped him, blood bubbling at his lips. His eyes dimmed, but he kept staring at that empty patch.

The intruder faded from Edmund’s failing sight, though he sensed the figure towering closer. Pain roared through him once more, then receded into cold numbness. His body collapsed onto the rug, arms splayed. He heard the soft drip of blood on the floor, felt the creeping chill spread through his limbs. Darkness surged, extinguishing the last spark of consciousness.

Then, Edmund Garner—the man who prided himself on cunning business deals—slid into oblivion, his blood oozing out across the floor like spilled paint.