Dartmoor. A name often appearing in British literature.
And it's typically described like this:
"A wasteland."
Of course, on the surface, this description seemed wrong.
Endless green pastures stretched out, with wild horses roaming around, and though not famous, shepherds with their flocks of sheep could occasionally be seen wandering in search of stars.
But don't be deceived.
There's a reason why those in the know translated that land as a wasteland.
The brown earth, thought to be a pasture, could only grow tough, coarse weeds. These were hardly edible for humans, but ungulates with strong stomachs could manage to eat them.
When such land met Britain's characteristic warm, humid climate, what kind of landscape unfolded?
"Wow..."
Monty inadvertently let out a shrill exclamation. I looked out the carriage window with Monty.
An endless expanse of dark red wilderness. On it rolled dark green fields. Beyond the low woods, bleak grey hills loomed.
The shallow, jagged hills, eroded by constant rain throughout the year, lay bare, and above them, the gloomy storm clouds symbolising Britain's winter drove the moist wind.
The carriage carrying Monty and me finally reached the top of the stony uphill road.
From there, looking down, a basin-like terrain between the Rocky Mountains came into view.
A swamp had formed there.
A place where nutrients washed down from the mountains gathered, making it easier for plants to grow. Small forests of oak and fir trees grew here and there.
And in the centre, as if it were a demon's castle, stood a huge mansion.
The Carlyle family mansion, Stapleton Manor.
This was also our destination.
"But Hanslow, why is the auction being held at the original owner's house?"
Oh, a good question.
As our young master Monty Miller said, auctions were typically held at designated auction houses.
But sometimes, practicality overrode principles.
The fact was.
"There is no auction house in Exeter."
"Oh."
"The mansion is quite spacious and suitable for use as an auction house, so the bank must have decided to sell the mansion and the land together."
"That's convenient."
"That's how the world works."
"Don't say such things to a growing child..."
Haha, this was one of the quietest, cleanest, and most trouble-free cases in our industry.
Circumstances varied greatly depending on the problems with the heir or the person leaving the inheritance and the scope of those issues.
Anyway.
"We need to secure about twenty pieces of art this time."
"That's fewer than I expected."
"The late Baron Carlyle specialised in Oriental paintings. So, his collection doesn't quite align with our focus on modern art."
"Is it necessary to purchase anything, then?"
"Recently, Art Nouveau, influenced by Japonesque (Japanese style), has become popular in Europe."
So Mr. Miller had been seeking artists who painted in this Art Nouveau style.
From what I had seen, the curved lines reminiscent of growing vines and the vibrant mosaic-like colours made it look like custom tarot cards.
Hmm, it felt similar to 2D illustrations, so I thought of using them for new book covers or illustrations someday.
If Mr. Miller successfully recruited someone, it might be worth requesting a commission.
"Let's see, famous figures in this style include Gustav Klimt and Alphonse Mucha."
I wondered what they were up to now.
Since I was committed, I decided to look into their whereabouts once I returned from this trip and continued explaining.
"While we don't deal directly with Japonesque, to handle Art Nouveau, we need to collect some Japanese paintings that serve as its roots."
"Hmm, is that so?"
"Yes, that's how it is."
Despite my explanation, Monty tilted his head with a clearly puzzled expression.
It seemed Monty wasn't quite suited for this art business.
Well, it didn't matter.
He didn't necessarily have to inherit the business; he could sell it or appoint a proxy to manage it.
"You don't need to force yourself to understand. Art is subjective, and while there may be likes and dislikes, there's no right answer. No matter how much people praise something as a masterpiece, if it doesn't resonate with you, it's meaningless."
Given that this started as a hobby business, Mr. Miller would probably just laugh and agree.
Art Nouveau itself was a prime example.
Though it was somewhat trendy now, it had quickly faded after just 20 years.
It was pretty and nice to look at, but pure aesthetics alone didn't sustain its popularity.
"Well... if Hanslow says so, it must be."
"Yes, this time, we can just take it lightly, as if we're sightseeing."
After chatting along the bumpy, unpaved road, the carriage soon arrived at Stapleton Manor.
The manor was old, but in this case, it was more appropriate to call it antique.
Ivy covered the entire building, and in the centre of the main building, two twin-like towers rose.
The towers were riddled with holes for shooting guns, and on either side stood annexes made of black granite, undoubtedly sourced from the nearby Rocky Mountains.
This meant the manor was used not just as a residence, but also as the office of a ruler.
"Hmm."
Dim lights filtered through the heavy window bars, and thick black smoke billowed from the chimneys on the steep roofs, indicating the presence of guests.
As if to confirm this, when Monty and I alighted from the carriage, two employees from the bank in Exeter, who had been waiting at the front gate, slowly approached.
They were people I was familiar with.
"Long time no see. Are you from Ashfield?"
In this area, Ashfield was synonymous with Mr. Miller. I nodded in response.
"Yes, indeed. This is the eldest son of Mr. Miller, Master Lewis Montague Miller."
"Lewis Miller."
"I see. Welcome. Thank you for making the journey."
"Please come inside. We have prepared a room for you."
As seasoned employees, they naturally guided us.
I nodded and made eye contact with the older of the two employees.
"Master, please go ahead. I will handle the luggage."
"Alright."
"Let me help, Hanslow."
"Thank you, Charlie."
I sent Monty ahead and, pretending to tend to the luggage, made eye contact with Charlie as he approached to help.
Charlie was a veteran banker with 30 years of experience.
He had two children, one of whom was quite smart and had managed to get into an expensive private university.
Yes... a private school that would be hard to attend on a mere banker's salary.
What this meant was.
"... These are the art dealers and collectors participating in the auction."
Good. I nodded, enjoying the benefits of the covert rural customs established by the local gentry.
In the process, I discreetly placed a small pouch into his pocket and then retrieved it.
"Haha, thanks for this..."
"No, no. It's just a small token of appreciation for all your hard work."
While he checked the pouch, I began to organise the information I had just received in my head.
Let's see... there were quite a few familiar names.
Carstairs, Farnsby, Desmond, Sheldon. No need to remember the rest.
Of course, none of these four could rival Mr. Miller in wealth.
Sheldon was an old family as a local gentry, but even they fell short compared to Clara's family, the Baymers.
In other words, this was an easy win.
It seemed I could easily crush them in this deal.
I slung the luggage over my shoulder and said,
"Hmm, it's quite a small turnout."
"Haha, it's Dartmoor, a rural place."
Indeed.
I nodded at Charlie's remark.
Very easy indeed.
Since I had sent Monty along, I expected this. You wouldn't bring someone vulnerable to a place with tough competition.
Instead,
"I hope the young master won't be too disappointed. He might have been looking forward to a scene like in 'Vincent Villiers', where bidders outbid each other."
"I'm more amazed at how you treat this work as a sort of play."
Well, that's understandable. I've got experience in this field.
I had no complaints.
The wastelands of Dartmoor were indeed worth seeing, but the scenery around here was rather dull in colour, so it would quickly become tiresome. A couple of hours of sightseeing would suffice.
Light work with light content.
There was nothing complicated, so finishing and returning home would be the best.
But then,
"... There are quite a lot of police, aren't there?"
Upon entering the manor, there were more stern-faced detectives in beige coats than art dealers there for the auction.
I even saw some officers from the London Metropolitan Police in blue uniforms. What was this? Was there an incident contrary to my information?
As I looked back with that intention, Charlie shrugged and said,
"We're assuming he just got lost in the swamp, but it's still a missing person case. Even though the estate distribution has begun, some people still hope for Baron Carlyle's return."
"I see. If he were to return alive, it would be quite a big deal."
"That's why there are more police here. Based on the circumstances, it's certain Baron Carlyle is dead. But the heirs and the bank want to quickly dispose of and distribute the estate to manage the inheritance."
In short, it seemed they wanted to stamp a final confirmation on his death.
It was fascinating that the fate of someone's life or death could be decided by the surrounding circumstances, especially in an era when laws concerning declaring someone dead after several years of disappearance were not yet in place.
Of course, that wasn't the whole story.
"In fact, among the heirs, there's a notion that it would be better if one of them really was the culprit."
"What? Why would that be?"
"It's simple, really. You can't hand over the victim's estate to the murderer, so they expect the remaining heirs to get a larger share."
"Good heavens..."
It was just like those villains who say, 'Great, one less head to share with.'
It was disgusting to see them coveting the inheritance without even offering prayers for the deceased. It was a very poor lesson in morality.
I couldn't help but show a bitter expression.
Though I couldn't clearly remember his face, Baron Carlyle had many commendable stories about him, which made it all the more distasteful.
There were a couple of small villages beyond the woods, and since this area wasn't very prosperous, Baron Carlyle had essentially financed the villages' livelihoods.
Of course, that meant he was very wealthy.
As a well-respected local landowner, his wealth combined with real estate must have been considerable, even if it wasn't on Mr. Miller's level.
And Charlie proudly told me the total amount.
"The bank estimates the total assets to be around 970,000 pounds (2.4 trillion won)."
"... Wow."
No wonder their eyes were turning.
Even though it was a wasteland, it was an extraordinarily vast one.
While I was pondering this, I saw a familiar coat and moustache that shouldn't have been here.
Uh... that person?
And noticing me as well, he looked surprised and quickly ran over from talking to the police.
"Hanslow? Is that you?"
"... Sir? What are you doing here?"
It was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who should have been busily writing the prequel to Sherlock Holmes in London.