The Golden Ruse

Written by Stefanina Hill, Published on 1/4/2010

Jealousy and treachery had blighted the Yoxley Art Prize ever since it’s inception, there were even some who said it was cursed.

The prize had been set up by the Lord of Yoxley in the late Eighteenth Century in an effort to improve his reputation as a cultural connoisseur. From its outset the event had been dogged by dishonesty, mainly due to the substantial financial reward that accompanied the winning place. Some dark rumors about how the Lord met his death had created sufficient romance to ensure that the competition endured through the years.

One summer the group of hopeful artists and four judges gathered together for the competition with a certain sense of foreboding, as though some misadventure was at hand. Robert Yoxley, the modern day possessor of the title and estate, attempted to soothe his guests with a surprise buffet at afternoon tea.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Mr. Reese?” Robert asked the head judge.

“It’s a lot of dashed nonsense that’s what it is, young man,” Mr. Reese gruffly replied.

“Well, perhaps you would care for some refreshment from the buffet?”

“Thank you, no. I’m only here because my wife insists upon it, and I’ve no wish to draw the proceedings out.”

“Perhaps it would make it less tiresome if I were to suggest a change in the judging order? As you know only one judge is allowed into the showroom at any one time. You are down to go first, Mr. Reese, but I could put you last and so give you some time to attend the buffet if you wish,” Robert offered.

“No, no, no, I don’t want to go last,” said Mr. Reese, “I’d rather get it over with.”

“Very well, Sir, I only offered since you are such a distinguished guest. There is champagne laid out in the viewing room for our judges as well. Three very nice exhibits today; one gold, one silver and one bronze.”

At that moment, to young Yoxley’s relief, the three other judges approached, they were Miss. Pendlebury, Miss. Jones and Mr. Horgan.

“Hello Mr. Yoxley,” they chimed in unison.

“We’re glad to finally join you,” Miss. Pendlebury said, “Mr. Horgan was so engrossed in the fresh cream tarts I thought we would never get away.”

“You don’t begrudge me, surely, Miss. Pendlebury?” Mr. Horgan asked with a smile.

“I begrudge the mess you’ve made of yourself with that cream,” Miss. Pendlebury said disdainfully as she looked at the marks on Mr. Horgan’s jacket.

“The sooner all this idiocy is over with the better,” Mr. Reese said sharply, “show me in to the viewing room, Yoxley.”

Robert scuttled in front of Mr. Reese as the old man stomped resolutely in the direction of the viewing room.

“Well,” Miss. Jones said with a laugh, “I feel quite frightened now, if I take too long over my tea I’m sure Mr. Reese will accuse me of unprofessional behavior in his write up.”

“When it comes to unprofessional behavior it would be strange to focus on your tea drinking when you’re dressed the way you are,” Miss. Pendlebury remarked.

“What do you mean?” Miss. Jones asked.

“A tight fitting dress and no jacket is hardly appropriate attire for an afternoon event. You’re not in the city now, dear.”

“Well, I-,” Miss. Jones was cut short in her indignant reply by a tremendous creak from the viewing room.

“Good gracious,” said Mr Yoxley as he approached, “that floorboard in the front of the gold exhibit creaks terribly. I must get it fixed. Mr. Reese is finished, Miss. Jones if you want to go in now.”

Another terrific creak sounded a few minutes later and Mr. Yoxley ushered Miss. Pendlebury into the viewing room as Miss. Jones came out.

“Sorry to leave you until last, Mr. Horgan.”

“Oh no trouble, I can have another round of the buffet before I go in.”

“No time for that,” said Miss. Pendlebury, as she suddenly appeared behind the little group.

“But the board didn’t creak!” Mr. Horgan said.

“Off you go,” Miss. Pendlebury snapped, coloring slightly.

Later that afternoon the voting took place and it was announced that the gold sculpture was the winning piece. Robert Yoxley was speaking about the solid and robust nature of gold as he lifted the artwork up when it suddenly slipped from his hands and smashed into a thousand pieces at his feet.

There was a burst of indignant commotion in the room and talk of high villainy was in the air. Gold, of course, does not shatter and the piece had clearly been switched. Angry suspicion fell upon the judges who had all had private access to the pieces one by one. Robert Yoxley, however, assumed a sudden attitude of command and insisted that he knew who was responsible.