The building was lit with oversized candles whose flames were so shielded as to prevent any danger of the coal walls catching fire. It struck me that the Anthracite Palace was one of the strangest architectural conceits I had ever encountered. “Not a place I would like to live in, eh, Holmes?” I was trying for a tone of levity, but must confess that I failed to achieve it.
We were left waiting for an excessive period of time, in my opinion, but at length a tall wooden door swung back and a woman of commanding presence, exotic in appearance with her swarthy complexion, flashing eyes, sable locks and shockingly reddened lips, entered the hall. She nodded to Holmes and myself and exchanged a frigid semblance of a kiss with Lady Fairclough, whom she addressed as “sister.”
Lady Fairclough demanded to see her brother, but Mrs. Llewellyn refused conversation until we were shown to our rooms and had time to refresh ourselves. We were summoned, in due course, to the dining hall. I was famished, and both relieved and my appetite further excited by the delicious odors that came to us as we were seated at the long, linen-covered table.
Only four persons were present. These were, of course, Holmes and myself, Lady Fairclough, and our hostess, Mrs. Llewellyn.
Lady Fairclough attempted once again to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother, Philip.
Her sister-in-law replied only, “He is pursuing his devotions. We shall see him when the time comes ’round.”
Failing to learn more about her brother, Lady Fairclough asked after the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrissey.
“I have sad news, sister dear,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “Mrs. Morrissey was taken ill very suddenly. Philip personally drove into Marthyr Tydhl to fetch a physician for her, but by the time they arrived, Mrs. Morrissey had expired. She was buried in the town cemetery. This all happened just last week. I knew that you were already en route from Canada, and it seemed best not to further distress you with this information.”
“Oh no,” Lady Fairclough gasped. “Not Mrs. Morrissey! She was like a mother to me. She was the kindest, dearest of women. She—” Lady Fairclough stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth. She inhaled deeply. “Very well, then.” I could see a look of determination rising like a banked flame deep in her eye. “If she has died there is naught to be done for it.”
There was a pillar of strength hidden within this seemingly weak female. I would not care to make an enemy of Lady Fairclough. I noted also that Mrs. Llewellyn spoke English fluently but with an accent that I found thoroughly unpleasant. It seemed to me that she, in turn, found the language distasteful. Clearly, these two were fated to clash. But the tension of the moment was broken by the arrival of our viands.
The repast was sumptuous in appearance, but every course, it seemed to me, had some flaw—an excessive use of spice, an overdone vegetable, an undercooked piece of meat or game, a fish that might have been kept a day too long before serving, a cream that had stood in a warm kitchen an hour longer than was wise. By the end of the meal my appetite had departed, but it was replaced by a sensation of queasiness and discomfort rather than satisfaction.
Servants brought cigars for Holmes and myself, an after-dinner brandy for the men, and sweet sherry for the women, but I put out my cigar after a single draft and noticed that Holmes did the same with his own. Even the beverage seemed in some subtle way to be faulty.
“Mrs. Llewellyn.” Lady Fairclough addressed her sister-in-law when at last the latter seemed unable longer to delay confrontation. “I received a telegram via transatlantic cable concerning the disappearance of my brother. He failed to greet us upon our arrival, nor has there been any sign of his presence since then. I demand to know his whereabouts.”
“Sister dear,” replied Anastasia Romelly Llewellyn, “that telegram should never have been sent. Mrs. Morrissey transmitted it from Marthyr Tydhl while in town on an errand for the palace. When I learned of her presumption I determined to send her packing, I can assure you. It was only her unfortunate demise that prevented my doing so.”
At this point my friend Holmes addressed our hostess.
“Madam, Lady Fairclough has journeyed from Canada to learn of her brother’s circumstances. She has engaged me, along with my associate, Dr. Watson, to assist her in this enterprise. It is not my desire to make this affair any more unpleasant than is necessary, but I must insist upon your providing the information that Lady Fairclough is seeking.”
I believe at this point that I observed a smirk, or at least the suggestion of one, pass across the face of Mrs. Llewellyn. But she quickly responded to Holmes’s demand, her peculiar accent as pronounced and unpleasant as ever.
“We have planned a small religious service for this evening. You are all invited to attend, of course, even though I had expected only my dear sister-in-law to do so. However, the larger group will be accommodated.”
“What is the nature of this religious service?” Lady Fairclough demanded.
Mrs. Llewellyn smiled. “It will be that of the Wisdom Temple, of course. The Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens. It is my hope that Bishop Romanova herself will preside, but absent her participation we can still conduct the service ourselves.”
I reached for my pocket watch. “It’s getting late, madam. Might I suggest that we get started, then!”
Mrs. Llewellyn turned her eyes upon me. In the flickering candlelight they seemed larger and darker than ever. “You do not understand, Dr. Watson. It is too early rather than too late to start our ceremony. We will proceed precisely at midnight. Until then, please feel free to enjoy the paintings and tapestries with which the Anthracite Palace is decorated, or pass the time in Mr. Llewellyn’s library. Or, if you prefer, you may of course retire to your quarters and seek sleep.”
Thus it was that we three separated temporarily, Lady Fairclough to pass some hours with her husband’s chosen books, Holmes to an examination of the palace’s art treasures, and I to bed.
I was awakened from a troubled slumber haunted by strange beings of nebulous form. Standing over my bed, shaking me by the shoulder, was my friend Sherlock Holmes. I could see a rim of snow adhering to the edges of his boots.
“Come, Watson,” said he, “the game is truly afoot, and it is by far the strangest game we are ever likely to pursue.”
Swiftly donning my attire, I accompanied Holmes as we made our way to Lady Fairclough’s chamber. She had retired there after spending the hours since dinner in her brother’s library, to refresh herself. She must have been awaiting our arrival, for she resopnded without delay to Holmes’s knock and the sound of his voice.
Before we proceeded further Holmes drew me aside. He reached inside his vest and withdrew a small object which he held concealed in his hand. I could not see its shape, for he held it inside a clenched fist, but I could tell that it emitted a dark radiance, a faint suggestion of which I could see between his fingers.
“Watson,” quoth he, “I am going to give you this. You must swear to me that you will not look at it, on pain of damage beyond anything you can so much as imagine. You must keep it upon your person, if possible in direct contact with your body, at all times. If all goes well this night, I will ask you to return it to me. If all does not go well, it may save your life.”
I held my hand toward him.
Placing the object on my outstretched palm, Holmes closed my own fingers carefully around it. Surely this was the strangest object I had ever encountered. It was unpleasantly warm, its texture like that of an overcooked egg, and it seemed to squirm as if it were alive, or perhaps as if it contained something that lived and strove to escape an imprisoning integument.
“Do not look at it,” Holmes repeated. “Keep it with you at all times. Promise me you will do these things, Watson!”