The Obsidian Chamber

Epilogue

Mrs. Trask walked briskly across the marble floor of the grand reception hall of the Riverside Drive mansion, feather duster in hand. It was one of those deceptively warm late-November days that seemed to promise that spring, rather than winter, was imminent. Sunlight filtered down through the antique skylights, gilding the brass fixtures of the mahogany display cases and illuminating the objects within. Mrs. Trask found many of these objects to be peculiar, even disturbing, and she had long ago learned to dust the cases without examining their contents.

The room looked far different than it had when she’d first returned from Albany with a glad heart, despite her grief over Mr. Pendergast’s death: her sister’s mysterious illness, which had at first seemed to be getting increasingly worse, had suddenly vanished in a way the doctors described as little short of miraculous. But imagine: arriving home at 891 Riverside meant discovering not only an empty house, but yellow crime scene tape strung across this very room! A quick call to Mr. Pendergast’s friend Lieutenant D’Agosta had fixed that, at least: the lieutenant had come over the very next morning and supervised in person the removal of that dreadful tape. He’d also given her the surprising and wonderful news that Mr. Pendergast was all right; he had not drowned after all, and was now simply — as was his wont — off on one of his cases. No doubt he would show up in his own good time, probably sooner rather than later.

The lieutenant had not, however, answered her other questions. Where was Proctor? And where was Constance? She couldn’t tell if the man knew nothing, or was hiding the truth from her.

Just before she left for Albany, Mrs. Trask had heard Constance announce her intention of moving to quarters in the sub-basement… a place she herself never entered. But it seemed that, in her absence, those plans had changed. Suitcases were missing from Constance’s room. Proctor, too, was absent, and it appeared he’d left in a hurry: his room was disordered — something most unusual for a man as finicky about neatness as he was.

No doubt when Mr. Pendergast returned he would explain all. It was not her place, he had made clear many years ago, to concern herself with these endless and strange comings and goings.

Mrs. Trask moved from the reception hall to the library. Here there was no cheerful November sunlight: as usual, both the shutters and curtains were drawn, leaving the large space lit only by a single Tiffany lamp. Mrs. Trask bustled about, dusting and straightening, but in fact the room was already spotless — she’d gone over it every day since she’d returned — and her cleaning was more from habit than necessity.

She was used to Mr. Pendergast’s frequent absences, of course, but it was much rarer for Constance or Proctor to be gone. With all three of them away, things felt queer indeed. The mansion seemed even bigger than usual, and it was full of a lonely, ambient emptiness that made Mrs. Trask rather uncomfortable. Upon retiring each night, she locked not only the door to her rooms, but the door leading into the servants’ quarters, as well.

She’d thought of trying to telephone, but realized that she knew neither Mr. Pendergast’s nor Proctor’s cell phone number. Constance, of course, had no phone and didn’t care for one. Really, once they were back, she was going to have to make sure to…

At that moment, a hollow knock resounded on the front door.

Mrs. Trask paused in her dusting. Visitors to 891 Riverside were rare — almost unheard of. Except for Lieutenant D’Agosta’s recent appearance, which she herself had requested, she could only recall two such knocks on the door in the last twelve months. The first had proven most distressing indeed, and the second had precipitated the sudden visit of Mr. Pendergast and Constance to Exmouth that — until just recently — she believed to have ended in tragedy.

The housekeeper stayed where she was.

A few seconds later the knock sounded again: so loud it seemed to reverberate through the house.

It was not her place, she told herself, to answer the door. Nevertheless, something told her that — in the absence of anyone else — Mr. Pendergast would want her to do so. It was a bright, sunny morning, after all; what was the chance of it being a robber, or some other ne’er-do-well?

Exiting the library, she crossed the reception hall once again, passed through the long, narrow refectory, and entered the front hall. The massive front door stood before her like an ominous portal, monolithic, with no door viewer set into its grim lines.

As she stood there, a third knock came. She jumped slightly.

This was silly. Taking a deep breath, she unbolted and unlocked the door, then — with some effort — pulled it open. And then she stifled a scream.

A man stood on the stoop before her: a man who looked to be in the very last stages of debility. His shirt was stained and torn almost to ribbons; the inside of the collar was almost black; half-moons of dried sweat darkened the armpits. Despite it being November, he had no coat. His pants were, if anything, even more rent than the shirt. One cuff had come undone, billowing out over the bare and impossibly dirty foot below; the other trouser leg had been cut or, more likely, ripped off at the calf. The cloth of one shoulder and one leg were heavily matted with dried blood. But it was the man’s gaunt and hollow face that most distressed her. His hair was plastered to his head like a skullcap. Dirt, mud, blood, and dust coated his skin so thickly that she had a difficult time distinguishing his race. His beard was a tangled rat’s nest that ended in several spiky points. And then there were his eyes: two burning coals set deep, so deep, into sockets of purplish black.

She seized the door and was about to slam it closed when she realized that the specter standing in front of her was Proctor.

“Mr. Proctor! My goodness!” she said, opening the door wide. “Whatever happened to you?”

He took one tottering step forward — then another — and then collapsed to his knees.

Quickly, she knelt, helping him to his feet again. He appeared to be beyond exhaustion.

“What happened?” she repeated as she guided him through the refectory. “Where have you been?”

“It’s a long story.” His voice was faint, barely a whisper. “Can you help me to my room? I need to lie down.”

“Of course. I’ll bring you some broth.”

“Constance—?” he murmured.

“She’s not here. I don’t know where she’s gone. I think that Lieutenant D’Agosta might have some idea. You should ask him.”

“I will.”

“But I do have wonderful news. Or did you already know? Mr. Pendergast is alive. He didn’t drown, after all. He was back here, briefly — then left again, about a week ago I understand.”

For just a moment, those coal eyes brightened even further. “Good. That’s good. I’ll call Lieutenant D’Agosta first thing tomorrow.”

They were halfway across the reception hall when Proctor abruptly stopped. “Mrs. Trask?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’ll rest right here, if you don’t mind.”

“But let me at least get you to a sofa in the library, where you’ll be—”

Yet even as she spoke, Proctor released his hold on her and slid slowly onto the cold marble floor, where he lay, unmoving, in a dead faint.