Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(129)

It was only as an afterthought that she slipped a hand beneath the pillows.

There she found something: an envelope, and a long box, wrapped in an antique paper and tied with a black ribbon. These were the source of the scent: a musky smell redolent of the deep woods. Quickly, she pulled them out.

The envelope was of cream-laid linen paper, and the box was just large enough to hold a diamond choker, or perhaps a bracelet. Constance smiled, then flushed deeply.

She opened the envelope eagerly. Out fell three pages of dense, elegant handwriting. She began to read.





I hope you slept well, my dearest Constance: the sweet sleep of the innocent.

There is a good chance it will be your last such sleep for some time. Then again—if you take the advice in this letter—sleep may come again, and very soon.

As I’ve whiled away these pleasant hours with you, I must admit to having wondered something. What has it been like, all these many years, to live under the same roof as Uncle Antoine, the man you called Enoch Leng: the man who brutally murdered your sister, Mary Greene?

Did you know this, Constance? That Antoine killed and vivisected your sister? Surely you must have. Perhaps at first it was just a supposition, a strange twinge of dark fancy. No doubt you ascribed it to your own perverse cast of mind. But over time—and you two had so very much time—it must have come to seem, first a possibility, then a certainty. Yet no doubt this was all subconscious, buried so deep as to be almost undiscoverable. And yet you knew it: of course you did.

What a deliciously ironic situation. This man, Antoine Pendergast, killed your very own sister—for the furthering of his own mortal life… and ultimately yours as well! This is the man to whom you owe everything! Do you know how many children had to die so that he could develop his elixir, so that you could enjoy your abnormally extended childhood? You were born normal, Constance; but thanks to Uncle Antoine, you became a freak of nature. That was your word, wasn’t it? Freak.

And now, my dear, duped Constance, you can no longer shove this idea aside. You can no more dismiss it as a flight of imagination, or a dark irrational fear on those nights when the thunder rumbles and you cannot sleep. Because the worst is, in fact, true: this is precisely what happened. Your sister was murdered to prolong your life. I know, because before he died, Uncle Antoine told me so himself.

Oh, yes: I had several chats with the old gentleman. How could I not seek out a dear relative with such a colorful history, with a worldview so similar to my own? The very possibility that he might still be alive after all those decades added excitement to my search, and I did not rest until I at length tracked him down. He quickly sensed my own true nature, and naturally became most anxious that your path should never cross mine—but in return for my promise never to meet you, he seemed happy enough to discuss his, shall we say, unique solution for a broken world. And he confirmed everything: the existence of his concoction for the prolongation of life—although he withheld from me the manner of its preparation. Dear Uncle Antoine, I was sorry to see him go; the world was a most interesting place with him in it. But at the time of his murder, I was too closely involved in my own plans to help him escape his fate.

So I ask one more time: what was it like for you to live in this house for so many, many years as helpmate to your sister’s killer? I can’t even begin to imagine it. No wonder your psyche is so frail—no wonder my brother fears for the soundness of your mind. Together, alone, in this house: was it possible that you even grew to become, shall we say, on intimate terms with Antoine? But no, not that: I am the first man to become master of that shrine, dearest Constance: the physical evidence was incontrovertible. But you loved him—no doubt you loved him.

And so what now is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister’s murderer? The very air you breathe you owe to her, and to Antoine’s other victims. Do you deserve to continue this perverse existence? And who will mourn your passing? My brother, surely not: you would be a guilty burden to him no more. Wren? Proctor? How risible. I shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you.

Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.





Ever your





Diogenes





P.S. I was surprised to see how juvenile your earlier attempt at suicide was. Surely, you now know not to slash willy-nilly across your wrists; the knife is arrested by the tendons. For a more satisfactory result, cut lengthwise, between the tendons: just one cut: slow, forceful, and above all, deep. As for my own scar: isn’t it remarkable what one can do with a bit of greasepaint and wax?