Le Grande Mystérieux - Chapter One

I have decided to set down a record of the fantastical circumstances in which I find myself ensnared, and I must start with my first encounter with Le Grande Mystérieux. It would seem natural to any sane observer that I should regret meeting that most infuriating, and indeed dangerous, man, and yet if not for Mystérieux I might never have found myself in the company of the lovely Miss Charlotte Fenwick.

Upon reading my article in the Pall Mall Gazette on the Society of Esoteric Studies, and the rumours of magic ritual and practice within, Lord Fenwick’s niece, having exhausted all other avenues of investigation, invited me to call upon her in the hope that I might shed some light upon her unusual and distressing situation.

A dense, freezing fog had descended upon London several days ago, the streets were treacherous with ice, and the buildings and the trees glittered in the glow of the gas lamps, turning the city into a wonderland of magic. The frost crunched beneath my shoes as I approached Lord Fenwick’s house, the windows ablaze with light.

The situation at the estate was indeed troubling and mysterious. Lord Fenwick had been sent an object of the most peculiar nature, and had soon thereafter descended into a trance from which no ordinary means could rouse him.

‘He hasn’t stirred from his chair since the moment he set eyes upon that ghastly creature,’ Miss Fenwick said. ‘He simply sits there, staring at that monstrosity, and growing paler and thinner every day.’

Lord Fenwick was sitting bolt upright in an armchair, his hands gripping the armrests as though he was clinging on for dear life. Or his sanity. His eyes had grown round and large, and the flesh on his face had grown tight against his skull. I feared he did not have long left to live unless we did something.

‘Does he not eat or drink at all?’ I said.

‘He takes a sip of water from me sometimes, sir,’ the maid said. ‘But then other times he purses his lips and refuses me, as much as I beg and plead with him.’

I stood in front of Lord Fenwick, blocking his view of the abhorrent thing that sat before him, and waved a hand inches from his face. As I expected, there was no response. I rested a palm on the back of his hand. His skin was cold and clammy.

‘And you said you’ve called a doctor?’

Miss Fenwick sighed and shook her head. ‘All manner of medical professionals have made it their business to call upon us, along with reporters, psychics, an alienist from a private clinic in Mayfair, and even a fairground owner who was more interested in … that thing than my poor uncle.’

I straightened up and turned to face the eerie taxidermy specimen that had been delivered to Lord Fenwick only weeks previously.

The cat, for that was what it had once been, was no larger than a normal feline. Its coat was a deep black, and its eyes a startling green. Long, yellow fangs protruded from either side of its mouth, curling down below its jaw. Its ears were pricked and larger than I had ever seen on the feral cats that roamed the courtyards behind Mrs Bolton’s rooming house.

Overshadowing all else, though, were the wings that sprouted from its back. Nothing that Miss Fenwick had told me had conveyed the true horror of those membranous appendages, unfurled and poised ready to lift the cat into the air. Or to close around its prey.