He remembered the nasty sound of her voice in the kitchen while his five-year-old self was locked in the wooden cabinet. There was clamouring at the door as he banged his fists against it. Out of breath, he whimpered, begging her to let him out.
He would press his eye against the pantry door’s keyhole, and see a terrifying figure in a shapeless green dress. This woman could not have been his mother, for what mother inhabited such a loveless angular frame, what mother uttered words with such spite, or walked with those menacing, erratic movements.
Maurice never knew what Therese would do next. Like a famished crone who feasted on little children, her face would surge before him, twisted and cruel. She was unpredictable. Her rage, nursed by ale and poverty, was overshadowed by more than one mean bone, and by the spite she held against all men.
And now Therese stood there, facing the kitchen table with her back turned towards him. In her hand, she held a white chicken by its legs. Maurice saw her pick up a knife. The blade swiped the air, sparking a violent flutter of wings and flying white down. Therese held the dead bird and plucked its feathers. “I know you are watching, Maurice,” she warned. “Don’t let me catch you.”
Even now, her voice echoed in the passage, ringing in his ears. Maurice paused halfway down to the cellar. He shut his eyes, letting the wave of horror pass through him. He told himself he was no longer in the pantry. He was in Alexandra Hall, faraway in England. He swept aside the horrid vision of his mother’s face and continued his descent.
Before long, the steps ended. Beneath his feet, he felt the uneven ground. It was not tiled. It seemed worn and ancient, a relic of some old cottage, perhaps centuries old. He shone his small lamp across.
A vaulted chamber of astounding proportions existed directly beneath the house. It was much larger than Maurice had suspected. He advanced, slowly at first, using his lamp to peer into this vast, humid cavern. The floor was bare, dirty and mottled with stains. The unpainted walls glistened with lichen and moss.
The main piece of furniture was a large wooden bench on which rested a medical leather bag, metal implements and mysterious vials that had gathered dust.
Behind this large table, against the wall, there towered a medieval medicine cabinet with dozens of tiny drawers. The gleam of golden letters on each compartment illuminated this monstrous piece of furniture that seemed to belong not here, in the English countryside, but in an oriental palace in some faraway land. That it had found itself here was remarkable.
Unable to see any further through the darkness, Maurice shone his lamp to his left. Glass formations of various shapes and sizes crowded the numerous shelves across the left side wall but he could not discern what these were or what they contained. Seeing a small stool with a five-member candlestick, he worked with his own matches to light each candle. A brighter light soon filled the chamber.
As he raised it high, it revealed a ghastly spectacle. There were rows and rows of shelves to his left, and stacked upon these, was the work of a mad man. Grotesque pieces of flesh, limbs, bone and all manner of creatures floated in sealed jars of various sizes and shapes. Maurice shuddered. In one of the jars, the dark, swollen digits of a severed hand floated in a greenish liquid.
What evil had taken place here?
Maurice retreated to the large table. He caught the glint of sharp implements which he’d not seen earlier. He pulled at the drawers, hoping to find work records, or maybe some written material. Instead he found a revolver. Maurice stared at the weapon.
“What is all this, Aaron? What were you doing?” he whispered.
He shone the candlestick to the right. Stacked against the far right wall, in uneven fashion, were numerous large wooden and metal boxes and trunks. Some were draped in sheets of calico and other wrapping material that had been discarded. Maurice neared the boxes.
From their labelling, he learnt the mysterious origins of each parcel: Congo, Rhodesia, Gambia, Senegal, and the Gold Coast. There were boxes from as far away as Peking and Macau.
What had been inside those boxes?
He returned to the oriental cabinet, suddenly inspired. If he were to find written records, perhaps they might be stored in one of its larger compartments. He tugged at each brass knob, half-way down the cabinet. The first two drawers were filled with towels and medical tin dishes. The third drawer was locked. Maurice applied force and tore it open. The hinge snapped, revealing a pile of worn leather journals. One of these was dated from 1840 to 1847. His heart beating fast, Maurice buried this booklet beneath his robe, fastening his belt tight to keep the journal in place.
As he lifted his eyes, he grew conscious of the broken latch on one of the medieval cabinet’s tiny doors. He tugged on it to see it open. Medicine pills. Maurice opened another compartment, then several others. They all contained pills, but while most compartments were neatly organised, reflecting Aaron’s concern for order, others were in disarray, almost as though someone had rummaged through the cabinet.
Returning to the drawer with the broken latch, Maurice took note of the drug’s label. Moved by instinct, he seized one of the pills and slid it into his pocket.
It was time to leave. He had no wish to remain down here. Maurice raised the candlestick and waved it to find the staircase. To his surprise, the light seemed to reflect upon a surface on the
