Chapter 143

The rooms in the South wing are magnificent. Despite the dust and debris of years of neglect, the structure is still sound. It’s as if the previous occupants simply up and disappeared, leaving all their belongings behind.

All over the place, I find remnants of their life. Crumbling clothes, clunky shoes, a broken porcelain doll. I could spend days in here, just rummaging around, looking at all the history they left behind.

I pick an odd black and white photograph up and stare at it. In it, are four people lying on an old-fashioned bed with copper posts – a mother, father, and two children, all of them asleep. “This is weird,” I say and turn the photograph over. “Josiah Madden and family.”

“Let me see,” Kane says and holds out his hand. “Oh. They’re all dead. It’s a memento mori.”

“A what?”

“Back in the Victorian era, having your photograph taken was expensive, so families would only take pictures of their loved ones after they died. Memento mori means, ‘Remember that you must die.