Gibbous House 54

Good memories such as these had ever helped me into the arms of lethe, and I passed one of my rare dreamless nights. The light of dawn was struggling through the filth of the tiny window when I awoke. The late Mr Parminter's watch informed me that the hour of six was a quarter gone. The cheery mood I might have expected after an undisturbed night was somewhat dissipated by the chatter and twitter of innumerable birds, which I had no doubt Maccabi could name from their song alone. I was tempted to target the bourdeloue with my morning micturition from atop my bed, but contented myself with a more customary use of the said porcelain.

The paucity of my wardrobe was now becoming irksome to me; as I clothed myself I resolved that Maccabi would be the willing donor of a few items to use until the reappearance of the esteemed Elijah Salomons, with my 'gentleman's wardrobe within the week'. Besides, it would be amusing to wear fashions last worn before the Hanoverian fop stood in for his lunatic father in matters of state – and I expected it would discommode young Jedediah in the extreme to loan me the best of his apparel. Breakfast appeared to me a capital idea, and, since surely the peculiar Mrs Gonderthwaite could not possibly be a Semite, I felt that there was some prospect of a trencherman's repast to begin the day.

The dining room, of course, was deserted. I rang the dissonant hand bell, though there was no prospect of it being heard in the kitchen. It would be quite inappropriate for me to seek out the cook in the kitchen, or -God forbid, in her chamber - it seemed to me. For this reason I began to explore the room in earnest; to see what other strange items might be found in it.

Naturally, I made straightway for the huge wardrobe obscuring the window. Hard up against it on one side was a chiffoniere, beautiful and delicate. Sadly, its mirror was spackled and cracked. I heaved it without ceremony aside, judging it to be more easily moved than the ottoman stood on its end adjacent the behemoth of a wardrobe, on its other side. There was no sign of the smallest finger bone. The anatomical skeleton had quite vanished, although I was relieved to see the outline of its pedestal in the dust in front of the wainscoting.

A man's pride will withstand many things; however, he will usually swallow it in the hope of sending more satisfactory victuals after it. Therefore, I took myself to where I thought the kitchen to be. This necessitated the navigation of the furniture crammed vestibule. The narrow channels through the piled tables, chairs, chaises, wardrobes, hautboys, tallboys and whatnots were somewhat confusing, and it was only at a third attempt that I gained entry to the spur containing the kitchen and the servants quarters. The smell was not one to make me sanguine of a palatable breakfast. It was not the smell of spoiled provisions, exactly. Neither was it due to a surfeit of cats – but it was a smell firmly placed somewhere between the two – and I was at that point in a sort of ante-room which led, I presumed, to the kitchen.