Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

“Well, I know it sounds rather silly,” Roberts began haltingly. “But it sometimes seems as though I can hear voices in the water.”

“Oh, I see,” Kent replied. “I’ve noticed it myself when wandering along the stream in winters past. It can be quite hypnotic. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to paint something along those lines? Mighty difficult, I should imagine.”

Roberts shook his head, smiling. “Just a thought. Have another drink.”

And the conversation passed on to other topics.

II

As spring lengthened into summer so did the work on the house progress. Gilda came down from London for several weeks, supervising the delivery of their furniture. She took over one of the top bedrooms for her office, where telephone, word processor and fax machines were installed. There was a magnificent view of the village from there and the silver thread of the stream making its way down to the building, which they had decided to call The Mill House. Furthermore, she had obtained a very good price for their London flat, with the result that Roberts, perhaps for the first time in his life, was becoming quite an affluent person. Of course he realised it was all down to Gilda, for without her he would never have received such sums for his artwork.

The couple had become quite friendly with the Smithsons also, and on one memorable evening they came to the house together with Kent and his fiancée, and they had a great housewarming party which went on until 3:00 a.m.

Roberts was spending more time in the studio down below and the faint, though constant, fret of the water made a soothing background to his painstaking and meticulous draughtsmanship. They had had a telephone installed there, and Gilda would call him at 12:30 p.m. each day and he would ascend to the main house for pre-lunch drinks, and after the meal they would wander along the stream for an hour or so before Roberts resumed his work.

By this time they had a number of friends in the village, most of whom were extremely pleased at the renovation work, as they felt the mill in its new guise greatly enhanced the neighbourhood. Workmen were still putting finishing touches to certain rooms in the house, and the quiet tapping as they went about their business made a pleasing background to Roberts’ thoughts. His latest canvas was coming along well. An international financier had given him half-a-dozen preliminary sittings and now he was finishing off the portrait from photographs.

He had promised Gilda they would have a break in the autumn, when he had finished his current commissions; perhaps to Venice, where she had never been, but it all depended on his workload, which was growing year by year, thanks to her expert business training.

Kent came round to view progress shortly before the work on the building was concluded. He followed his host from room to room, entirely concurring with his friend’s enthusiasm.

“You certainly got a bargain here,” Kent said when the tour was over and they were settled in the huge living room. But he noticed, as he spoke, that a shadow seemed to pass across Roberts’ face and he realised that the artist was extremely tired.

Gilda was away again, doing a tour of major galleries, carrying with her colour slides of Roberts’ latest works, and he sensed that his friend had been working too hard. He caught the glance the other gave him. “Been overdoing it?” he said. “Not a sensible thing...”

Roberts gave a light laugh, which didn’t deceive his friend. “Not really. It’s just the long hours in the studio standing at the easel. It’s very tiring work, you know. Not like writers. Sitting on a soft cushion all day dreaming up impossible plots.”

Kent returned his smile. “There’s a little bit more to it than that,” he said good-naturedly.

“Of course, old chap. You know I was only joking. Stay to dinner. A nice lady comes in from the village when Gilda’s away.”

After the meal the two men sat smoking and talking in the great room that Roberts’ craftsmen had created from what had been two smaller chambers which had been roughly partitioned for some commercial purpose by a previous owner when the place had been a working mill. Apparently the building had been constructed as far back as the sixteenth century, and a vast beam which ran across the whole fireplace wall carried the roughly carved date by some long dead carpenter: 1545.

When Kent’s pipe had been drawn to his satisfaction and the whisky glasses had been filled, the two men were more relaxed and forthcoming than when Mrs Summers, who acted as the artist’s housekeeper, had supervised the meal.

“How long did you say?” Kent asked.

He was referring to the final stages of renovation of the mill. There were various finishing touches that would be carried out by specialist craftsmen, such as wrought ironwork and light fittings in period with the age of the house.