Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

Kent was roused from a deep sleep by the insistent jangling of the telephone on his bedside table. As he came to full consciousness he glanced at his wristwatch and saw it was 3:00 a.m. Thinking it might be Gilda, he picked up the phone, but it was a man’s voice, full of urgency.

“Carson here, Mr Kent. Something terrible has happened at The Mill House. I know it’s an unearthly hour, but could you come over here right away? It really is imperative.”

At first Kent could not place the voice, but then he remembered it was a CID Inspector based at Lewes, who had read a number of his crime novels and had given him invaluable advice about police procedures. From that a friendship had evolved. “The Mill House?” Kent said, still half-asleep. “Is Roberts...”

Carson interrupted him. “It’s about your friend,” he said gently. “I understand his wife is in New York, so I thought of you. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not, but I still don’t understand.”

“A local man was walking past the place at midnight when he heard terrible screams coming from the building,” replied Carson. “He tried the bell and there were lights on in the house, but no one answered. The local police had a list of key holders and they had to get his housekeeper to open up. What they found was so shocking that they contacted us. You really must come. Now.”

Kent was already out of bed. “I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour,” he said grimly.

X

When Kent arrived at the mill the place was a blaze of light. There were three police cars with their headlights on and an ambulance. Several police officers in uniform were clustered around the open front door, smoking.

After Kent had identified himself, he hurried upstairs and was met by Carson coming down. The Inspector was a big, impressive-looking man in his early forties, broad-shouldered and athletic.

“A bad business, Mr Kent,” he muttered. “A bad business.” He put his hand on the other’s shoulder as they went up to Roberts’ study. “I’m afraid your friend is dead.”

At first Kent could not take this in and stammered something banal and fatuous.

“It’s true,” the CID man said, ushering Kent into the study and motioning toward the whisky bottle and glasses on the desk. “You’d better have a peg. I’m afraid you’re going to need it.”

“I can’t understand it,” Kent said bewilderedly. “He was all right when I last saw him a few days ago, though a little troubled in his mind.” Now that the whisky was beginning to take effect, his faculties were beginning to function normally. “It wasn’t suicide?”

Carson shook his head.

Kent gave him an incredulous look. “Not murder?”

“Not that either. At least not as we understand it,” Carson said grimly. “As I said, you’d better drink the rest of that glass. You’re going to need it.”

Half-dazed, Kent was led downstairs. As they descended to the last level, just above the mill-race, cold damp air was on his face.

The place was full of light, from portable lamps set about the floor, which was wet and interspersed with reddish stains. The hatch was wide open and gaping, but it was the huddled mass under the green canvas sheet that arrested his attention. A police surgeon, a small sandy-haired man with gold pince-nez dominating his face and wearing a dirty white smock, was kneeling by the shrouded mass.

Two other plain-clothes men sat on stools at the far side of the room, smoking and with stolid expressions on their faces. Nobody spoke for a moment.

Kent licked suddenly dry lips but Carson’s strong hand was beneath his elbow and steered him to the high stool that Roberts sometimes used when spending long hours before his easel. That too was in the far corner, its surface covered by a white sheet.

The surgeon stood up. “Quite outside my experience,” he said in a terse voice. “We’ll know more when we get him down to the mortuary... or perhaps not,” he added after a slight pause.

“Are you ready?” Carson asked. “Just a formality and I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but it will save the widow much grief.”

Kent could not suppress a shudder at the crumpled mass of eviscerated flesh with hands and legs slashed and gouged as though by razor-sharp knives. There was such a look of horror on what was left of the dead face that Kent remembered it for the rest of his life. His legs were giving way and he sank thankfully back on to the stool.

“Beats your novels, eh, Mr Kent?” Carson said. The two men were on Christian name terms, but Carson was on familiar ground now and using his official manner in the presence of his subordinates.

“No blood,” revealed the surgeon, whose name was Snaith.

“The water would wash it down, surely,” Kent said.

The little man shook his head. “Even in cases where bodies are recovered from water after being gashed, say, by the propeller of motor boats, they retain most of their blood.”

“But who could have done this?” Kent asked desperately.

“Nothing human, that’s for sure,” Carson put in.

“So it’s not murder?”