Free The Nonesuch and Others by Brian Lumley

the way down its length. I knew that under that frill eight hardwood spokes would be clasped about the stem in a circle, like the arms of some deep-sea octopus. I understood the design of these things by virtue of the fact that my landlady in Exeter had just such a parasol in her garden, beneath which I would often sit reading a book.
    As for this forlorn trio:
    Since in their day these sunshades would have been attractive and expensive heavy-duty items of outdoor furniture, I was at first surprised that they had been left behind—especially the pair that appeared to be in good order. That was what I had found a little strange. On reflection, however, I reasoned that just like the parasol with the torn canvas, the other two might also be damaged, their defects hidden or disguised by distance, but sufficient to make salvaging them unprofitable.
    Then, as the shadows deepened and my balcony cooled, I went inside, fell asleep on my bed, and woke from disturbing but unremembered dreams barely in time for dinner…
     

     
    At dinner I discoveredthat the Czech girls—Hannah’s “common room-maids”—had duties other than cleaning, tidying and changing the linen: they also served meals. They were pretty girls, too, very much down to earth, unlike the rather haughty Hannah.
    “Haughty Hannah”…from Hamburg, or maybe Hannover? I had to smile at the alliterative “sound” of it: even though it only sounded in my mind, it served to bring back to mind the title of that novelty song, Hard-Hearted Hannah, about a lady who “pours water on a drowning man.” Also, it told me that for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on I had taken a dislike to the German woman. Perhaps it was because she had “poured water” on my questions about Mrs. Anderson.
    Anyway, the Czech girls served dinner to me and a room full of amateur fishermen and women, and the chef—decked out in a white hat and apron—came out of the kitchen to inquire about his culinary offerings: were they up to expectations? And actually they had been; indeed the food had been exceptional.
    I told him so in the bar later, where I was drinking Coca-Cola with a slice of lemon, and lusting after his Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 on the rocks. A burly, pigtailed Scotsman—“It keeps mah hair oot o’ the grub!”—he appreciated my compliments, and he fully understood why I refrained from joining him in a glass of the hard stuff.
    “Oh aye,” Gavin McCann quietly announced, nodding and lifting a confidential forefinger to tap the side of his nose. “Mah old man—mah father—he found it somethin’ o’ a problem, too. He liked his wee dram. Truth is, he liked every wee dram in the whole damn bottle! And he paid for it, the old lad: he saw more than his fair share o’ pink elephants, that yin. Until the time came when they stampeded all over him, especially on his liver! Aye, and they made a right mess o’ that, too.”
    Pink elephants? Well, I hadn’t come across any of them. But other stuff? Oh yes, I had seen other stuff.
    “How about you?” I asked him—and quickly added. “But hey, ignore me if that’s a bit too personal! It’s just that—”
    “Am I an alcoholic, d’ye mean?” He shook his head. “No, not yet. So don’t be affeard o’ buyin’ me a drink or two! Mind you, I’ve seen enough o’ drinkin’ in this place—and in the town—not tae mention the Andersons’ old place down in Polperro. Aye, and ye’d think it would put a body off; but a man gets a taste, and…well, let’s face it: there’s no too much else tae enjoy any more, now is there?” With which he tossed back the drink he was working on, stared expectantly at me, and speculatively at his empty glass.
    This was rather more than a subtle hint, but with a little luck I may finally have found a means of discovering something more about the Seaview’s—or Mrs. Anderson’s—mystery, assuming there was such a thing.
    And so when McCann was sipping on his next