Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Violet found some pieces of the fossil. She looked towards the cliff.

“We were facing out to sea, and they came from behind,” she said.

She tossed her ammonite-shard, which rebounded off the soft rock-face.

The cliff was too crumbly for caves that might conceal a tunnel. The children began looking closely, hoping for a hidden door.

After a half-hour, Ernest complained that he was hungry.

After an hour, Violet complained that she was fed up with rocks.

Dick stuck to it. “If it was easy to find, it wouldn’t be hidden,” he kept saying.

Ernest began to make helpful suggestions that didn’t help but needed to be argued with.

“Maybee they came up under the sea and swam ashore?”

“They weren’t wet and we would have seen them,” countered Dick.

“Maybee they’ve got invisible diving suits that don’t show wetness?”

“Those haven’t been invented yet.”

“Maybee they’ve invented them but kept it quiet?”

“It’s not likely…”

“But not impossible, and you always say that ‘when you’ve eliminated the impossible…’”

“Actually, Ernest, it is impossible!”

“Prove it.”

“The only way to prove something impossible is to devote your entire life to trying to achieve it, and the lives of everyone to infinity throughout eternity, then not succeed…”

“Well, get started…”

“…and that’s impractical!”

Dick knew he was shouting, but when Ernest got into one of these maybee moods—which he called his “clever spells”—everyone got a headache, and usually wound up giving in and agreeing with something they knew to be absurd just to make Ernest shut up. After that, he would be hard to live with for the rest of the day, puffed up like a toad with a smugness that Violet labeled “very unattractive,” which prompted him to snipe that he didn’t want to attract anyone like her, and her to counter that he would change his mind in a few years, and him to… well, it was a cycle Dick had lived through too often.

Then Violet found a hinge. Two, in fact.

Dick got out his magnifying glass and examined the hinges. Recently oiled, he noted. Where there were hinges, there must be a door. Hidden.

“Where’s the handle?” asked Ernest.

“Inside,” said Violet.

“What’s the use of a door it only opens from one side?”

“It’d keep out detectives, like us,” suggested Violet.

“There was no open door when Sellwood was here,” observed Dick. “It closed behind him. He’d want to open it again, rather than go home the long way.”

“He had two big strong men with hammers,” said Violet, “and we’ve got you and Ernest.”

Dick tried to be patient.

He stuck his fingers into a crack in the rock, and worked down, hoping to get purchase enough to pull the probable door open.

“Careful,” said Violet.

“Maybee…”

“Shut up, Ernest,” said Dick.

He found his hand stuck, but pulled free, scraping his knuckles.

There was an outcrop by the sticking point, at about the height where you’d put a door-handle.

“Ah-hah,” said Dick, seizing and turning the rock.

A click, and a section of the cliff pulled open. It was surprisingly light, a thin layer of stone fixed to a wooden frame.

A section of rock fell off the door.

“You’ve broken it now,” said Ernest.

It was dark inside. From his coat-of-many-hidden-pockets, Dick produced three candle-stubs with metal holders and a box of matches. For his next birthday, he hoped to get one of the new battery-powered electrical lanterns—until then, these would remain RRDA standard issue.

Getting the candles lit was a performance. The draught kept puffing out match-flames before the wicks caught. Violet took over and mumsily arranged everything, then handed out the candles, showing Ernest how to hold his so wax didn’t drip on his fingers.

“Metal’s hot,” said Ernest.

“Perhaps we should leave you here as look-out,” said Dick. “You can warn us in case any dogs come along.”

The metal apparently wasn’t too hot, since Ernest now wanted to continue. He insisted on being first into the dark, in case there were monsters.

Once they were inside, the door swung shut.

They were in a space carved out of the rock and shored up with timber. Empty barrels piled nearby. A row of fossil-smashing hammers arranged where Violet could spit at them. Smooth steps led upwards, with the rusted remains of rings set into the walls either side.

“‘Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk’,” said Violet.

“Indubitably,” responded Dick. “This is clear evidence of smuggling.”

“What do people smuggle these days?” asked Violet. “Brandy and tobacco might have been expensive when we were at war with France and ships were slow, but that was ages ago.”

Dick was caught out. He knew there was still contraband, but hadn’t looked into its nature.

“Jewels, probably,” he guessed. “And there’s always spying.”

Ernest considered the rings in the wall.

“I bet prisoners were chained here,” he said, “until they turned to skellytones!”

“More likely people hold the rings while climbing the slippery stairs,” suggested Violet, “especially if they’re carrying heavy cases of… jewels and spy-letters.”

Ernest was disappointed.