The old man was the odd-man-out—or rather the pig-in-the-middle; while he maintained contact with the Tremains, Jamieson never failed to assist Jilly and Anne White whenever the opportunity presented itself. Moreover, he visited the Sailor’s Rest from time to time, building at least tentative friendships with several of the normally taciturn locals. The Tremains reckoned him either a fool or a saint, while the Whites—both of them—saw him as a godsend.
One evening in early March Jilly called the old man, ostensibly to tell him she was running low on medication, the pills which he’d prescribed and made up for her. But Jamieson sensed there was more than that to her call. The woman’s voice hinted of loneliness, and the old man’s intuition was that she wanted someone to talk to... or someone to talk to her.
He at once drove to her house.
Waiting for his knock, Jilly made him welcome with a glass of sherry. And after he had handed over a month’s supply of her pills, and she had offered him a chair, she said, “I feel such an idiot calling you so late when I’ve had all day to remember my medication was getting low. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not at all, my dear,” the old man answered. “If anything, I’m just a little concerned that you may be taking too many of those things. I mean, by my calculations you should still have a fortnight’s supply at least. Of course, I could be wrong. My memory’s not as keen as it used to be. But...?”
“Oh!” she said. And then, quickly recovering: “Ah! No—not at all—your memory’s fine. I’m the one at fault. For like a fool I... well, I spilled some pills the other day, and didn’t like to use them after they’d been on the floor.”
“Very sensible, too!” he answered. “And anyway, I’ve let it go too long without asking you how you’ve been feeling. But you see, Jilly, I’m not getting any younger, and what used to be my bedside manner is all shot to pieces. I certainly wouldn’t like to think those pills of mine were doing you any harm.”
“Doing me harm? On the contrary,” she replied. “I think I’m feeling better. I’m calmer—perhaps a little easier in my mind—but... Well, just a moment ago, James, you were complaining about your memory. Huh! I should be so lucky! No, I don’t think it’s your pills—though it could be a side-effect—but I do seem to stumble a lot. And I don’t just mean in my speech or my memory, but also physically. My balance is off, and I sometimes feel quite weak. You may have noticed?”
“Side-effects, yes.” He nodded. “You could be right. But in a remote place like this it’s easy to get all vague and forgetful. I mean, who do you talk to? You see me occasionally—and of course there’s Anne— but that’s about it.” He looked around the room, frowning. “Talking about Anne, where is she?”
“Sleeping.” Jilly held a finger to her lips. “What with the weather improving and all, she’s been doing a lot of walking on the beach. Walking and reading, and so intelligent! Haven’t you ever wondered why she isn’t at school? They had nothing more to teach her, that’s why. She left school early, shortly after her father... after George... after he...” She paused, touched her hand to her brow, looked suddenly vague.
“Yes, I understand,” said the old man, and waited.
In another moment Jilly blinked; and shaking her head as if to clear it, she said, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“I was just wondering if there was anything else I could do for you,” Jamieson answered. “Apart from delivering your pills, that is. Did you want to talk, perhaps? For after all, we could all of us use a little company, some friendly conversation from time to time.”
“Talk?” she said—and then the cloud lifted from her brow. “Ah, talk! Now I remember! It was something you were telling me one time, but we were somehow interrupted. I think it was Anne. Yes, she came on the scene just as you were going to talk about... about... wasn’t it that coastal town in America, the place that George came from, that you were telling me about?”
“Innsmouth?” said the old man. “Yes, I believe I recall the occasion. But I also recall how nervous you were. And Jilly, in my opinion—from what I’ve observed of you, er, in my capacity as a doctor or ex-doctor— it seems to me that odd or peculiar subjects have a very unsettling effect on you. Are you sure you want to hear about Innsmouth?”
“While it’s true that certain subjects have a bad affect on me,” she began slowly, “at the same time I’m fascinated by anything concerning my husband’s history or his people. Especially the latter, his genealogy.” She speeded up a little. “After all what do we really know of genetics—those traits we carry down the generations with us—traits passed on by our forebears? And I think to myself, perhaps I’ve been avoiding George’s past for far too long. Things have happened here, James...” She clutched his arm. “Weird alterations, alienations, and I need to be sure they can’t ever happen again, not to me or mine!” She was going full tilt now. “Or if they do happen, that I’ll know what to do—what to do about—do about...”
But there Jilly stopped dead, with her mouth still open, as if she suddenly realised that she’d said too much, too quickly, and even too desperately.
And after a long moment’s silence the old man quietly said, “Maybe I’d better ask you again, my dear: are you sure you want me to tell you about Innsmouth?”
She took a deep breath, deliberately stilled the twitching of her slender hands on the arms of her chair, and said “Yes, I really would like to know all about that place and its people.”
“And after I’ve gone, leaving you on your own here tonight? What of your dreams, Jilly? For I feel I must warn you: you may well be courting nightmares.”
“I want to know,” she answered at once. “As for nightmares: you’re right, I can do without them. But still I have to know.”
“Anne has told me there are some books that belonged to her father.” Jamieson tried to reason with her. “Perhaps the answer you’re seeking can be found in their pages?”
“George’s books?” She shuddered. “Those ugly books! He used to bury himself in them. But when they were heaping the seaweed and burning it last summer, I asked Anne to throw them into the flames!” She offered a nervous, perhaps apologetic shrug. “What odds? I couldn’t have read them anyway, for they weren’t in English; they weren’t in any easily recognisable language. But the worst thing was the way they felt. Why, just touching them made me feel queasy!”
The old man narrowed his eyes, nodded and said, “And do you really expect me to talk about Innsmouth, when the very thought of a few mouldy old books makes you look ill? And you asked the girl to burn them, without even knowing their value or what was in them? You know, it’s probably a very good thing I came along when I did, Jilly. For it’s fairly obvious that you’re obsessed about something, and obsessions can all too easily turn to psychoses. Wherefore—”
“—You’re done with me,” she finished it for him, and fell back in her chair. “I’m ill with worry—or with my own, well, ‘obsession’ if you like—and you’re not going to help me with it.”
The old man took her hand, squeezed it, and shook his head. “Oh, Jilly!” he said. “You’ve got me all wrong. Psychology may be one of our more recently accepted medical sciences, but I’m not so ancient that I predate it in its entirety! Yes, I know a thing or two about the human psyche; more than enough to assure you that there’s not much wrong with yours.”
She looked bewildered, and so Jamieson continued, “You see, my dear, you’re finally opening up, deliberately exposing yourself to whatever your problem is, taking your first major step toward getting rid of it. So of course I’m going to help you.”
She sighed her relief, then checked herself and said, “But, if that involves telling me about Innsmouth—?”