The Nonesuch and Others by Brian Lumley

be nowhere left for us tae live! I mean, a body has tae die somewhere, does he no?”
    To which, for a moment or two, I could find no answer…
     

     
    He had obviously seen the look on my face and sensed the change in me. And: “Ah hah!” he gasped. “But…ye came in today, did ye no? And ye found the place full tae brimmin’, all except room seven. Well, well! And she actually let ye have it, did she? So then, maybe things are lookin’ up after all. And no before time at that.”
    While I now understood something of what had happened here, there were still several vague areas. Since McCann had intimate knowledge of the Andersons, however—since he’d known them and worked for them all those years—it seemed more than likely he would be able to fill in the blank spots.
    Unfortunately, before I could get anything more out of him, Janet Anderson herself came into the bar-room, smiling and nodding at myself and her chef as she crossed to the bar where one of the Czech girls was serving. The pair spoke briefly over the bar, before Mrs. Anderson headed back our way and paused to have a word with us, or rather with McCann. But:
    “Do excuse me,” she spoke to me first. And then to McCann: “Gavin, I know you’re off-duty and I so dislike disturbing you, but would you mind doing up some sandwiches—say nine or ten rounds—for an evening fishing party? I would have asked you earlier, but they’ve only just spoken to me. And of course you may keep the proceeds.”
    McCann was up on his feet at once. “No problem at all, mah bonny,” he said. And to me, as he turned to go: “I’m obliged to ye for ye’re company—” with a knowing wink and a finger to his nose, “—But now ye must excuse me.” With which he was gone…
     

     
    I too had stood upat Janet Anderson’s approach. Now I offered her a seat and asked if she would like something: a soft drink, perhaps? But she shook her head, saying: “It’s kind of you, but there’s always work: things to be done, problems to solve.” And yet, seeming uncertain of herself and of two minds, she continued to hover there, until finally I felt I had to inquire:
    “Is there perhaps, er, something…?”
    “Oh, no!” She smiled, her hand on my arm, where I sensed a tremor coming through the sleeve of my light jacket. But in another moment the smile left her face, and taking a deep breath, as if suddenly arriving at a decision, she said, “Please do sit down, Mr. Smith.” And as I seated myself she quickly, nervously continued: “You see, I…well, it’s just that I’ve been wondering about…about your room. Room number seven hasn’t had a paying guest for quite a while, and empty rooms often develop a sort of neglected, even unfriendly atmosphere. I mean, what I’m trying to say is: do you find the room comfortable enough? Have you any complaints? Does the room feel, well, right for you?”
    “Why, yes!” I replied. “Everything feels just fine!” Which wasn’t exactly true, and I would have preferred to answer: “Why are you asking me such odd questions, Mrs. Anderson? I mean, what else is there about that room—other than what I already know of your troubles—that so concerns you?” But since I did know at least that much, and since it was obvious that she was close to the edge, I was naturally unwilling to risk pushing her over. And anyway, if anything remained to be discovered, I believed I could probably find out about it later from McCann.
    But for the moment, because she was still standing there, I added, “In fact you needn’t be at all concerned, because I find the room private and very pleasant. As for complaints: I simply don’t have any! I would have to be very fussy to call one small fault a complaint, now wouldn’t I? And—”
    “—A fault?” she cut me off. “Something…well, not quite right? Something you find just a little, er, odd, perhaps?” Her voice was beginning to shake along with her hands.
    “No,” I quickly