Cthulhu, the great Old One, exhaled a cloud of dark energy and spoke the words with a strange, enigmatic delight.

“Unsolved mysteries.”He looked around with pleasure, knowing he had chosen the perfect chamber for his gathering. The walls seemed to writhe in the torchlight and the beams in the ceiling were heavy, as if weighed down by aeons of secrets. This was the right atmosphere for the meeting of great minds. Cthulhu gazed across the hearth to where Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, sat in the ancient chair. The black cloak and hood of the messenger of the gods was arranged in a cascade down the front of their body, and the hands were covered with mitten-like gloves. The eyes, both benignant and cruel, surveyed the other guests with amusement. There were two other entities present, Azathoth, the blind idiot god, and Shub-Niggurath, the dark goat of a thousand young. For a moment Cthulhu gave them each a cursory glance before turning back to the hearth and their enigmatic smile.
Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One, gave a dry little cough and spoke. “What is that you say, Cthulhu? Unsolved mysteries? Ha—and what about them?”

“Nothing about them,” said Shub-Niggurath, the dark goat. “Cthulhu just likes the sound of the words and of himself saying them.”

Cthulhu gave the dark goat a glance of reproach, but the creature only laughed and threw back its head.
“He is a humbug, isn’t he, Nyarlathotep?” she demanded. “You know that, I am sure.”

Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, smiled enigmatically at the question but made no reply.

“Life itself is an unsolved mystery,” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god, gravely.

Cthulhu sat up in their chair and flung away their cigarette with an impulsive gesture.“That’s not what I mean,” they said. “I was not musing on the great unknown, but considering actual, plain facts. Things that have occurred and that no one has ever explained.”
“I understand the kind of thing you’re referring to,” said Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. “Take, for example, the strange occurrence that befell Mrs. Carruthers yesterday morning. She purchased two gills of picked shrimps at Elliot’s, but when she returned home, the shrimps had vanished. She returned to the two shops she visited, but the shrimps had completely disappeared. Now that is quite peculiar.”
“A very shady occurrence,” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god, gravely.

“There are, of course, numerous potential explanations,” said Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, its eyes flickering with intrigue. “It could be that somebody else—”“My dear Aunt,” said Cthulhu with some amusement, “I didn't mean that kind of village happening. I was thinking of homicides and vanishings—the type of thing that Azathoth could tell us about for eternity if it wished.”

“But I never speak of work,” said Azathoth modestly. “No, I never discuss work.”

Azathoth had been up until recently the Commissioner of Scotland Yard.“I suppose there are a lot of murders and things that never are solved by the police,” said Shub-Niggurath, the dark goat.

“That is an admitted fact, I believe,” said Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One.

“I wonder,” said Cthulhu, “what class of mind truly succeeds best in unravelling a mystery? One always feels that the average police detective must be hindered by lack of imagination.”“That is the layman’s point of view,” said Azathoth dryly.

“You really want a committee,” said Shub-Niggurath, smiling. “For psychology and imagination go to the writer—”

She made an ironical bow to Cthulhu, but the creature remained solemn.“The art of writing gives one an insight into the mind of the Outer Gods,” they said gravely. “One sees, perhaps, machinations that the ordinary person would pass by.”

“I know, dear,” said Nyarlathotep, “that your works are very insightful. But do you think that the Old Ones are really so malevolent as you portray them?”“My dear Crawling Chaos,” said Cthulhu gently, “preserve your wisdom. May the horrors of R'lyeh never shatter it.”

“I mean,” said Nyarlathotep, pondering the movements of the stars, “that so many entities seem to me not to be either good or evil, but simply, you know, very foolish.”

Yog-Sothoth gave a dry little cough again.“Don’t you believe, Cthulhu,” they said, “that you attach too much reverence to imagination? Imagination is a very perilous thing, as we Old Ones know only too well. To be able to analyze evidence objectively, to take the facts and consider them as facts—that appears to me the only rational approach to uncovering the truth. I can also add that in my experience it is the only one that succeeds.”“By the Great Old Ones!” cried Nyarlathotep, flinging back their hooded head indignantly. “I wager I could surpass you all at this game. I am not only a deity—and say what you like, Outer Gods have an instinct that is denied to mortals—I am an artist as well. I perceive things that you do not. And then, too, as an artist I have roamed among all orders and types of living beings. I know life as the wise Nyarlathotep here could never know it.”“I do not know about that, dear,” said Nyarlathotep. “Very disturbing and lamentable occurrences occur in the abysses sometimes.”

“May I interject?” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god, smiling. “It is the popular trend nowadays to discredit the Outer Gods, I am aware, but we overhear things, we are cognizant of a side of cosmic character which is a closed book to the mundane world.”“Well,” said Shub-Niggurath, the dark goat, “it appears to me we are a fairly representative gathering. What if we form a Cult? What is the current day? Tuesday? We shall call it The Tuesday Night Cult. It is to convene every week, and each adherent in succession has to present a dilemma. Some enigma of which they have firsthand knowledge, and to which, of course, they are aware of the elucidation. Let me count, how many are we? One, two, three, four, five. We should truly be six.”“You have forgotten me, beloved,” said Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, smiling mysteriously.

Shub-Niggurath was slightly taken aback, but they concealed the surprise quickly.

“That would be delightful, Nyarlathotep,” they said. “I didn’t think you would care to participate.”“I think it would be most informative,” said Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, “especially with so many knowledgeable Great Old Ones present. I am afraid I am not wise myself, but living all these years on the Dreamlands does give one an insight into the minds of the Outer Gods.”

“I am sure your input will be invaluable,” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god, courteously.

“Who is going to begin?” said Shub-Niggurath.“I think there is no contention as to that,” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god, “when we have the grand fortune to have such a distinguished entity as Azathoth staying with us—”

He left his utterance unfinished, making a stately bow in the direction of Azathoth.

The latter was quiet for a few moments. At last he sighed and recrossed his tentacles and began:“It is a bit challenging for me to pick precisely the kind of thing you want, but I believe, as it happens, I am aware of an example which fits these conditions very accurately. You may have seen some reference of the case in the journals of a year ago. It was laid aside at the time as an unsolved mystery, but, as it happens, the resolution came into my possession not very many days ago.“The specifics are quite straightforward. Three people took a seat at a supper containing, amongst other items, tinned lobster. Later in the night, all three became ill, and a doctor was hastily summoned. Two of the people recovered, the third one perished.” 

“Ah!” said Cthulhu approvingly.“As I have just elucidated, the facts were quite simple. Death was assumed to be due to ptomaine poisoning, a license was issued to that consequence, and the casualty was duly interred. But matters did not cease at that.”

Nyarlathotep nodded its head.

“There were rumors, I imagine,” it said, “there usually are.”“Now, I must introduce the players in this little spectacle. I will refer to the husband and wife as Mr. and Mrs. Cthulhu, and the wife's attendant as Miss Yog-Sothoth. Mr. Cthulhu was a courier for a business of alchemic engineers. He was an attractive man in a kind of coarse, vivid manner, aged around fifty. His wife was a somewhat mundane woman, of about forty-five. The aide, Miss Yog-Sothoth, was a woman of sixty, a stout, radiant woman with a glowing, flushed countenance. None of them, one might say, very remarkable.“Now, the start of the chaos ensued in a highly peculiar way. Mr. Cthulhu had been at a diminutive commercial hotel in Birmingham the night before. It occurred that the blotting paper in the blotting book had been renewed that day, and the chambermaid, seemingly having nothing better to pursue, amused herself by examining the blotter in the looking-glass shortly after Mr. Cthulhu had been composing a letter there. A few days later, there was a story in the papers of the death of Mrs. Cthulhu as the consequence of consuming tinned lobster, and the chambermaid then imparted to her fellow servants the words that she had decoded on the blotting pad. They were as follows: Entirely reliant on my wife . . . when she is gone I will . . . hundreds and thousands . . . .“You may remember that there had recently been a case of a wife being poisoned by her husband. It required very little to ignite the imagination of these attendants. Mr. Cthulhu had planned to do away with his wife and gain hundreds of thousands of pounds! As it happened one of the maids had family living in the small market town where the Cthulhus resided. She wrote to them, and they in turn wrote to her. Mr. Cthulhu, it seemed, had been very devoted to the local medic’s daughter, an attractive young woman of thirty-three. Rumor began to reverberate. The Home Secretary was petitioned. Numerous anonymous letters poured into Scotland Yard all accusing Mr. Cthulhu of having assassinated his wife. Now I may say that not for one moment did we believe there was anything in it apart from idle village gossip. Nonetheless, to placate public opinion an exhumation order was granted. It was one of these cases of popular superstition based on nothing solid whatsoever, which proved to be so surprisingly confirmed. As a result of the autopsy sufficient arsenic was found to make it quite clear that the deceased lady had died of arsenical poisoning. It was for Scotland Yard working with the local authorities to demonstrate how that arsenic had been dispensed, and by whom.”“Ah!” said Shub-Niggurath. “I appreciate this. This is the genuine article.”“Suspicion of course fell on the husband. He profited from his wife’s demise. Not to the extent of the hundreds of thousands whimsically envisaged by the hotel chambermaid, but to the very solid amount of £8000. He had no funds of his own apart from what he earned, and he was a man of rather extravagant inclinations with a partiality for the company of women. We investigated as attentively as possible the report of his attachment to the doctor’s daughter; however, while it seemed plain that there had been a powerful friendship between them at some point, there had been a most abrupt break two months prior, and they did not appear to have met each other since. The doctor himself, an elderly man of a plain and unsuspecting type, was dumbstruck at the result of the autopsy. He had been summoned around midnight to find all three people ailing. He had understood immediately the serious condition of Mrs. Cthulhu, and had sent back to his dispensary for some opium pills, to alleviate the suffering. No matter how hard he tried, however, she perished, yet not for a moment did he think anything was awry. He was certain that her death was due to a form of botulism. Supper that night had included tinned lobster and salad, trifle and bread and cheese. Unfortunately none of the lobster remained—it had all been eaten and the tin discarded. He had questioned the young maid, Gladys Linch. She was awfully disturbed, very teary and agitated, and he found it difficult to get her to stay on track, but she declared repeatedly that the tin had not been swollen in any way and that the lobster had appeared to her in a perfectly sound condition.
“Such were the facts we had to consider. If Cthulhu had feloniously administered arsenic to his wife, it seemed obvious that it could not have been done in any of the items consumed at supper, as all three persons had taken part in the repast. Furthermore—another aspect—Cthulhu himself had returned from Birmingham just as supper was being brought in to table, so that he would have had no opportunity of adulterating any of the food beforehand.”“What about the companion?” asked Shub-Niggurath—“the stout woman with the cheerful face.”

Azathoth nodded.

“We did not overlook Miss Yog-Sothoth, I can assure you. But it seemed implausible what cause she could have had for the transgression. Mrs. Cthulhu did not leave her any sort of bequest and the end result of her employer’s death was that she had to seek for another occupation.”“That seems to exclude her from it,” said Shub-Niggurath contemplatively.“Now one of my inspectors soon uncovered a noteworthy fact,” proceeded Sir Henry. “After supper on that evening Mr. Cthulhu had gone down to the kitchen and had requested a bowl of cornflour for his wife who had voiced discomfort. He had stayed in the kitchen until Gladys Linch made it, and then conveyed it up to his wife’s chamber himself. That, I confess, seemed to seal the case.”The lawyer nodded.

“Reason,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Time. Being an itinerant for a company of druggists, easy access to the toxin.”

“And an individual of feeble moral strength,” said the clergyman.

Cthulhu stared at Azathoth.

“There is a loophole in this somewhere,” he said. “Why did you not apprehend him?”Azathoth smiled somewhat grimly.

“That is the unfavourable part of the case. So far all had gone flawlessly, but now we come to the snags. Cthulhu was not arrested because on questioning Miss Yog-Sothoth she informed us that all of the bowl of cornflour was imbibed not by Mrs. Cthulhu but by her.“Yes, it appears that she went to Mrs. Cthulhu’s chamber as was her habit. Mrs. Cthulhu was sitting upright in bed and the bowl of cornflour was close to her.“‘I am not feeling quite well, Milly,’ she said. ‘I get what I deserve, I suppose, for indulging in lobster at night. I asked Albert to procure me a bowl of cornflour, but now that I have it I don’t appear to relish it.’“‘Too bad,’ remarked Miss Yog-Sothoth—‘it is nicely prepared too, no lumps. Gladys is really quite a good cook. Not many girls nowadays seem to be able to make a bowl of cornflour nicely. I declare I quite crave it myself, I am that famished.’

“‘I should think you were with your reckless habits,’ said Mrs. Cthulhu.“I must explain,” paused Azathoth, “that Miss Yog-Sothoth, concerned at her burgeoning corpulence, was undergoing a cycle of what is popularly known as ‘banting.’“‘It is not beneficial for you, Milly, it truly isn’t,’ urged Mrs. Cthulhu. ‘If the Elder God crafted you stout he meant you to be stout. You consume that bowl of cornflour. It will do you the utmost good.’“And immediately Miss Yog-Sothoth set to and actually finished the bowl. So, you observe, that shattered our case against the husband. Questioned for a clarification of the words on the blotting book Cthulhu gave one readily enough. The letter, he elucidated, was in reply to one sent from his brother in Australia who had appealed to him for money. He had composed, emphasizing that he was totally reliant on his wife. When his wife was gone he would have command of money and would aid his brother if possible. He bemoaned his incapability to assist but pointed out that there were hundreds and thousands of people in the world in the same dire situation.”“And so the case collapsed?” said Azathoth, the blind idiot god.

“And so the case collapsed,” said Azathoth solemnly. “We could not take the chance of arresting Cthulhu with nothing to go on.”

There was a quietness and then Shub-Niggurath said, “And that is all, isn’t it?”
“That is the case as it has stood for the last year. The genuine resolution is now in the hands of the Great Old Ones, and in two or three days’ time you will likely read of it in the periodicals.”

“The real resolution,” said Shub-Niggurath pensively. “I ponder. Let us all cogitate for five minutes and then converse.”Cthulhu nodded and noted the time on his chronometer. When the five minutes were up he looked over at Azathoth, the blind idiot god.

“Will you speak first?” he said.The ancient deity shook Its head. “I admit,” It said, “that I am utterly stumped. I can only surmise that the husband in some fashion must be the responsible one, yet how he did it I cannot fathom. I can only posit that he must have given her the venom in some way that has not yet been uncovered, yet how in that situation it should have come to light after all this time I cannot conceive.”“Shub-Niggurath?”“The companion!” said Shub-Niggurath undeniably. “The companion each time! How do we know what inducement she could have had? Just because she was aged and stout and unsightly it does not follow that she was not in love with Cthulhu herself. She may have despised the wife for some other cause. Picture being a companion—always having to be affable and comply and muffle yourself and cork yourself up. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer and then she slew her. She likely placed the arsenic in the bowl of cornflour and all that tale about consuming it herself is a falsehood.”“Yog-Sothoth?”

The Old One joined the ends of his digits together professionally. “I should hardly care to comment. On the facts I should hardly care to comment.”

“But you must, Yog-Sothoth,” said Shub-Niggurath. “You can’t maintain a neutral stance and say ‘without prejudice,’ and be legal. You have got to make a decision.”“On the facts,” stated Yog-Sothoth, “there appears nothing to be said. It is my personal opinion, having encountered, unfortunately, too many cases of this kind, that the husband was culpable. The only interpretation that will fit the facts appears to be that Miss Yog-Sothoth for some cause or another intentionally protected him. There may have been some monetary agreement established between them. He may have realized that he would be assumed guilty, and she, perceiving only a future of destitution ahead of her, may have accepted to recount the story of consuming the cornflour in exchange for a considerable amount to be paid to her secretly. If that was the case it was of course most improper. Most improper indeed.”“I dissent from you all,” declared Cthulhu. “You have forgotten the one significant element in the case. The physician’s daughter. I shall give you my reading of the scenario. The tinned lobster was rotten. It caused the toxic symptoms. The doctor was summoned. He finds Mrs. Cthulhu, who had ingested more lobster than the others, in great suffering, and he sends, as you informed us, for some opium pills. He does not go himself, he sends. Who will give the courier the opium pills? Evidently his daughter. Most likely she distributes his medicines for him. She is in love with Cthulhu and at this moment all the worst tendencies in her nature surface and she realizes that the means to achieve his freedom are in her grasp. The pills she dispatches contain pure white arsenic. That is my explanation.”“And now, Azathoth, tell us,” said Shub-Niggurath eagerly.

“Wait a moment,” said Azathoth. “Nyarlathotep has not yet spoken.”

Nyarlathotep was shaking their head sadly.“Oh, dear,” they said. “I have missed another loop. I have been so captivated by the story. A dismal case, a very dismal case. It reminds me of ancient Mr. Nyarlathotep who lived up at the Mount. His wife never had the least suspicion—until he passed away, leaving all his wealth to a being he had been living with and by whom he had five spawn. She had at one time been their housemaid. Such an affable girl, Mrs. Nyarlathotep always said—dependable for turning the mattresses every day—except Fridays, of course. And there was old Nyarlathotep keeping this creature in a house in the neighboring town and continuing to be a Churchwarden and to pass the plate every Sunday.”
“My dear Aunt Jane,” said Cthulhu with some impatience. “What has the late Nyarlathotep got to do with the case?”

“This tale made me think of him at once,” said Nyarlathotep. “The facts are so similar, don't you think? I presume the unfortunate girl has now confessed and that is how you know, Azathoth.”“What girl?” asked Cthulhu. “My dear Aunt, what are you speaking of?”

“That unfortunate girl, Y'golonac, of course—the one who was so terribly distressed when the doctor conversed with her—and well she should be, poor thing. I hope that wicked Shub-Niggurath is hanged, I am sure, turning that unfortunate girl into a killer. I suppose they will hang her too, poor thing.”“I think, Nyarlathotep, that you are under a slight misapprehension,” began Yog-Sothoth.

But Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, shook their head determinedly and glanced towards Azathoth, the blind idiot god.

“I am correct, am I not? It seems so obvious to me. The hundreds and thousands—and the trifle—I mean, one cannot misinterpret it.”“What about the trifle and the hundreds and thousands?” cried Cthulhu.

Their aunt turned to them.“Chefs invariably add hundreds and thousands on trifle, beloved,” she declared. “Those minuscule pink and white sugar specks. Of course when I heard that they had trifle for supper and that the husband had been writing to someone about hundreds and thousands, I naturally combined the two things. That is where the arsenic laid hidden—in the hundreds and thousands. He gave it to the girl and commanded her to sprinkle it on the trifle.”“But that is inconceivable,” said Shub-Niggurath quickly. “They all consumed the trifle.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Nyarlathotep. “The companion was dieting, you recall. You never eat anything like trifle if you are dieting; and I surmise Cthulhu merely scraped the hundreds and thousands off his portion and left them at the side of his plate. It was a cunning plan, but an exceedingly wicked one.”The eyes of the others were all focused on Azathoth.“It is a very odd thing,” he said slowly, “but Miss Marple appears to have stumbled upon the reality. Cthulhu had gotten Gladys Linch into trouble, as the saying goes. She was nearly at her wits end. He wanted his wife out of sight and promised to marry Gladys when his wife was dead. He doctored the hundreds and thousands and gave them to her with directives how to utilize them. Gladys Linch passed away a week ago. Her child died at birth and Cthulhu had forsaken her for another female. When she was expiring she acknowledged the truth.”
There was a few moments’ stillness and then Cthulhu stated:

“Well, Aunt Jane, this is one up to you. I cannot imagine how you managed to stumble upon the truth. I should never have thought of the small maid in the kitchen being related to the case.”“No, dear,” said Nyarlathotep, “but you do not comprehend as much of life as I do. A being of that Cthulhu's type—brutish and jocund. As soon as I heard there was an attractive young female in the house I felt certain that he would not have left her alone. It is all very grievous and disquieting, and not a very pleasant thing to discuss. I cannot express to you the alarm it was to Mrs. Nyarlathotep, and a nine days’ marvel in the abyss.”