To Perish in Penzance (22 page)

W
E
had an early lunch and then changed into our soberest clothes for Lexa's funeral. I was glad we had offered to take Eleanor, because all the fuss of getting her and her nurse settled in the car and then safely out of it again at the church kept me from thinking very much.

Eleanor was making a great effort. She had lost weight visibly, even in the few days we had known her, and her clothes hung on her, but she had applied her makeup carefully and made sure her wig was smoothly brushed and combed. She carried an elegant walking stick and tried not to show how heavily she was leaning on it as she walked across the grass to the open grave. Her nurse held her elbow lightly, ready to help if help was needed and wanted.

“Lexa would be proud of you,” I whispered as Mr. Polwhistle appeared, his surplice and stole blowing in the brisk wind.

Eleanor tightened her lips in what might have been an attempt at a smile and fixed her eyes steadfastly forward.

The service began. The words from the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer, which ought to have been familiar and somewhat comforting, were instead from a modern translation that I found distracting, so I looked around as unobtrusively as I could.

I had expected that only Eleanor, Alan and I, and the nurse would be present. I was surprised to see John Boleigh hovering a little distance away, with another man who looked vaguely familiar. I looked at Alan and raised my eyebrows.

“Cardinnis,” he whispered under cover of a rather odd version of the Twenty-third Psalm which the tiny gathering was trying, with many stumbles, to recite.

Boleigh, I thought, looked almost as bad as Eleanor. Was he seeing his granddaughter lying there, praying she was alive and well, terrified that she was neither?

There were a few more readings, mercifully short, the Lord's Prayer, mercifully familiar, and then the words of committal, a blessing, and it was over. Eleanor turned away, refusing to cast earth or flowers on the body of the woman she had loved so devotedly, refusing, also, to weep. She held her head high, though her face, even through the makeup, was gray.

John Boleigh, Mr. Polwhistle, and Mr. Cardinnis all made attempts to speak to her. She ignored them, moving away as quickly as she could.

“We'd best get her back immediately,” the nurse said to Alan. “She's near collapse, and she'll not want to do it with anyone watching.”

“You go on,” I said. “I'll have a word with Mr. Polwhistle and then walk home.”

I hung around a corner of the churchyard for a few minutes, trying to be invisible or, at the worst, to look as if I were studying the old graves, while the priest spoke to Mr. Boleigh and the police superintendent. When they finally left—together, I noted, Boleigh talking agitatedly to Cardinnis—I hastened out of my secluded corner and caught up with Mr. Polwhistle on the church steps, just as he was about to go inside.

“Mr. Polwhistle?”

He peered nearsightedly back at me.

“It's Mrs. Martin, Mr. Polwhistle. Alan Nesbitt's wife. I was here just now for the funeral. I just wanted to say how grateful I was for the beautiful service.” I've never avoided a little insincerity in a good cause.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I saw you and your husband at the service. Such a shame there weren't more people to mourn such a beautiful girl, but I'm grateful if I was able to help her grieving mother in some small way.”

“I'm sure it was a great comfort to her.” Another lie. Nor did I correct him about Lexa's parentage. What did it matter?

“But was there some way I can help you?”

“Not really. I only wanted to thank you.”

“No need.” He hesitated and then went on. “I must admit I took something of a personal interest in the matter, though of course Alexis wasn't a parishioner. But I'm always particularly horrified when a young person dies from the misuse of drugs.”

“Lexa's death wasn't a suicide, you know,” I said hurriedly, and then wondered if I had given away some vital secret.

“No, the police assured me that it was almost certainly accidental, or I could not have buried her in consecrated ground, you know.” Again he hesitated.

“Have you perhaps worked with teenagers, Mr. Polwhistle? You seem quite concerned about them.” I was fishing, but there was something here. I could feel it.

“No, no.” He shook his head sadly. “I have no talent for working with the young. I'm too old-fashioned, too stodgy. They don't understand me and I don't understand them. It's a terrible failing for a priest, and it has been a great sorrow to me over the years. Even with my own children—and grandchildren—” He broke off.

I tried to probe for more. “Now I understand Pamela Boleigh is missing. Her grandfather seems terribly worried about her. Do you think she's run away?”

“I baptized Pamela,” he said, his eyes focused on something I couldn't see. The past, perhaps. “She was the sweetest baby. I've known her all her life, and now—oh, who knows what evil may have befallen her? The devil, Mrs. Martin, the devil is abroad and at work!”

And he was off and running. I let the tirade run its course, and then pointedly looked at my watch. “Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm late! My husband's expecting me, and I must see how Mrs. Crosby is holding up. It was a pleasure to talk to you, and thank you again for a lovely service.”

I shook his hand and went down the steps.

Once I was in the churchyard, though, and safely out of his sight, I studied the graves in earnest. It would be in the newer section, of course.

It didn't take long to find. “Susan Polwhistle,” the stone read. “Beloved daughter of Susan and Gregory Polwhistle and granddaughter of the Reverend Samuel Polwhistle, rector of this church. Suffer the little children to come unto Me.” The dates read, “1983–1996.”

Thirteen. Mr. Polwhistle's granddaughter had died at the age of thirteen.

I was ready to bet every cent I had that she'd died of something related to drugs.

Alan was waiting for me back at the hotel. “Some tea, darling? Or a drink?”

“Tea, I think. We can make it up here, if that's all right with you. I don't want anything to eat.”

He glanced at me and switched on the kettle. “Mr. Polwhistle was difficult, was he?”

“Not especially, except at the end when he got off on his hobbyhorse. I found out what the personal tragedy is.”

“The tragedy? Oh, Polwhistle's, you mean? He isn't just cracked, then?”

“He's cracked on the subject of drugs because his granddaughter died at age thirteen.”

“Of an overdose? He told you that?”

“He didn't actually tell me much of anything. I made some guesses from what little he did say, and found her headstone. If it wasn't from drugs, it was from something having to do with drugs. I'd stake my reputation as a snoop on it.”

Alan sighed heavily. “It would certainly explain his mania on the subject. Poor man. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?”

“Not now. Alcohol's my drug of choice, but just now I feel like holding a crucifix in front of me to ward off anything down to and including aspirin. I'm even a little leery of caffeine.”

“I'll make the tea weak.”

It turned out to be not much more than fragrant hot water, but it was comforting all the same. “How's Eleanor?” I asked when I had finished my first cup and poured a second.

“As well as can be expected' is the phrase, I believe. Miserable and weak, but holding her own, according to the nurse. She—Eleanor, I mean—gave me the key to Lexa's room before I left her. She said she simply wasn't up to sorting out anything, but she'd like it done as soon as possible.”

“No time like the present, I suppose. I don't look forward to it, but that kind of thing just gets harder the longer you put it off.” I drank the rest of the tea and got to my feet. “If you're not too tired?”

“We can have a nap later.” It was the kind of remark that he would normally have accompanied with his best leer, but neither of us was in the mood just then.

We trudged up to the room Lexa had occupied for the last few days of her life. Alan unlocked the door and I entered with great reluctance.

The room had been kept clean. The hotel staff was too efficient not to do that, as soon as the police had given them permission. They had also tidied up, or else Lexa was a tidy person, but the room was still full of her personality. I, who had known her for such a short time, found the fading flowers on the bedside table, the sweater tossed over the arm of a chair, the perfume bottles and makeup in the bathroom almost unbearably pathetic. I could see that even entering the room would be impossible for Eleanor.

Alan said nothing, but opened a wardrobe door. “No suitcases in here. Try under the bed.”

There were two large bags, one under each bed, with designer labels that screamed their cost. We each pulled one out and started to work.

“Did Eleanor say what she wanted done with the things?”

“Only that she never wanted to see any of them again. Charity, I suppose.”

I nodded. Oxfam could make a fortune off these clothes.

“Oh, and she did say to keep the jewelry separate. I suppose some of it may be worth selling.”

“Or else she wants to give it to Lexa's friends. I can't imagine, somehow, that she'd want to sell anything of Lexa's.”

“You might be right.”

We worked for a time in depressed silence. Lexa had brought no clothes inappropriate for a seaside resort. Her taste had been too good for that kind of ostentation. Everything she had, though, was of the very best quality. I inspected my hands carefully to make sure my nails were smooth and I had no rough fingertips before even touching her silk lingerie.

“Are the things from the police station here, Alan?”

He nodded. “In a box in the closet. I've gone through those, but kept them separate. I'd have thought it best to throw them away rather than give them to charity.”

I shuddered and agreed.

The job didn't take long. Eleanor would have to face the same task on a much larger scale when she got back to Lexa's Knightsbridge flat, but we'd done what we could. We closed the bags and locked them. I stood holding the small jewel case with the few rings and earrings Lexa had brought to Penzance.

“Shall I take this over to Eleanor now? I hate to be responsible for it. I don't think there's anything of really fabulous value, but it's all good stuff, no fakes in the lot.”

“You could knock and see if she's awake. If not, we can put it in the hotel safe.”

Eleanor was in bed, but awake. The nurse had left. When I expressed surprise that Eleanor had been left alone, she snapped at me.

“When I want a keeper, I'll ask for one. I can manage for myself a little longer, thank you very much. I heard you next door. Have you finished?”

I didn't respond in kind. Eleanor was a good woman who'd had all she could take. “All done. You asked that we save her jewelry for you, so here it is.” I handed her the box.

She opened the box and sifted through the contents. Then she glared at me. “Where's the rest of it?”

“That's all there was, Eleanor. We looked very carefully.”

“That is
not
all there was. What have you done with the cross?”

W
ELL,
darn it, I'd had a tough day, too. I tried to hold on to my temper, but I confess I was somewhat brusque with Eleanor. “Everything we found is there. We even looked in the pockets of suitcases, all the little hiding places for jewelry. Is the cross you're talking about valuable? Would Lexa have put it in the hotel safe?”

Eleanor sank back onto the pillows, her brief anger spent. Her face was gray. “No, it wouldn't be in the safe. She wore it always, even when she was working, under her clothes. She would have been wearing it the night she died, probably tucked into the top of her tights. She'd hang it 'round her neck if she was wearing something with a high neckline, or in her bra if she was wearing one, even in a shoe if it wouldn't go anywhere else. She was never without it. Everyone she worked with knew about it. It ought to have been with the things the police returned.”

“Eleanor, could it have been buried with her?”

“Not unless that priest lied to me. He said he'd take care of having her body properly dressed for burial, so I told him to take a dress from her room. He said she was—her body was wearing nothing at all. I should have seen to it myself! Dorothy, that cross belonged to her mother, to Betty, and it was all we had of her, and I want it back! You're quite sure you didn't see it?” Suspicion hardened her voice again.

“Eleanor, we did not take Lexa's cross. We didn't see it. We'll look again, of course, but I don't think we missed anything. What does it look like? Gold or silver?”

“Gold, set with garnets. It was about so big”—she held her fingers about an inch and a half apart—“and made to look old. Betty told me Lexa's father gave it to her, that first time they met. It was all he ever gave her, she would say, except for a baby. She used to wear it on a ribbon; a chain cut into her neck, she said, because the thing was so heavy. But she liked it, and when Lexa was born Betty passed it on to her. A baby couldn't wear it, of course, but Betty would pin it to the hood of the pram, or to Lexa's blanket. When Lexa became my responsibility, I put the cross away until she was old enough to understand how to look after it, and then gave it to her and told her the story.”

Eleanor blinked several times and turned her head away. “She's worn it since she was ten. Until now.”

Alan and I looked at each other. Alan's look was a warning. He cleared his throat. “We will certainly look for it, Eleanor, and see that you have it as soon as possible. A thing like that would be very noticeable.”