To Perish in Penzance (9 page)

“You were a long time,” he said when I walked into the room. He was sitting at the table in the bay window. There was no reading matter in front of him. I suspected he had been staring out the window, caught up in unhappy thoughts.

“Yes, I'm sorry. I only meant to stay a minute, but she wanted to talk.”

I sat down beside him. “Alan, I have a story to tell you.”

I told it as simply as I could, but it still took quite a while.

When it was over, Alan shook his head. “That poor woman.”

It was the last response I expected, but for once I had the sense to keep still.

“Now she's lost everything, and she's floundering about in a sea of ‘what if?' It's a great mistake, playing ‘what if?'”

“But—don't you ever wonder—?”

“Of course. Everyone does. It's a mistake, all the same. ‘What now?' is the only question that's ever worth asking.”

“And are you asking yourself that?”

“I am.” He frowned.

“You're wondering whether to take this story to the police?”

“No, of course not. I must take it to them. It gives a whole different spin to the investigation into Lexa's death. They must know.”

He frowned again. “No, the question is what I'll do then. It rather depends on the tack they take.”

I wanted to jump in. I wanted to say that he—we—should investigate this thing ourselves, no matter what the police said or did.

I kept silent. This time it had to come from him.

“Well, there's no point in speculating about that, either. If you don't mind, love, I'll give them a ring. They'll probably want to send someone down to get the story straight from Mrs. Crosby.”

“I don't think she's up to it right now. And WPC Danner heard it all from the bathroom, anyway. Won't that do?”

“I believe,” he said, “that you forgot to tell me about WPC Danner.” He turned to the phone and didn't see my sigh of relief.

He was in! He wanted to make this report himself, constable or no constable, so he could gauge the police reaction. He had the bit between his teeth and intended to run with it.

And whether he realized it yet or not, I intended to run right beside him.

He was on the telephone only a short time, and told very little of his story. I could make almost no sense of his end of the conversation, and when he hung up he had an odd expression on his face.

“Bad news?”

“I'm not sure. The DCI isn't in, but the chap at the switchboard recognized my name and shot the call up to the super. He wants to see me straightaway.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I'm not sure. He sounded—well, I'll know more when I talk to him. Will you be all right for a little while?”

“I think I'll take a nap. This morning was a little—shattering.”

“You do that. I'll be back soon.” He straightened his shoulders and left the room, and I lay down on top of the bedspread to worry.

I did eventually doze a little, though when I woke I wished I hadn't slept. My dreams had been troubled. I could remember only vague snatches of content, but I knew my heart was pounding and the bedspread badly rumpled.

Alan had not yet returned. I put on my glasses and looked at the clock. Nearly two hours! Was he in trouble? Maybe he had been reprimanded for interfering. Well, they couldn't actually do that, could they? He wasn't a member of the force anymore. But they could act snooty, and make him feel terrible, and—

The door opened, Alan entered, and my anxious speculations dissolved. The man who walked in was ten years younger than the one who had left. His step was jaunty, his smile broad.

“What happened?”

“All in good time, my dear, all in good time. We've missed lunch, you know, and your breakfast is feeding the fishes. Let's go out and find a good cream tea, and I'll tell you all about it.”

There's no hurrying him when he's in that sort of mood. He enjoys springing surprises, and he does it in his own way and takes his own sweet time. I sighed ostentatiously and reached for my hat.

There was a tea shop not far from the hotel. Small and unprepossessing, it nevertheless promised “Genuine Cornish Cream Teas.” We went in and were pleasantly surprised.

The scones were homemade. So was the strawberry jam. The tea was delicious, and as for the clotted cream—well, let me just say that cholesterol never came in a more delectable form. One could positively feel it clogging up the arteries, but what a way to go!

I was, of course, in a mood to enjoy anything. True, Alan and I were delving into “old, unhappy, far-off things” centering around more than one tragedy, but we were doing it together and he was happy again. Soon, I hoped, he'd tell me why. Life was good.

When we'd eaten every last crumb of the wonderful, fattening stuff, Alan not having uttered a word except “More tea, dear?” and “I could do with a bit more of that jam,” I put my foot down.

“All right,” I said. “If you don't tell me this minute what's got you looking like a little boy with his first electric train, I'm going to make a public scene.”

There were enough people in the shop to make any scene very public, indeed. They also served a more useful purpose; their babble of conversation acted as a screen to keep our talk private.

He leaned back, felt in his pocket for the pipe he no longer smoked (on his doctor's orders), made a face, and then settled down to his story.

T
HE
gist of it, since you're so impatient, is that I'm to have a reasonably free hand in helping to investigate Lexa's death.”

Well, that took my breath away, as he'd known it would. I simply looked my questions, and he grinned. “Oh, well, if you want the whole story, that will take a bit longer. It seems that young Colin has an exaggerated opinion of my prowess as an investigator. He called me into his office as soon as I got to the station …”

“Superintendent Cardinnis will see you immediately,” the constable at the desk had said. “You'll remember where his office is, I don't doubt.”

“I remember,” said Alan, and walked the length of the brown-linoleumed hallway with growing apprehension.

“Chief Constable, come in, sir!” The superintendent sounded welcoming, even cordial. Confused and wary, Alan went into the office and sat down.

“Just Mr. Nesbitt nowadays, you know, Superintendent.”

“Not in these parts, sir. Here you're The Chief, and always will be. We're very proud of you, you know.”

Alan had not considered matters in quite that light.

“You're the only local man who's ever risen to the very top, and we're not likely to forget it,” continued Cardinnis.

“Your SOCOs seemed a bit stiff this morning,” said Alan dryly.

Cardinnis shook his head. “I was afraid it might have struck you that way. Embarrassment, pure and simple, mixed with not a little awe. And, of course, fear that they might make great fools of themselves in front of you.”

“I see.” Alan's tone was noncommittal.

Cardinnis looked at Alan and seemed to hear what he wasn't saying. “You'll be wondering why I had the effrontery to ask you here. The fact is, I'd have come to you, but I wanted to put a proposition in front of you now, today, and I simply hadn't the time to leave the station. That's why I don't intend to beat about the bush. Chief Constable, I know you're retired. I know you've come here with your wife on holiday, and I've a lot of cheek to ask. But the fact is, I'd like your help with this Alexis Adams mess.”

Alan said nothing, just kept his eyes focused on the superintendent's.

“Unofficially, of course. I can't hire you, and I can't pay you, but what you began to tell me seems to confirm the first idea I had when I heard about your call this morning.”

“And that was?”

“That there's a connection between the two cases, the unsolved murder from your time, and this one.

“My grandfather and my father, both, used to talk about that old murder. Like you, they were convinced it
was
murder. And they said that if anyone ever found the key to it, it would be you. Now, maybe it's just coincidence that you found the body of the Adams woman, and that you've learned of her link with that old case. Myself, I don't believe in coincidence. I think it was meant.”

The old superintendent of his time, Alan thought, young Colin's grandfather, had been a strong Methodist. It sounded as though Colin might be following in his footsteps.

“So I'd be a fool—wouldn't I, sir?—to ignore all the connections. Your intimate knowledge of the earlier case, your acquaintance with the present victim, your reputation as an investigating officer. And I'm not that much of a fool.” He sat back and waited.

Alan chose his words with some care. “I am, as you say, on holiday. What exactly is it that you propose?”

Cardinnis sat up. “An exchange of information. You tell me what you know and what you are able to learn in further inquiries. In return, I keep you apprised of the progress of the case from our end. Autopsy results, interview transcripts, the lot. No official sanction or authority. Unofficially, any help that an understaffed operation can provide.”

Then Alan had sprung what would, he was sure, be the undoing of the proposal. “You should know, Superintendent, that my wife is no mean investigator herself. She has been of great help to me on several occasions. I would insist that she be included in this matter.”

To his great surprise, Cardinnis had laughed, loud and long. “My dear sir, I never had the slightest idea that she could be excluded. Her reputation is well known here, as well.”

“And with that,” Alan concluded, “we agreed.”

“Well, it's all very exciting, and I do think it was noble of you to deal me in. But I'm dying to know, what did he tell you about what they've found out? You were there forever. I was getting worried.”

“They don't know much yet, of course. A list of Lexa's effects. There was nothing in the least interesting, by the way. A preliminary report on a possible cause of death, which boils down to, they haven't a clue. Nothing obvious; there are no wounds, no obvious symptoms of poisoning. We'll have to wait for the autopsy. They haven't yet traced her movements last night. In fact, they've barely begun to check anything. No, what took the time was less what Colin told me than what he wanted me to tell him: my recital of your version of Mrs. Crosby's story. They want it from the horse's mouth, of course, and they'll probably ask you to retell it, as well, but Colin wanted to know what struck me about it, if anything.”

“And?”

“Oh, the drugs angle, of course. Colin was onto that, too, straightaway. And then he said something very interesting.” Alan picked up his cup, found it empty, and put it down again. “He said, Dorothy, that something odd is going on in Penzance. ‘There's too much money about' was the way he put it. When I asked him to be more specific, he couldn't. He only said that far more money was being spent in Penzance than he could account for by any lawful activities.”

“Drug money?”

“That's just it. He doesn't know. He can't put his finger on anything, only his feeling that, somehow, too much money is in circulation. And that would fit in very nicely with a drugs operation, wouldn't it?”

“There's a lot more we need to ask Mrs. Crosby,” I said, after Alan had ordered us a second pot of tea.

“Yes. Colin agreed to let us, or more probably you, do most of the talking to her, on the grounds that she's ill and frail and less likely to be upset talking to someone with whom she has established a relationship. There's a condition, though: We'll have to tape all the conversations, unless a policeman is there to take notes. They lent me a tape recorder for the purpose. Colin doesn't want any more second- or thirdhand accounts. Now, have you a notepad in that valise of yours?”

“Of course.” My purse is large, true, but I want to be able to put my hands on whatever I need, and one never knows when a little spiral notebook may come in handy, or a flashlight or a bag of cough drops or a deluxe Swiss Army knife, or …

I rummaged, found the notebook and a pen, and sat, ready to record whatever brilliant insights we might develop.

“Ah. Good. First off, then, we have to know why the Crosbys came to Penzance.”

“I can guess.”

“So could I, but I'd rather ask.”

“Right. ‘Queries for Mrs. Crosby. 1. Purpose in visiting Penzance.' Next?”

“We don't know what they did while they were here. That's going to be extremely important.”

“I shouldn't imagine Mrs. Crosby was feeling up to doing anything much. But Lexa—yes, we'll have to know what her movements were. I should think the police will be working on that, though.”

“Of course. We'll be retracing their steps with most of what we do, but we might have some ideas they don't. That's the whole point of involving us, isn't it?”

Obediently, I wrote it down. “‘2. Trace Lexa's movements.' What else for Mrs. Crosby?”

“I'm not sure at this stage. She'll have to identify the body, of course.”

“Oh, Alan, that poor woman! Is she really well enough, do you think?”

“She strikes me as a strong person. Not physically, not now, but of strong character. When she realizes it is something she must do, I think she'll summon up the courage to do it. We'll want to go with her.”

“Of course, if she wants us.” I turned back to the pad and considered for a moment. “Okay, this may strike you as a silly idea, but I think we ought to go back to the cave.”

“Can you? And I thought you hated the cliff path.”

“Well, as to the path, I didn't like it, but I managed it once. I can do it again. And the cave—well, I don't know. Maybe if I concentrated very hard on what I was doing, it wouldn't be so bad. I think I have to try, anyway.”