To Perish in Penzance Read Free

it.”
    â€œWell, St. Ives, then. Who knows, we might meet a man with seven wives. Or Mousehole. I’ve been looking at the map, and I’d dearly love to visit a place called Mousehole.”
    â€œIt’s pronounced Mowz’l, not mouse-hole, and it’s about as big as our Cathedral Close.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t exactly expect Manhattan, did I, not with a name like Mousehole—or Mowz’l—and anyway, who cares? It sounds picturesque. And St. Michael’s Mount is nearby, too, I’ve heard a lot about that, and—”
    â€œDorothy.”
    I closed my mouth.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re up to?”
    I tried to look innocent. “I’m tired of rain, and we were talking about Cornwall last night, so I looked up the weather in the paper this morning, and it isn’t raining there, it’s lovely and warm, and I just thought—”
    This time he simply looked at me.
    Then he sighed. Heavily. “My dear, I appreciate your concern, truly. Yes, I do still worry now and again about that old case. Yes, I do still wish I’d been able to solve it. But the thing happened over thirty years ago, love. There is nothing more to be done. Some things in life must simply be accepted, and I long ago accepted the fact that we will never know who that girl was, or what happened to her.”
    I ought to have known better than to try to put anything over on Alan. The bells of the cathedral, ringing almost over our heads, reminded me that honesty is often the best policy. “All right. It’s your call. But everything I said about Cornwall is true, you know. I have honestly wanted for years to visit the West Country, and I do honestly have a bad case of cabin fever. And the sun really is shining there, according to
The Times.
Besides, it was your home, and I’d like to see it.”
    He smiled. I love Alan’s smile and the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners. He put a hand on mine. “Very well. As soon as we come home from church, I’ll book us into a hotel you’ll like in Penzance, if you’ll talk to Jane about the cats. And if you can get leave from your job, of course. But we’re going for a holiday. Right?”
    â€œRight,” I said solemnly, and if my fingers were crossed, it was only metaphorically.
    After church I cornered Mrs. Williamson, my boss at the cathedral bookshop. “Willie, Alan and I would like to go away for a few days, two weeks at most. Do you think you could get along without me? We’d like to leave tomorrow. I’m sorry to give such short notice, but something came up rather suddenly.” I was a little uncomfortable about asking. It’s a volunteer job, and I put in only a few hours a week, but I do try to be reliable.
    Willie was nice about it. “I think we can manage. Business has been a trifle slow. Nothing’s wrong, I hope?”
    I thought of the incessant rain, and then I thought about Alan’s face when he talked about the old murder case. “Nothing serious. Thanks so much. I owe you one. Several, in fact.”
    â€œOh, I shall collect, never fear!”
    My next task was easy. Jane Langland, our crusty, lovable next-door neighbor, has often looked after our cats, though she’s more of a dog person. When I knocked on her back door that afternoon, I was announced with assorted barks and snufflings from her tribe of bulldogs. Jane’s spent so many years with the breed she actually looks a good deal like them.
    â€œCome in, Dorothy,” she called. “I’m up to my elbows.”
    She was, almost literally. Her hands, sticky and floury, were in the pastry bowl, scraping a batch of bread dough onto the board to be kneaded. She took my request in stride, as I’d been sure she would.
    â€œAlways happy to oblige with the moggies, you know that. Where are you off to this time?”
    â€œPenzance. I talked Alan into a little holiday where the