To Perish in Penzance Read Free Page A

sun’s shining.”
    Jane snorted and gave the lump of dough a sharp jab with a powerful fist. “Don’t know what’s got into the weather. Ought to be fine, this time of year. My chrysanths have gone all scraggy in this rain, heads down in the mud, most of them. Time to cut them off and start again.”
    â€œIf the rain stops long enough to get out. Jane, is there a way to look up old police records? I mean really old, from years ago?”
    â€œQuarreled with Alan, have you?”
    â€œOf course not! What a question.”
    â€œWhy’re you asking me, then? He’d be the one to know.”
    â€œI don’t want to tell him what I’m doing. I’m trying to find out something about an old case of his, one that was never solved. I think he’s worried about it, and I’d like to try to help.”
    Jane worked at her bread for a few seconds, every punch and thump an eloquent comment. “No curing you, is there?” she said eventually. “Have to poke your nose in. Suppose the murder or whatever it was happened in Penzance.”
    â€œNear there, over thirty years ago. Alan was talking about it last night. He says there’s nothing to be done, and that he’s accepted the fact, but he isn’t happy about it, Jane. I’m not, either. It isn’t just nosiness, though I admit to my share of curiosity.”
    Jane gave the bread dough another eloquent thump.
    â€œAll right, maybe more than my share, then. I know I tend to get mixed up in things that are none of my business, but it’s because I believe in justice. The thought of someone getting by with a crime eats at me. It’s not
right
!”
    Jane gave the bread one last pat and covered it with a cloth. “Have you ever thought,” she said deliberately, capturing my attention with a complete sentence, “that there are some stones better not turned over?”
    â€œI—what do you mean?”
    â€œIf there’s a criminal out there who’s not been caught in thirty years, you could go stirring up more trouble than you dream of, lass, and not just for yourself.”
    I filed that sobering thought away as I went back home to pack.
    We got a late start Monday morning, drove slowly through blinding rain and snarled traffic, and put up for the night in Dorchester. It was as rainy there as in Sherebury; we didn’t linger on Tuesday, but set straight out for the promised delights of Cornwall.
    The promises were true. Penzance, when we arrived in late morning, was a miracle of hot sunshine, sparkling blue sea, and flowers in brilliant profusion. The tourists were taking full advantage of the weather, too. The Queens Hotel, an elegant Victorian hostelry just across the street from the beach and the promenade, was crowded with vacationers, many of them retired couples like ourselves. Alan had stretched the budget to indulge me, so we had a lovely room, luxuriously furnished with a four-poster bed and a bay window overlooking the busy street below and, just beyond it, the sea.
    If his intent was to take my mind off old crimes, he succeeded. I looked out the window and was instantly enchanted.
    â€œOh, Alan, look! That has to be St. Michael’s Mount. Way over there to the left, see?”
    He joined me and peered. “Yes, indeed. It’s quite near, you know. Two miles, two and a half, something like that. We could easily walk it this afternoon if you like. We’ll want to take our sticks; it’s rather a stiff pull up to the castle. How is it that you know St. Michael’s Mount? Most Americans I’ve met have never heard of it.”
    â€œFrank and I had a friend who went there, years ago, and took pictures. One of them was published in the
Hillsburg Herald
, and somebody wrote in, very indignant, and said it ought to be called by its proper name, Mont St. Michel.”
    Alan laughed. “It does look very similar, of course. In fact, the house on it was