To Perish in Penzance Read Free Page B

originally a priory, founded by the Benedictines as a daughter house of the French abbey. So the mistake is understandable.”
    â€œAnyway, I’ve seen Mont St. Michel, and I can’t wait to see this one. Let’s go right after lunch.”
    We changed to more summery clothes and went down to the dining room ready for a meal of local crab or fish or lobster, all of which Alan assured me were excellent. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a table to be had.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” said the headwaiter, sounding as if he actually was. “Everyone came down in a body, it seems. I’m afraid it might be rather a long wait.”
    An elderly woman and a much younger one had just sat down at the table nearest the door. They looked at each other and nodded slightly. The older woman spoke.
    â€œWe’d be happy to share a table, if you’d like to join us.”
    â€œThat’s very kind of you,” said Alan. “If you’re sure it isn’t a bother …”
    â€œNot at all.” The waiter pulled chairs out for us and we sat down.
    We sat for a moment studying our menus in a sort of stifled elevator silence, everyone pretending that the others didn’t exist, until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
    â€œPerhaps we should introduce ourselves, since we’re all staying here at the hotel. That is, you
are
staying here?”
    The woman and her—surely, granddaughter—nodded.
    â€œWell, then, I’m Dorothy Martin, and this is my husband, Alan Nesbitt.”
    They took the different surnames in stride. “My name is Eleanor Crosby,” said the older woman. “My daughter, Alexis.”
    I hoped my face didn’t show the shock I felt. I’m nearer seventy than sixty, and I’d have sworn Mrs. Crosby was my age, or older. Her hair was completely white, her face scored with deep lines. The girl Alexis didn’t seem much more than twenty, though her eyes were troubled. She was also quite beautiful, with a perfect oval face that was innocent of makeup and needed none. Her eyes were dark blue with long, thick lashes that were plainly real. Her honey-colored hair, worn in a simple French twist, was smooth and glossy, and her figure was perfect. She was, in short, one of those classic beauties, so familiar in type as to make one think one had met her before.
    Mrs. Crosby, on the other hand, looked like a pleasant-enough woman, perhaps attractive before age had taken its toll, but she must have married an extraordinarily handsome man to have hatched a chick as stunningly lovely as Alexis.
    However, one couldn’t express such thoughts. I smiled brightly and made the usual small talk as we ate. Where are you from (London), how long are you staying (only for a few days), do you know the area (not well), et cetera, et cetera. They replied courteously, but with an air of constraint that made me wonder a little. They had, after all, invited us to sit with them. Why, if they didn’t want to talk?
    â€œMy husband and I are planning to walk to St. Michael’s Mount this afternoon,” I said as the waiter took our plates away, “if we
can
walk after all that marvelous food. I must say you two were much more sensible.” Actually, they had eaten almost nothing, and I wondered about that, too. Alexis, who had spent most of the meal drinking one bottle of water after another, might be considering her figure, but her mother was so slender as to be verging on gaunt.
    None of your business, Dorothy, I reminded myself, as I frequently have to do. I continued. “If you’ve never been there, maybe you’d like to come with us?”
    Mrs. Crosby smiled. “What a good idea, but not for me, I’m afraid. I plan to be very lazy and have a nap. A walk would be good for Lexa, though. What do you think, darling?”
    â€œWe’d really love to have you,” I said hastily, as Alexis looked about to refuse.
    â€œThank you, but