To Perish in Penzance (11 page)

All that I'd understood, and admired, about Alan, but I'd never known the strength of his passion against evil.

In a sober mood, I followed him back upstairs.

I
WOKE
filled with dread the next morning. Today I would have to try to talk to Mrs. Crosby. There were things we needed urgently to know. Alan and I had agreed that I should be the one to approach her, since she seemed to have some degree of trust in me. Then if it appeared that Alan needed to probe for some details that only his trained policeman's mind could analyze, I would ask if she was willing to talk to him.

No matter how much we needed to know, though, no matter how much she might trust me, it meant intruding on someone in the first stages of unbearable grief, and someone who, moreover, was extremely ill.

“Alan, I feel like a brute.”

“One always does, talking to the families of victims. I hated it myself until I learned to develop a certain amount of distance. It helps to remember, every moment, that you're on their side, that you're doing the only thing that can help at all, and that's to learn the truth. They want the truth, Dorothy, the families do. They want, more than anything, to know what's happened. And then they want the person responsible to be captured and punished.”

He seemed about to say something else.

“What?”

“I was about to say, they want them hanged.”

“But that doesn't happen anymore.”

“No.”

I wanted to ask him how he felt about that, but something in his face closed up. There would be another time, perhaps, for a philosophical discussion of capital punishment. Not just now.

“I hope the police didn't tire her too much yesterday. I wonder if they still have a WPC with her.”

“Probably, if they have enough staff. In cases like this, they try to have someone stay for a day or two at least, especially when the bereaved person is alone, like Mrs. Crosby.”

“I think,” I said, finishing the cup of indifferent tea we'd brewed in the room, “I'll skip breakfast. Mrs. Crosby will have spent a horrible night. If I get there early, maybe I can offer her a crumb or two of comfort. Besides, I'd like to get it over with for today. I'll probably have to keep going back to her, over and over. She'll be sick of the sight of me.”

“It's all part of the job. But you're not going to tackle it without your breakfast. You ate next to nothing for dinner.”

“Alan, I'll be all right. I'm not exactly melting away.” I gave my reflection a disgusted look and pulled in my stomach.

“Perhaps not, but the mind doesn't function well when the blood sugar is low. I was always adamant that my officers get their meals regularly, even if it had to be ham rolls or sandwich packets eaten on the fly. The same rule applies here. Toast and juice, at least. I insist.”

Well, I could just face that, though the thought of a full English breakfast nauseated me. Reluctantly, I followed Alan down to the dining room. I added coffee to the menu, gulped it all down as soon as the waitress put it in front of me, and rose. “Alan, go ahead and finish your meal, but I can't sit still any longer. The toast is fighting with the butterflies in my stomach, and the only way to calm everything down is to get on with it.”

“I'll go up to the room in a few minutes. Ring up if you need me.”

I called Mrs. Crosby from our room. She answered on the first ring. She sounded exhausted, but there was no sleep in her voice.

“This is Mrs. Martin. I thought I might come up for a few minutes, if it's not a nuisance.”

“No, it's no bother. I'm in bed, I'm afraid, but I'd like to see you.”

I hung up, found the tape recorder Alan had brought home from the police station, and walked to the elevator.

A different WPC was on duty, a quiet, serious woman who looked Indian. She stopped me just inside the door, a finger to her lips.

“Mrs. Crosby is very ill, I think, Mrs. Martin.” She spoke in a near-whisper, with a clipped accent and precise grammar. “I have asked the police surgeon to come and see her. I am not sure she should not be in hospital.”

“Should I wait and come back later?”

“No, she wishes to talk to you, but please try to be careful. She is under great strain.”

I nodded, grateful for the woman's concern, and went on into the bedroom.

Someone, probably the policewoman, had opened the draperies in Mrs. Crosby's room, letting in the sun, but the windows were still tightly shut. The room felt stuffy and smelled vaguely like a hospital. Mrs. Crosby, making some effort with her appearance, had put her wig on and wore a robe or bed jacket over her pajamas. She looked terrible, but she was composed. My guess was that the frenzy of grief had, for the moment, totally drained her of emotion.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Martin.” Her voice was subdued.

I wished we could get to first names, but I felt awkward about suggesting it. Under the circumstances, maybe it ought to come from her. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Crosby? Some tea? Have you had breakfast?”

She made an odd little sound that might almost have been a snort. “Breakfast? No. But I've had tea, thank you. Sujata takes very good care of me.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“I dozed a little. I sleep very little nowadays, even before …” She made a futile little gesture and trailed off.

“Are you sure you're up to talking to me? You've had a terrible shock, and I'm afraid you don't look very well.”

“Now, Mrs. Martin.” The soft voice was chiding. “I'd have taken you for a truthful woman. You know perfectly well what I look like.”

I waited, afraid to reply.

“I look,” she went on calmly, “like someone who's dying. Which is reasonable, since I am.”

“Cancer?” I asked after a deep breath.

“Of course. I'm glad you don't protest, pretend that I look wonderful.”

“Some people prefer euphemism. Some don't want to face unpleasantness. I didn't know what sort you were, but now that I do, no, I won't pretend. My husband made a diagnosis the moment he saw you. It took me a little longer. Would you like to talk about it, or not?”

“I don't mind. It's in my colon. I fought it as hard as I could, but it refused to be cured. It doesn't cause much pain now, and I found at some point that I had accepted it. Now I welcome it. I think I'll die soon. They say one dies when one gives up the will to live. I have no reason now to fight anymore.” She looked away.

I hesitated for a moment, and then took the plunge. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Crosby, but I'm going to have to argue with you. You may think I'm awfully rude, but I have to tell you you're wrong about having no reason to live.”

“Am I? You're not going to preach to me, are you? If so, please don't. I'm really not strong enough for that sort of thing.”

“No, I'm not going to preach. What I mean is that you still have work to do.”

She made a sound that might almost have been a laugh. “Mrs. Martin, I can barely get out of bed. Soon I won't be able to do that. You can hardly expect me to work.”

“You can do this work in bed. You can start right now. You can tell me everything about Alexis, everything that might help us, Alan and me, to find her killer.”

She pushed herself up on her elbow and really looked at me for the first time since I'd entered the room “You? Why you? Are you working for the police? I've talked to them already. They made me look—” She couldn't finish.

I spoke quickly, to get that image out of her mind. “We're working with them, in a way. You remember I told you that my husband was the investigating officer when Lexa's mother died?”

“Yes.” Her voice was flat. “And that he never found out a thing, never caught anybody.”

That was unfair, but I swallowed my anger. “Quite true. What I did not tell you was that he, Alan, I mean, went on to a distinguished career, became a chief constable, in fact, and then commandant at Bramshill for a time. He might not have solved Betty's murder, Mrs. Crosby, but he's solved many, many others in his time, and the police superintendent here has asked him to assist unofficially in this inquiry. And now that he knows more about Betty's murder, knows who she was, knows why she came to Penzance, he thinks he may have a chance, finally, to resolve that case as well.

“It's important to him, Mrs. Crosby. And it's important to me, first because he is very dear to me and I hate to see him feeling like a failure. And second, because I grew very fond of Alexis in the short time I knew her. I never had any children either, you see.”

She lay back and closed her eyes. I was afraid I'd tired her too much. Should I leave? I stood and was about to tiptoe out when she opened her eyes and looked at me, curiously intent.

“Yes, I think I do see. I'm sorry if I snarled a moment ago. Please call me Eleanor. And ask me anything you like.”

I hid my sigh of relief. “Thank you. I'm Dorothy. Are you sure you're strong enough for this right now?”

“No, but I'll try. You're quite right. This is important. I'll keep talking as long as I can. Though you do realize, don't you, that I could die at almost any time, perhaps even today? I don't want to frighten you, but it's nothing more than the truth.”

“Death doesn't frighten me, Mrs.—Eleanor. We both know you're dying. I don't think it will be today, though, nor yet tomorrow. I simply thought a little rest might refresh you, give you the strength to give me the answers I need, that's all.”

“No, we'll do it now, if you don't mind.”

This was a remarkable woman. If I'd guessed it before, now I knew.

“All right, then. I'll be quick, if I can, though I'm afraid I'll ask a lot of the same things the police did. And do you mind if I tape the conversation?”

She shook her head. I started the tape and murmured an introduction into it, feeling silly: the date, the time, and our names. It felt like an amateurish imitation of an interrogation, as seen on a third-rate cop show.

I cleared my throat. “For a start, why did you come to Penzance? And when, by the way?”

“On Monday, just the day before you arrived. Is it only five days ago? It seems a lifetime.”

She bit her lip, conquered her tears, and went on. “It was Lexa's idea. You see, I hadn't told her anything about her background, not until—but I'd better begin earlier than that.”

Eleanor's eyes stared into the past; her voice fell into a smoother pace.

“She knew she was adopted; I'd told her that. She knew that her mother had died when she was tiny, but I'd lied and told her that her father had died, too. She knew she was illegitimate. I'd had to tell her that, because she began to want to know about her medical history. Well, I could give her Betty's, but I made up a story to explain the rest.

“Somehow I didn't want to tell her that I didn't know who her father was. It made Betty sound promiscuous, and she wasn't. So far as I know, Lexa's father was her one and only one-night stand. Ironic, isn't it?”

She picked up the glass of water on the bedside table, sipped at it, and continued.

“So I told her, when she was old enough to know, that Betty and her boyfriend—I called him Bill, just to give him a name—that they had gone away to be married, but that they'd had an automobile accident on the way to get the license. I had to say that, you see, or Lexa might have looked up the license for her father's name. I claimed I never knew his surname, and made it sound reasonable. It was the Swinging Sixties, after all. Everyone tossed Christian names about; I genuinely didn't know the surnames of half Betty's friends.

“I'd been afraid to tell her the real story, what little I knew of it. I didn't want her growing up thinking that her mother'd killed herself, or been murdered. That's a horrible idea for a child to have to deal with. And when she was older, I didn't want her looking for her father. I was afraid. I told you that before. I was quite sure he'd killed Betty, and I was terrified of what he'd do to Lexa.”

“But you did tell her, eventually, didn't you?”

Eleanor took a sip of tea, set the cup aside, and stared at nothing.

“I knew I was dying, you see. Lexa had made me move in with her. She'd had a posh flat in Knightsbridge ever since she'd first made such a success of her modeling, but I'd been quite content to stay in my little one. I never married, you see. Crosby is the name I was born with. I started calling myself
Mrs
. Crosby, and told her I was a widow, when Lexa went to school. It would have been awkward, in those days, for people to know her adoptive mother was an old maid.

“We stayed close, but I never wanted her tied to my apron strings. She was a beautiful, successful, famous woman, and I was as proud of her as if she really were my daughter, but she had her own life to live, and so did I.

“Then I became ill, and then I got worse, and Lexa worried about me. She insisted that I move in with her. She couldn't always be there, of course. She travels—traveled—all over the world for her photo shoots, you know. But when she was out of town she'd have someone come in, a housekeeper, to keep the flat clean and cook for me. I could have done it myself, then, but Lexa could afford the help, and she liked to spoil me.”

She stopped talking and closed her eyes. This time I sat still. I didn't know if she was ready for sleep or just remembering.

She opened her eyes. “The day I went to the doctor and he told me the cancer was still there, and growing, I came home and thought for a long time. Lexa came home early that day, and over tea I told her everything. I couldn't live with the lies any longer. Dying, a person comes to have a terrible passion for the truth.”

A person like you does, anyway, I thought.

“I never thought that at this stage of her life she'd want to find her father. I don't know that I'd have told her if I'd known how she'd take it. But it was all she could think about. ‘My father's alive!' she kept saying. ‘He must still be alive!' I explained, over and over again, why I didn't want her to look for him. I told her there was danger, but she was young and beautiful and famous. Nothing was ever going to happen to her. ‘It'll be all right,' she said. ‘You'll come with me, and you'll feel better. You know sea air is good for people.'”