To Perish in Penzance (4 page)

“That's Bellevue, what you can see of it.”

“Oh, dear. Just how big
is
it?”

Alan heard the trepidation in my voice and smiled at me. “Only a fair-sized house. Quite posh, but not a patch on Bramshill.”

We had lived for a few months at Bramshill, an enormous manor house in Hampshire which now houses the police staff college. Alan served as interim commandant during part of the first year of our marriage. The idea of playing the “lady of the manor” role had terrified me at first, but I'd coped, almost enjoyed it, in fact. I still worried a bit, though, about my social skills as an American married to an Englishman, so I appreciated Alan's reassurance.

“Well, then, we can hold our noses just as high as they can. Oh, Alan, look at the sun sparkling on the waves! And the gulls riding the air currents—it's almost too beautiful!”

We dined at a good pub in Marazion that evening and then, far too tired to walk, took a bus back to Penzance. Next morning when we went down to breakfast, Mrs. Crosby and Alexis were just leaving the dining room.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, careful not to make any comments about what a beautiful day it was. Mrs. Crosby's face was pinched and her eyes shadowed, and Alexis had been crying.

She made a gallant effort, though. “Good morning, Mrs. Martin, Mr. Nesbitt.” She gave us a smile that took my breath away, even forced as it was. “Did you enjoy your walk yesterday?”

“We did, though it wore us out. We were sorry you couldn't come, too.” I hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead. This girl needed some cheering up. “Look, Alexis, I need to go shopping this morning, and shopping isn't really Alan's thing. If your mother doesn't need you, how would you like to come with me? It's no fun to shop alone.” I didn't include Mrs. Crosby in the invitation. I didn't want to make her invent an excuse.

Alexis exchanged a glance with her mother. It was full of meaning, but a meaning I could not interpret fully. Partly it said
She knows,
or so I thought, but there was more than that, and I didn't know what. At any rate, Alexis didn't look happy. “Thank you, but I think my mother—”

“Now, Lexa, we're here on holiday.” Mrs. Crosby spoke with some determination, though her voice was soft. “I will not have you dancing attendance on me. If I choose to sit by the fire like a pampered cat, that's my decision, but there's no reason for you to hang about. I shall be perfectly comfortable, darling, and you're entitled to a little treat.”

Her look this time was one of clear command. Alexis closed her eyes for a moment and then smiled at me, a charming smile that didn't reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin. I'd like to go shopping with you.”

“Good.” I spoke briskly, before she could change her mind. “The lobby in forty-five minutes? And you might ask one of the staff the best place for evening clothes.”

“Evening clothes? In Penzance? Well, I'll ask. See you later, then.”

She smiled that perfectly manufactured smile again, but as she turned away, her face fell into shadow.

A
N
hour later we were walking down the oddly named Market Jew Street looking for dress shops. Lexa was carrying her ever-present bottle of water; I was burdened only with a large handbag. I stopped to look at my reflection in a shop window and adjust the tilt of my hat. It was a cheerful one, black straw decorated with cherries, and I was moderately pleased with my appearance until I caught a glimpse of Alexis's reflection next to mine.

I turned to her. “My dear girl, I must say I'm beginning to have second thoughts about shopping with you.”

She looked puzzled.

“You have such a perfect figure. Whereas I—well, I enjoy my food a little too much. I admit I'm very much looking forward to a cream tea with real Cornish clotted cream, but it all has to go somewhere, doesn't it?” I patted my tummy ruefully. “You give me a complex. I should imagine you live on lettuce and air—and water, of course.”

She laughed a little at that. “More or less. I've had to, really, for so many years it's second nature. Rabbit food, regular exercise, no drinking, no drugs—it's a bit of a bore, actually.”

“Had to?”

“For my job, yes.”

“I'm sorry, you've lost me.”

She smiled. “Oh, yes, I forgot you didn't know. I'm a model. I have to look after myself properly or my income's gone. My professional name is Alexis Adams.”

I smote my forehead. “Oh, goodness! That's why I've had the feeling we'd met. I don't read the fashion magazines anymore, but I must have seen your face on magazine covers at newsstands, and I've certainly heard your name. Heavens, you're right up on the top of the heap, aren't you? You must think I'm an idiot, not recognizing you.”

“Actually, it's—this sounds terribly conceited and sort of world-weary—but it's rather refreshing. I was pleased when you didn't take any particular notice of me yesterday at the hotel. I don't care for being treated like a celebrity, at least when I'm not working. On a shoot, of course, it's part of the image.”

I let it go at that, but I was still confused. Alexis Adams had been a top fashion model for years, in
Elle
and
Vogue
and the rest. This girl didn't seem more than twenty-two or -three. Had she begun as a precocious adolescent?

Whatever the case, she was famous. Shopping with her might be rather trying.

As it turned out, it was great fun. Either the salespeople didn't recognize Alexis in blue jeans and no makeup, or they had better manners than to say anything. She was, as I ought to have anticipated, an absolute expert where fashion was concerned, and knew immediately what would look good on me and what wouldn't. I tried on one outfit after another, many of them things I wouldn't have looked at twice, and loved them all. I finally bought the two most beautiful of all, stifling conscience pangs at the prices.

“You won't be sorry, Mrs. Martin,” Alexis assured me with the confidence of one who knows what she's talking about. “They're excellent style and they suit you. And they're not extreme. You'll feel pretty in them for years.”

“I'd better. My credit card is going into meltdown. But what about yourself? Didn't you see anything you liked? Or—how silly of me. I suppose you buy originals.”

She laughed softly. “I wear them for a living, but I don't buy them. They're too far out for me. I did actually see one frock I rather liked, but I've no need for it here, and it would be a bore to pack.”

“Show me!” I demanded, a plan beginning to stir in the back of my head.

She tried it on. It was a floor-length evening slip of burgundy satin, meant to skim the figure, touching it in all the right places. What made it spectacular was the black chiffon overdress that floated on top. Embroidered with a lush, black baroque border at bust and hem, it moved beautifully over the slip, creating beguiling patterns of light and shadow as it swirled.

It cost three hundred pounds, more than I've ever paid for a garment in my life, and quite possibly less than Alexis spent on her blue jeans. Never mind. On her it looked like a million dollars. Of course, on Alexis a flour sack would have looked like a million dollars.

“It's you,” I said flatly. “Buy it.”

“But it's silly. I don't need it.”

“Yes, you do.” I made up my mind. “Alan and I are going to a party tonight. We were invited at the very last minute, so it's plainly the sort of thing where it doesn't matter if a few extra people show up. Buy that dress and come with us.”

“Oh, but I couldn't! Not without an invitation—and I don't know the people—”

“Neither do I. Neither does Alan, really. We ran into the host at St. Michael's Mount yesterday, and it turned out they're old cronies, but they haven't seen each other for thirty years. Oh, for charity's sake, Alexis, come.”

“For charity's sake?”

“Yes, in aid of me. If you come, there'll be one person, besides Alan, that I can talk to. Besides, Alan's put out because he doesn't have his tux with him, but if you come with us in that dress, nobody will give him a second glance. Or me, or anyone else in the room, for that matter.”

She grinned, not the famous model's smile I had seen earlier, but a genuine, mischievous grin. “I haven't crashed a party since I was a teenager,” she said, a dimple deepening in her left cheek.

“Oh, I'll call, for form's sake, and ask if we can bring you. No one will mind, I'm sure. It's not as much fun that way, I admit, but I try to behave myself, being a foreigner and all.”

“Are you Canadian? I wasn't sure—you haven't much of an accent—”

“American, but I've lived in Sherebury for several years. I suppose I've lost some of my native tongue.”

“I've been educated out of mine,” she said, and there was a tinge of regret in her tone. “I was born in South London. ‘Sarf Lunnon,' I used to say. But a posh model is expected to sound posh, as well, so I learned to ‘talk proper.'”

“Eliza Doolittle,” I said. “She had her problems, too. But Alexis—”

“Call me Lexa. Mum's the only one who does, nowadays, and I like it.”

“I was about to say, your mother has an Oxbridge accent, more or less.” I was being nosy, I supposed, but Lexa had brought up the subject herself.

“She's my adoptive mother, actually, and she was my Professor Higgins. She taught me to speak well, and to stand up straight, and—well, everything, really.”

Her voice shook a little and she turned her face away.

Should I offer sympathy over Mrs. Crosby's illness? I wanted to, but if Lexa didn't want to talk about it, and apparently she didn't, I wasn't going to trespass. I'd said too much already.

“Well, it's plain that you're the apple of her eye,” I said cheerfully. “Come on, have them wrap up that dress for you and then let's get back. I'm starving and it's time for your lettuce leaf.”

“Perhaps two,” she said gamely, all trace of distress smoothed out of her voice. “We've had a bit of exercise this morning.”

T
HE
party was Old Home Week for Alan. All the world loves a lord, so everyone who was anyone in Penzance had turned up to mingle with Lord St. Levan and his wife. It was unfortunate that the lord and his lady had, at the last minute, found themselves unable to attend. Mr. Boleigh, upset about the defection of his prize guests, and trying not to show it, fell back on making a big fuss over Alan. What made it especially awkward for me was that most of the town remembered him and his late wife, and had never heard of me. Alan did his best to help me fit in, but I felt quite a lot like a third wheel, and Lexa, though she tried her best, wasn't actually much help.

For if Alan made a stir among the more mature guests, Lexa was the center of attention for the younger crowd from the moment we arrived, and no wonder. She had all the beauty and elegance of Grace Kelly and all the gamine charm of Leslie Caron, and every man in the room missed a heartbeat or two when she walked in. It being an English crowd, they were polite about it, at least at first. They followed Alexis's progress around the room only with their eyes as the three of us, champagne glasses in hand, trailed after our host.

John Boleigh introduced us first to his wife, Caroline, who remembered Alan, or pretended to, and then to all the other luminaries. The mayor, a tall man with slick black hair (probably dyed) and a hail-fellow-well-met air, was cordial. The rector of St. Martha's, much smaller and with the stoop and earnest manner of overworked clergymen everywhere, asked Alan if he was still a great music lover, and reminded him of the St. Martha's concert series. The string quartet had to delay their warm-up while the cellist asked Alan if he remembered him. The superintendent of the Penzance Constabulary, a youngish man with a ruddy face, shook Alan's hand warmly and said something about his retirement being a great loss to law enforcement. And so on. I smiled until my face hurt and tried to say the right things, but when Mr. Boleigh finally let us off our leashes and the buffet dinner was announced, I was glad to tug Alan to the serving line. Alexis, at that point, was captured by five of the youngest men in the room and borne off to a small table, where she sat with two of them while the other three went off to fetch food and get back as soon as they possibly could.

Mr. Boleigh's “bit of a buffet” was set out on long tables at the end of the ballroom. Gigantic ice sculptures reflected the hundreds of lightbulbs in the chandeliers. Huge silver trays of roast beef and shrimp and smoked salmon and cheese and fruit and dozens of dishes I couldn't name overwhelmed the senses.

“Bearing up, love?” Alan asked quietly.

“Just about,” I replied. “I'll be better when I get some food in me. It's hot in here, and I drank too much champagne too fast.”

“You're not finding much to eat,” he said, observing my plate.

“I know. There's too much to choose from. After a while it stops being tempting. Like working in a chocolate factory.”

“Have some Stilton, then. Cheese is good for counteracting alcohol. I'm sorry about the Old Boy reunion sort of thing, by the way. I ought to have known.”

So he saw it the same way I did. That was comforting. “It's all right. But were all these people really your dearest friends?”

“Heavens, I barely remember any of them except Ben Clarey. The cellist,” he amplified. “He was only fourteen or fifteen when I left Penzance, but already playing with the local quartet and making a name for himself as something of a child prodigy. Now he's with this London group. If the other three are as good as he is, we've a treat in store.

“The rest, well, they simply think I'm a local boy made good, and they're basking in a reflected glory which is purely imaginary, I assure you.”