To Perish in Penzance (3 page)

Alan laughed. “It does look very similar, of course. In fact, the house on it was originally a priory, founded by the Benedictines as a daughter house of the French abbey. So the mistake is understandable.”

“Anyway, 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.

“I'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.

“We'd be happy to share a table, if you'd like to join us.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Alan. “If you're sure it isn't a bother …”

“Not 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.

“Perhaps 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.

“Well, 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?

“My 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?”

“We'd really love to have you,” I said hastily, as Alexis looked about to refuse.

“Thank you, but I believe I'll stay in, too. Perhaps another day. Shall we go up, Mum?”

Mrs. Crosby took her daughter's arm as they left the dining room and headed for the elevator. It seemed to me that Mrs. Crosby was leaning quite heavily on Alexis, and that they were both trying to hide it.

“Something odd there,” I said to Alan when they were out of earshot. “Mrs. Crosby must be forty years older than her daughter if she's a day.”

“The woman's ill,” he said bluntly. “That was a wig she was wearing, did you notice?”

“No, I just thought she had beautiful hair. Oh, dear, you're right, though. She's so thin, and her face has that awful gray look to it. You don't think …?”

“I do, I'm afraid. Let's hope she's come to the seaside to recover from the chemotherapy, and that it's done its job properly.”

“Maybe that's why they're so quiet. They're worried about her health. But if they didn't want to talk, why did they invite us to their table?”

“Perhaps they were simply being courteous?”

“Well, there's that,” I acknowledged. “But there's more going on there, Alan. I can feel it. It's almost as if there's some tension between them, though they're plainly fond of each other. I think maybe they asked us to sit down so they wouldn't have to talk to each other.”

“Or perhaps you're imagining things, and they're quiet people. Not everyone can keep up your conversational pace, you know, my dear.”

I stuck my tongue out at him and we went upstairs. I donned a sensible sort of hat, Alan got our walking sticks, and we set off for the tiny town of Marazion and the remarkable pinnacled island off its coast. We said little as we walked. I kept thinking about the Crosbys, and my own phrase of a few days before kept replaying in my mind, over and over again: “What a lot of pain there is in the world.”

E
NGLAND
is a small country. One forgets that, living there, but how else does one explain the fact that Alan sees someone he knows nearly every place he goes? We met no one on our seaside walk to Marazion, but when we went out to the island of St. Michael's Mount itself (on foot, since the tide was at its lowest and the causeway therefore negotiable), the first person we encountered was one of Alan's old friends.

The tall, rather stout man who strode toward us as we climbed up the ramp from the causeway was sixtyish, silver haired, nice looking, and well dressed in a tweedy, English country gentleman sort of way. His figure reminded me of Sir Robert Morley, the old English actor, though he was much better looking than Morley. We exchanged impersonal nods, and then both Alan and the man stopped for a second look.

“I do beg your pardon, but surely—” said the man.

“Forgive me, but I believe—” said Alan at the same moment.

“It is—yes, Nesbitt, isn't it?” The man darted a glance at me, a question in his eyes.

“It is, and you must be Boleigh. Allow me to present my wife, Dorothy Martin. John Boleigh, my dear.”

I shook the extended hand, noting with appreciation the instantly suppressed flicker of surprise in the man's eyes. Obviously the man knew nothing of Alan's second marriage, possibly not even of his first wife's death, but torture would not have made him break the Code of the English Gentleman and ask a personal question. “How do you do, Mr. Boleigh,” I said demurely. Let Alan deal with it.

Which he did, after sharing my amusement in a quickly exchanged glance. “I was a widower when Dorothy and I met a few years ago, and she a widow,” he explained. “She kept her former name; it seemed simpler. And how is your family?”

“Ah, well, it's grown a bit since we last saw each other. Good Lord, it must be all of thirty years. The children are married, both of them, and one of the grandchildren, as well. Twenty-three, she is. I'll be a great-grandfather one of these days, I suppose. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

We all clucked a bit about how time speeds up as one grows older. Then we ran out of conversational matter, as one does on these occasions.

“Well, we don't want to keep you,” I finally said with great originality. “We've just arrived on the island, and you seem to be leaving.”

“Yes, I was in the neighborhood, so I nipped up to see Lord St. Levan for a moment.”

I raised my eyebrows in question. Alan supplied the information. “St. Michael's Mount, though it's owned now by the National Trust, is the home of the St. Aubyn family, of whom Lord St. Levan is the head.”

Well, of course that made everything perfectly clear. Sometime I'll get around to asking why the English nobility have so blasted many names that a conversation about them is like reading a Russian novel. I have a private suspicion it's done on purpose to confuse foreigners. At the moment I simply nodded and tried to look intelligent while Mr. Boleigh went on talking.

“Yes, but look here, old man. I take it you're visiting hereabouts?”

“Not visiting, just a little holiday in Penzance. Dorothy seemed to think the weather would be an improvement on the steady rain we've been having back in Sherebury, and I must say she was quite right. We'll be staying for a few days, at least.”

“Well, then, you must come to my party tomorrow. Short notice, but then I didn't know you would be here, did I? I simply won't take no for an answer. It's to be a musical evening. That's why I was here, actually, asking Lord St. Levan if there was anything in particular he'd like played. He and his lady wife have been gracious enough to say they will attend, and they are, of course, great music lovers. I seem to remember that you also enjoy music?”

“Very much, and it's a kind invitation, Boleigh, but neither of us brought evening dress with us.”

“Of course you didn't, not for a holiday at the seaside. Don't give it a thought. We'll see you at about seven-thirty, then, shall we? A bit of a buffet and then some rather nice chamber music, I hope. You remember where I live?”

“I remember,” Alan replied with a hint of a smile. “Seven-thirty tomorrow, then. Thanks so much, Boleigh. You'd best hurry, hadn't you—unless you want to take the boat back. The tide's coming in.”

“Indeed, indeed.” He waved and marched smartly down to the causeway, where little waves were beginning to lap against the outer edges.

“So,” I said as Alan and I approached the ticket office, “tell me about Mr. Boleigh. I have the feeling there's a story there.”

“You're quite right. John Boleigh is what he'd probably call a self-made man. In fact, as I understand it, it was an inheritance from one of those proverbial rich uncles we all wish we had that started him on his present career of philanthropist and patron of the arts.”

Alan purchased our tickets and we began the walk up to the castle. If you've ever seen pictures of Mont St. Michel, the famous island off the coast of Normandy, just shrink it down and you have St. Michael's Mount. The island was nearly pyramidal to begin with, and the priory built in the twelfth century put the point on the top. I don't know how the present St. Aubyn family get themselves to their home in that remodeled priory—I strongly suspect a hidden elevator somewhere in the mountainside—but tourists walk up, and a precipitous walk it is. There are stairs in places, carved out of the rock, but most of the way is a steep and somewhat rocky path. With arthritic knees that are unpredictable at best, I would never have made it without my stick and Alan's strong arm in the toughest stretches. I soon began to ration my breath, asking only short questions. Alan, who is in better shape, was able to reply in longer snatches.

“How do you know him?”

“He joined the Cornwall police two or three years before I left it. We never worked together, except in the most general sense. I outranked him by a good deal, you see. But it's a small force. Everyone knows everyone else. He was a good policeman, as I recall, nothing spectacular but a good, steady worker. I never had the feeling he was fond of the work, though, so I wasn't entirely surprised when he gave it up, having come into his money. That was—oh, I suppose about a month or two before I left Penzance.”

“You've stayed in touch?” I lost my balance and clutched at his arm.

“Careful! All right, love? Good. Steady as you go. No, I wouldn't say kept in touch, but one hears things from time to time. He's become quite a big bug in Penzance, has old Boleigh. Someone told me he'd given up his house and bought Bellevue. It's quite an impressive villa, up on the hill.” He waved vaguely back toward Penzance. “You'll see it tomorrow evening, of course. I've never been inside the place, but it probably lives up to its name. The view from the terrace ought to be rather fine.”

“It sounds intimidating. And what was that remark about evening dress? You surely weren't talking about black tie?”

Alan groaned. “I'm afraid so. We do that sort of thing more often than Americans do, you know, and poor old Boleigh's a bit of a snob, I'm afraid. He's pleased as punch that Lord St. Levan's agreed to turn up, but that makes evening dress more or less de rigueur. I can't possibly organize a dress suit at short notice, but I suppose you'll want to do some shopping?”

“Well—I could use something new, at that.” I stopped talking then and concentrated on keeping my footing while thinking about new clothes. It's true that the English, at least of our generation, are a good deal more formal in some ways than Americans, and I had worn my party clothes nearly to death. I wasn't sorry to have an excuse to replace them.

The last part of the climb to the castle really was a climb, with a bit of rock scrambling at the end. I was more than ever convinced that the resident family, St. Aubyn or St. Levan or whatever they called themselves, got in some other way, but I had to admit that the castle was worth the effort. The best part was the topmost terrace, which afforded a glorious view all around the island, truly an island now, the causeway shimmering faintly under a foot or so of seawater. Alan pointed out a white spot among the trees on one of the hills above Penzance.