To Perish in Penzance (18 page)

“The climate is better, anyway.”

“The physical climate, perhaps. Fresh air, sunshine, the lot. But the emotional climate …” Alan let the phrase trail off as he rubbed his hand down the back of his head, always a sign of distress. “Penzance has changed since I lived here.”

“Well, dear, places do, in thirty-odd years. We've changed just a little ourselves.”

“I didn't mean that sort of thing, though. Yes, of course there's been development, growth, the kind of change one expects. What I mean is something much more basic, a change in the feel of the place. It annoys me that I can't put my finger on it. There's just something wrong, somehow.”

“Too much money around?” I suggested. “That's what the police superintendent thinks.”

“It could be. Money corrupts nearly as well as power.”

“Mr. Polwhistle would blame the devil, I suppose.”

“And he might not be far wrong, Dorothy.”

I looked at him. His face was perfectly serious.

“There's evil about somewhere, I'll swear to that. Except for fanatics like Mr. Polwhistle, we tend not to talk much about the devil anymore, unless as a joke. The subject is embarrassing, for some reason. But evil exists, and if those two concepts, evil and the devil, aren't the same thing, then my theology is skewed somewhere.”

I had no answer for that, so we drove in silence.

Evil. We seemed to have talked about it a lot lately. Evil and good, and the necessity of keeping the vital balance between ignoring evil and becoming fascinated with it. Were we concentrating on it too much? I looked out the window. Alan had chosen a different way back to Penzance, a narrow country lane away from the crowded coast road. Here was the English countryside I loved so much, a seductively pretty scene that made it nearly impossible to believe anything dreadful had ever happened, could ever happen. Neat, lush fields, separated by low drystone walls, basked in the late-afternoon sun. Trees bent low over the road, sometimes caressing the roof of the car. Birds sang. The sky, a photographer's dream of deep blue with powder-puff clouds, arched serenely over all.

And in Penzance, on this bright-blue Sunday, Lexa's body lay cold and still in a refrigerated drawer, and the police worked extra shifts trying to track down a missing girl and a bank robber.

“I'd rather have Dickens,” I said after a long silence.

Alan can often follow my thoughts, but his face told me he hadn't, this time.

“Filthy tenements. Fagin, Bill Sykes. Thieves, pickpockets, workhouses, starvation. You could see the evil in his books, touch it, smell it. You knew what to expect. It's less frightening that way than—” I waved my hand out the window.

“You sound a bit like Sherlock Holmes.”

“I do?”

“In one of the stories, I can't remember which. He said he'd rather deal with the vilest alley in London than with the hidden wickedness of the country. Words to that effect. I think I agree. The evil that hides behind ordinary, respectable facades—oh, yes, that's much worse.”

We turned onto a wider, busier road and said not another word all the way through Newlyn and back to the hotel.

I would have given a good deal not to have to go out that evening. A quiet drink, a leisurely, early dinner, then bed with one of my new books to put me to sleep—it sounded like an idyllic program. However, it was not to be.

“When do you think we ought to go?”

“Early, before many customers arrive, if we want to talk to the management. About ten, I'd think. Much later if we want to talk to the clientele. One o'clock, two.”

I groaned and tried to remember the last time I'd voluntarily stayed up till two in the morning. I couldn't; it was too long ago. “It had better be early. If we make it too late I'll have to nap first, and then I'll be all muzzy and forget my lines.”

“The fewer people there are about, the more conspicuous we'll be.”

“We'll be conspicuous no matter when we go, and I make a whole lot better detective when I'm not walking in my sleep.”

There was still a great deal of time to kill. We took our time about showering and changing. I was in something of a quandary about what to wear.

“Alan, I brought nothing I can wear to a teenagers' club. I don't even
own
anything that would be remotely suitable!”

“No micro-minis? What a disappointment.”

I glared at him.

“You wouldn't look at all bad in a short skirt, actually. I'm sure you know I married you for your legs. However, in the present emergency, if you've nothing appropriate, why don't you just wear something comfortable? We're playing anxious godparents, not would-be rockers.”

So I put on a pair of conservative slacks and a sweater.

“Alan, I should check on Eleanor.”

“Are you going to tell her our plans for this evening?”

“I think so. She'll want to know what we're doing on the case, especially if the police have told her they've shelved it.”

“Not shelved, exactly. But they've probably told her they can release the body for burial.”

“Oh, Alan! That will have been hard on her. I'll go up right away.”

I tapped on her door and was told to come in. She was sitting quietly in her chair with a magazine in her lap, but I didn't think she'd been reading it.

“They came and told me I could make funeral arrangements” was her greeting. Her eyes were red, but she was in command of herself.

“Yes.” I sat down next to her. “Would you like some help with that?”

“No, I've already talked to someone. A man named Polwhistle. I can't say I'd have chosen him for the job, but he met Lexa at that party. She told me about him because she thought I'd be amused by the name. He's better than a total stranger.”

“I'd wondered if you'd want to take her back to London.”

“No. She has—had—no church affiliations there. Oh, she was christened, of course. Betty saw to that, said it was the proper thing to do, but I doubt whether Lexa had been to church since. And at least this man knew her, if only briefly. It doesn't matter to me where she lies.”

I was reminded of what Alan had said, about Lexa not really being in the morgue. I was tempted to say so, but Eleanor didn't share my beliefs and might not appreciate my parading them now.

“I'm not one to go visiting graves and all that morbid claptrap,” she went on, “even if I were going to be here to do it. Which I am not, not for long.”

She might have meant “here in Penzance.” I knew she didn't. “When is the service to be?”

“Tomorrow, two o'clock. No point in delay. It'll be a simple graveside service, no nonsense about it.” She sighed and said again, “None of it matters, does it? They've given me her things, clothes and that. I haven't had the heart to sort through them.”

“I can help you with that, anyway. Shall I?”

“Yes. Yes, please. It would be very painful for me.” She lapsed into silence for a moment, then said, “What does it mean, the police releasing her body and her belongings? I was afraid to ask, but they've abandoned the investigation, haven't they?”

I flinched inwardly, but I had promised to be honest with this woman. “Not abandoned. Deferred. They've had to shelve it for the moment because of the pressure of other work, and because there is no physical evidence that Lexa's death was caused by anything but an accident.”

“That's bloody nonsense.” She said it flatly, a statement of fact.

“I agree, and so does the superintendent, really, but he has to do what his superiors tell him. Eleanor, try not to worry too much. Alan and I are still actively working on it. In fact, we're going to that rave club tonight to see what we can find out. We're not going to let Lexa's murder go unpunished.”

She smiled wanly. “I thought you wouldn't.”

“You're tired. I'll leave you now, but would you like me to order you up some dinner before I go?”

“Thank you, no. I am still capable of using the telephone. It is one of the few functions left to me.”

She spoke with some asperity She hadn't given up, then. I smiled, promised to keep her informed, and left.

W
E
went down to the bar, lingered there, then had a light dinner, but ate it with deliberation. Anything to stay awake until it was time to leave.

Shortly before ten we set out for where we hoped to find the rave club.

“You look odd, somehow,” said Alan.

“I'm not wearing a hat. I feel naked without one, but there's no point in everyone at the club thinking I'm the Queen Mum.”

“Oh, I don't think you look old enough for anyone to make that mistake,” said my gallant husband. “Not quite.”

Queen Elizabeth's mother has passed her hundredth birthday. “Thank you
very
much.”

“Nor do you have quite the same quality of sweetness …” He grinned at my glare.

The truth was, we were acting silly to hide our anxiety, or at least I was. This endeavor was necessary, but I wasn't looking forward to it.

“The club's supposedly quite near the harbor,” said Alan as we went out the door of the hotel. “It's in easy walking distance, and the night is lovely. Just look at those stars.”

I rebelled. “We walked all afternoon, and on steep hills, too. If I'm going to be convincing tonight, I can't be thinking about how much my feet hurt. We're driving.”

“I can't guarantee a place to park.”

“One can never be guaranteed a place to park in England. We're driving, Alan. If you can't park close, you can drop me off, or I can walk a block or two if need be. Just not ten or twelve.”

So Alan got the car and we drove down Promenade Road, nearly deserted at this hour of a Sunday night. I tried to quell the butterflies in my stomach. I was feeling more and more uneasy about the whole thing. It suddenly seemed wildly unlikely that we would find out anything useful, and even if we did, were we showing our hand too soon, too blatantly?

The parking lot for the train and bus stations was nearly empty, and it was reasonably near the club, at least if Alan was right about where it was. “It may not be terribly easy to find, you know. Barnet, even half stoned, was cagey about telling me exactly which hall. But I scouted the area this morning as I was coming back from the police station, and I think it must be the Edward Hall, on a side street just off Wharf Road. It's rather an unsavory area, quite appropriate for this sort of thing.”

“Oh, we'll find it,” I said, clutching Alan's arm a little more tightly. “If only by ear.”

That was the way it turned out. The place was quite efficiently soundproofed, but when the door opened to admit a group of kids just ahead of us, a wave of noise poured out. It was mostly percussion, the steady ba-boom, ba-boom in heartbeat tempo, a beat to be felt, viscerally, as much as heard.

I stopped, panicky. “Alan, there's no point going in there. We can't ask questions. We won't be able to hear the answers. Let's go back. This was a bad idea.”

“Cold feet?” he asked calmly.

I sighed. “Freezing.”

“Come along, Granny. You were the one who came up with this scheme. It's too late to turn back now.”

So, on the next tide of partygoers, we swept in.

We didn't get very far. For a little while I thought, maybe hoped, that we'd be thrown out. We were met in the vestibule by a skinny man in his thirties who stepped in front of us, barring our way. His punk haircut and the various metal objects hung here and there from nose, lip, eyebrows, and ears didn't make me feel one bit better. “Private club, innit?” he shouted above the blare of music from the hall proper. “Members only.”

I would have turned tail, but Alan stood his ground. “We don't want to go in,” he bellowed. “We want to speak to the manager.”

“But you got to go in, like, to speak to him. 'Cause he's inside, in't he? And you can't go in, 'cause you're not members, are you?”

“How much?” Alan took out his wallet.

“Wotcher mean?” The gatekeeper's eyes fixed on the wallet, which had the edges of several ten-pound notes showing.

“How much to join the club?”

“'Unnerd quid.”

I gasped.

“For what term?” asked Alan blandly.

The gatekeeper shrugged. “Life?”

Alan peeled off a couple of notes and gave them to the unsavory character. “This ought to do for ten minutes, then. How shall I know the manager?”

The twenty pounds disappeared into a blue-jeans pocket and the gatekeeper jerked his head toward the door into the hall.

“Just look for the oldest one in the room, mate. Except you lot, that is.” He whinnied a disturbing laugh, took an oddly shaped cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and lit up, blowing the smoke in my face.

It was the first time in my life I'd ever knowingly inhaled marijuana. Even secondhand, the smoke made me giddy. I coughed wildly and clutched Alan's arm.

“Well done,” he whispered in my ear. “Suits your role nicely.”

“It wasn't an act,” I croaked back at him, and we stepped through the doorway.

The scene inside the hall would have made Dante feel right at home. Though there were only a few patrons at this early hour, the noise—I refused to call it music—was at full volume. The throb from the huge speakers that hung over the stage was so intense as to be painful. Strobe lights splashed violent, pulsating color over the tables, dance floor, and dancers. The air was thick with heat and smoke and the smells of tobacco and marijuana and sweat. I fought nausea while I looked around for any sign of drug dealing. I could spot none, but I'm hardly an expert.

The stage itself, what one could see of it in the disorienting light, was bare of anything except a disc jockey seated at an elaborate console and a man standing at a microphone. I nudged Alan and pointed. He nodded. We moved around the dance floor to the stage and climbed up the steps.