To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

Won’t that do?”
    â€œI believe,” he said, “that you forgot to tell me about WPC Danner.” He turned to the phone and didn’t see my sigh of relief.
    He was in! He wanted to make this report himself, constable or no constable, so he could gauge the police reaction. He had the bit between his teeth and intended to run with it.
    And whether he realized it yet or not, I intended to run right beside him.
    He was on the telephone only a short time, and told very little of his story. I could make almost no sense of his end of the conversation, and when he hung up he had an odd expression on his face.
    â€œBad news?”
    â€œI’m not sure. The DCI isn’t in, but the chap at the switchboard recognized my name and shot the call up to the super. He wants to see me straightaway.”
    â€œOh, dear.”
    â€œI’m not sure. He sounded—well, I’ll know more when I talk to him. Will you be all right for a little while?”
    â€œI think I’ll take a nap. This morning was a little—shattering.”
    â€œYou do that. I’ll be back soon.” He straightened his shoulders and left the room, and I lay down on top of the bedspread to worry.
    I did eventually doze a little, though when I woke I wished I hadn’t slept. My dreams had been troubled. I could remember only vague snatches of content, but I knew my heart was pounding and the bedspread badly rumpled.
    Alan had not yet returned. I put on my glasses and looked at the clock. Nearly two hours! Was he in trouble? Maybe he had been reprimanded for interfering. Well, they couldn’t actually do that, could they? He wasn’t a member of the force anymore. But they could act snooty, and make him feel terrible, and—
    The door opened, Alan entered, and my anxious speculations dissolved. The man who walked in was ten years younger than the one who had left. His step was jaunty, his smile broad.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œAll in good time, my dear, all in good time. We’ve missed lunch, you know, and your breakfast is feeding the fishes. Let’s go out and find a good cream tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
    There’s no hurrying him when he’s in that sort of mood. He enjoys springing surprises, and he does it in his own way and takes his own sweet time. I sighed ostentatiously and reached for my hat.
    There was a tea shop not far from the hotel. Small and unprepossessing, it nevertheless promised “Genuine Cornish Cream Teas.” We went in and were pleasantly surprised.
    The scones were homemade. So was the strawberry jam. The tea was delicious, and as for the clotted cream—well, let me just say that cholesterol never came in a more delectable form. One could positively feel it clogging up the arteries, but what a way to go!
    I was, of course, in a mood to enjoy anything. True, Alan and I were delving into “old, unhappy, far-off things” centering around more than one tragedy, but we were doing it together and he was happy again. Soon, I hoped, he’d tell me why. Life was good.
    When we’d eaten every last crumb of the wonderful, fattening stuff, Alan not having uttered a word except “More tea, dear?” and “I could do with a bit more of that jam,” I put my foot down.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “If you don’t tell me this minute what’s got you looking like a little boy with his first electric train, I’m going to make a public scene.”
    There were enough people in the shop to make any scene very public, indeed. They also served a more useful purpose; their babble of conversation acted as a screen to keep our talk private.
    He leaned back, felt in his pocket for the pipe he no longer smoked (on his doctor’s orders), made a face, and then settled down to his story.

10
    T HE gist of it, since you’re so impatient, is that I’m to have a reasonably free hand in helping to investigate