To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams

Sherlock’s bag of tricks, brought up to date. But we know where to go looking for the cigar that deposited the ash or the coat that matches the fibers because we’ve talked to people, and they’ve said they saw X behaving suspiciously at the crime scene.”
    â€œExcept that it usually isn’t quite that simple.”
    Alan sighed. “Almost never, in fact. But we have to try. Hence, the second list, our tasks.”
    It was quite a lot shorter than the first. I tried again to read it. “‘Mrs. Crosby.’ Yes, of course, we’ll be talking to her right along.”
    â€œAnd the important thing to remember is the verb.”
    I frowned and cocked my head.
    â€œâ€˜Talking’ to her. Not interviewing her, not questioning her, or not a lot. Just talking, or listening, actually. Let her talk about Lexa and Lexa’s mother. You’d be surprised what might come out.”
    â€œRight. Then—what’s this?”
    Alan looked. “‘Lexa’s room.’ We’ll want to look it over. Yes, I know what you’re about to say, and of course the police will have examined it already. But we’ll look it over as people who knew her, at least slightly, and we’ll take Mrs. Crosby with us. Not to question, again, but simply to let her talk.”
    â€œThat’ll be very hard for her.”
    â€œOf course. But the crying will be good for her, I imagine, and she might just mention something—”
    â€œOkay, I get the idea. Then—is this—oh, I see. ‘Boleigh.’ No, don’t tell me. She went to his party. She talked to people. Mr. Boleigh might know who, might be able to tell us something about them. And even though the police will have been there ahead of us, you might get more out of him because he’s known you for years.”
    â€œAnd because I won’t be asking a lot of questions.”
    I sat back and began to laugh. “Alan, I love it. You’ve just set down, very precisely and formally, exactly the sort of thing I’ve been doing for ages. Going out and talking to people. It’s the only way I ever ‘get my man.’”
    â€œYou see,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of my head, “I’m learning to be an amateur detective.”
    There were more entries on the list. I made out a few of them, something that looked like “Polwhill” and “Pen” something.
    â€œPolwhistle,” Alan said in response to my questioning look. “The rector of St. Martha’s, remember?”
    â€œI didn’t ever catch his name. And the other?”
    â€œPendeen. The Lord Mayor.”
    â€œâ€˜By Tre, Pol, and Pen/Ye shall know Cornishmen,’” I recited. “I read that once in some old English mystery, but I didn’t think it would still be true.”
    â€œOh, Cornwall doesn’t change much. There’ve been a lot of outlanders moving in, of course, and many of the old Cornish names never did have the traditional prefixes. Cardinnis, for example, the superintendent. His family are Cornish down to their boots. But you still find Tre, Pol, and Pen everywhere hereabouts.”
    I shook my head admiringly. “There’ll always be an England. Alan, your father must not have been a Cornishman originally. Or is Nesbitt one of those other Cornish names that don’t fit the pattern? It doesn’t sound like it, somehow.”
    â€œNo, you’re quite right. Father was born in Kent, not too far from Sherebury, actually. He was a hop farmer. But Mother was Cornish—Trethewey, so that ought to keep you happy—and she missed the sea. Father was besotted with her, couldn’t deny her anything, so they moved back to Newlyn, her old home, shortly after they married. Father had to learn the new trade, but he became a very good fisherman.”
    He fell silent then, remembering, and I thought ruefully about the vast things I would never know