To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

about my husband or my adopted country. There are some things that are in the blood, sprung from the home soil, things that an outsider can never, never truly understand.
    I stood and stretched. “I don’t know about you, love, but I could use a drink. It’s been a trying day.”
    â€œAnd you accuse the English of understatement. Our two hearts beat as one, my dear. After you.”
    We didn’t talk much about the murder over drinks or later, as we poked at our dinner. Nor did we eat much. Not only had we had a hearty tea, but I, at least, was suddenly very tired, and so full of our problem I had little room for food.
    â€œI hope Mrs. Crosby’s finally taken a sedative,” I said with a sigh as I pushed away my plate.
    â€œI doubt she’ll sleep much in any case.”
    â€œNo. Poor woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”
    â€œOnly a monster could deserve what’s happened to her. Twice. Her best friend and then that friend’s daughter.”
    â€œIt’s the old question, isn’t it? Why are such things allowed? Why is there such evil?”
    He shook his head wearily. “There’s never a satisfactory answer, Dorothy. One can read the books and talk to the preachers, and the answer still comes down to ‘We don’t know.’ Perhaps, one day, the other side of the great divide, we will. Meanwhile, all we can do is try our best to combat evil, try never to give in to it ourselves.”
    â€œThat’s what you’ve done all your life, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’ve tried. I’ve often failed.”
    I looked at him anxiously. “You’re not blaming yourself over the old case again, are you? Because—”
    â€œNo, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the number of times when I’ve given in to anger, to hatred. The number of times I’ve wanted to take a murderer, or a child rapist, or a wife beater, or even a stupid, arrogant little twit of a drugs dealer, take them in my own two hands and beat their heads against the wall, or choke them senseless, or—” He broke off. His voice had remained low, but his hands were clenched into tight fists. They were shaking.
    He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’ve frightened you.”
    â€œNo—well, not exactly.” I lifted my wineglass and took a hefty swig. “You don’t often show that side.”
    â€œI’ve tried never to bring it home with me. I’m not proud of it. I’ve never let that anger loose, not quite, but it’s there. And every time it rises to the surface, I know I’m no better than the devils I’ve spent my life putting behind bars. I’ve wanted to hurt them just as badly as they hurt other people, and that’s not justice, Dorothy. That’s revenge.”
    â€œBut you didn’t do it!” I leaned across the table, intent. “That’s the difference between you and them, between any person of integrity and any criminal. You wanted to do harm, but you didn’t. The restraints held. That’s what civilization is, Alan. That’s what morality is. Maybe we can’t always keep our emotions in check, but so long as we control our actions, we’ll stay on the right side of the line.”
    â€œI’m not so certain. Every time the emotions get off the chain, there’s the risk that the actions will, too.”
    I poured a little more wine in both our glasses and tried to smile. “That’s just the Englishman talking. If you’d let ’er rip a little more often over little things, you wouldn’t build up such a head of steam over the big ones.”
    â€œKick the cat and swear at the motor mechanic and you’ll never murder your boss, is that the idea?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    He smiled a little, and I grinned back, and the talk eased back to trivialities, but I’d been shaken. I knew my husband to be a