To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

man of conviction, and I knew why being a policeman had been so important to him. His sense of right and wrong was strong. He’d wanted criminals out of society and in prison, where they could do no more harm, at least temporarily. He had known, of course, that they wouldn’t stay out of circulation forever. He’d been sensibly aware that his work had been more like housecleaning than demolition, that there was no permanent solution to crime, only a day-to-day effort to keep the savages at bay.
    All that I’d understood, and admired, about Alan, but I’d never known the strength of his passion against evil.
    In a sober mood, I followed him back upstairs.

12
    I WOKE filled with dread the next morning. Today I would have to try to talk to Mrs. Crosby. There were things we needed urgently to know. Alan and I had agreed that I should be the one to approach her, since she seemed to have some degree of trust in me. Then if it appeared that Alan needed to probe for some details that only his trained policeman’s mind could analyze, I would ask if she was willing to talk to him.
    No matter how much we needed to know, though, no matter how much she might trust me, it meant intruding on someone in the first stages of unbearable grief, and someone who, moreover, was extremely ill.
    â€œAlan, I feel like a brute.”
    â€œOne always does, talking to the families of victims. I hated it myself until I learned to develop a certain amount of distance. It helps to remember, every moment, that you’re on their side, that you’re doing the only thing that can help at all, and that’s to learn the truth. They want the truth, Dorothy, the families do. They want, more than anything, to know what’s happened. And then they want the person responsible to be captured and punished.”
    He seemed about to say something else.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI was about to say, they want them hanged.”
    â€œBut that doesn’t happen anymore.”
    â€œNo.”
    I wanted to ask him how he felt about that, but something in his face closed up. There would be another time, perhaps, for a philosophical discussion of capital punishment. Not just now.
    â€œI hope the police didn’t tire her too much yesterday. I wonder if they still have a WPC with her.”
    â€œProbably, if they have enough staff. In cases like this, they try to have someone stay for a day or two at least, especially when the bereaved person is alone, like Mrs. Crosby.”
    â€œI think,” I said, finishing the cup of indifferent tea we’d brewed in the room, “I’ll skip breakfast. Mrs. Crosby will have spent a horrible night. If I get there early, maybe I can offer her a crumb or two of comfort. Besides, I’d like to get it over with for today. I’ll probably have to keep going back to her, over and over. She’ll be sick of the sight of me.”
    â€œIt’s all part of the job. But you’re not going to tackle it without your breakfast. You ate next to nothing for dinner.”
    â€œAlan, I’ll be all right. I’m not exactly melting away.” I gave my reflection a disgusted look and pulled in my stomach.
    â€œPerhaps not, but the mind doesn’t function well when the blood sugar is low. I was always adamant that my officers get their meals regularly, even if it had to be ham rolls or sandwich packets eaten on the fly. The same rule applies here. Toast and juice, at least. I insist.”
    Well, I could just face that, though the thought of a full English breakfast nauseated me. Reluctantly, I followed Alan down to the dining room. I added coffee to the menu, gulped it all down as soon as the waitress put it in front of me, and rose. “Alan, go ahead and finish your meal, but I can’t sit still any longer. The toast is fighting with the butterflies in my stomach, and the only way to calm everything down is to get on with it.”
    â€œI’ll go up to the