To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page A

The wind, the waves—I’ve not seen a storm like this since I left Penzance thirty years ago. I suppose my mind was wandering, but I saw that girl walk down the street toward me, and just for a moment—” He waved his hand. “Never mind. Stupid of me.”
    Boots. Miniskirt. Long blond hair. “It reminded you of that girl. The one in the cave.”
    â€œIt was in a storm something like this that she went over the cliff, that’s all. I’m going ’round the bend in my dotage.”
    â€œDotage, hah!” I picked up my fork again and attacked my lasagne. “Funny, she reminded me a little of Lexa. Though I can’t imagine Lexa in an outfit like that. She dresses more conservatively.”
    â€œWhat I can’t imagine is where Lexa would be going on a night like this, all by herself. One would think she’d stay in and eat her dinner with her mother at the hotel.”
    â€œWe came out.”
    â€œTogether. It makes a difference.”
    â€œI only got a glimpse, and from the back, at that. It was probably someone else. Forget it. Do you suppose there’s any tiramisu? I’m still hungry.”
    I ate my dessert, and we both had some espresso, and then we walked back to the hotel. The wind was in our faces going back, sweeping up from the coast of South Carolina over thousands of miles of cold Atlantic, and the rain had begun again. I’m not a lightweight, and Alan is a tall, solid man, but we were nearly blown backward. By the time we’d covered the two blocks to the hotel, I was exhausted from the chill and from fighting the wind, and we were both soaked to the skin. We went straight to our room. I took a hot bath and then climbed into the inviting four-poster bed. Alan stopped reading his book and put out the light.
    He was snoring softly in a few minutes, but I couldn’t seem to sleep. The wind and rain battered the windows, howling through the chinks and rattling a loose pane. Wind has always frightened me, and even Alan’s comforting presence couldn’t quite still my vague fears. Or maybe it was the espresso. I kept seeing that girl, her hair blowing wildly, her short skirt and tall boots, going through the storm to—where?
    When I slept I dreamed of her, wishing I could see her face, but it was always hidden from me.
    Alan, having slept soundly, awakened early. He lay quietly in bed, but he woke me by his very wakefulness. I turned over and buried my head in the pillow, but it was no use. Morning was definitely upon us. “If you love me,” I muttered, yawning, “make me a cup of tea.”
    Once my eyes were properly open, I could see it was a beautiful day, and I began to scheme. We ate breakfast in a dining room that was nearly deserted, the hour being so early, and as we were finishing I made my suggestion to Alan.
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” I said as he sipped his second cup of coffee. “Would this be a good day to go exploring those smugglers’ caves you’ve been telling me about? It all sounds very romantic, and very unlike anything one would find in America.”
    He smiled. “Oh, I’m sure there’s something similar in America, if one knows where to look. England never had a monopoly in smugglers. Most of them were, and are, your run-of-the-mill criminals, nothing romantic about them. But there was a certain bravado about some of the Cornish ones, I suppose, and once a criminal passes into legend, the more grisly aspects of his career are often forgotten.
    â€œYes, we’ll go and see some of the caves, if you like. You’d best dress warmly. I know the sun’s shining, but the wind’s still fierce and the seas are still high. You’re apt to get wet, clambering about over rocks. And don’t forget your sunscreen.”
    I was not to be deterred by all the recommended precautions. If Alan was seeing dead girls walking down the street, there were ghosts to be