The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Barbara. ‘Where else can I go? I can bunk in with Marthe. She won’t mind. I shan’t be any trouble. I say,’ she went on, jumping up and running to peer over the back gate, ‘this is an awfully nice place, isn’t it? That little cove down there looks marvellous for bathing. I believe I shall forgive you for running away.’

  Angela knew a fait accompli when she saw one—and indeed, it was true, the girl had nowhere else to go. She sighed and called Marthe.

  ‘Miss Barbara needs a wash,’ she said, trying not to laugh at Marthe’s disgusted face.

  ‘No, madame, what she needs is a bath,’ said Marthe. ‘I shall prepare one immediately.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Barbara in alarm, ‘there’s no need for that. I can get clean just as well by having a bathe in the sea. I was just thinking of doing that now, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Nothing but hot water will get that dirt off you,’ said Angela, ‘and besides, it’s high tide now so it’s not safe to swim. Remember that.’

  ‘What should I do with her clothes, madame?’ asked Marthe.

  Angela stared at the little scarecrow before them.

  ‘I should suggest burning them, but we have nothing else to put her in.’

  ‘Of course I brought a change,’ said Barbara with dignity. ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’

  She allowed herself to be conducted into the house by a scolding Marthe, leaving Angela to adjust her thoughts. She was not enthusiastic at the idea of having a schoolgirl on her hands for the next few weeks, but consoled herself with the reflection that Barbara seemed fully capable of amusing herself. And indeed, that looked as though it were the case: after emerging from Marthe’s ruthless ablutions, face shining clean and hair washed and tamed, Barbara announced that she was going out to explore. She returned in time for dinner and went to bed without fuss since, truth to tell, she was extremely tired after her journey from London.

  ‘I am going to Miss Trout’s for tea today,’ said Angela the next morning as they sat on the terrace.

  Barbara’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘Miss Trout!’ she exclaimed in a kind of ecstasy. ‘What a glorious name! How I wish I had a friend called Miss Trout. Although Kipper or Haddock would be even better,’ she said thoughtfully, and went on with her breakfast.

  ‘You may come if you like,’ said Angela, ignoring this outburst. ‘She said I might bring someone. But you must behave as other children do.’

  ‘How do other children behave?’ asked Barbara with interest.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ admitted Angela, ‘but I’m fairly certain they don’t lose all their money on the horses then run about the country dressed as a tramp.’

  ‘I don’t do that every day,’ said Barbara. ‘Of course I shall come, and I promise I shall be an angel.’

  The sun was still warm, but the sea breeze was much stronger than it had been the day before, and it whipped at their skirts as they walked along the cliff top. At four o’clock sharp they presented themselves at Poldarrow Point, and were admitted to a large, gloomy drawing-room which was decorated in the style of sixty years ago. Its furniture was elegant but shabby and worn, and the paper was peeling from the wall here and there. Altogether the place looked as though it had seen better days.

  Miss Emily Trout was sitting with her nephew, their heads bent over a book whose pages were yellowed and ragged around the edges. She looked up as they entered and rose to greet them with a beaming smile.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont, I’m so glad you could come,’ she said. ‘And who is this young lady?’

  ‘Barbara Wells,’ said Barbara, holding out her hand politely. ‘How do you do, Miss Trout?’

  ‘Barbara is my god-daughter,’ said Angela. ‘She arrived yesterday and is staying with me at the cottage.’

  ‘I don’t have any parents,’ explained Barbara helpfully, ‘so I have to go to whoever will have me. It’s Angela’s turn now.’

  Clifford Maynard laughed.

  ‘Then we have something in common,’ he said. ‘It is Aunt Emily’s turn to look after me at present.’

  ‘Don’t you live here all the time?’ asked Angela.

  ‘I do now, yes. I had spent the last few years in London, attempting—unsuccessfully, I might add—to make a living on the stage, but I came down here a month or two ago to visit Aunt Emily and have somehow ended up staying for the present.’

  ‘Dear Clifford is always so kind,’ said Miss Trout. ‘I have few relations still living, and even fewer who are prepared to come all this way to see me, so it is a great comfort to have Clifford with me here all the time. I had not seen him for many years—since he was quite a child, in fact, so I was most surprised and delighted when he turned up here.’

  Angela, perhaps uncharitably, wondered whether Miss Trout had any money to leave, then almost immediately dismissed the idea, since the state of the house made it highly unlikely.

  ‘I say,’ said Barbara, who had made a bee-line for the window, ‘you have a corking view here.’

  ‘“Corking” is the very word,’ said the old lady, her eyes twinkling as she joined the girl. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s simply splendid. I should like to live in Cornwall always. I go to school in Hertfordshire, which is deadly dull—no sea or lakes or mountains, or anything like that at all. But look, there’s our cottage, and the little cove where I went for a bathe this morning.’ She beamed. ‘How lucky you are!’

  ‘What should you say if I were to tell you that this house has a secret passage leading down to that very cove?’ said Miss Trout.

  Barbara stared.

  ‘A real secret passage? Here in this house?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘You shall certainly see it after we have had tea,’ replied the old lady. ‘Shall we?’

  They all sat, and Miss Trout poured tea from a china teapot with a chip in the spout.

  ‘As you can see, most of the things in this house are in a sad condition,’ she said. ‘My brother was unlucky enough to lose most of his money in an unfortunate speculation, and so was unable to afford the upkeep. I have even less money than he did and so the place has rather been left to fall to rack and ruin.’

  ‘Have you never thought of leaving?’ asked Angela.

  Miss Trout looked shocked.

  ‘Oh no! I could never do that,’ she said. ‘Why, this house has been in our family for a hundred and fifty years or more.’ She drew herself up. ‘I am the last of the Trouts,’ she said (here Barbara stifled a giggle), ‘and I am quite determined to stay here until the bitter end.’

  Angela glared at Barbara, then said, ‘Your brother is no longer alive, I take it?’

  Miss Trout gave a mournful smile.

  ‘Unfortunately not. Jeremiah could no longer stand the Poldarrow winters and their effect on his health, so a few months ago he went abroad to Italy, where he sadly died only a few weeks later.’

  ‘He ought to have stayed here,’ said Clifford. ‘At that age the journey was bound to kill him.’

  Miss Trout took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eye, and Angela tactfully changed the subject.

  They finished their tea and Barbara immediately said, ‘Please may we see the secret passage now?’

  Clifford smiled and Miss Trout gave her tinkling laugh.

  ‘Why, of course!’ she said. ‘But first I must tell you a little of the history of the house. A hundred and fifty years ago Poldarrow Point was nothing like the big, rambling building you see today—at that time, it was merely a large, comfortable farm-house. It was owned by my ancestor, a man called Richard Warrener, who was better known in these parts as Preacher Dick.’

  ‘Was he a pirate?’ asked Barbara breathlessly.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Trout, then paused dramatically. ‘He was a smuggler.’

  FIVE

  At that moment there was a loud banging noise from upstairs that made them all start.

 
Clifford Maynard grimaced impatiently.

  ‘The fastening on the shutter must have worked loose again,’ he said. ‘I had better go and fix it or it will keep us awake all night.’

  He went out, and Miss Trout said, ‘This place is all very well when the weather is calm, but as soon as the wind gets up then you can be sure that something or other will need mending. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about Preacher Dick.’

  Angela had been listening with interest.

  ‘Was he really a preacher?’ she asked. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that a man of the cloth would be embroiled in illegal activities.’

  ‘Oh, but it was quite common in those days,’ Miss Trout assured her. ‘Taxes on goods were so high that many people considered them to be immoral in themselves, and anything that could be obtained without paying duty to the government was considered fair game. Whole villages were involved in the business at times. Richard Warrener was a gentleman farmer and Methodist lay preacher—and also the source of much of the smuggling activity in the area in the late eighteenth century.’

  ‘Did he dig the tunnel?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘So the story goes,’ replied Miss Trout. ‘You will, no doubt, have noticed that Poldarrow Cove itself cannot be seen from Tregarrion, and that it is also sheltered from the strongest of the winds. That made it the ideal spot for landing illegal cargoes. Ships would drop anchor a little way out and the booty would be brought ashore in skiffs. Warrener’s men would be waiting on the beach for the goods, and would haul them up through the tunnel and into the house. From there they could be distributed for sale. I understand it was an extremely profitable business.’

  ‘How thrilling!’ said Barbara. ‘I should have liked to have been there to see it. I don’t suppose it still goes on today?’ She seemed almost regretful, and Miss Trout laughed.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Eventually, the government reduced excise duties and almost immediately the practice all but disappeared. Shall we go and see the secret passage? Barbara, my dear, there is an electric torch in the top drawer of that chest. Could you fetch it out for me, please?’

  Barbara did as she was asked and handed the torch to Miss Trout, who rose and led the way out of the room and into the gloomy entrance-hall. Under the stairs a little door was set unobtrusively into the panelling. Miss Trout turned the key that was in the lock and opened the door, just as Clifford joined them again.

  ‘Have you fixed it?’ she asked.

  Her nephew nodded briefly.

  ‘Let me go first, Aunt,’ he said.

  He took the torch and descended, followed by Angela, Barbara and Miss Trout. At the bottom of the stairs was a large, square room that was empty apart from a few boxes and old bits of broken furniture.

  ‘It’s just a cellar,’ said Barbara in disappointment.

  ‘This is where the contraband was stored once it had come up from the beach,’ said Miss Trout. ‘The tunnel is over here.’

  Clifford led the way under a beam and into a smaller room. This one was completely empty.

  ‘There,’ he said, indicating a square trap-door set in the middle of the floor. It was bolted shut. He bent and drew back the bolt with a little difficulty, then pulled up the heavy door by a metal ring. It rose and fell backwards with a clatter, and they all peered down as Clifford shone the torch into the hole.

  ‘I can see a ladder!’ said Barbara in excitement. ‘May I go down it, please?’

  Before anybody could reply she sat on the edge of the hole and lowered herself into it, feeling with her feet for the metal rungs that had been set into the rock. Angela felt a pang of concern for Barbara’s frock but said nothing.

  ‘Do be careful,’ said Miss Trout, as Barbara disappeared into the depths of the earth. They heard the clunk of her feet on the ladder as she felt her way down it.

  ‘It’s pitch-black down here,’ she said, her voice echoing from below. ‘May I have the torch, please?’

  ‘There’s not much to see,’ said Clifford, ‘and you wouldn’t want to leave us in the dark up here, would you? But I shall try and shed a little light on things for you.’

  He crouched down and directed the torch farther into the hole.

  ‘There’s a tunnel here!’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘Oh, do let me see where it goes.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Angela. ‘That’s enough. Come up now.’

  There was a clanging and a thumping as Barbara climbed back up and emerged once more into the cellar.

  ‘I should have liked to follow it all the way down to the beach,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘It wouldn’t be possible at this time anyway,’ said Miss Trout. ‘The entrance to the tunnel is completely blocked at high tide.’

  ‘Then I shall go down to the cove tomorrow and look for it,’ said Barbara with decision.

  It was cold in the cellar and Miss Trout shivered.

  ‘Shall we go back upstairs?’ she suggested. ‘Clifford, would you shut the trap-door for us?’

  ‘Please, may I do it?’ asked Barbara eagerly.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Clifford. ‘Don’t forget to bolt it, too.’

  They returned to the welcome warmth of the ground floor and the drawing-room.

  ‘What became of Preacher Dick in the end?’ asked Barbara. ‘Was he ever caught?’

  ‘No,’ replied Miss Trout. ‘He lived to a ripe old age and died in this house, I believe. But I have something else to show you.’

  She picked up the book that she and Clifford had been poring over when the others arrived and handed it to Angela.

  ‘These are his memoirs,’ she said. ‘He wrote them when he was an old man and had long since given up the smuggling trade.’

  Angela looked at the book in her hands. It was a slim volume, bound in calf leather, and bore all the signs of having been well-used. She opened it up and saw that each page was closely-written in an old-fashioned hand.

  ‘“Being A Faithful Record Of The Life Of Richard Warrener Of Poldarrow Point In The Parish of Tregarrion, Written By His Own Hand,”’ she read. ‘He must have had some very fascinating tales to tell,’ she said as she handed back the book.

  ‘Oh, nobody more so,’ said Miss Trout. ‘One of his exploits in particular has passed into legend within the family. It concerns a priceless treasure which was lost but may still be in the house to this very day.’

  Barbara’s eyes grew round.

  ‘A treasure?’ she said in excitement. ‘What was it?’

  Miss Trout lowered her voice.

  ‘It was a diamond necklace that was supposed to have been made for Queen Marie Antoinette,’ she said. ‘It is a most mysterious story. Should you like to hear it?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the old lady. ‘This necklace was made many, many years ago by a firm of Parisian jewellers, and was said by all who saw it to have been the most fabulous ornament ever to have been made by man. The jewellers used only the finest diamonds and gold, and poured all their skills as master craftsmen into its production. It cost them a great deal to make, but they hoped to sell the necklace to King Louis the Sixteenth and so make the money back ten-fold. However, to their dismay, when the King suggested to his wife that he buy her the necklace, she refused it, saying that the money would be better spent on building a man-of-war for the navy.

  ‘Now, the Court of King Louis was a place of politics and intrigue, and was full of people wishing to curry favour with the Queen. One such person was the Cardinal de Rohan, who had displeased Marie Antoinette and was anxious to get back into her good graces. Another was a woman who called herself the Comtesse de la Motte. She was a thief and an adventuress who was determined that she and her husband should become rich by hook or by crook. Seeing her opportunity, the Comtesse became Cardinal de Rohan’s mistress, at the same time convincing him that she was a confidante of Marie Antoinette and was willing to act as a go-between to help him regain the Queen’s favour.

  ‘Her real aim,
in fact, was to get her hands on the necklace. To this end she produced forged letters that she claimed were from the Queen, in which Her Majesty indicated that she had forgiven the Cardinal. She also arranged a meeting between him and the Queen—although in reality the woman he met was an actress who merely resembled her closely.

  ‘A short while later, the Comtesse produced another forged letter from the Queen, requesting that the Cardinal procure the diamond necklace in secret for her, with the Comtesse de la Motte acting as her agent. Rohan, who was only too anxious to remain in favour, complied. He obtained the necklace from the jewellers and handed it over to the Comtesse who, far from presenting it to Marie Antoinette, immediately gave it to her husband, who left the country with it.

  ‘Of course, very soon the jewellers wanted payment and approached the Queen, who announced that she knew nothing of the matter. In this way the deception was discovered and a great scandal ensued. The Comtesse de la Motte was tried and convicted of the theft, while the poor, foolish Cardinal was acquitted but exiled.’ She paused.

  ‘What happened to the necklace?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘It was never seen again,’ said Miss Trout significantly. ‘It had been thought that the Comtesse’s husband had taken it to London and broken it up in order to sell the diamonds singly, but this was never proved—and according to a legend that has been passed down through the Warrener family for the last hundred and fifty years or so, the necklace met quite a different fate. Look here.’

  She picked up Richard Warrener’s memoirs and turned the pages carefully, as though searching for something.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ she said, and handed the book back to Angela. ‘It is a little difficult to read, and your eyes will surely be better able to see than mine. His spelling is a little erratic, after the fashion of the time.’

  Angela squinted at the page and read aloud:

  ‘“Now, in the spring of 1785 a sloop of sume 25 tons came in close to shore that had taken a cargo from a privateer. The men bringing in the goods, I was much surprized to see a French gentleman brought ashore besides in a state of fever and close to death. I calling for my wife to tend to him, since his strength was allmoste exhausted, we carry’d him to bed where he did most earnestly beg for absolution as his life was drawing to a close. I taking pity on him promised to hear him, being that as I told him, there were no Catholick priest near by, but that we did worshipp the same God and so I believed there were no harm in it. At once did he produce from about his person a pacquet which he said held a treasure of great value, dishonestly taken. He could not he said go to his grave with the matter weighing on his conscience so he earnestly desir’d that I should take the pacquet and do with it as I did see fit. I asked hime what it was and he said it was a thing of great price thatt belonged to a French lady but was then stolen. I heard him confess his sins and bade him be at peace and shortly afterwards he died. When I returned to the shore the sloop was already departed and I ask’d the men to tell what they had heard about the gentleman, but all they knew was that he had come aboard the sloop at Guarnsay in great secresy and was thought to have come from the Court of Paris. I returning to the house took the pacquet and opened it, to my greate surprize finding within—”’