The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  ‘Of course, I had forgotten you were going,’ said Mrs. Walters with a gleam in her eye. ‘And how did you find Miss Trout and Mr. Maynard?’

  ‘They were jolly good sports,’ said Barbara, ‘especially Miss Trout. I liked her a lot. In fact, I am going back there on Thursday. I am going to hunt for—ow!’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Barbara,’ said Angela, who had just kicked the girl hard under the table. ‘I didn’t realize your leg was in the way. I do hope I haven’t hurt you.’

  Barbara rubbed her ankle.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘What did you say you were going to hunt for, dear?’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘Birds’ eggs,’ said Barbara. ‘They have a lot of trees in the garden and I want to see if I can get some puffin’s eggs to take back to school.’

  ‘Do puffins nest in trees?’ asked Helen. ‘I thought they preferred to live on cliffs.’

  ‘Some of them do,’ agreed Barbara, ‘but I’m looking for the Cornish Tree Puffin in particular. It’s a quite different species. They have blue beaks and sing like blackbirds, and they’re extremely rare.’

  ‘Miss Trout was telling us that she may have to leave the house soon, as her lease will be up shortly,’ said Angela before Barbara could expand into further flights of fancy.

  ‘But I thought the family had owned the house for over a hundred years,’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘They sold the freehold some time last century, apparently,’ said Angela, ‘and now they merely rent it. It would cost too much to extend the lease, so it looks as though she will have to move out on the fifth of August.’

  ‘Poor Miss Trout,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t know her at all, but she looks like such a cheerful old lady, and always smiles in the most friendly way whenever we pass.’

  ‘Who owns the freehold now?’ asked Harriet Dorsey, who had been listening attentively. ‘Is he going to move into the house after Miss Trout leaves?’

  ‘He is someone who lives in Penzance, I think she said,’ replied Angela, ‘but I have no idea what he is planning to do with the place.’

  ‘I wonder if he’d be willing to rent it to us,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s a lovely old place—perfect for a quiet holiday.’

  ‘The house is rather run-down,’ said Angela doubtfully. ‘I think you would be more comfortable staying at the hotel.’

  ‘Oh, but I love quaint old houses like that. We shouldn’t mind a bit of discomfort, should we, darling?’ she said, turning to her husband. ‘Not for those views.’

  Lionel Dorsey made a non-committal face and shrugged.

  ‘Well, I shall see if I can find out who the new owner is, at any rate,’ said Mrs. Dorsey.

  Angela could hardly imagine a place less suited to this sophisticated, fashionable couple than Poldarrow Point, but said nothing.

  ‘Don’t expect her to leave before the fifth, though, because she won’t—I shall make sure of that,’ said Barbara fiercely, startling them all.

  Angela judged it to be a good moment to take their leave, and reminded Barbara that they had planned an early dinner. They had done no such thing, but Barbara recollected herself and they went home, having made vague promises to meet the Dorseys at the hotel for a game of tennis in a day or two.

  Barbara yawned as they entered the house.

  ‘How tired one gets, spending all day in the fresh air,’ she said, ‘I shall sleep like a top tonight.’ An idea came to her. ‘Angela, I think all doctors ought to send their patients to Cornwall for a jolly good rest. It would do them no end of good.’

  ‘That sounds like a delightful idea,’ said Angela dryly.

  EIGHT

  The next morning Angela took a solitary walk into Tregarrion, leaving behind Barbara, who was determined to go down to the cove and find the tunnel that led from the beach up to Poldarrow Point. It was a fine, breezy day, the sun obscured only occasionally by the odd white cloud scudding cheerily across the sky. The square bulk of the Hotel Splendide looked bright and clean in the sunlight, and the path was dotted with holiday-makers enjoying a stroll along the cliff top. Angela glanced at the hotel terrace as she passed. A few late risers were still at breakfast, and among them she spotted the Dorseys, who were yawning glumly over their eggs. Lionel Dorsey looked up at Angela as she went by and raised his hand in salutation. He said something to his wife, who also turned to look. Her eyes narrowed for a second, then she produced a thin smile and returned to her breakfast without a word.

  Tregarrion was busy that morning, its cobbled streets bustling with townsfolk and tourists alike. The quaint little fishermen’s cottages that lined the harbour appeared to their best advantage in the July sunshine, as though dressed in their Sunday finery, and the salty tang in the air was bracing and refreshing. The whole scene suited Angela’s mood exactly, and she wandered the streets of the little town in a pleasant day-dream, thinking of not very much except the sights and sounds before her.

  On the harbour pier an artist had set up an impromptu exhibition of sea scenes and landscapes, which were supposed to represent local beauty spots. They were rather garish. Angela was gazing at one particularly gaudy painting of a Cornish lugger and wondering how it was expected to stay afloat given that it was listing alarmingly to starboard, when she became aware of a presence at her shoulder. She turned and saw George Simpson standing next to her. He was as immaculately turned-out as ever, wearing a light suit that was just the right side of elegant, and seeming altogether at ease with himself. He smiled and gave a slight bow as Angela recognized him.

  ‘I see you are a lover of art, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know quite how to reply to that,’ said Angela, laughing. ‘I hope you’re not referring to these paintings. They are certainly intriguing, although whether one could call them art is another question altogether.’

  Simpson laughed too.

  ‘I confess I was being polite,’ he said. ‘One has to be very careful in matters of taste—especially other people’s taste. But I am glad we seem to be in agreement on these paintings, at least. How do you like Tregarrion?’

  ‘I like it very much,’ said Angela. ‘The place is undeniably beautiful and we have been most fortunate with the weather so far.’

  ‘How long are you intending to stay?’

  ‘I’m not sure. For another week or two at least,’ she replied. ‘The lady who owns Kittiwake Cottage broke her leg and so was unable to come, but sooner or later her leg will mend and she will want her house back. I shall be sorry to leave. I believe you are staying at the hotel?’

  He bowed in assent and invited her to walk along the pier with him.

  ‘In the interests of beginning our acquaintance on the right foot, I believe I must confess that I knew something of you already before we met,’ he said. ‘In fact, I recognized your face immediately when I saw you on the cliff top the other day.’

  ‘Oh? I suppose you have seen me in the papers. I am rather hounded by reporters these days owing to some recent unfortunate events.’

  ‘Yes, but not only that,’ he said. ‘I believe you are a friend of my colleague Inspector Jameson.’

  Angela looked up, surprised.

  ‘Your colleague? What, are you—then you must be—’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes, I am a Scotland Yard man too, for my sins. Inspector Simpson at your service—although here I am plain Mr. Simpson, if you don’t mind. Even representatives of the law take holidays once in a while, and for some reason the word “Inspector” inspires every Tom, Dick and Harry to bother one constantly with tales of lost dogs and dishonest waiters.’

  ‘Of course, I entirely understand, and I shan’t mention it to anybody.’ said Angela. ‘Of all people, you deserve a rest now and again.’

  So that was why he had attracted her attention. Angela could only suppose that her recent encounters with the law had turned her into one of those people who could recognize a policeman at fifty paces.

&
nbsp; They walked on, remarking occasionally on some aspect of the view that caught their attention and talking about things they had seen in Tregarrion and around. He seemed remarkably well-informed about the area, and told her some interesting stories of local history that she had not previously heard. The conversation then turned to their mutual acquaintances.

  ‘Are Mrs. Walters and her daughter friends of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I met them only a day or two ago,’ she replied. ‘They are staying in the cottage next door to mine. Mrs. Walters is an invalid who has come here for her health.’

  ‘With Miss Walters to look after her,’ he said. ‘It must be a great advantage to have someone to call upon at such times, although I don’t suppose it is much fun for the daughter.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Angela. ‘If her mother were really sick then it would be another matter, but I can’t help thinking that Mrs. Walters’ indisposition is as much for her own convenience as anything else. I have noticed that she is often quite well when it suits her.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Poor Miss Walters,’ he said. ‘Such a shame for a young girl to be held prisoner by her own mother.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she is a prisoner, although I had not thought of it in quite those terms. Still, perhaps she will break free one day and surprise us all.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I believe you have a little girl staying with you,’ he went on, by way of a partial change of subject. ‘Is she your daughter?’

  ‘No, I have no children. She is my god-daughter. She turned up unexpectedly a day or two ago when the family with whom she was supposed to be spending the holidays all caught scarlet fever.’

  ‘She looks to be something of a handful.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Angela fervently. ‘To tell the truth, I have no idea what to do with her or how to manage her. Fortunately she is a good child at heart and has a very independent spirit, so I think there is no harm in letting her run wild a little while she is here. She has rather foisted herself upon the people at Poldarrow Point, though, so I shall have to keep an eye on her to make sure that she doesn’t bother them too much.’

  ‘The people at Poldarrow Point?’ he said. ‘Do you mean Miss Trout and her nephew?’

  ‘Yes—do you know them?’

  ‘Not to speak to. I understood from Mrs. Walters that they are not very sociable.’

  ‘They have been very friendly to us,’ said Angela. ‘We visited them at home yesterday and Miss Trout was telling us all about her ancestors, who were smugglers.’

  ‘Her ancestors at Poldarrow Point?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is very interesting,’ he said. Angela expected him to continue but he said nothing more and indeed seemed to have fallen into a brown study. They walked in silence until they reached the end of the pier and stopped to look at the water. The sea was choppy, alternating bright green and dark blue as the clouds passed over, and fishing-boats swept in and out of the harbour, accompanied by scattering crowds of shrieking gulls.

  ‘I should like to go out in a boat,’ said Angela impulsively. ‘I wonder whether it is possible to hire one hereabouts. I should like to go up and down the coast and see the shore to full advantage.’

  ‘I dare say one might be found,’ said Simpson. ‘Do you sail?’

  ‘I did many years ago, but I am quite out of practice. And in any case, I was thinking more of hiring a boat complete with pilot. I am here on doctor’s orders and I intend to take it easy,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Have you been ill?’ he said with concern.

  ‘Oh, nothing too serious—just a bout of influenza. But I was glad to take the excuse for a holiday.’

  ‘And you have picked the right place for it. I can’t imagine anywhere healthier in England—although the breeze is a little chilly out here. Shall we go back? I should hate for you to get ill again.’

  They turned and headed back towards the shore. A group of excitable young people were standing before the paintings, exclaiming in delight. They were all asking questions at once of the artist, who knew a good prospect when he saw one, and was wearing his most ingratiating smile.

  ‘I wonder whether Barbara has found the smugglers’ tunnel that leads from Poldarrow Cove to the old house,’ said Angela as they strolled up through the town. ‘When I left her she was determined to find it. Miss Trout told us some story of a treasure which is meant to be hidden in the house, and I think Barbara imagines that she will find it in the tunnel.’

  ‘A treasure, indeed! That must be very exciting for a child. What kind of treasure is it?’

  ‘A necklace that is supposed to have been made for Queen Marie Antoinette. It was brought here secretly a hundred and fifty years ago and never seen again. Whether it ever existed is uncertain—I doubt it myself—but Barbara has decided that she will find it come what may, and save Miss Trout from being evicted from her home. I fear that Miss Trout is fated to spend the next week or two discovering exactly what it is like to have a twelve-year-old girl rummaging about noisily in one’s house.’

  ‘Did Miss Trout herself tell you about the necklace?’

  ‘Yes—she said it was a family legend that had been passed down over the years, and she showed us a journal written by Richard Warrener, the house’s original owner, which hinted at its existence—albeit inconclusively, to my mind.’

  ‘So it has never been found,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Is Miss Trout to be evicted, then? I thought the house belonged to her family.’

  ‘It is only leased, and the lease expires on the fifth of August. I think Miss Trout is hoping that “something will turn up,” as Mr. Micawber said.’

  ‘And that something is the necklace?’

  ‘She did not say so, but I got the impression that she believed in its existence, yes. She put up a show of polite resistance, but I think she was only too glad to have someone young to help her in the search.’

  ‘And shall you help?’

  ‘I should rather not be drawn into a wild-goose chase,’ said Angela. ‘I have already agreed to look into another matter. It appears that Miss Trout is also receiving anonymous letters, which make vague threats of doom if she doesn’t leave Poldarrow Point immediately.’

  Simpson stopped dead.

  ‘Anonymous letters?’ he said, and looked grave. ‘But that is very serious. Very serious indeed.’

  ‘Oh? What do you mean?’

  ‘Why, he said, ‘if I am right, it means that Miss Trout and her nephew may be in some danger.’

  NINE

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs. Marchmont. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Let us say I strongly suspect it,’ he said.

  ‘But I have seen the letters, and I shouldn’t have said that they presaged any danger at all—rather, they seemed the work of some disgruntled neighbour who wanted to make mischief.’

  He gazed at her thoughtfully, as though debating something in his mind, then he nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I believe I shall have to “come clean,” as they say. ‘Let us go somewhere where we shall not be overheard.’

  Angela’s curiosity was aroused and she agreed immediately. They headed away from the town and back up towards the cliff path. Just before the Hotel Splendide, in a sheltered spot, was a bench. They sat.

  ‘What did you mean, when you said Miss Trout was in danger?’ asked Angela impatiently, when Simpson showed no signs of beginning the conversation.

  He sighed.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont, I fear I have misled you slightly. I told you that I was here in a private capacity. That was not true. In fact, I have come to Tregarrion in search of a very dangerous criminal. But before I go on, you should know that I am supposed to be working under-cover, so I beg of you not to tell a soul of this.’

  ‘Naturally I shan’t say a word,’ Angela assured him. ‘Inspector Jameson can vouch for my discretion, if you doubt me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you at all. I have heard him speak highly of
you many times,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Then tell me about this criminal,’ she said.

  ‘His name—as far as we know, for it may be an alias—is Edgar Valencourt, and he is notorious all over Europe as the most brazen of jewel-thieves. He first came to our notice about ten years ago with the theft of the fabulous jewelled tiara of the old Dowager Queen Dorothea von Hollenstern of Austria—a daring robbery that was only the first of many. He has a taste for the finest jewels owned by the great aristocratic and royal houses, and his method is always the same: he works himself into the confidence of wealthy dowagers and widows of grand families, posing sometimes as an art expert or director of a museum, sometimes as a well-known academic who is writing a history of the family in question—at any event winning their trust in one way or another. There is no reason to doubt him, since he impersonates real experts and comes furnished with impeccable credentials. After a short time, he is allowed to look at the jewels. He admires them and flatters their foolish owner into believing that they make her look as young and beautiful as she ever was, then makes sure they are replaced and locked safely away in the presence of witnesses. Then he disappears, and shortly afterwards it is discovered that M. le Directeur from the museum is in fact away at present and has never heard of the Lady So-and-So, much less visited her country château, and that the diadem, or the necklace, or the bracelet, which was supposed to be locked away safely in its case, is in fact made of paste and the real one has gone!’

  ‘I see,’ said Angela. ‘Presumably he makes the exchange at an opportune moment while the lady’s attention is elsewhere. He must make his preparations very carefully—especially if he goes to the trouble of having duplicates made of the things he intends to steal.’

  ‘He is a most clever and audacious man,’ said Simpson, ‘and the police of several countries have been fooled on numerous occasions. We have come close to catching him several times but somehow he always escapes our clutches at the last minute. But I have resolved not to let it happen again—in fact, you might say that I have made it my personal mission to bring him to justice, come what may.’