The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  But what to do now? Barbara judged that it must be about one o’clock. Low tide had been at ten, as far as she could remember, which meant that high tide would not come until four and she would be trapped here for at least four hours after that, until the water had receded enough to allow her to leave through the cave. Her stomach gave a loud rumble and she thought wistfully of Cook’s scones. The idea of staying here in the dark until the evening hardly appealed; besides, Angela would surely wonder where she was. Perhaps she was even now scouring the area anxiously, calling Barbara’s name and wringing her hands.

  This idea pleased Barbara so much that she dwelt on it for several minutes, embellishing the picture to her satisfaction. She saw the whole town of Tregarrion throwing down their tools and rising up as one in order to hunt high and low for her. Burly fishermen and farm-hands would form search-parties with dogs, while the womenfolk huddled in corners worriedly and told each other that she had been such a delightful child. After hours and hours they would find her, and a great cheer would go up, and they would take her back to Kittiwake Cottage, bearing her on their shoulders triumphally, and Angela would weep with joy and Marthe would smile for once and let her have as many scones as she liked.

  Then she returned to reality.

  ‘Silly girl,’ she said to herself. ‘Even if they did come looking for me, they wouldn’t find me anyway, until the tide goes out—and by that time I will be able to get out quite easily by myself.’

  There was nothing else for it: she would have to go back up to the trap-door that led into the cellars of Poldarrow Point. She crossed the floor to where she could just make out a darker shadow against the back wall, which must be the start of the next section of the passage, and groped her way in carefully. Once again, the darkness was complete and Barbara wished she had not wasted her time exploring the first cave, for then her torch might have lasted longer.

  At last she came up against the metal rungs that led up to the trap-door and began to climb them laboriously, feeling for each one and being careful not to lose her balance. She panted as she climbed. How much more difficult everything was in the dark! Now here was the trap-door, and she hoped against hope that nobody had been down into the cellar since they had all left it yesterday. Barbara never did a thing without doing it thoroughly and, having some vague, romantic idea that she might soon need to spirit the Queen’s necklace away from a band of marauding jewel-thieves, had taken good care to leave the trap-door unbolted yesterday when she was supposed to be fastening it. She gripped the top rung with her left hand and pushed hard on the door with her right. It was heavier than she remembered but was not bolted, at which she gave a sigh of relief. She pushed again—too hard this time, because she lost her hold on it and it fell open with a loud clap onto the cellar floor.

  Barbara pulled herself cautiously out of the hole and listened for sounds of movement upstairs. She had no wish to attract the attention of Miss Trout and her nephew, judging—probably quite correctly—that they would not be too pleased at her having left the trap-door open, thus allowing anyone who happened to discover it to come through the tunnel and into the house. After a minute or two, she decided that all was safe. She shut the trap-door and felt her way to where she thought the stairs must be. For a minute or two she stumbled about fruitlessly, but then her eyes gradually distinguished a horizontal slit of light above her head, which must surely be coming in under the door into the hall. Her heart leapt and she scrambled up the stairs as fast as she could. She listened carefully at the door and then turned the handle. It was locked. Barbara could have cried with frustration. What on earth was she to do now?

  She sat down on the top step and rested her chin glumly in her hands for a minute or two, then turned and placed her cheek to the floor in order to peer under the door. The gap was a large one and she could see quite clearly the entrance-hall beyond. How provoking to be so close to freedom and yet not quite able to attain it! She remembered the little key that Miss Trout had turned yesterday when they went into the cellar, and wondered if it was still in the lock. No light came in through the keyhole so she supposed it must be. If only she could find some way to turn it from this side of the door!

  She poked a finger experimentally into the hole, but it was too big to go in very far. Then she had a thought, and reached up to remove a hair-pin from her hair. It fitted into the hole perfectly. Holding her breath, Barbara prodded and poked carefully and, after what seemed an age, felt something give. A second later, the key fell out of the lock and clinked onto the floor on the other side of the door. Barbara’s hand just fitted under the crack. With a hiss of triumph, she put her fingers on the key and slid it carefully towards her. It turned easily in the lock and she emerged into the hall, congratulating herself on her own cleverness.

  But there was no time to waste: Miss Trout or Mr. Maynard might turn up at any moment and want to know what she was doing skulking about in their hall, and there was no telling whether they would be sympathetic or not. On the whole, Barbara preferred not to risk finding out. The place was silent and there seemed to be no-one at home. Perhaps they had gone out.

  She slipped quietly across towards the front door, then froze. What was that sound? She listened carefully, but heard nothing. She reached out a hand to the door. There it was again! What was it? It sounded like somebody moaning softly upstairs. Who could it be? Was Miss Trout ill? Why was her nephew not here to look after her?

  Barbara’s curiosity overcame her and she decided to investigate. She tiptoed up the creaky old stairs as silently as she could and peeped through the banister at the top of the first flight. Up here all was dim and dingy: the doors were closed and very little light came in. A musty smell hung in the air. There was the moaning sound again. It seemed to be coming from above. Did Miss Trout sleep at the top of the house? That was odd. Barbara crept up the next flight of stairs. Up here the banisters were less ornate and the carpet was ragged and threadbare. She advanced her head cautiously around the newel. These must be the old servants’ quarters. A narrow passage stretched into the distance, with a number of low doors set into it.

  It was freezing cold up here, and Barbara shivered. Her feet were soaking wet and uncomfortable, and she longed to get back outside into the sunshine, but she could not bring herself to leave without first finding out the source of the noise. The moaning was louder now. It seemed to be coming from the end of the passage. Barbara turned her head and her eyes widened in astonishment as she saw a ghostly figure in white drift into view. It was moaning and whimpering and rubbing its hands together.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the figure tragically, and broke into great, heaving, gasping sobs.

  It was too much for Barbara, who had already had a trying morning. She turned and dashed down the stairs as fast as she could, heedless of the noise she was making. She reached the hall, wrenched the front door open and ran outside, slamming the door behind her. She felt the sun on her face and gave a great whoop of relief, then ran as fast as she could all the way back to Kittiwake Cottage.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Angela, looking up calmly from her book as Barbara burst onto the terrace. ‘You have missed lunch. And whatever have you been doing to make yourself look like such a scarecrow?’

  Barbara was indeed looking very bedraggled after her adventure in the tunnel, with damp clothes and shoes, and grubby hands and knees.

  ‘I found the tunnel,’ she said, ‘but I made a bit of a mistake and got trapped in there by the tide.’

  ‘I did warn you,’ said Angela. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘Yes please!’ said Barbara. She paused. ‘I did rather think you might be desperately worried and combing the area with a pack of bloodhounds,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Angela. ‘Cook is still here, I believe. I’m sure she’ll be able to rustle something up.’ She returned to her book, and Barbara gave it up and went inside.

  She returned some time later looki
ng rather cleaner (Marthe had taken one horrified look at her and marched her off to wash) and with a stomach pleasantly full of cold meat and warm scones. Angela looked up and put down her book.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘You looked as though you had been ploughing a field with your face, or something.’

  ‘Why must Marthe scrub so?’ complained Barbara. ‘I’m sure she took off four inches of skin.’

  ‘One must suffer for beauty, apparently.’

  ‘Then I shall be ugly and happy,’ said Barbara. She sat down and pulled the cat off Angela’s lap and onto her own. It protested briefly then settled down to resume its nap.

  ‘How did you get out of the tunnel, by the way?’ asked Angela. ‘It’s still high tide.’

  ‘I came through the trap-door into the house.’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised they could hear you knocking from upstairs.’

  Barbara nodded and attempted to change the subject.

  ‘Did you have a nice time in Tregarrion this morning?’ she asked brightly, but Angela was not to be fooled. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Barbara,’ she said, ‘what did Miss Trout and Mr. Maynard say when they found you in the tunnel?’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Barbara, ‘I admit it. They didn’t know anything about it because I left the trap-door unlocked yesterday when we went for tea, and I sneaked out without anybody seeing me.’

  ‘But why did you leave it open?’

  Barbara looked sulky.

  ‘I just thought I might need to get through it urgently one day. And I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Still, though, you oughtn’t to have done it—especially not when you particularly led them to believe you’d bolted it.’

  ‘Sorry, Angela,’ said Barbara, doing her best to look ashamed and carefully omitting to mention that she had done exactly the same thing again today.

  ‘I should think so. Now, tell me about the tunnel.’

  Barbara related her adventures of the morning and Angela forgot to look disapproving as she listened with interest.

  ‘It sounds as though it is exactly what it purports to be, then,’ she said, ‘and that is, a means of getting from the cove to the house. From what you say, it doesn’t seem as though anything is hidden down there, unless there is something in one of those barrels.’

  Barbara shook her head.

  ‘That’s no go,’ she said. ‘One of them fell to pieces when I touched it, and I rattled the other one ever so hard but it made no sound. And lots of people knew about the tunnel in the olden days, so it wouldn’t be the best place to hide something valuable. No, I think the necklace is somewhere in the house, and I mean to find it.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall come with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you?’ asked Barbara eagerly. ‘That would be splendid. Not that I’m scared, of course, but I should like to have you there to help.’

  ‘Why should you be scared?’

  ‘I told you—I’m not. And even if there are ghosts I’m sure they don’t mean any harm.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? Which ghosts?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? Miss Trout said the house was supposed to be haunted by an old man who wanders around upstairs in his nightgown.’

  ‘But you said you didn’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ said Barbara stoutly. ‘Why, the very idea is absurd.’

  ‘Then why did you say there might be ghosts?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did, just now.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it. But I shall be glad to have you there all the same.’

  ‘Well, then, that’s settled,’ said Angela, with a vague feeling that she had missed something. ‘I shall come with you tomorrow and we shall spend the day looking for this necklace which may or may not exist.’

  ‘Of course it exists!’ said Barbara, on safer ground now. ‘It must be there somewhere, and I think there must be a clue in Preacher Dick’s journal as to its hiding-place. I’ll go and get it.’

  She ran into the house and returned with the battered old book.

  ‘It’s awfully difficult to read,’ she said as she peered at the crabbed writing.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Angela. She turned the leaves carefully, running her finger down each page as she did so. ‘Most of it appears to be lists of goods taken ashore and sold,’ she said at last. ‘Preacher Dick may have led an exciting life but I fear he lacked the gift of narrative. The most interesting part seems to be the story of the package, but the page is torn out there.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to it,’ said Barbara. Her eyes lit up. ‘I say!’ she said. ‘Do you think it had a map of the hiding place on it? If so, perhaps it was taken deliberately. Perhaps it was even stolen by the same person who wrote the anonymous letters.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem very likely,’ said Angela.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Barbara, and took the book back. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I believe the page has been torn out recently.’

  ‘Really?’ said Angela. She craned her neck to look. Sure enough, she saw that the torn edge of the paper that remained looked almost new and was a lighter colour than the rest of the leaves. ‘I believe you are right,’ she said in surprise. ‘That’s odd. But perhaps Miss Trout or Mr. Maynard did it themselves accidentally.’

  ‘Then why didn’t they mention it at the time?’ said Barbara. ‘They didn’t seem to know anything about it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ conceded Angela.

  ‘I knew it!’ said Barbara excitedly. ‘Someone else is after the necklace. Miss Trout must have shown the memoirs to someone and mentioned the family legend, and whoever it was decided to look for the treasure and keep it for himself. So he wrote those anonymous letters in order to frighten Miss Trout out of the house and allow him to get in and search it in his own time. I do hope he hasn’t already been into the house and found it.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he has,’ said Angela.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the last letter arrived only yesterday, remember? Presumably that means the thief hasn’t got his hands on it yet.’

  ‘Oh yes, I see,’ said Barbara. ‘Well, then, now that we know someone else is after the necklace, we must search all the harder for it and be sure to get there first.’

  Angela was about to say that they did not know for certain whether or not someone else was looking for the necklace, but thought better of it. It seemed useless to deny that Barbara was most likely right. Naturally, the girl knew nothing of Edgar Valencourt and his exploits, or that Scotland Yard was already on the case, but her reasoning was logical.

  ‘I wonder where it is,’ she said instead.

  ‘I have been thinking about that,’ said Barbara eagerly. ‘It can’t be locked in a cupboard or a drawer or anything like that, because someone would surely have found it by now if it’s been in the house for more than a hundred years. No, I think there is probably a secret panel somewhere, perhaps with a safe behind it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s certainly possible,’ said Angela. ‘I suppose we shall have to go and tap on all the walls.’

  ‘Perhaps there is another secret passage in the house,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Don’t you think one is enough?’

  ‘I like secret passages.’

  ‘What, even after getting trapped in one this morning?’

  ‘It was an adventure,’ said Barbara. ‘Things are so deadly dull most of the time. I am glad I came here, Angela,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m having such fun. You’re not dull, like the Ellises. You don’t get all cross and bothered if I turn up late for lunch, or if I get into a scrape. I thought they’d never let me out of my room again at Easter after I ran their car into a tree. It was only the tiniest little dent—hardly noticeable at all, but you’d have thought I’d run over Great-Aunt Cicely and squashed her flat, the way they went on. Besides, if you don’t want people taking your motor-car without permission you should lock it away.’
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br />   Angela’s eyes had opened wide, but before she could speak, she heard a male voice calling her name from the bottom of the garden, and she looked up to see George Simpson, who was just then passing behind the cottage. He stopped for a moment or two and was introduced to Barbara, who said:

  ‘It’s no use trying to get down to the beach now—the tide’s too high.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Simpson, ‘I was halfway down the path before I realized that I had left my walk too late.’

  ‘Or too early,’ said Barbara. ‘You can always try again this evening. There should be a bit of a beach by six o’clock, I think.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Tides and other forces of nature are always something of a difficulty for town-dwellers such as myself, who are used to being able to arrange matters to their own convenience in their daily lives,’ he said. ‘I have been here for almost two weeks now, and I still forget that I can’t go where I please, when I please. Mother Nature is not to be trifled with.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ agreed Barbara. ‘I got into a bit of trouble only this morning because of it.’

  ‘Oh? I understand that you have been searching for a secret tunnel. Did you find it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara shortly. She glanced at Angela, uncertain as to whether she ought to tell him about it. For her part, Angela was unsure as to whether she was permitted to tell Barbara that Mr. Simpson could be trusted, and why, and she hesitated. Simpson came to their rescue.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,’ he said to Barbara. ‘I shall understand. A secret is no longer a secret if you tell other people about it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara. ‘Then I shall keep it to myself if you don’t mind too dreadfully.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, then took his leave and walked slowly back up the path.