The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  ‘It was not funny,’ said Clifford with dignity. ‘They knocked me to the ground in order to remove it. I might have been seriously hurt.’

  Barbara attempted a solemn expression and almost succeeded.

  ‘The police, I am afraid to say, were inclined to take a lenient view of the affair,’ said Miss Trout.

  ‘They laughed when I said I wanted to press charges,’ said Clifford. ‘There was one in particular—a red-headed sergeant, who was most disrespectful. If that is how the law is enforced in this area, then I shall do without the help of the police, thank you.’

  ‘But what was the man doing in the house?’ asked Angela. ‘Was he searching for the necklace, do you think?’

  ‘I think he must have been,’ said Miss Trout.

  ‘Did you hear the altercation yourself?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Trout. ‘Or perhaps I did, but did not notice it. I often hear noises in the house at night—especially recently, but I always assumed that they were due to the wind blowing in a particular direction at this time of year. I’m afraid, therefore, that poor Clifford had to face the thief all on his own.’

  ‘Oh, Angela,’ said Barbara, ‘we must find the necklace soon. Someone else is after it and we can’t let them get it first, we simply can’t. Angela has had an anonymous letter too, you know,’ she went on to Miss Trout.

  ‘What?’ said Clifford and Miss Trout at the same time. Barbara nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It said that she would be killed if she came to Poldarrow Point again.’

  ‘That’s not quite what it said,’ said Angela.

  ‘Was it the same as the other letters?’ asked Clifford. He looked almost cross.

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘It was certainly from the same person, and said much the same thing as before.’

  ‘I see,’ said Clifford, and relapsed into a moody silence.

  ‘There must be a connection between the letters and the attack on Mr. Maynard,’ said Barbara, ‘and even if there isn’t, I think we ought to have another look for the necklace.’

  ‘I think you might be right,’ said Angela. She was thinking hard. Who was the mysterious attacker? Could it be Edgar Valencourt, making an attempt to find Marie Antoinette’s necklace in the dead of night? If so, had he been here before? Miss Trout said she often heard noises in the night. Perhaps he had been here already, searching the house carefully night after night until finally his luck ran out and he was caught in the act by Clifford.

  ‘I’m going to search the kitchen,’ said Barbara. ‘Are you coming, Angela?’

  ‘I shall come too,’ said Miss Trout. ‘We shall have to do without Clifford today, I fear.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Clifford. ‘My head aches and I can hardly think. Shall you be able to manage alone, Aunt Emily?’

  ‘I think so, dear,’ said Miss Trout. ‘I shall call you if any difficulties arise.’

  ‘She won’t be alone,’ said Barbara. ‘She will have us.’

  They went out, leaving Clifford lying in a dramatic attitude on the divan and groaning with great feeling.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘If the necklace isn’t in the house, then where can it be?’ said Barbara the next day. Their second search had proved just as unsuccessful as the first and she was very grumpy about it, feeling somehow as though the necklace were defying her by remaining firmly hidden despite their efforts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela, frowning abstractedly over her post. She had received a letter from Marguerite Harrison, expressing her best wishes for Angela’s quick recovery while at the same time berating her for cancelling her trip to Kent.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ said Barbara.

  ‘Apparently I promised to play tennis with the Dorseys this afternoon,’ said Angela. ‘Or, at least, that is what Mrs. Walters tells me.’

  Barbara wrinkled her nose.

  ‘That sounds awfully dull,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll join you.’

  Since nobody had invited her anyway, Angela made no objection, and a short while later Barbara went out on mysterious errands of her own. Angela was glad of this, as she wanted to speak to Inspector Simpson in private. Accordingly, she walked down to the Hotel Splendide to find him. He was not on the terrace, but when she asked at the desk he was swiftly located and came out to meet her. He greeted her as an old friend, and invited her to take a stroll along the lower promenade.

  The sun had re-emerged after the rain of the day before, and the day promised to be a warm one. As they walked down the steep steps, Angela related to him the results of their search of Poldarrow Point, and he nodded.

  ‘It was only to be expected,’ he said. ‘Something that has been hidden for so long is unlikely to be found so easily. Do you intend to keep trying?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘It’s hardly how I expected to be spending my holiday, but Miss Trout is so kind that it is very difficult to refuse her—especially since she is clearly so reluctant to ask.’

  Simpson laughed at her rueful face.

  ‘The dangers of an active conscience!’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘But it’s not just that. Barbara is still keen, too, and someone needs to keep an eye on her or she will carry all before her. She is my responsibility, I suppose, and believe me when I say that nobody deserves to have Barbara inflicted upon them when she is in the full flow of one of her enthusiasms.’

  Where is Miss Barbara this morning, by the way?’ he said.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Angela, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if she has gone to look for more secret passages. She has an insatiable appetite for mischief.’

  Simpson laughed.

  ‘And she looks a sharp one, too,’ he said. ‘When I saw her in the garden the other day as I was passing I dared not ask to see the anonymous letters—which, of course, were the real purpose of my visit.’

  ‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ said Angela. ‘That is why I brought them with me today.’

  When they reached the promenade at the bottom of the steps they sat down on a seat and she took the small sheaf of papers from her pocket and handed them to him. He read them through carefully, then handed them back to her.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What did you make of them?’

  ‘Not much, myself,’ said Angela. ‘I’m afraid all the credit must go to my maid, Marthe, who knew immediately by the style of the writing and the scent of the paper that they were written by a woman.’

  ‘A woman, eh?’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose the handwriting is more feminine than masculine.’

  ‘Then they could not have been written by Edgar Valencourt,’ said Angela. ‘Unless, of course, he has a female accomplice. His wife, perhaps, or a sister.’

  ‘He is not married,’ said Simpson.

  ‘But do you know that for certain? Pardon me, but you seem to know very little about him, and people do tend to marry as a rule.’

  Simpson considered the point.

  ‘He was said to have had a wife once, but she died,’ he said. ‘We have always assumed that he did not remarry, but of course he might well have done. I am not married myself, so I dare say I look at life from the bachelor’s point of view and therefore assume that Valencourt is working alone. There you have the advantage over me, Mrs. Marchmont, since you can see things from the wife’s side.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ said Angela, before she could stop herself. There was an under-current of bitterness in her tone and he looked up sharply.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I had no idea you were a widow.’

  ‘You didn’t offend me,’ she said, ‘and I’m not a widow.’

  ‘Then—’ he hesitated.

  ‘My husband and I parted company some time ago,’ she said. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then she smiled. ‘But this is all quite beside the point,’ she said. ‘I have not yet told you about the latest letter.’

  She brought out the anonymou
s note that had been sent to herself and handed it to him. He read it with concern.

  ‘So you have received one too,’ he said. ‘This is a rather worrying development.’

  Angela nodded.

  ‘I must confess I was not convinced initially by your view that the writer of these letters was dangerous,’ she said, ‘but subsequent events have given me pause for thought.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Angela told him about the attack on Clifford Maynard and his frown deepened.

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as badly as he wanted us to think,’ said Angela. ‘I believe he was rather enjoying the attention, and so perhaps exaggerated his injuries somewhat. He refused to have a doctor.’

  ‘I see. And what are the police doing to find the attacker?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Angela. ‘Mr. Maynard would not have them called.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It appears that there was some disagreement with the local constabulary a few weeks ago in the matter of a stolen hat,’ she said.

  His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Perhaps that is for the best,’ he said. ‘Things are already complicated enough as it is.’

  ‘Well, I have told you now,’ said Angela, ‘so at least the police do know about it.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ he said, ‘and I shall add it to my notes this evening.’

  ‘Have you had any more luck in finding Valencourt?’

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘We are very much hamstrung by the fact that we have no accurate description of him. Up to now his victims have only seen him in disguise, and he has disappeared from the scene before anybody has been able to unmask him. He could be tall or short, fat or thin, bearded or clean-shaven—we simply don’t know.’

  ‘That is certainly a disadvantage,’ agreed Angela. She seemed to be thinking about something, and it caught his attention.

  ‘Do you have any suspicions yourself?’ he asked, with a sharp glance at her.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Angela slowly, ‘but it did occur to me to wonder why the Dorseys have been staying out all night recently.’

  ‘Now, that is interesting,’ said Simpson. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mrs. Walters. She has seen them on several occasions returning to the hotel at about four or five o’clock in the morning. She assumed they had been out dancing, but Tregarrion is still a small town and I don’t believe it has any night-clubs.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Perhaps they have been going into Penzance.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Angela. ‘What do you know about the Dorseys, Mr. Simpson?’

  ‘Only what I have learned from themselves since I arrived,’ he said. ‘They are from London and are here on holiday. I don’t know what Dorsey does, but they seem to live comfortably. They have not exactly put themselves out to make friends, and such as they do have appear to have been procured for them by the indefatigable Mrs. Walters, who insists on knowing everyone’s business and forcing people to be sociable.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Angela, laughing. ‘She can be rather tiresome.’

  ‘But through her I have met you, so she can’t be all bad,’ he said gallantly.

  ‘I am supposed to play tennis with the Dorseys and Helen Walters this afternoon,’ said Angela, shaking her head at the compliment. ‘Mrs. Walters has arranged it all for us. I shall have to see what I can discover.’

  ‘Three women and one man?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not ideal, but Mr. Dorsey has promised to give the opposing side a two-game head start in each set. Is Valencourt a dab at tennis, do you happen to know?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Simpson with a laugh. ‘So that’s your little theory, is it? Dorsey as the fugitive from justice? I suppose it’s always possible that Valencourt is now disguising himself as a respectable married man. Perhaps I shall come down and watch you this afternoon, in that case.’

  ‘Do,’ said Angela, ‘and you shall see exactly what happens when a middle-aged woman who is completely out of practice tries to remember how to return a back-hand. I only hope the hotel has plenty of spare balls.’

  He laughed and offered her his arm, and they strolled off amicably.

  EIGHTEEN

  After lunch, Mrs. Marchmont picked up her tennis racquet and set off to the hotel as agreed to meet the Dorseys, stopping to call for the Walters’ on the way. Somewhat to her surprise, only Mrs. Walters accompanied her, since Helen was feeling unwell and had asked to remain at home.

  ‘So inconvenient when I need her to hand,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘What if I am taken ill myself? Who is to look after me?’

  ‘Oh, but you have been so well lately,’ said Angela encouragingly. ‘You told me yourself that the sea air had made you feel much better. I am sure you won’t need any assistance.’

  ‘Let us hope not,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘I should be quite lost without my daughter, Mrs. Marchmont. She is all the world to me. Such a pity that you have no-one of your own to look after you when you reach the age of infirmity—although perhaps your god-daughter might be persuaded.’

  Angela suppressed a smile as she tried to imagine Barbara as the patient and constant companion of a demanding old woman.

  ‘I think that if it ever comes to that, I shall hire myself a nurse,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Barbara would take too kindly to the idea of spending half her life attending to the whims of a tiresome invalid. And I should certainly never ask it of her. What—demand that she give up her youth—all fun, and dancing, and laughter, and love—to attend to an old woman who can afford to pay for help? Why, I shouldn’t dream of it!’

  Mrs. Walters had no reply to make and Angela, who felt sorry for Helen, hoped the shot had gone home.

  They reached the hotel and found the Dorseys standing by the tennis court, talking to George Simpson.

  ‘My dears,’ exclaimed Mrs. Walters, ‘I’m afraid we are one short this afternoon. Helen finds herself very unwell today and unable to get up. She asks to be excused.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame, poor darling,’ said Harriet Dorsey in her usual uninterested tones.

  ‘It looks as though the doubles match is off, then,’ said Lionel Dorsey, ‘unless you’d both care to take me on at once.’

  Mrs. Walters had a better idea.

  ‘Do you play, Mr. Simpson?’ she said.

  Simpson looked surprised.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘When the occasion presents itself.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Lionel Dorsey.

  Simpson took little persuading and went off to change into his whites. He returned a few minutes later, and Angela was surprised at the transformation in him. She had not supposed him to be particularly athletic, but he looked completely at home in his tennis gear, displaying a suppleness and energy that she had not noticed in him before. He took a few practice swipes with his racquet and declared himself ready to be beaten, and they all went off to the court.

  Angela found herself paired with Lionel Dorsey and play began. As she had suspected, the Dorseys were excellent players and she had to concentrate very hard to keep up with their pace. The real revelation, however, was George Simpson, who astonished everyone with his prowess, serving ace after ace and returning volley after volley. He seemed to be everywhere at once, diving for shots that Harriet had missed and slamming the ball over the net faster than the eye could blink. The result was a foregone conclusion and the game was over in two sets.

  ‘You never said you could play tennis,’ said Lionel Dorsey accusingly, as he shook hands somewhat reluctantly with Simpson. ‘I believe you kept it quiet on purpose.’

  ‘I did play a little at Cambridge,’ admitted Simpson apologetically, ‘but it was a long time ago, and I don’t play anywhere near as much these days. I certainly didn’t mean to show off.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t showing off,’ said Mrs. Walters, who had been watching the play with interest, ‘but what a talent! Why, I have never
seen anything like it! You ought to play in competitions. Helen will be so sorry to have missed it.’

  They stopped for a rest, then resumed play. This time Simpson was paired with Angela, who felt herself to be the weakest player of them all and was glad of the support. Now the opposing sides were much more evenly matched—so much so that Angela began to suspect that Simpson was deliberately lowering his game, either in deference to her or in order to avoid irritating Lionel Dorsey, who had not taken kindly to being beaten by the older man and appeared to be harbouring a grudge. Angela concentrated on keeping her end up—not an easy task when playing against Harriet, who had a tricky left-handed serve—and was pleased when she managed to return several difficult shots and win two games in a row.

  ‘Good work!’ said Simpson admiringly. ‘That’ll settle them.’

  Despite his words, this time the match went to three sets and Angela and Simpson were just edged out by the Dorseys, thanks to a stunning back-hand shot from Harriet, which whizzed past them and ended the game.

  ‘What a beautiful shot, Harriet!’ cried Mrs. Walters from her seat. Harriet looked almost pleased for once, and shook hands good-naturedly with her opponents. Lionel was cock-a-hoop at having made up the lost ground, and was all for a best-of-three, but the ladies demurred, so they all went and had cold drinks on the hotel terrace, complimenting each other on their play. Mrs. Walters was particularly fulsome in her praise, although it was clear from her remarks that she knew little of the game. It was evident to all, however, which of them was the best player. Mr. Simpson disclaimed all extraordinary compliments and insisted that his partners had done at least as much work. Angela was by now pretty certain that he had thrown the last match, but said nothing. She wanted to remain on good terms with the Dorseys, as she was anxious to find out more about them.

  ‘You shall all have to play again very soon,’ said Mrs. Walters, ‘and next time perhaps Helen will be well enough to join in.’

  Harriet Dorsey had relapsed into her usual indifference and merely nodded as she leaned forward to allow her husband to light a cigarette for her. She drew in a mouthful of smoke and Angela noticed that she held the cigarette in her left hand, between fingertips that ended in red-painted nails.