by Clara Benson
Barbara suddenly wondered where Clifford was. She had been so absorbed in watching the Dorseys that she had quite forgotten him, and she craned her neck, thinking that perhaps he was rooting about in some invisible corner. But no sooner had she noted that he was nowhere to be seen than she was given almost the fright of her life and very nearly shrieked when the light of a torch flashed not two feet from her, and Mr. Maynard’s voice called out peremptorily, ‘Who goes there?’
Thankful for the presence of the rose-bush, which formed a screen between her and Clifford, she shrank back as quietly as she could into the dark shadows and against the house wall, hoping that he would go away. He must have seen her face after all, when he flashed the torch past the window, but it sounded as though he had not recognized her. That was something, at least. She crouched, quiet as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe, while he moved the torch slowly over the rose-bush. To her relief, the beam of light passed by without falling on her and Clifford moved away slowly. Just at that moment Barbara, to her dismay, felt a sneeze begin to threaten. She pinched her treacherous nose and blew out her cheeks, shook her head and nodded violently—anything to stave it off—but it was no good: the sneeze would out, by hook or by crook. In a last attempt to keep it quiet, at least, Barbara jammed her fist into her mouth and two fingers up her nose just as the explosion happened.
‘Ah—choo!’ went the sneeze. Even muffled, it was a fine, loud one. Barbara cringed, eyes watering, as the sound of retreating footsteps came to a sudden halt and the beam of the torch was directed immediately back towards the bush. There was a second of silence, then the footsteps began to move back towards her. Any moment now, she would be discovered. What would Clifford do to her? Would he kill her, to silence her? Or would he let her live but keep her prisoner in an attic and torture her cruelly to find out what she knew?
She was on the point of jumping out of her hiding-place and throwing herself on his mercy with some hastily-concocted story, when Clifford faltered and suddenly swung his torch away from the rose-bush. He retreated a little farther into the garden.
‘Who goes there?’ he said again. Barbara could not bear the suspense. She risked a peek and saw that he seemed to be listening for something. Just then, she heard it herself: a stealthy rustling somewhere nearby. It sounded like an animal of some kind—a fox, perhaps, or a cat. Evidently, Clifford was thinking the same thing, for after listening for a little while he made a disgusted noise and said, ‘Stupid thing,’ and kicked at a nearby shrub. He then returned the way he had come. Barbara suspected that his courage was not especially high, out there in the dark, shadowy garden, and that it was diminishing rapidly the longer he stayed out. She waited until he had disappeared from sight, and was just about to allow herself a sigh of relief when she heard another sound. Her head whipped round, and to her astonishment she saw that a nearby rhododendron appeared to be coming to life. She stared, open-mouthed, as a man extricated himself carefully from the middle of the bush and tiptoed away into the night. She had no difficulty in recognizing who it was: there was no mistaking Mr. Donati’s moustache and quaint clothing.
With no room in her head to wonder about this latest oddity, Barbara emerged from behind her rose-bush and, keeping low, scurried as fast as she could around the side of the house and out through the front gate. From there she ran as fast as she could until she had put a safe distance between herself and Poldarrow Point. She reached Kittiwake Cottage without further incident and let herself in quietly. Marthe was still sleeping soundly when she crept into their room, and Barbara did no more than remove her shoes and frock before falling into bed and into a deep sleep.
TWENTY-TWO
‘But what on earth were you doing creeping around the garden in the middle of the night?’ said Angela, her cup of tea suspended halfway to her lips.
‘Well, someone had to keep an eye on the Dorseys, and you hardly seemed eager to do the hard work,’ said Barbara scathingly, in between mouthfuls of porridge.
‘There are other ways of getting things done than scurrying about, hiding behind rose-bushes, you know,’ said Angela. ‘Besides, I never promised to chase criminals—I merely said I would keep my ear to the ground and pass on any information I received that would allow others to do the chasing.’
‘It’s a good thing you have me, then,’ said Barbara. ‘Otherwise we might never have found out about Mr. Maynard.’
She pushed away her empty dish and yawned. She would have preferred to stay in bed, but her adventures of the night before were too good to keep to herself, and Angela’s astonishment when she told of her midnight quest had been quite as great as she had hoped.
‘Yes, Mr. Maynard,’ said Angela thoughtfully.
‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ said Barbara.
‘No,’ replied Angela, ‘I’m not. Somehow I was never particularly convinced by his devoted nephew act. It seemed a little overdone. After all, Miss Trout said she had not seen him since he was a child. Why, then, should he come all the way down here from London, to dedicate himself to an aunt whom he barely knew? At first I wondered whether he had an eye out for a future inheritance, but of course Miss Trout has no money. However, a priceless necklace would certainly be a fine return on the small investment of time and effort required to ingratiate himself with his aunt.’
‘He’s a beastly rotter,’ said Barbara, ‘but if he is really looking for the treasure with the Dorseys, then who attacked him? Not Lionel Dorsey, surely. Otherwise they would not be on speaking terms now.’
‘I wonder now whether Mr. Dorsey mightn’t have been right when he said that Clifford did it himself,’ said Angela. ‘Perhaps he thought his aunt was getting suspicious of his motives, and decided to do something to throw her off the scent.’
‘What, you mean he punched himself in the face?’ said Barbara disbelievingly.
‘No,’ said Angela, ‘but don’t you remember what he told us? He was an actor in London before he came down to Cornwall. He could easily have made himself up to look as though he had been assaulted.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Barbara. ‘I’d quite forgotten that. That would explain why he didn’t want to see a doctor.’
‘Yes, a doctor would spot immediately that the injuries were faked. And he wouldn’t be too keen to bring in the police, either. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, given what he was planning.’ Angela suddenly remembered something. ‘He tried to throw me off the scent too, the other day.’
‘Did he? How?’
‘He tried to convince me that Miss Trout had written the anonymous letters herself.’
‘Why on earth should she do that?’
‘He implied—or rather, he said outright that she was old and losing her mind.’
Barbara snorted impressively.
‘Ridiculous!’ she said. ‘Why, Miss Trout is as sharp as you or I—and I’d bet half a crown that she’s sharper than Clifford.’
‘It wasn’t a particularly convincing story,’ agreed Angela. ‘He said she had told him that the Warreners were descended from royalty, and then later denied having said any such thing. And there were other little incidents too, he said. But I agree with you—I have never seen any sign that Miss Trout is failing in her mind at all.’
‘Of course she isn’t. Why do you think he wanted to make you believe she was?’
‘Do you remember when we first heard about the letters? Maynard seemed dismayed that Miss Trout had decided to tell us about them—which, if the Dorseys wrote them, is entirely understandable. He certainly wouldn’t want strangers knowing of his friends’ attempts to frighten his aunt out of her house.’
Barbara laughed.
‘He must have been pretty sick that you of all people were one of the strangers in question,’ she said. ‘His nice little plot to drive her out of the house, ruined at a stroke by a famous detective!’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that,’ said Angela. ‘You know I’m not a real detective, don’t you?
’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t!’ said Barbara triumphantly. ‘And what does it matter? Your presence was still enough to put the wind up him. No wonder he wanted to convince you that the letters were all a mare’s nest. He could have invented a better story, though.’
‘Perhaps it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment,’ said Angela.
‘So,’ said Barbara, who liked to get things straight, ‘Let’s see. This is what must have happened: Clifford Maynard is living in London, in need of money, when he hears that the lease on Poldarrow Point is about to expire and his aunt is going to be thrown out of her house. He knows the family legend about the Queen’s necklace, and decides that it’s now or never: he’s going to find the thing, steal it from under his aunt’s nose, then sell it and keep the proceeds for himself. So he goes down to Cornwall and butters her up until she asks him to stay. That gives him plenty of opportunity to search for the necklace when she’s asleep in bed.’ She stopped, thinking. ‘Why did he ask the Dorseys to help him, though? He’d be far better off doing it himself and keeping the money. Now he’ll have to split it.’
‘Perhaps they are going to sell it for him,’ said Angela. ‘After all, it can’t be that easy to get rid of a treasure like that. You can’t just go into a jeweller’s and offer to sell them a famous necklace that was made for a Queen and caused a national scandal. Questions are bound to be asked.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Lionel Dorsey said his business was imports and exports,’ she said. ‘I wonder if he deals with antiques and suchlike. Perhaps he runs a legitimate business but is not above engaging in illicit activities now and again if he thinks it is worth his while. It would be easy for him to smuggle the necklace abroad with a shipment of other goods. He most likely has accomplices on the Continent who can get rid of anything “hot” for him privately.’
‘Do you think he’s a fence, then?’ said Barbara. ‘I thought he was supposed to be the notorious villain Edgar Valencourt, famous all over Europe for his exploits, not just some common little man who sells stolen goods.’
‘Yes, the two things don’t quite square with each other, do they?’ said Angela, frowning.
‘So,’ went on Barbara, ‘the Dorseys join in the search, but they quickly get tired of having to do it at night, so Harriet has the bright idea of sending Miss Trout some threatening letters, in the hope that she will leave the house in a fright and let them search whenever they like. Of course, nobody with half a brain could possibly be frightened by such a feeble attempt, so Harriet tries the trick on you instead.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela dryly.
‘I can see why they wanted to get rid of you. The three of them must have been awfully miffed when we stuck our noses in and offered to help find the treasure for Miss Trout,’ said Barbara.
‘When you offered,’ corrected Angela. ‘I seem to remember I was given no choice in the matter.’
‘Treasure-hunting is jolly good fun,’ said Barbara. ‘You ought to be grateful to have been given the chance. Why, just think, if it weren’t for me, you would have spent your holiday lounging in a deck-chair and dozing half the day.’
‘Yes,’ said Angela sadly.
‘There! You see, I have saved you from unspeakable dullness,’ said Barbara. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes—they continue hunting without success, but now they have competition, so they have to search all the harder. That’s what they were doing last night. I don’t know why they were looking in the study, though, when we’ve already searched that.’
‘Perhaps they thought there was something we had missed,’ suggested Angela.
‘But why were they searching through Jeremiah Trout’s things? They could hardly expect the necklace to be in among his old bills and cheque-books.’
‘I suppose not. Perhaps they were just being thorough.’
‘I wonder if they’ve searched the top floor yet,’ said Barbara. ‘It must be difficult to search properly at night without waking Miss Trout—they made a dreadful racket just by moving a bookshelf a couple of inches.’
‘I begin to wonder if there is anything to be found at all,’ said Angela.
‘Oh, but there must be!’ said Barbara. ‘Why else do half the people in Tregarrion seem to be interested in Poldarrow Point?’
‘That is a very good question,’ said Angela. ‘The place certainly does seem to hold a queer fascination for a number of people. I wonder what Mr. Donati was doing there.’
‘I don’t know, but it can’t have been anything above-board, or he wouldn’t have been hiding in the rhododendrons. I wonder if he’s got wind of the treasure too. We shall have to watch him.’
‘We seem to have a lot of people to watch,’ said Angela. ‘Are we the only people in Cornwall who are not out to steal this necklace, do you suppose?’
Barbara stood up.
‘Where’s my hat?’ she said.
‘Are you going out?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Barbara. ‘And you are too. We are going to Poldarrow Point to tell Miss Trout what Clifford has been up to.’
Angela shook her head.
‘We had better not do that just yet,’ she said.
‘But of course we must!’ said Barbara. ‘We can’t let her go on trusting him when all the while he is intending to double-cross her and run off with her money.’
‘What money? The treasure has not been found yet.’
‘But they could find it at any moment,’ said Barbara. ‘We must do something, and fast.’
‘Yes, I agree we must do something,’ said Angela, ‘but if we tell Miss Trout now we may ruin everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, if she knows that her nephew is trying to cheat her, she will no doubt confront him with the fact, and that will give him—and the Dorseys—a chance to escape.’
‘But the police can catch them later. The important thing is that the necklace will be safe.’
‘I don’t believe Scotland Yard would agree,’ said Angela. ‘They have been hunting for Edgar Valencourt for a long time now, and I don’t think they would look upon us at all kindly if we were to let him slip through their grasp by giving him an early warning that we are on to him.’
‘But what do you propose to do? How can we protect Miss Trout?’ Barbara was becoming increasingly indignant.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Angela, ‘we shall tell her very soon, but first of all we must tell Mr. Simpson about all this. He is in charge of the investigation into Valencourt and he will need to know what has been going on. He can then decide on the best thing to do.’
‘But what if Mr. Maynard decides to put his aunt out of the way once and for all?’
‘I don’t really think Miss Trout is in any danger from Clifford. I am sure that he is more interested in making some easy pickings than in committing violence.’
‘But—’
‘And anyway,’ went on Angela, ‘before we start throwing accusations at people, we have to make certain that we will be believed. What do you think Miss Trout would say if we marched up there now and told her that her nephew was planning to cheat her?’
‘Why, I—’ Barbara hesitated.
‘Exactly,’ said Angela. ‘She would just laugh at us, and thus all we would achieve by the exercise would be to warn Clifford of our suspicions while leaving Miss Trout none the wiser.’
‘But how can we convince her?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Angela. ‘It may be that the only thing to do is to catch him in the act. Perhaps Mr. Simpson will be able to think of a plan.’
‘Then you must tell him about it immediately—today.’
‘That is what I intend to do,’ said Angela.
‘Are you going to see him at the hotel?’
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘He is taking me out for a picnic.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ said Mrs. Marchmont, regarding the Miss Louise doubtfully as it bobbed up and down in the water several f
eet below. The battered old fishing lugger had peeling paint and several visible repairs, and looked as though its better days were far behind it.
‘’Course she’s safe,’ said Mr. Gibbs from the stern of the boat. ‘She’s been out every day of her life ’cepting Sundays since eighteen eighty-seven. Forty years of rough winters she’s lived through. Isn’t that right, Bill?’
His son, a hardy-looking lad of fifteen, nodded in agreement.
‘That is what concerns me,’ said Angela. ‘This boat is older than I am.’
‘And she’ll live through forty more,’ went on Gibbs, ‘as long as she’s treated right. Anyway, you can swim, can’t you?’
Angela ignored this last remark.
‘But you said you didn’t go out on Sundays,’ she said.
‘Not for the fish, I don’t,’ said Gibbs. ‘The fish’ll still be there tomorrow. But for a nice lady and gentleman what takes a fancy to going on a picnic—well, I was young myself, once. The sunshine might be gone by Tuesday and then what will you do?’
‘Mr. Gibbs comes highly recommended,’ said Simpson, who was down in the boat, having stowed the picnic-basket, and was now examining the engine in the typical manner of the male of the species. ‘The head waiter at the hotel sang his praises in the most effusive terms.’
‘I dare say he did, but I must confess I had been thinking on the lines of a pleasure-cruiser, rather than a Cornish lugger,’ said Angela.
Simpson assumed an expression of mock horror.
‘A pleasure-cruiser? What, mingle with a hundred screeching and perspiring day-visitors, all fighting for the best seats and dropping their sandwiches everywhere, when we can have this quaint and traditional old fishing-craft to ourselves and enjoy the sea breeze in our faces in peace?’
‘Nothing like it,’ agreed Gibbs.
‘Very well, I shall take you on trust, Mr. Gibbs,’ said Angela, ‘but if you wish for a tip, you had better get us back alive. And preferably dry,’ she added as an afterthought.
Gibbs grinned and watched as she climbed nimbly down the iron rungs that were set into the pier. Simpson held out a hand and she jumped lightly into the boat.