The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  ‘I do not believe so,’ he said, giving her an odd sort of look. He patted her on the shoulder. ‘This is not the right moment, or I should explain it to you, but remember what I said: do not intrude yourself into things that do not concern you.’

  ‘But it does concern me,’ said Barbara. ‘I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.’

  ‘Be careful,’ was all he said, and hurried away.

  She stared after him in puzzlement. She was still convinced that she had discovered Valencourt’s identity, but for a notorious thief his manner was odd. Indeed, he seemed almost solicitous for her safety. Presumably he saw her as a distraction and wanted to get rid of her, and the easiest way to do that was to pretend to be concerned about her. She stood there for a second, chewing a finger-nail. She hated to admit it, but Donati had planted a seed of doubt in her mind as to whether she was doing the right thing. Perhaps he was right: perhaps she should not interfere. After all, what could she do? Then she thought of poor Miss Trout, with no-one to help her while her very family plotted against her, and set off resolutely towards the flat-topped rock that concealed the entrance to the tunnel.

  She had intended to start off immediately, but her rumbling stomach forestalled her and she thought longingly of her picnic lunch. The tide was still very low, so she judged that she had plenty of time to eat—and besides, it wouldn’t do to attempt serious work on an empty stomach. She climbed up onto the flat rock, and sat there munching her sandwiches and thinking hard. It had suddenly occurred to her that she did not have a plan. It was all very well rushing off to spy on Clifford and his cronies, but how exactly was she going to do it? It was going to be difficult to creep about the house without being spotted. Barbara thought about it all the way through lunch without reaching a conclusion, but finally decided that the best thing would be to see how the land lay when she got there. Perhaps she could find a suitable hiding-place that would allow her to keep an eye on what was happening in the house.

  She finished her picnic and packed up her things, then climbed down from the rock and put on her shoes. The opening was there just as she remembered it, and she ducked under the low arch and ran to the back of the cave. Switching on her torch, she took a deep breath and entered the tunnel, touching one hand against the wall as she walked, as though for reassurance. It seemed to take an age before she reached the barrel-chamber—much longer than she remembered, but at last she felt a cool draught of air and began to distinguish shapes in the darkness, which told her that she had arrived. She did not stop, but hurried on to the next section of the tunnel, where the path became much steeper. She toiled upwards, passing the fork in the passage where it branched off, and finally came to the end of the tunnel and the iron rungs that led up to the trap-door into the cellar.

  Barbara threw her knapsack over her shoulders, tucked her torch into her sleeve and scrambled up the ladder. To her relief, the trap-door was still unbolted; it was clear that nobody came down into the cellar very often, otherwise someone would surely have spotted that it had been left open by now. This time she succeeded in opening it quietly, and she climbed out through the hole, taking good care to make no noise.

  She closed the trap-door again, then went into the next cellar-room and across to the stairs. At the top she placed her ear against the door and paused to listen. There was no sound, so she pulled out her hair-pin and set to work at the keyhole. After a few minutes the key gave in to her ministrations and clinked to the floor, allowing Barbara to slide her hand under the door and pull it towards her.

  Emerging into the deserted hall with great caution, she stopped and tried to decide what to do next. She could hear nothing to indicate that Miss Trout or her nephew were at home. Perhaps they had gone out for a walk. They were bound to return soon, however. She decided that the best plan was to hide herself somewhere in the hall itself, from where she could see them when they came back, and watch all the comings and goings in the house during the day. Then, when night fell and everyone was in bed—or supposed to be, at least—she would be free to roam the house at will. But where to hide? Barbara looked about, and her gaze immediately fell on the only thing that could possibly provide a suitable hiding-place: a large and ornate cupboard in dark, carved oak, which stood against the wall between the doors to the drawing-room and the dining-room. She darted across to it and pulled it open. As she had expected, it was full of coats and boots, but she judged that there was just enough room in it for her too, if she made herself as small as possible.

  Moving an umbrella out of the way, she wriggled herself in carefully and pulled the door to, leaving it open just a crack so she could see out into the hall. Then she settled down to wait. After a few minutes, she decided to sit down—after all, she might be here for hours and she did not relish the thought of standing for all that time. There was an old cushion squashed under a pile of shoes, and she edged it out as quietly as possible and sat down on it. Leaning back against an old Burberry, she yawned. It was warm and cosy in the cupboard and she was feeling drowsy after her picnic lunch—no wonder, she thought, after having spent half the night chasing the Dorseys. Being a detective was tiring work, she was discovering.

  ‘I mustn’t fall asleep,’ she thought, and promptly did so.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mr. Simpson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Clifford Maynard?’ he said sceptically.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think he fits the part much better?’ said Angela. ‘I should say he was cleverer than Dorsey, and he used to be an actor—as a matter of fact, Barbara and I have seen him at work.’

  She explained their theory that Clifford had invented the story of the nocturnal assault. Simpson was surprised, and stroked his chin as he considered this new information.

  ‘Yes, that sort of play-acting certainly seems more in keeping with Valencourt’s character,’ he said, ‘if indeed he was play-acting. I take it you have no proof?’

  ‘No, only a strong suspicion. But my hunch is that if we were to look through his things, we should find a case full of actors’ make-up.’

  ‘But what about Miss Trout? If what you say is true, then she must be shielding her nephew from the law.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Angela, ‘but can we be entirely certain he is her nephew? When we first met them, Miss Trout told us that she had not seen Clifford since he was a child, and that he had turned up at her door unexpectedly only a month or two ago. But people change beyond all recognition over the years. How can Miss Trout be so sure that he is who he says he is? What if, in fact, the person who arrived at Poldarrow Point claiming to be her nephew is not Clifford at all, but Edgar Valencourt? Think about it,’ she said, warming to her theme. ‘It would be the perfect way for a thief with designs on the family treasure to get close to it. By staying with Miss Trout in the guise of her nephew, he can search the house with his accomplices every night while she is asleep, and then disappear with it as soon as it is found. If Miss Trout raises a hue and cry, the police will hunt down the real Clifford Maynard, who of course will easily be able to prove that he has been nowhere near Poldarrow Point, and then the game will be up—but by that time, of course, Valencourt and the Dorseys will be long gone.’

  Simpson nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that certainly sounds more like Valencourt’s method of working. There is something in what you say, Mrs. Marchmont. I shall have to look carefully into Maynard’s story—and that of the Dorseys, too.’ He took a notebook and pencil from his pocket and scribbled something down. ‘I shall telephone the Yard as soon as we get back and put some men onto the case. If they can find the real Clifford Maynard, then there is nothing to prevent me from arresting the fake one on suspicion of being Edgar Valencourt.’

  ‘Poor Miss Trout,’ said Angela. ‘She will be most shocked if it turns out that her nephew is an impostor. However, better uncover the secret now than let it continue until Valencourt finds the necklace and spirits it away.’ A thought struck her. ‘That still doesn’t solve the proble
m of the lease, however,’ she said.

  ‘Does Miss Trout plan to sell the necklace if it is found, in order to buy back the freehold of the house?’ said Simpson.

  ‘I think so,’ said Angela, ‘although even then it may be too late. I don’t know how long these things take, but I imagine a few weeks at least. Perhaps the re-appearance of the necklace will grant her a stay of execution, however—always assuming that the owner of the freehold is willing to sell it back to her.’

  ‘A lot seems to depend on the recovery of this diamond necklace,’ observed Simpson.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? And yet we still can’t be sure that the thing even exists. The only evidence for it was written on a page which has been torn out of an old book—’ she stopped suddenly, and he looked up.

  ‘Do you think the missing page may contain a clue as to where it is hidden?’ he asked.

  ‘Why was the page torn out?’ said Angela suddenly. ‘It was done recently. Who did it, and why?’

  ‘I suppose whoever took it wanted to study it for clues as to the hiding-place,’ said Simpson. ‘Or perhaps they wanted to make sure nobody else could find it. Presumably at the very least the page contains confirmation that the necklace is actually in the house.’

  Angela stared at him, as though turning over a new idea in her head.

  ‘Now that is very interesting,’ she said.

  ‘What is very interesting?’

  Angela seemed not to hear. She had turned her head and was gazing, unseeing, out to sea. After a minute she came to, looked about her, and said:

  ‘We had better think about getting back. Shall we clear all these things up?’

  They returned to the boat, Simpson carrying the picnic-basket, which was now much lighter than it had been on the journey out. Gibbs nodded a greeting as they stepped back on board.

  ‘Where now?’ he said.

  ‘Back to Tregarrion,’ said Simpson.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Gibbs. He fired up the engine and guided the Miss Louise carefully out through the mouth of the inlet and into the open sea. A stiff breeze had got up and the water was much choppier now.

  ‘May we have the sail up?’ said Angela, then turned and saw that Bill had got there before her and was already hauling on the ropes.

  ‘Don’t want to waste a good wind like this one,’ said Gibbs, taking out his pipe and settling down to enjoy himself.

  The sail flapped like a gigantic sea-bird as it went up, then billowed out and drove the boat onward at a rapid pace. This time they headed farther out to sea, and Angela had to remove her hat again—this time to stop it blowing off altogether. The wind plucked at her clothes and whipped her hair about, and she felt altogether exhilarated. The noise was too loud to allow much conversation, and so very little was said until they had passed the Poldarrow headland far away on their left and the Miss Louise finally turned and made for land. As they came into the shelter of the bay, the wind dropped and Bill lowered the sail again, and they chugged gently towards the harbour.

  They drew up by the pier and disembarked, then took their leave of Mr. Gibbs and Bill with many thanks and salutations. Mr. Simpson walked with Angela back to Kittiwake Cottage.

  ‘Thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon,’ said Angela. ‘I shall now go and see to my hair—although I fear that it may be beyond the capabilities of my hair-brush.’

  Simpson laughed.

  ‘Your hair looks perfectly neat,’ he said. ‘I shan’t say anything more, as I see you are not the sort of woman who welcomes compliments.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Angela, ‘better not. Are you going to telephone Scotland Yard now?’

  ‘Yes—the sooner my men establish whether or not the Clifford Maynard we know is really Miss Trout’s nephew, the better, I think.’

  ‘And will you tell me the result of your investigations?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and went off.

  Barbara was not there when she entered the house, and Angela had given Marthe the afternoon off, so the place was quite deserted. Angela had just regretfully decided that it was too early for a cocktail, and was hunting around for her book, when there was a knock at the door. Supposing it to be Barbara, she went to answer it, and found, to her surprise, Harriet Dorsey standing there.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Mrs. Dorsey, and smiled as an afterthought. ‘I wonder if I might come in?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Angela, with great politeness. She stepped back to allow Harriet to enter and conducted her into the sitting-room. Harriet looked about her, selected the most comfortable chair and sat down.

  ‘Lionel knows I’m here,’ she said abruptly. ‘In fact, it was his idea.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angela, not seeing at all.

  Harriet seemed in no hurry to come to the point.

  ‘This is a pretty cottage,’ she said. ‘I suppose she found it for you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, whom do you mean?’

  ‘Why, Miss Trout, of course.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela, who was becoming more and more puzzled. ‘I rented it from a lady in London.’

  Harriet looked surprised.

  ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘I thought she must have arranged everything.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Angela. ‘I had never met Miss Trout before I came to Tregarrion.’

  Harriet grimaced and shrugged.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it, it’s no skin off my nose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No matter,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve come to make you a proposition.’

  ‘A proposition?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ she said again. She fell silent, and Angela wondered if she would ever come to the point.

  ‘What is this proposition?’ she prompted.

  ‘You’ve been searching for something at Poldarrow Point,’ said Harriet all at once. ‘We know you have, and we know what it is. Well, we’ve been searching for the same thing. We’ve been searching since before you arrived and we haven’t found it either. The old man doesn’t know anything, so it’s a question of taking the place apart ourselves until we find it.’

  It was useless to pretend she did not know what the other woman was talking about, so Angela saved her breath.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ she said.

  Harriet examined her finger-nails.

  ‘It’s rather difficult for us to search the house at night,’ she said. ‘We really need to do it in the daytime, so we can move the furniture.’

  ‘I see your problem,’ said Angela.

  ‘What share did the Trout offer you in return for finding the thing?’ said Harriet suddenly.

  At last, Angela understood. She hesitated, then glanced shrewdly at her visitor.

  ‘Why, what share did you have in mind?’ she said.

  ‘We can offer you ten per cent,’ said Harriet.

  Angela pretended to reflect.

  ‘That’s quite a large share,’ she said, ‘but it’s not quite as much as I was hoping for.’ She paused delicately.

  ‘I told Lionel you’d want more,’ said Harriet, nodding. ‘So it’s no go, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Angela. ‘I shall have to think about it for a while.’

  Harriet rose.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it. But don’t think for too long. They’ve got to leave the house soon, and then nobody will get it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Angela. She escorted Harriet to the door and opened it. ‘I shall let you know my decision very soon—but in the meantime, I suggest you have a word with your husband and ask him to raise his offer. I have expenses to meet.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Harriet, gazing at Angela’s expensively-tailored sailing outfit with what might have been envy. She left the house without another word.

  Angela shut the door and stood with her back to it, as though to block anyone from entering, then let out a deep breath.
>
  ‘Well!’ she said to herself. ‘There’s a turn-up!’

  So the Dorseys thought that Miss Trout had paid her to find the necklace, did they? They actually believed that Miss Trout had brought her down from London and had installed her in Kittiwake Cottage for that especial purpose. And now it appeared they wanted to bribe Angela to find it and pass it to them secretly! It was almost beyond belief. Was Clifford Maynard aware of this? Harriet had said something about the old man knowing nothing—was she referring to Maynard? How extraordinary it would be if Clifford were plotting to steal the necklace from his aunt and the Dorseys were plotting to steal it from Clifford!

  Angela’s first instinct was to report the latest development to Mr. Simpson, but there was no telephone at the cottage, so she would have to walk to the hotel if she wanted to speak to him. On second thoughts, she decided to leave it until the next day: he had said he was going to be busy speaking to Scotland Yard that evening, and it was hardly an urgent matter. It might just as well wait until tomorrow. Besides, she did not want it to look as though she were perpetually seeking him out. She would tell him tomorrow, and ask what she ought to do: after all, she had as good as told Harriet that she was willing to be bribed, but she could not string the Dorseys along forever with a promise.

  Half an hour later, Angela heard Marthe return from her afternoon off.

  ‘Ah, vous êtes de retour, madame,’ said the maid. ‘Did you have a nice picnic with your smart friend?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Marthe, it was very pleasant.’ said Angela.

  ‘He is elegant, that one,’ said Marthe. ‘Très charmant. He speaks beautiful French to me, which most Englishmen are too stupid to do. Have you just returned now?’

  ‘No, I came back about an hour ago,’ replied Angela, and shortly afterwards had a visit from an acquaintance which has left me feeling rather grubby.’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Angela, ‘but you might run me a bath. Perhaps that will help.’

  Luxuriating in the warm water, she reflected on recent events. It had certainly been a day of surprises, starting with Barbara’s account of her nocturnal adventures and ending with the most astonishing visit from Harriet Dorsey. Although she could not explain why, Angela had begun to get the feeling that she held the key to the mystery in her hands, and that if only she could catch a glimpse of the whole thing from the right angle, then all would become clear. Little snatches of conversation kept drifting into her head and whirling around, seemingly at random, mingling with her own thoughts in an increasingly frantic dance. She lay back and tried to let her mind do its own work without conscious interference, for experience had taught her that if she tried to grasp her ideas too firmly they would disappear as quickly as they had come.