The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

by Clara Benson

  ‘Here? Or here?’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Barbara.

  ‘If you mean here, then thirty years or more. But if you mean here, then far too long. What month are we in now?’

  ‘July,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Months and months,’ said the old man sadly. ‘They told everyone I was dead, you see. I might as well be, too. Why, look at the state they’ve let my garden get into! Fair breaks my heart to see it.’

  Barbara came to a sudden realization.

  ‘You’re Jeremiah Trout!’ she said in surprise.

  ‘That’s what they called me here,’ said Jeremiah, nodding. ‘I was happy, you know—happy, with my house and my garden. I came here and it was such a lovely spot I decided to retire. But then they found me and wanted to take what was not theirs.’ He lapsed into silence, then looked up and said, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Barbara Wells,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m here on holiday. I’m staying at Kittiwake Cottage. Do you know it?’

  ‘Kittiwake Cottage,’ said Jeremiah. ‘There was a place I used to know in Cornwall called Kittiwake Cottage. Down Tregarrion way. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara patiently. ‘I’m staying there with my godmother, Angela Marchmont. She’s a famous detective.’

  ‘A famous detective, eh? Half my life I’ve spent running away from detectives. The stories I could tell!’ His face grew cunning. ‘There’s one thing they’d all be glad to find, but they never will. I shan’t let them.’

  ‘But if it could be found, you could sell it and stay in the house forever,’ said Barbara. ‘The lease is going to run out on Poldarrow Point in a few days, and then you will have to leave.’

  ‘The lease?’ said Jeremiah. A light slowly dawned on his face. ‘I remember them telling me something about a lease. A long time ago, wasn’t it? Thirty years or more I’ve been here, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but you won’t be here for much longer unless that necklace can be found.’

  ‘But then they’ll take it and I shall have nothing,’ he said forlornly.

  ‘I know,’ said Barbara. ‘Clifford and his pals have been searching for it every night. They want to steal it from you and your sister.’

  ‘My sister? Who’s that?’

  ‘Miss Trout, of course—Emily.’

  The old man gave a great shout of laughter.

  ‘Emily! Emily!’ he said. ‘That’s a good one, that is.’

  Barbara sighed inwardly. Talking to Jeremiah Trout was a laborious business.

  ‘But Angela and I have been searching for it too,’ she said. ‘We have looked everywhere in the house, I should imagine. I have started to think that it’s not here at all.’

  She looked at him sideways, and he nodded.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Then where is it?’

  ‘Rosie’s got it,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but who is Rosie?’

  He gazed at her blankly, then waved a hand expansively.

  ‘It’s a nice place this, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Thirty years or more I’ve been here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara. ‘So I understand.’

  She stood up and paced around the room. So Jeremiah Trout was alive after all! Alive, and being held prisoner here in his own house until he agreed to reveal where the necklace was hidden. He must have found it years ago, and hidden it somewhere safe. But why hadn’t he sold it immediately? Had he done so, he might have lived here in comfort for the rest of his days, and should have been in no danger from his designing nephew. She stopped, marvelling at Clifford’s cunning. He had somehow managed to keep Jeremiah hidden from Miss Trout for months. Poor thing—she thought he was dead. What a cruel trick to play on a defenceless old woman! And Jeremiah—words failed her when she thought of the evil that could lead a man to hold his senile old uncle captive for months on end. She remembered the banging noise she had heard once or twice at the house. Clifford had said it was a loose shutter, but of course it must have been Jeremiah, trying to attract attention.

  There was only one thing for it: she would have to find a way to rescue the old man from his captivity, and soon. Her mind ran through the various possibilities. She had no concerns about her own escape—why, that ought to be easy enough. All she had to do was to put into effect her earlier plan to wait in the other room until Clifford arrived with food, and then slip quietly up the stairs and out of the house while he was engaged with Jeremiah. But that wouldn’t work for both of them—Clifford would immediately realize the bedroom was empty and come after them.

  ‘Mr. Trout,’ she said suddenly. ‘How did you escape from this room today? Clifford found you wandering about upstairs. How did you get out?’

  Jeremiah looked sullen.

  ‘Sometimes he forgets to lock the door, so I go for a walk. Not very often, though. He won’t do it again today.’

  Barbara had feared as much. She pondered awhile. Perhaps it would be better to make her own escape then come back with reinforcements to rescue Jeremiah. Yes, that was probably the best plan.

  She slipped out of the room and crouched down behind the armchair in the tiny ante-chamber to await Clifford’s arrival. Jeremiah had lost interest in her and was staring out of the window at his garden. He seemed to have forgotten her entirely, and did not even look up when she went out.

  An hour went by, then another. Barbara yawned and shifted uncomfortably. She was getting awfully stiff. Surely someone must bring food soon?

  Just then, Jeremiah came in and went out through the other door. She heard him plodding stiffly up the stairs. What was he doing? Was he trying to make another escape? She listened, and heard him descending the stairs again. There was a clatter of cups and plates, and to Barbara’s dismay, he appeared carrying a tray of food and drink. Somebody must have left it at the top of the stairs earlier without coming down. Jeremiah went back into his bedroom and Barbara stood up in annoyance. Was this the usual way of things? Did they leave his food at the top of the stairs every day? Barbara’s mouth fell open as she realized that, if that were the case, then she could be here for days before she managed to escape. She ran up the stairs and tried the door. It was locked. Clifford had been and gone and she had missed her opportunity.

  Her stomach rumbled. It was long past her dinner-time, and she briefly toyed with the idea of begging some of Jeremiah’s food off him, but decided against it. She was sure he would not refuse her another piece of fruit, however. She wandered back into the bedroom and found the old man eating from his knife with great relish.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I say, would you mind awfully if I took another apple?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and went on with his meal.

  Barbara ate the apple. It did little to fill the hole in her stomach and she looked enviously at the food on Jeremiah’s tray.

  ‘I came here to rescue you, you know,’ she said. ‘I thought you might like to get out of the house.’

  ‘So I should,’ said Jeremiah. ‘The garden needs seeing to.’

  ‘But the only way out is up those stairs,’ she went on, ‘and the door at the top is locked. How often does Clifford come here?’

  ‘Clifford?’ said Jeremiah. ‘Why, I haven’t seen him for weeks. He’s left me all alone.’

  ‘No he hasn’t,’ said Barbara. ‘You saw him a couple of hours ago. Does he come here every day? Or does he always leave the food at the top of the stairs?’

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him for weeks,’ repeated the old man.

  There was no getting any sense out of him, so Barbara gave it up. She went over to the bookshelf, picked up a book and began flicking through it.

  ‘Anyway, you’re wrong—it’s not the only way out,’ said Jeremiah, behind her.

  Barbara whirled round.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s another door, i
sn’t there?’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll show you when I’ve finished,’ he said.

  She waited with barely-concealed impatience until he had dined to his satisfaction.

  ‘Here,’ he said. He rose with difficulty and led her through to the dim ante-chamber next door. ‘Can’t see a thing in here,’ he said.

  Barbara rummaged in her knapsack.

  ‘I’ve got a torch,’ she said. She switched it on and a beam of light illuminated the panelled walls. She moved the torch around, looking for signs of a door.

  ‘Keep that thing still, can’t you?’ said Jeremiah. ‘Point it here.’

  He indicated a spot behind the armchair, and Barbara did as she was asked.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  Barbara leaned forward and looked closely at the wall, but all she could see was a section of panelling like any other.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said.

  ‘Aha,’ said Jeremiah. ‘That’s because it’s hidden.’

  He reached out and placed his hand on an ornate little carving in the shape of a lion’s head. To Barbara’s surprise, it slid easily to one side and there, underneath it, was a keyhole.

  ‘See?’ said Jeremiah in triumph.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Barbara stared at the keyhole.

  ‘Where does it lead?’ she said.

  ‘Down to the cellars, so I heard,’ said Jeremiah Trout.

  ‘Have you never been through it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I haven’t got the key, have I?’

  ‘Then who has it?’

  ‘Nobody. It’s been lost for years, as far as I know.’

  Barbara could have torn her hair out with frustration. How were they ever going to get out? She went back into the bedroom and stared hard out of the window. Of course—the window! They were thirty feet or so from the ground, but perhaps there would be something she could climb down. She pulled at the catch but nothing happened. She tugged harder, and then with all her might, but it was no use: the thing was stuck fast.

  She let out something that might have been described as a growl, and thrust her hands into her pockets with a peevish expression. Her right hand fell on something hard and unfamiliar, and she brought it out to see what it was. It was the key they had found the other day behind the panel in the dining-room. She had taken it from Angela to examine it, and it must have been in her pocket for days. Barbara’s heart leapt, but she forced herself to remain calm. Why, it was absurd to think that this was the very key she was looking for! Still, there was no harm in trying it. She returned to the ante-chamber, where Jeremiah was gazing blankly about him.

  ‘Let’s try this key,’ said Barbara, and did so. It fitted perfectly. Barbara could have sung for joy, but contented herself with merely clapping her hands together. After a little struggle, the key turned and the door swung inwards to reveal another flight of steps leading down into the pitch blackness.

  ‘Well, there’s a thing,’ said Jeremiah.

  Barbara turned to him.

  ‘I’m going to see where this goes,’ she said, ‘and if it leads out of the house I’ll come back and get you. You stay here for now. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jeremiah, and wandered vaguely back into his bedroom.

  Barbara switched on her torch again and stepped into the darkness. The stairs seemed to go on for a long way, but eventually she came to the bottom and saw that she was in what looked like a cellar. She flashed the torch around the walls. The room was quite self-contained, and not apparently connected to the other cellars. But was there any way out other than back up the stairs to the secret room? The beam of the torch swept over the walls and the ceiling, and finally across the floor, where it came to a sudden stop as Barbara spotted a trap-door very similar to the one in the other cellar. It was covered in dust and evidently had not been used for many years. Could there be another smugglers’ tunnel? She certainly hoped so.

  Barbara dropped to her knees and pulled at the cover, which had no bolt. It gave way all of a sudden and deposited what felt like two pounds of grey dust all over her. She leapt back with a strangled yelp and spent a good few minutes coughing and sneezing, her eyes streaming with water. Eventually the attack stopped, and she brushed herself down as best she could. Wiping her eyes, she pointed the torch into the hole, and saw that iron rungs had been set into the rock in exactly the same way as in the other tunnel. Her heart beating in excitement, she tucked her torch into her sleeve and lowered herself into the hole, feeling for the top rung with her feet.

  She descended for ten feet or so, and found herself in a tunnel not unlike the other one. It, too, sloped steeply downwards, and she set off to follow it. After several twists and turns she was brought to a sudden halt when she found the passage ahead of her blocked by a rock-fall. Her disappointment was severe. How provoking to get this far only to have to turn back!

  She approached the rock-fall and took a closer look at it. It did not look so very bad. The stones at the top, in particular, looked as though they might come free with little difficulty. She sighed, and set to work, moving the rocks one at a time, while taking care not to dislodge the whole thing and bring it down on top of her. An hour or so later she stepped back to survey her handiwork, and saw that she had made good progress. Five minutes after that she breathed a sigh of relief when she tugged out a particularly difficult stone and discovered by the light of the torch that she could finally see through to the other side of the blockage. With renewed energy she set to clearing away the rocks, and within half an hour she had made a hole big enough for a man to pass through. She scrambled through it and jumped down on the other side, and immediately recognized where she was. She was in the passage that branched off the main smugglers’ tunnel not far from the house. So that was where the path beyond the rock-fall led—to the hidden cellar and the secret room!

  Now to go back and fetch Jeremiah, and then they could escape. Barbara sat on a rock to rest for a minute or two, then retraced her steps to the secret room. When she came to the panelled door that led into the ante-chamber, she stopped to listen carefully, but there was no sound. She went through it and tapped gently on the bedroom door.

  She found Jeremiah Trout sitting in a chair with an open book on his lap, drifting into a gentle doze.

  ‘Mr. Trout,’ she said, ‘I’ve come back to fetch you.’

  His eyes opened slowly and he regarded her without enthusiasm.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’m Barbara,’ said Barbara. ‘I’ve found a way out of the house. Don’t you want to leave?’

  ‘You’re filthy,’ he said.

  Barbara looked down at herself. It was true: her hands and her frock were almost black with dirt, and she imagined her face was the same.

  ‘Yes, well, that can’t be helped,’ she said. ‘Do you want to escape from the house tonight?’

  ‘Escape? From the house?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve found another entrance to the smugglers’ tunnel and we can leave tonight, but we’ll have to wait an hour or two until the tide is low enough.’

  ‘I would like to get back to my garden,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Then you must come with me.’ She hesitated. ‘Er—Mr. Trout, do you have any proper clothes you can put on?’

  ‘Proper clothes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re going to look pretty conspicuous wearing just a nightgown when we come into Tregarrion, and we’ll need to lie low for a while, until I can get hold of the police.’

  ‘The police?’ he said in alarm. ‘No call to get the police. What do you want the police for?’

  ‘Why, to arrest your nephew,’ said Barbara. ‘Even if he hasn’t actually stolen anything from you yet, I’m fairly sure there are laws against holding people prisoner for months on end.’

  ‘The police! Fetch the police!’ he said. ‘Now you come along with me, my
lad. There’ll be no more of this funny business where you’re going.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Barbara. ‘That’s what they’ll say to him, all right. Now, what about these clothes of yours?’

  After some further prompting he eventually rummaged under the bed, grumbling, and brought out a small trunk containing a variety of mismatched garments. Barbara went into the next room while he put them on, then came back in and regarded him doubtfully. In his shabby old things he looked rather like a tramp, although she was far too polite to say so.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘Now we just have to wait for a bit. The entrance to the tunnel is only uncovered at low tide, and that’s not until about one o’clock, so if we set off at midnight we should arrive at the right time, I think.’

  ‘But it’s my bed-time now,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Don’t you want to escape from Clifford?’

  ‘Clifford? Is Clifford here? I never liked him. I always said he’d double-cross us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why we’re leaving. Don’t worry about him now. I’ll tell you when it’s time to go.’

  She sat down to wait, chin in her hand. After an hour or so she judged it was time, and went over to shake Jeremiah, who had dozed off in his chair. He took some urging, but the promise of being allowed to see his garden again finally spurred him into action, and he declared himself ready to escape.

  Together they descended the stairs into the cellar, and Barbara showed Jeremiah the trap-door that led to the second smugglers’ tunnel. He was reluctant to climb down the ladder, but she persuaded him at last, reminding him all the while of his garden, and with a little assistance he eventually managed the descent. It was more difficult to get him past the fallen rocks, but Barbara cleared a few more out of the way and dragged him through somehow, although he grumbled all the while and more than once threatened to go back to his room.

  After that, the journey became much easier. They passed through the barrel-chamber and into the lower section of the tunnel, and finally emerged into the cave on the beach. Jeremiah had fallen silent at last, and Barbara stopped for a moment to ponder their next move. She was getting pretty tired now, and wanted nothing more than to go back to Kittiwake Cottage and fall into bed. That was no good, though, for Clifford was sure to come after them, perhaps with Lionel Dorsey in tow, and what could three women and a frail old man do against two determined criminals who perhaps carried guns? And Jeremiah knew where the necklace was. If Valencourt—or Donati, or whatever his name was—got wind of that, the old man would undoubtedly be plunged into even more danger. No, this was a job for the police—for Scotland Yard, in fact. That meant going to the hotel to look for Mr. Simpson.