Angela faltered and peered more closely at the page, then looked up.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The next page has been torn out.’
SIX
‘What?’ cried Barbara in dismay. ‘Are you quite certain?’
‘Quite certain,’ said Angela.
‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Trout. ‘That is a pity. But it is a very old book, so I am not surprised that it is in bad condition. I imagine the page was torn out accidentally some years ago, and got lost.’
‘But we were just about to find out what was in the package. Was it Marie Antoinette’s necklace?’ asked Barbara.
Miss Trout shook her head.
‘It is some years since I looked at the book, and I don’t remember clearly what it says,’ she replied. ‘Is the page really missing? That is unfortunate, as those memoirs are the only evidence we have in writing. However, as you see, Preacher Dick says that he received the mysterious package in 1785—the same year in which the necklace disappeared, and in this family it has always been understood that that and the contents of the package were one and the same.’
‘But what did he do with it?’
‘He is supposed to have hidden it somewhere safe in this house. I don’t know what he intended to do with it—he was a smuggler, not a thief, after all, and perhaps he did not relish the thought of selling stolen goods taken from a dying man whose soul he had just commended to God. At any rate, there are no stories of his becoming suddenly wealthy, so there is every reason to believe that he kept it.’
‘I wonder who the French gentleman was,’ said Angela. ‘I know something of the story and the Comtesse’s husband died many years after the theft, so it can’t have been him. Perhaps he handed it to someone for safe-keeping.’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara impatiently, ‘but that’s not important. What I want to know is: where is the necklace now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Trout, ‘but I should dearly like to find it.’
There was a wistful tone to her voice that spoke of more than mere curiosity as to the fate of a long-lost artefact. It was not lost on Angela.
‘I dare say something like that would be of immense value today, even more so than it was at the time,’ she said. ‘Should you be allowed to keep it if you found it, I wonder? I suppose by rights it belongs to the descendants of the Parisian jewellers who were so unscrupulously robbed of their diamonds.’
‘I don’t think that would be fair at all,’ said Barbara stoutly. ‘What have they done to deserve it? Finders keepers, I say. It has been in Miss Trout’s family for over a century and I think she should be allowed to keep it. Or if not, then she should get a reward for finding it,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘You are very kind,’ said Miss Trout with a sad smile, ‘but this is all immaterial since we have no idea where it is and are unlikely to find it in time—’ she was about to go on but stopped herself.
‘In time for what?’ said Angela.
‘Now, Aunt,’ said Clifford, ‘there is no need to bother Mrs. Marchmont with our troubles.’
‘You are right, of course,’ said Miss Trout, with some reluctance, it seemed.
‘Of course, I shouldn’t dream of prying,’ said Angela.
‘Do you need the money?’ said Barbara, prompting another glare from Angela.
‘I’m afraid I do,’ replied Miss Trout with a laugh. ‘There is no use in denying it.’
‘Lots of things need fixing in this house,’ said Barbara. ‘If you found the necklace then you could afford to do it.’
‘If that were the only problem, I should be quite happy,’ said Miss Trout, ‘but I’m afraid there is more to it than that.’ She looked half-apologetically at Clifford and went on, ‘Unhappily, it looks as though we shall have to leave this house altogether unless something turns up in the next week or two.’
Angela and Barbara made noises of concern then Barbara said, ‘Why?’
Miss Trout sighed.
‘The Warreners had always been a well-to-do family,’ she said, ‘but some time in the middle of the last century they found themselves down on their luck. I suspect that the end of smuggling also meant the end of the family’s wealth. In addition, my grandmother, who was the last of the Warreners, married a clergyman—my grandfather Trout—who, while a good, kind man, had no money of his own at all. At any rate, fifty or sixty years ago, finding themselves in desperate need of funds, my grandparents sold the freehold of this house and entered into a lease that would allow them to stay here for a modest rent. That lease is shortly due to expire and, if it cannot be extended, all connection between the Warreners and Poldarrow Point will end.’
‘Why don’t you extend it, then?’ asked Barbara, who was not entirely sure what a lease was, but pictured it as a sort of invisible indiarubber band that attached Miss Trout to the house and prevented her from leaving it.
‘That would be far beyond my means, I am afraid,’ said Miss Trout.
‘Who is the freeholder now?’ asked Mrs. Marchmont.
‘He is a wealthy man who lives in Penzance. I have already heard from his solicitor, Mr. Penhaligon, who says that his client invites me to renew the lease—otherwise, he must politely remind me to vacate the house at my earliest convenience on or before the fifth of August.’
‘Why, that’s only about two weeks away!’ said Barbara. ‘Miss Trout, you simply must find the necklace, then you can sell it for thousands of pounds and stay here forever. Angela and I will help you, won’t we, Angela?’ Before Angela could speak, she went on, ‘Aunt Angela is a terribly famous detective, you know. She’s solved all kinds of horrid murders, and her name has been in all the newspapers. And I can help too—I’m good at finding things and I’m small enough to get into holes and places that grown-ups are too big for. Do let’s, Angela,’ she finished pleadingly. ‘It’ll be frightfully exciting, just like a treasure-hunt!’
Angela’s heart sank as she saw her prospects of a peaceful holiday receding even further.
‘Now, Barbara, I don’t think it’s quite fair to impose on Miss Trout like that,’ she said.
‘Oh, but—’ began Barbara in disappointment, but Miss Trout was nodding in agreement.
‘Your godmother is quite right,’ she said. ‘You are here on holiday and I shouldn’t dream of bothering you with my little problem. I should feel far happier knowing that you were outside enjoying yourself in the sun, rather than grubbing about in this gloomy old house looking for something that might not even be here. If nobody has found the necklace in the last hundred and forty-odd years, then it’s hardly likely that we will find it in the next two weeks.’
‘Have you searched for it?’ asked Angela.
‘I am rather frail these days,’ replied Miss Trout, ‘and to be perfectly truthful it had not, until recently, occurred to me to try and find it, since there seemed little use in looking for a mysterious object that was known about only by legend. Other than making the most cursory of investigations, therefore, I have done nothing.’
‘Did Preacher Dick leave any clues?’ asked Barbara eagerly.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Oh, but he must have,’ said Barbara. ‘What would be the use in hiding something so well that nobody could ever find it? I’ll bet he left a secret message somewhere in those memoirs.’
She picked up the leather-bound book and turned the pages carefully.
‘It’s awfully difficult to read,’ she said, frowning, ‘but there must be a clue or a map here, or something.’
‘I should love to believe it,’ said Miss Trout, ‘but I fear that the secret died with my ancestor. It is useless to place any reliance on finding the necklace. No,’ she went on with a sigh. ‘Whoever wrote those letters was right: I should be far better off if I were to leave Poldarrow.’
Angela saw Clifford Maynard shoot his aunt a warning glance.
‘Which letters do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention them?’ said Miss Trout, shak
ing her head at her nephew. ‘I thought I had. It’s nothing really, but someone has been sending me some rather silly anonymous letters.’
SEVEN
Angela was instantly alert.
‘What kind of anonymous letters?’ she asked.
‘Oh, telling me to leave the house immediately or something terrible will happen to me—the usual sort of thing, you know.’
‘What do you mean, “the usual sort of thing”?’ said Angela in surprise.
Miss Trout went pink with confusion.
‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘I just meant the kind of thing one reads about.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘I am afraid that my tastes run rather shamefully to novels of the less literary sort.’
‘I love a good detective story, myself,’ said Barbara.
‘Oh, Aunt,’ said Clifford, ‘I thought we had agreed not to mention the letters.’
‘I know, dear, but Mrs. Marchmont has been so kind with her offer of help that I thought it better to tell her everything,’ said Miss Trout.
‘How many letters have you received?’ asked Angela.
‘Four so far,’ said Miss Trout. ‘Of course, I thought it was just a ridiculous joke when the first one came about ten days ago, so I took no notice, but then another one arrived and another, and then a fourth this morning, and I am not certain what I should do about it.’
‘Might I see them?’ said Mrs. Marchmont.
Miss Trout went over to an ancient-looking desk and took from a drawer a small bundle of envelopes, which she handed to Angela.
Angela examined the envelopes and looked closely at the postmarks.
‘They were all posted here in Tregarrion, I see,’ she said, and extracted a letter. It read thus:
‘Dere Miss So-Called Trout,
You are not wanted heer. I giv you fare warning: leave Poldarrow Point at wuns or it will be the wors for you.’
‘What a sneaking coward!’ said Barbara indignantly. ‘I should like to meet whoever wrote it and give him a jolly good piece of my mind.’
Angela held the paper up to the light, looking for a water-mark.
‘I don’t recognize the paper,’ she said, and passed on to the next letter. It said:
‘Yur life is in grav danger if you do not leav Poldarrow at once. Don’t think yor nephew will save you.’
‘His spelling is even worse than mine!’ said Barbara. She took the other two letters and read them. The third said:
‘You hav ignored my earlier warnings to leav. This was foolish. This warning will be yr last.’
What a stupid thing to say!’ said Barbara. ‘If you’re going to make a threat you ought at least to carry it out. It’s not the final warning at all, you see, because there’s another one.’ She read:
‘You have bene told. The ghost of Poldarrow Point wil hav its revenge on thos who fale to hede its warnings. Bewar!’
Barbara snorted.
‘Rot!’ she said in disgust. ‘What ghost of Poldarrow Point? Why, everyone knows that there are no such things as ghosts. They are just trying to frighten you. It’s quite absurd.’
‘Is there a ghost of Poldarrow Point?’ asked Angela of Miss Trout.
‘Oh, there are several ghosts if one believes the legends,’ said the old lady. ‘In a house of this age it’s only to be expected. One story in particular tells of an old man who wanders the upper floors clad only in a nightgown, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. Another tells of a smuggler who tried to steal a large barrel of contraband wine for himself and drowned in the attempt. He is said to wander the cliff top and occasionally to enter the garden. I don’t believe the stories myself, however.’
‘I wonder what the writer of the letters hoped to achieve by sending them,’ said Angela. ‘Why should anyone want you to leave the house?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Miss Trout.
‘It must be because of the necklace!’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘It’s the only explanation. Someone wants you out of the way so they can get in and search for it.’
‘Well—’ began Miss Trout doubtfully.
‘When can we begin our search?’ went on Barbara unheeding. ‘I can come tomorrow. Or the next day. Do say yes, Miss Trout. I should love to help. I want to find the necklace before that horrid letter-writer does.’
She was not to be put off. Miss Trout laughed uncertainly and glanced at Angela, who recognized the girl’s mood and saw that there was no use in interfering. It was clear that Miss Trout would have Barbara racketing around her house for the next few days whether she liked it or not.
‘If Miss Trout says so, you may come again,’ she said, ‘but you must promise not to get in the way or make a disturbance. And you know,’ she went on to the old lady half-apologetically, ‘she may even find what you are looking for.’
‘I should be so glad if she did,’ said Miss Trout, ‘although I hardly dare hope for it.’
‘And Angela will investigate the anonymous letters,’ said Barbara, ‘won’t you, Angela?’
Angela, seeing that she had no choice, agreed to look into the matter as far as she could, and then they took their leave, having agreed that Barbara should return the day after next. They took with them Preacher Dick’s memoirs, since Barbara was certain that they contained some vital clue and wanted to examine them more closely. She chattered in excitement all the way back to Kittiwake Cottage, but Angela listened with only half an ear, for she was thinking about the anonymous letters. She gave very little credence to the story of the necklace and privately thought that Miss Trout and her nephew would have no choice but to leave Poldarrow Point when the lease expired, but threatening letters were quite another matter. Who could have sent them? It was most odd: after all, Miss Trout would most likely be leaving the house very soon anyway—what, then, was so urgent that the mysterious letter-writer wanted her out of the way now?
It had been a strange afternoon altogether, now she came to think about it. Miss Trout was a jolly soul with a strength of character which belied her frail appearance, but Angela was curious about her nephew, Clifford. Had he really come to live with his aunt for no other reason than pure affection for her? If his home had previously been in London, then how did he live now he was here in Cornwall? There had been no mention of a job, and Miss Trout had made their poverty quite clear. Would he stay with his aunt after they left the house, or would he return to London? If the latter, then perhaps he would take Miss Trout with him. It would be a sad end to the family’s connection with Poldarrow Point, if so.
It was past six o’clock when they arrived home to find the tabby cat pressed against the French windows and Marthe studiously ignoring it. Barbara ran out to give the cat some food and Angela followed her onto the terrace, where she had left her book. As she looked over at Shearwater Cottage, she saw that Mrs. Walters had evidently wormed her way into another acquaintance, for she and Helen were sitting outside with the Dorseys, engaged in conversation.
‘Oh, Mrs. Marchmont, do join us,’ Mrs. Walters called as she caught sight of Angela. ‘I have some people I should like you to meet.’
Angela had been intending to take a little rest and read her book, but obligingly went out through her own gate and in at the Walters’, followed by Barbara, who had an insatiable curiosity for everything and was troubled by no idea of her company’s ever being unwanted.
Mrs. Walters made the introductions and everyone put on their best smiles, then they sat down. Lionel and Harriet Dorsey were from London and were staying in the area for a few weeks, they said. They had just returned from a trip into Penzance, but whether they had enjoyed it was unclear, since they had a perpetual air of indifference about them that gave nothing away. Angela supposed them to be suffering from that boredom which some city people experience on being suddenly transplanted to a much quieter place, although they were politely if unenthusiastically complimentary about the beauties of Cornwall.
‘Do you play tennis, Mrs. Marchmont?’ asked Mrs. Walters. ‘Harriet is q
uite the proficient, I believe. You must play with her one day. They have a very good court at the hotel, you know.’
Mrs. Dorsey disclaimed the compliment with a toss of her head, and Angela murmured a polite reply.
‘What a pity there are no men to make up a doubles match together with Lionel,’ went on Mrs. Walters.
‘I’ll quite happily take on the women,’ said Mr. Dorsey. ‘A two-game handicap in each set should even things out nicely.’
‘Hardly,’ said his wife.
‘Oh yes, and then Helen could join you,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘I do like to see young people enjoying themselves together.’
‘We must see about that, then,’ said Mr. Dorsey, and the subject dropped.
‘We’ve just been to tea at Poldarrow Point,’ said Barbara to Helen. She was still bursting with excitement about her proposed treasure-hunt and could think of nothing else.
The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) Page 4