The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  Panting, she ran blindly into an obstacle. A pair of arms caught her and she shrieked, thinking for a second that it must be Clifford.

  ‘Quick, take her to the shore and make sure she’s not hurt,’ said a strange, foreign voice. She was aware of the shouts of other voices around her but was too exhausted and confused to understand what was going on. She was handed over to someone else, who picked her up, carried her out of the water and set her gently down on the sand.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’ said someone. Barbara looked up, shivering, and saw what looked like a struggle going on in the water between Clifford, Lionel and several policemen.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said, and was.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Angela Marchmont sat on the terrace of the Hotel Splendide, gazing into space absently, a glass of chilled lemonade standing untouched on the table before her. At last she seemed to come to herself, for she looked about her with a slightly surprised expression, then sighed and brought out a gold cigarette-case from her handbag.

  ‘Allow me,’ said a voice. It was George Simpson, holding out a cigarette-lighter. Angela turned her eyes towards him and advanced her cigarette to the flame. Simpson sat down, lit one of his own and regarded her quizzically.

  ‘I was just gathering my thoughts,’ she said. ‘I have lost Barbara. She didn’t come home last night, but sent me a rather extraordinary message saying that she was safe and that they had come to the hotel—whoever “they” may be. However, I have inquired several times at the desk and nobody seems to know anything about her.’

  ‘I think I can help you there,’ said Mr. Simpson. ‘I saw her this morning. She was looking for a place to hide Mr. Trout.’

  Angela looked up.

  ‘Mr. Trout?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Simpson thoughtfully. ‘It appears that Jeremiah Trout is not dead at all, but has been held prisoner at Poldarrow Point for the past few months. Barbara found him and smuggled him out through the tunnel, and he is now here at the hotel—in my room, as a matter of fact.’

  Angela’s look of astonishment was almost comical.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said at last. ‘I thought I heard you say that Jeremiah Trout is still alive.’

  ‘That is exactly what I said,’ he replied, amused. ‘It appears he knows the whereabouts of the necklace, but is rather—er—vague in his mind these days and can no longer remember where it is. According to Barbara, Clifford Maynard has been keeping Jeremiah captive in a secret room, with the purpose of trying to extract the information from him. So far, he has been unsuccessful.’

  ‘What on earth has that child been up to?’ said Angela. ‘I can’t turn my back for a moment without her getting into some scrape or other. Ah,’ she said, as understanding came to her, ‘so it was Jeremiah Trout she was talking about in her message, not Emily Trout. I thought she had taken it upon herself to rescue Miss Trout from the clutches of her nephew.’

  ‘It seems not,’ said Simpson. ‘I should warn you that she wanted me to go and arrest Clifford immediately and was not terribly happy when I said it should have to wait. I did not like to tell her that Miss Trout was presumably in on the plot too, and so she is still convinced of the old woman’s innocence.’

  Angela nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am afraid that she is in for a sad disappointment. All the more so, because I have found out Miss Trout’s real identity. I did a little investigating of my own in Penzance this morning, and was coming to tell you the results, but I could not find you so I telephoned your colleague, Inspector Jameson.’

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I found out something rather interesting.’

  She told him about the Bampton case and the Hopper gang, and he whistled.

  ‘Yes, I remember hearing about the case, although it was long before my time,’ he said. ‘So Jeremiah Trout is really the elusive Wally Hopper! And he has been living blamelessly for all these years down here at Poldarrow Point.’

  ‘With only his priceless stolen necklace for company,’ added Angela dryly. ‘I wonder why he gave up his life of crime.’

  ‘He seems to have developed a passion for gardening since he moved here,’ said Simpson. ‘Perhaps that is what decided him. I don’t suppose he had much of an opportunity to indulge the hobby in London.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ agreed Angela. ‘You say he has no memory of where he hid the necklace?’

  ‘I think in his lucid moments he remembers very well,’ said Simpson, ‘but he is a wily old thing and won’t tell. I tried to get it out of him myself not half an hour ago, but there was nothing doing. I wonder—perhaps you would like to try and persuade him?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Angela. ‘I should like to meet this Wally Hopper and see what a famous criminal looks like.’

  The famous criminal turned out to be an unprepossessing elderly man wearing a filthy, ill-fitting suit. He leered at Angela when they were introduced, then sat down again and seemed inclined to forget about her immediately.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont wants to thank you for helping her god-daughter escape from Poldarrow Point,’ said Mr. Simpson.

  Angela took her cue.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I was very worried about Barbara, but Mr. Simpson tells me you were very kind to her and helped her get out of the secret room.’

  ‘Barbara?’ said Wally. ‘Who’s Barbara?’

  ‘She’s the girl who brought you here,’ said Simpson.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ said Wally. ‘Very polite, she was. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m her godmother,’ said Angela. ‘I hope you’re not too tired after your adventure last night. I understand you came out through the smugglers’ tunnel.’

  He glanced at her sideways.

  ‘You’re another one, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You’re all the same. You want to take what is mine.’

  ‘But it’s not yours, Mr. Hopper,’ said Angela. ‘It belongs to the Duke of Bampton.’

  ‘Oh, so you know about that, do you?’ he said. ‘I suppose you think you’re clever, working it out. Well, don’t bother trying to find it, because you won’t. Rosie’s got it.’

  ‘Are you sure Rosie has it?’ asked Angela. ‘She seems to think you have it. Why should she have held you prisoner all these months if she knew where it was?’

  ‘Not Rosie,’ he said. ‘Rosie.’ He snickered and began humming tunelessly. It sounded like a nursery rhyme.

  Simpson turned to Angela and shrugged.

  ‘You see?’ he said. ‘I don’t know what he means.’

  They left Wally and went back downstairs.

  ‘I ought to go and make certain that Barbara is all right,’ said Angela.

  ‘May I come?’ said Simpson. ‘I promised to tell her if I had any news.’

  They left the hotel and walked the half-mile or so back to Kittiwake Cottage. Barbara was not there, although she had evidently been back to the house, for her bed had been slept in, according to Marthe.

  ‘She must have come back for a nap and then gone out again,’ said Angela. She looked worried.

  ‘Do you think she has got into another scrape?’ asked Simpson.

  ‘You said she was not pleased when you refused to arrest Clifford,’ she replied. ‘I am a little concerned that she may have taken it upon herself to go back to Poldarrow Point and attempt to resolve the matter in her own way—whatever that may be.’

  ‘I see,’ said Simpson. ‘Knowing Miss Barbara, that is certainly a distinct possibility.’

  Angela came to a decision.

  ‘It’s time to put an end to all this,’ she said. ‘I am going along to the house now. I have the feeling she may be in danger.’

  Simpson hesitated.

  ‘Then let me come with you,’ he said.

  Angela gave him an odd look.

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  They left the cottage and walked qui
ckly along to the headland on which stood the dilapidated old house.

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Simpson.

  ‘Why, I intend to knock at the front door and ask for her,’ said Angela firmly.

  Simpson looked a little alarmed.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he said. ‘You will alert them as to our suspicions.’

  ‘Inspector Jameson has already informed the Tregarrion police about the goings-on at Poldarrow Point,’ said Angela. ‘They will be here shortly, but by that time the gang might have hurt Barbara, or worse. I intend to forestall them before they can do any more harm.’

  There was no quarrelling with that, and Simpson fell silent.

  Very soon they arrived at the house, and Angela walked purposefully up the front path and knocked on the front door. There was no answer.

  ‘They must have gone out,’ said Mr. Simpson.

  Angela said nothing but walked around to the back of the house and began peering through the windows. Simpson followed her.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont,’ said a voice behind them. They whirled round. Miss Trout was standing there with Harriet Dorsey. Angela stared at the dainty little pistol in the old lady’s hand.

  ‘Hallo, Miss Trout,’ said Angela warily. ‘I am looking for Barbara. I don’t suppose you have seen her?’

  ‘Funny way of looking for someone,’ said Miss Trout, ‘sneaking around in people’s gardens.’ There was no trace of her formerly friendly manner. She looked at Mr. Simpson and then back at Angela. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘That explains a lot. I never should have thought it.’

  ‘Thought what?’ asked Angela.

  Miss Trout did not reply directly, but looked hard at Mr. Simpson.

  ‘I know you,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Simpson politely. ‘I am Inspector Simpson, of Scotland Yard.’

  Miss Trout laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘Oh, so that’s the story, is it?’ she said.

  ‘I’m not here to make trouble,’ said Angela. ‘As far as I am aware, nobody has done anything illegal. All I want is Barbara.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s here?’ said Harriet. She was her usual sullen self.

  ‘She is a romantic child and she still believes the story you told her, Miss Trout,’ said Angela. ‘I think she has some idea of protecting you from Clifford.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ said the old woman. ‘And you can stop calling me that. You must know what my name is if you’re here with him.’ She nodded towards Simpson.

  ‘Very well, Mrs. Hopper,’ said Angela, and Ma Rosie sniffed with grim satisfaction.

  ‘You see?’ she said to Harriet. ‘I told you she was no fool.’

  ‘Is Barbara here?’ said Angela. ‘Why don’t you just send her out? Then we shall let you on your way without interference.’

  ‘Ah, but you forget one thing,’ said Ma Rosie. ‘We haven’t found what we’re looking for yet, have we? We’ve got until the fifth of August before we have to leave, and I mean to find it by then. I’ve waited thirty years to get my hands on that necklace, and it’d be silly to let a little thing like this get in the way of it now I’m so close, don’t you think? If I let Barbara go—or you, for that matter, we’ll have to disappear sharpish. No, I’ve got other plans for you.’

  Angela glanced again at the little gun in the old woman’s hand. It was tiny, but she had no doubt of its lethal potential. Ma Rosie saw her looking at it and smiled.

  ‘You’re wondering whether I’m going to shoot you, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘The question had crossed my mind,’ said Angela.

  Ma Rosie regarded her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘It’s a shame you’re far too clever for your own good,’ she said. ‘You’re dangerous. I was going to lock you up for a while, but perhaps I will shoot you after all. What do you think, Harriet?’

  ‘Look here,’ said George Simpson, ‘this simply won’t do. Do you really think you can get away with shooting us both in cold blood?’

  ‘You never know until you try,’ said Rosie, ‘and I’m an old woman. They might look kindly on me—that is, if they ever find your bodies. There are plenty of places to hide them around here.’

  She started to raise the gun, but before she could point it at anyone her arms were pinioned to her sides from behind and someone wrenched the little pistol from her hand. Ma Rosie shrieked in surprise, and Angela had just time to recognize Mr. Donati before a voice shouted, ‘Police!’ and four or five uniformed men swarmed into the garden and overpowered the two women.

  ‘’Ere, what are you doing, attacking a pore old woman?’ snapped Ma Rosie, all pretence at gentility gone.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ cried Harriet shrilly. ‘It was all this old cat’s idea!’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you—’ said Rosie, as she struggled in the grip of a young constable, who seemed rather embarrassed at having to arrest a little old lady.

  ‘Now then, the both of you,’ said a burly sergeant. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to explain yourselves down at the station. You can’t just go waving guns around, you know,’ he said. ‘You might hurt somebody.’

  The two women were borne away, struggling and protesting.

  ‘I hope you are not hurt,’ said Mr. Donati. ‘I am sorry it took us so long to arrive. We had a little more difficulty than we anticipated in arresting Clifford Maynard and Lionel Dorsey.’

  ‘We are quite all right, thank you,’ said Angela. ‘But where is Barbara?’

  ‘Barbara is safe and well at Kittiwake Cottage,’ said Donati. ‘She got rather wet, but your maid is looking after her.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ said Angela. ‘I was starting to get quite worried. Thank you for turning up just in time!’

  Donati nodded, and prepared to depart.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ he said. ‘I must go and help the men with the prisoners. We will speak later, yes?’

  He grinned briefly and ran off, leaving Angela and Mr. Simpson alone in the garden.

  ‘Quick!’ said Angela. ‘We must hurry, before the police come back and start searching the house!’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘What?’ said Simpson.

  Angela did not reply but hurried over to a little wooden hut that stood to one side of the garden and pulled the door open.

  ‘There must be something here,’ she said.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Simpson. ‘Did you know that Donati was a policeman?’

  Angela was peering inside the shed. She reached in and brought out a spade.

  ‘I knew Wally would have some gardening tools,’ she said in triumph. ‘Yes,’ she said in reply to Simpson. ‘Inspector Jameson told me this morning. Mr. Donati is a very highly-regarded officer in the Swiss Sûreté, no less.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Weren’t you informed?’

  ‘No, it appears I wasn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Well, never mind that,’ said Angela. ‘We’ve just time to get the necklace.’

  ‘Do you mean you know where it is hidden?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain, but I have a fairly good idea,’ she replied, then smiled at his puzzled face. ‘Didn’t you hear what old Wally said? He knew where it was all along.’

  ‘But he said his wife had it,’ said Simpson.

  ‘He said Rosie had it, yes, but he wasn’t talking about his wife,’ said Angela. ‘Look here.’ She indicated the gnarled old rose bush outside the study window, in which Barbara had hidden on the night she followed the Dorseys. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Do you mean he buried it under a rose-bush?’ said Simpson in surprise.

  ‘Yes. It’s the perfect place for someone who loves his garden as Wally does, don’t you think?’

  ‘By Jove, it’s certainly a thought!’ said Simpson eagerly. He took the spade from her and went over to the bush.

  ‘That looks a likely spot,’ said Angela, pointing.

  Simpson set to
work, but after half an hour stopped and rested upon the spade.

  ‘Are you quite certain it’s here?’ he said.

  They stared at the empty hole he had dug.

  ‘It must be there, I’m sure of it,’ said Angela. ‘Here, let me try.’

  He shook his head reprovingly and went back to work. Finally, the spade hit something solid.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. He dug round the obstacle and levered it up. It was a small tin box.

  ‘Open it!’ said Angela.

  ‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘No matter, though.’ He lifted the spade and brought it sharply down on the lock, and it burst open.

  Angela bent and brushed the earth off the box, then opened it. Inside was an oilskin package. She took it out. It felt heavy. She looked up at Mr. Simpson and saw him staring intently at it.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  She unwrapped the package delicately, then let out a little gasp as she saw what was inside it.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Simpson softly.

  They stared at the thing for a moment, then Angela reached into the package and picked it up. The necklace glittered in her hand.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,’ she murmured. She let the diamonds trickle through her fingers like water. There must have been three hundred of them or more—small ones and large ones, tumbling over each other in her hand, twinkling like stars. ‘How could anybody bury such a thing for thirty years?’ she said.

  Simpson was as mesmerized as she was, seemingly unable to take his eyes off it. Angela held up the necklace, and it gleamed in the sunlight. They gazed at it in silence, then their eyes met for a long moment. There was no sound but the rushing of the waves and the crying of the seagulls.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Valencourt,’ said Angela. ‘I know.’

  He smiled ruefully.

  ‘I ought to have realized you would telephone Jameson,’ he said. ‘He was bound to give the game away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘He told me that they did have a man down here looking for Valencourt, but that he was from the Swiss police force, not Scotland Yard. Obviously he meant Mr. Donati. A telephone-call to Mr. Penhaligon in Penzance told me the rest.’