The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (12 page)

‘What, you mean that someone quite different was responsible for the attack? That doesn’t seem likely, does it? If we accept the theory that Harriet Dorsey has been writing the anonymous letters, then surely that means her husband is the man we are after. There can’t be
two
lots of people searching Poldarrow Point for Marie Antoinette’s necklace, can there?’

‘Three, if you count ourselves,’ said Simpson. ‘No, it hardly makes sense, does it?’

He bade her goodbye and went off. Angela watched him go then turned to open the garden gate. She started when she saw Barbara, who had been lurking behind a tall shrub and had evidently heard the whole conversation.

Barbara glared accusingly at her.

‘Who is Edgar Valencourt?’ she said loudly.

‘Shh!’ hissed Angela. She grabbed Barbara’s arm and hurried the girl into the house.

‘What on earth are you doing? Have you gone mad?’ said Barbara as Angela pushed her inside and shut the door.

‘They’ll hear you next door if you’re not careful,’ said Angela, ‘and then it will be all over the village by tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I see, it’s a secret, is it?’ said Barbara. ‘Come on, spill the beans. What were you and the divine Mr. Simpson talking about just then? Who is this Edgar Valencourt of whom you speak?’

‘I’m not supposed to say,’ said Angela.

Barbara gave her a look of pure mischief, then threw open the French windows and ran back into the garden.

‘Edgar Valencourt!’ she yelled. ‘Edgar Va—’

‘All right! I’ll tell you,’ said Angela hurriedly, ‘but come back inside and for goodness’ sake stop shouting!’

‘That’s better,’ said Barbara in her normal voice. She stepped back into the house and shut the door. ‘Spit it out.’

Angela sighed.

‘Mind, you are not to tell a soul of this,’ she warned.

‘Of course I shan’t,’ said Barbara. ‘Who is he?’

‘Edgar Valencourt is a well-known jewel-thief, and the man whom we suspect of being after the treasure at Poldarrow Point.’

‘“We” suspect? And who are “we”, exactly?’

‘Mr. Simpson and I.’

‘That’s all very cosy,’ said Barbara, regarding Angela with narrowed eyes. ‘What has he to do with it?’

‘He is a Scotland Yard detective, and he is here under-cover in the hope of catching Valencourt once and for all.’

Barbara cast her suspicions aside. Her eyes widened and she gave a gasp of excitement.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘A real detective! How thrilling! So you are working together, you and he? I wondered why you had got so friendly with him. Is that why you came to Cornwall, to look for this Valencourt fellow?’

‘No, not at all,’ Angela assured her. ‘I really did come here for a holiday, but
mysteries seem to be following me about lately, and I have somehow found myself caught up in this one now. Mr. Simpson knew who I was and asked me to keep an eye on things up at the old house, that’s all.’

‘I wish you’d told me before,’ said Barbara.

‘Mr. Simpson particularly asked me not to tell
anyone
,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t know what he’ll say when he finds out I’ve told you.’

‘Don’t worry, you can trust me not to say anything to anyone else,’ said Barbara. ‘Miss Trout knows, of course.’

‘Nobody knows,’ said Angela. ‘Not even Miss Trout. Mr. Simpson didn’t want to worry her, and I think he is quite right.’

‘But you said Mr. Dorsey was Edgar Valencourt, I heard you. Why doesn’t Mr. Simpson just arrest him? Then we can all get on with searching for the necklace without any silly interruptions from jewel-thieves and suchlike.’

‘We don’t know for certain that Mr. Dorsey is Valencourt. All we know is that his wife may possibly have been responsible for sending the anonymous letters, but we can’t say for sure what her motive was since we have no other evidence.’

‘Then we must find some!’ said Barbara. There was a gleam in her eye that spoke of trouble.

‘There is no need for us to do anything,’ said Angela firmly. ‘Mr. Simpson is taking care of all that side of things. All that is required of us is to keep looking for the necklace. Even if there were no-one else searching for it, we should still only have until the fifth of August to find it, since that is when the lease on Poldarrow Point runs out.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara, ‘I’d almost forgotten that. If only there were something we could do to allow Miss Trout to stay in the house until it is found.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela, ‘I wonder, now—’ she paused in thought.

‘Was it Mr. Dorsey who attacked Mr. Maynard?’ asked Barbara suddenly. ‘Is that where the Dorseys have been going every night? Have they been getting into the house to search?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Angela, her mind elsewhere.

‘Don’t you think it’s unfair not to warn Miss Trout?’ said Barbara. ‘After all, Mr. Dorsey might come back and do it again.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Angela. ‘From what I have seen of Mr. Maynard, I don’t think he will risk getting out of bed again if he hears another noise in the night. Don’t worry—I don’t think they are in any danger.’

Barbara said nothing, but her sense of fair play was offended. She had promised
not to tell anybody about Simpson and Valencourt, but she resolved that she should not sit by and do nothing while her friends were in danger. There was nothing for it: if Angela would not act, then she would have to spy on the Dorseys herself. The idea of playing at detective appealed to Barbara, and she spent a few minutes indulging in pleasant day-dreams in which she caught Mr. Dorsey and his wife red-handed as they tried to escape through the window at Poldarrow Point with the necklace. Perhaps they would give her an award of some kind and her photograph would appear in all the newspapers. Then when she was old enough she should join the police and become the first woman Chief of Scotland Yard, and her portrait would hang in the National Portrait Gallery after she died.

She emerged from her day-dream to see the cat in the garden, stalking a mouse. The tiny creature was cowering, terrified, under the table, as the cat stared at it intently.

‘Poor thing,’ thought Barbara, and went out to rescue it. ‘Shoo!’ she said to the cat, which ignored her and went on staring at its prey. She bent over and scooped the mouse up carefully in both hands. It was frozen with terror but did not appear to be badly hurt. She took it to the bottom of the garden and released it gently onto the cliff path.

‘Off you go,’ she said. The mouse twitched once or twice then scurried off as fast as it could. Barbara went back into the garden.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said to the cat, which was glaring at her reproachfully. ‘You shouldn’t pick on things that are smaller than you—it’s cowardly. Go and find another cat to fight with.’

‘That was kind of you,’ said a voice from over the fence. It was Helen Walters.

‘Was it?’ said Barbara, as Angela came out into the garden.

‘Oh, hallo, Helen,’ said Angela. ‘I hope you are feeling better now.’

‘Yes, much better, thank you,’ said Helen colourlessly. ‘I think I must have had a bad oyster or something. For an hour or two I felt certain I was going to die, and it was all I could do to get into bed. It’s passed now though, thank goodness!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Angela. ‘How unfortunate. It’s a shame you missed the tennis. It was rather good fun.’

‘Yes, so Mother said. I understand that Mr. Simpson stepped in and turned out to be an excellent player.’

‘Yes—apparently he used to play at Cambridge. You must come along next time.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Helen. Just then, her mother called from inside the cottage, and
Helen smiled apologetically and returned indoors.

Angela turned away to find Barbara making a variety of expressive faces and gestures, pointing at Helen’s back and then holding her hands up.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Angela.

Barbara put a finger over her lips and drew Angela away from the fence.

‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ she said in a stage whisper.

‘Don’t believe a word of what?’

‘What
she
says. She wasn’t in bed this afternoon.’

‘Oh?’

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘I saw her myself walking along the path towards Poldarrow Point earlier. I don’t believe she was ill at all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. She didn’t see me but I saw her all right.’

‘What was she doing?’

‘Nothing in particular—just walking along the cliff top by herself. I wasn’t following her or anything, so I didn’t pay much attention. If she hadn’t just told you that she spent the afternoon in bed I dare say I shouldn’t even have remembered it.’

‘How odd. I wonder why she lied about being ill.’

‘I’d lie if I had a mother like that, just to get a bit of time off,’ said Barbara, ‘but if you ask me, she was going to meet someone.’

‘Really?’ said Angela in surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because she was all dressed up in her best frock and gloves, with lipstick on and everything,’ said Barbara. ‘I almost didn’t recognize her. She’s rather pretty when she makes the effort. She must have come back and scrubbed her face in a hurry to get all the muck off before her mother got home and then hopped into bed and started groaning. She’s a dark one, for all her “poor me” ways.’

Angela had not considered Helen in this light, having always taken her situation at face value. Whom could she have been meeting? Angela said nothing, but resolved to watch Helen when they next met.

They had an early dinner at Kittiwake Cottage and spent the evening quietly. At half-past nine Angela yawned and said she was going to bed.

‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she said as she left the room.

‘I shall be going to bed shortly myself,’ said Barbara. This was perfectly true, although she did not think it necessary to add that she was intending to get up again soon afterwards, as she had plans for that night. As good as her word, she followed Angela upstairs a few minutes later and went into the room she shared with Marthe. She got into bed fully dressed and pulled the covers up over her head. After a little while, the maid came in. Barbara heard the rustle of clothing as she undressed, followed by a creak of springs and a sigh as she got into bed. She waited, and after half an hour or so heard the sound of rhythmic breathing which told her that Marthe had fallen asleep. She listened for a few minutes to make quite certain that all was safe, then rose cautiously and crept out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

There was no light under Angela’s door, so Barbara judged that she must be asleep too. She tiptoed down the stairs, being careful to avoid the creaky step halfway down, then let herself out through the front door and ran down the path and out through the gate. It was dark now, the last few streaks of mid-blue having disappeared from the sky and been replaced by a deep indigo studded with glimmering white. The moon was almost full, and Barbara found she had no need of her torch as she set off briskly in the direction of the Hotel Splendide, whose windows and terraces glowed brightly, rendering it visible from miles around. As she drew nearer, the sound of drifting music grew louder, and she began to distinguish the sound of voices chattering and laughing, and the clatter of china. She stood in the shadows at the edge of the hotel terrace, and saw that all the doors had been thrown wide open on this warm evening. Waiters and waitresses bustled about the restaurant, clearing away the plates of the last few stray diners, while farther along she could just get a glimpse through the outer doors of the ball-room, from where the music was emanating. Barbara crept closer, keeping out of the light, and watched as couple after couple whirled past, some in time with the music, others less so. The noise was very loud now and she watched attentively, wondering whether she had perhaps left it too late and whether her informant had misled her.

Although Angela did not know it, Barbara had spent much of that day at the hotel, doing a little investigating on her own account. She had long ago decided that
the writer of the anonymous letters was after the necklace, and had seen no evidence since then to prove her wrong. Barbara intended to find out who it was. She started from the assumption that the culprit did not belong to Tregarrion—not an unreasonable deduction, in her view, since the necklace had been in the house for one hundred and fifty years and yet the letters had begun arriving only recently. Someone, therefore, had got wind of the treasure and had come to Tregarrion in the hope of finding it—and where should they stay if not the hotel?

Her first step had been to find out more about the Dorseys, who she had decided were the chief suspects, since: 1) they knew about Angela’s visits to Poldarrow, and 2) they were known to wander about late at night and might easily therefore have been responsible for the attack on Clifford Maynard. Accordingly, she had spent the morning hanging around the restaurant until she spotted a likely new ally: the boy who collected the glasses was an observant young fellow of fourteen with too much time on his hands, who was only too happy to pass a few minutes showing off his superior knowledge to his new friend. He told her that the Dorseys were well known in the hotel for taking all they could get and being mean with their tips. They were among the latest at breakfast every day, and the last to leave the ball-room at night. After that, they usually went out—he couldn’t say where—and goodness knows it wasn’t as though there were many places to go around here, but he had seen them several times leaving the hotel at eleven or twelve o’clock, and who could say at what time they returned?

Barbara intended to discover if she could where the Dorseys went on these mysterious night jaunts of theirs, and planned to follow them when—if—they left the hotel that evening. First, however, she had to find out where they were. Keeping to the shadows, lest someone see her and send her back home to bed, she crept closer to the open door of the ball-room. A low wall ran around the edge of the terrace and she crouched down behind it and peered over the top. From her position she had a good view of the comings and goings inside the great hall. She could just see the orchestra as they puffed and plucked and hammered at their instruments, faces shining and brows wrinkled in concentration. The crowd was gradually thinning, as guests left the room in twos and threes, and headed for their rooms giggling or yawning, and there were a number of empty tables, which made it a little easier to distinguish faces.

Barbara gazed intently through the door, but could not see the Dorseys anywhere, either on the dance floor or sitting at a table. Of course, it was always possible that they were seated against the near wall, in which case she would not be able to see
them even if they were there. Throwing caution to the winds, she scrambled to her feet and sidled up to the door. Nobody paid her any attention as she craned her neck round the door-post and scanned that part of the hall which could not be seen from the terrace. Close to, the music was deafening and the atmosphere sweltering, but it was all lost on Barbara, who had attention only for her quarry.

‘If you’re looking for the Dorseys, you won’t find them in there,’ said a voice in her ear, making her jump almost out of her skin. She whirled round to find her friend of that morning, the pot-boy, standing at her shoulder, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, hallo, Ginger,’ she said. ‘Have you seen them, then?’

He darted a shrewd look at her. ‘What you got against them?’

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Come on, out with it,’ he said. ‘Nothing, indeed! Why, for all I know you’re one of them juvenile thieves I’m always hearing about, come to fleece the guests. What’s to stop me going up to them right now and telling them there’s a girl hanging around spying on them?’

‘Oh, please don’t!’ said Barbara, thinking quickly. ‘You’ll spoil everything. You’ve no idea how long it’s taken me to find them. I couldn’t bear it if you gave me away and I lost them again!’

‘What are you talking about?’

She gazed at him with sad eyes.

‘It’s really none of your business,’ she said, ‘but if you must know, they—they are my real parents.’

‘What?’

Barbara nodded.

‘Yes. I was brought up as an orphan, and only recently found out that my mother and father were still alive. I was stolen as a baby, you see, by a jealous aunt, who had no children and longed for a daughter of her own. She took me home, but treated me with terrible cruelty—almost like a servant. She beat me, and kept me in a cold attic, and starved me half to death.’

She stopped, wondering whether she had gone too far, but Ginger was enthralled.

‘Coo!’ he said sympathetically.

‘It was only quite by chance that I discovered my parents were still alive,’ said Barbara, warming to her theme, ‘and that they were staying in this very place! I’ve been watching them for days now, but I can’t just go up to them and tell them I’m their long-lost daughter, now, can I? Why, they’d die of shock! I’m trying to think of
the best way to approach them, and I’m keeping an eye on them as best I can, but I have to do it in secret, or my aunt will find out, and I daren’t think what she might do to me if she knows I am out tonight! Please don’t tell anybody.’

She gazed at him pleadingly. He was touched by her plight.

‘’Course I won’t tell anybody,’ he said. ‘You carry on and watch them all you want. I’d be the same in your position. They’re in the lounge now—leastways, that’s where they were ten minutes ago when I did my rounds. Just don’t tell the head waiter I saw you, or he’ll have me out on my ear.’

‘Thanks, Ginger. I won’t forget this,’ said Barbara, clasping her hands together in gratitude. She flashed him a grin and ran off round the other side of the building, to where she remembered the hotel lounge to be. She was very nearly too late, for after watching the front entrance for a minute or so she happened to turn her head and saw the Dorseys walking rapidly away along the cliff path in the direction of Poldarrow Point, having evidently left the hotel through another door.

Barbara bolted after them until she had almost caught them up, then slowed down to follow them at a discreet distance of twenty yards or so. The Dorseys walked briskly, neither looking about them nor, it seemed, talking to each other. Away from the bustle and noise of the hotel the night was still and quiet, with only the sound of the waves to be heard far below as Barbara followed along silently behind her quarry. The moon was bright now, and lit their way forward. It glinted off Harriet Dorsey’s golden hair, making it easy for Barbara to keep them both in sight with no need for a torch.

The little procession carried on for several minutes until they passed Shearwater and Kittiwake Cottages and arrived at the place, a little farther on, at which Poldarrow Point came into full view from the cliff path. Here the Dorseys stopped so sharply that Barbara, whose attention had wandered, came within a few yards of them before she realized and hastily beat a silent retreat. She crouched down behind a gorse bush and watched. For about ten minutes they stood in the same spot, watching the old house intently without saying a word. They seemed to be waiting for something.

‘What on earth are they doing?’ Barbara muttered to herself.

She had not given much thought to the question of how the Dorseys had been getting into the house each night—if indeed they had been getting in—but had vaguely supposed that there was a window with a loose catch somewhere, and that they had been entering that way. What was all this, then?

Lionel Dorsey looked at his watch and shifted impatiently from one foot to
another. He muttered something to his wife that Barbara could not hear, and Harriet appeared to nod in agreement. At that moment Barbara saw what they had been waiting for, when a light flashed three times in quick succession from one of the downstairs windows of Poldarrow Point. The Dorseys froze for a split second, watching, then set forth again unhesitatingly towards the house. Barbara waited for a second, then scrambled out of her hiding place and followed them. What could it mean? Who was signalling out of the window? Did they have an accomplice who had entered the house earlier and had been waiting for them to arrive? Was this mysterious figure the person who had attacked Clifford Maynard the other night?

The gate had been left open, and the Dorseys went through it and up the path, treading softly so as not to be heard. Barbara stood by the gate-post and watched as they walked up to the front door. A dim light could now be seen approaching through the stained glass above it. Harriet gave a low knock, and immediately the door opened to reveal a figure holding a torch, who admitted them quickly and shut the door behind them. Just for a second the light from the torch fell on the face of the person carrying it, and Barbara gasped as she saw who it was. It was Clifford Maynard.