The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘All right,’ said Barbara. A thought struck her. ‘I say,’ she said. ‘I wonder if Mrs. Walters sent them herself.’

  ‘Why should she do that? What could she have to gain?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barbara. ‘But she seems the type—you know, an old woman with nothing to do but stir things up among her neighbours. Perhaps I shall ask her.’

  ‘You shall do no such thing,’ said Angela in alarm.

  ‘Of course I was joking,’ said Barbara. ‘What do you take me for? No—don’t answer that.’

  ‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ said Angela.

  Their visitors duly arrived, Mrs. Walters as garrulous and Helen as subdued in her mother’s presence as ever. A sea fret had begun to descend and the air was growing chilly, so they decided to stay indoors.

  ‘What will you have?’ said Barbara brightly. ‘A martini or a fizz? Or just with tonic? We always have gallons of gin at home, because you know Angela simply can’t bear to be without it morning, noon and night—as a matter of fact, she even keeps a glass of it by her bedside in case she wakes up in the middle of the night with a raging thirst. Her grandmother was Irish, you know, and used to swear by it.’

  ‘Go and get the glasses, Barbara,’ said Angela in flinty tones.

  ‘Such a queer sense of humour the young people have these days, don’t they?’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘I confess that I can’t keep up with half of what they say.’

  Helen looked as though she were trying not to smile as she sat down gingerly on the most uncomfortable seat in the room. Barbara flashed her a wicked grin as she returned with the glasses and politely announced that Marthe would bring the drinks shortly.

  ‘Oh,’ she said as she happened to glance out of the window. ‘It’s that funny Swiss man. He must have been prospecting again.’

  Everyone looked up. Mr. Donati was walking past the house, carrying his odd assortment of baggage and equipment as usual. He turned his head and saw them all watching, and bowed politely before passing on his way.

  ‘He is certainly dedicated to his task,’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara. ‘I met him down on the beach yesterday and he said he was looking for metal ore. What was it now? Copper, tin and something else, he said.’

  ‘Tungsten?’ suggested Angela.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Barbara. ‘There are lots of mines in Cornwall, aren’t there? He said that any metal he found might be worth many thousands of pounds. Of course, he didn’t expect to find it on the beach. He was just taking a breather, he said. Didn’t you see him yesterday, Helen? He was there at the same time as you.’

  ‘No,’ said Helen, ‘I didn’t. I must have been too absorbed in my bathe.’

  Marthe brought in the drinks and poured them out. Barbara gave a moue of disgust at her lemonade. Mrs. Walters took a doubtful sip of her martini.

  ‘I rarely take cocktails,’ she said, ‘but one must be open to new experiences, mustn’t one? Especially in such a gay place as this.’

  ‘Mother has even been dancing,’ said Helen.

  ‘Indeed?’ said Angela, trying unsuccessfully to picture the staid Mrs. Walters doing the Charleston or the Foxtrot.

  Mrs. Walters laughed archly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘We were at the hotel yesterday evening, and Mr. Dorsey was so kind as to ask me to dance—and then, if you’ll believe it, Mr. Simpson did too! I was quite fluttered. Such handsome young men! I have not done such a thing for many years. Helen, of course, never dances.’

  Helen looked as though she would have liked to dance, but said nothing.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m surprised that Mr. Dorsey has enough energy to dance, he stays up so late,’ went on Mrs. Walters, ‘but of course the young can do anything without suffering for it later. Don’t drink too much of that, dear,’ she said to her daughter. ‘You know it will give you a headache and I shall almost certainly need you tonight. I feel one of my turns beginning.’

  ‘Perhaps you should stop drinking too, then,’ said Barbara. Mrs. Walters pretended not to hear.

  ‘How do you know that Mr. Dorsey stays up late?’ said Angela.

  ‘Not just Mr. Dorsey, his wife too,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘They are quite the pair of night-owls. I have seen them returning to the hotel at four or five o’clock in the morning. I sleep badly, you know, and so often get up in the night. Who knows what they find to do in the early hours? I dare say they frequent night-clubs and suchlike. Are you an habituée yourself?’

  ‘Of nightclubs?’ said Angela. ‘Not at present. I am under doctor’s orders and this last week have been going to bed at nine prompt. The sea air is very health-giving, but spending the day outside does tire one out.’

  ‘Have you been getting out and about?’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘Mr. Simpson said he met you in the village yesterday.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘He found me looking at some of the paintings down by the harbour.’

  ‘Oh yes! Aren’t they simply delightful? I have bought two already and I shouldn’t be surprised if I were tempted to buy another before we return home. Such a mastery of light and shade! The blues and the reds! I have never seen anything quite like it.’

  Angela, who had been about to comment disparagingly on the glaring over-abundance of primary colours, closed her mouth with a snap and merely nodded politely.

  ‘And how was Miss Trout when you saw her today?’ went on Mrs. Walters.

  ‘Very well,’ replied Angela, ‘but I had rather a disturbing experience when I arrived home.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Mrs. Walters, sensing that she was about to be thrown a choice tidbit of gossip.

  ‘Yes. I received an anonymous letter.’

  ‘What? An anonymous letter? From whom?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it—I don’t know,’ said Angela.

  ‘Of course, how silly of me. But what did it say?’

  ‘Have a look for yourself,’ said Angela. She brought out the letter and handed it to Mrs. Walters, who applied her glasses to the end of her nose and peered at it eagerly. Helen came and read it over her mother’s shoulder. They both looked up at the same time with equally blank expressions.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ said Helen. ‘Who wants you to keep away from Poldarrow Point, and why?’

  ‘Does Miss Trout know about this?’ asked Mrs. Walters.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Angela. ‘I only received the letter a few minutes ago, when I got home.’

  ‘But you must report it to the police. Whoever wrote it has made a threat against your life.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ said Helen. ‘I didn’t read it like that. I thought it was a warning.’

  ‘Of course it’s a warning, you silly girl,’ said her mother. ‘The writer is saying that if Mrs. Marchmont persists in visiting Poldarrow Point, then he will kill her.’

  Helen went pink.

  ‘Helen is right,’ said Angela, taking pity on the girl. ‘It might mean one of several things. As you say, it might be a direct threat by the writer to cause me harm, or it could be a genuine warning from a well-wisher to tell me that my life is in danger for some unknown reason.’

  ‘But that’s just silly,’ said Barbara, who was not the most tactful of people. ‘Nobody could possibly imagine that Miss Trout or Mr. Maynard were capable of causing harm to anyone. Why, it’s perfectly obvious that the letter is a threat, not a warning.’

  ‘You must find out who sent it,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘Go to the police. They will investigate.’

  ‘It may be possible to solve the mystery without bringing in the police,’ said Angela, ‘but for that I will need your help.’

  ‘My help?’ said Mrs. Walters, surprised.

  ‘Yes. Whoever sent the letter knew that I have visited Poldarrow Point. Now, I am a visitor to this place and therefore a relative stranger, and yet somebody knew of my acquaintance with Miss Trout. You, for example.’

  ‘I? Are you suggesting that I sent the letter
?’ said Mrs. Walters, preparing to be outraged.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Angela hurriedly. ‘You misunderstand me. I merely meant that as you have a large number of friends in Tregarrion, it is possible that you may have mentioned it in passing to someone. I have no friends in the area myself, but you know everyone here, and they all come to you as they know that you are always the first to hear any news of importance.’

  Mrs. Walters looked slightly mollified and Angela went on artfully, ‘Naturally, your elevated position in society here also means that people are more likely to tell you things. It is possible, therefore, that you hold in your hands the clue to the identity of the sender of this letter—perhaps even without realizing it.’

  ‘I assure you, nobody has confessed any such thing to me,’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that, exactly. I merely meant that someone may have unwittingly given himself away. Let us say, for example, that you happen to mention in passing to Mr. A that your neighbour, Mrs. Marchmont, has become friendly with Miss Trout and Mr. Maynard of Poldarrow Point. If Mr. A is interested in this fact for secret purposes of his own, then you might be struck by the undue interest he seems to be taking in what you are telling him.’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ said Mrs. Walters, pleased at Angela’s subtle flattery. ‘Now, let me think. Whom have I been talking to lately? I know I mentioned it to Mr. Simpson, as he was talking about having first seen you on the cliff path near Poldarrow Point. And Mrs. Adams knows, because she was there at the time. And the Dorseys, of course. Did I speak about it to Colonel Renton? I know he recognized you from the newspapers and was asking me about you, so I may well have done. And—’

  She stopped with a look of confusion, and Angela guessed that she had just realized and was embarrassed by the number of people she had told.

  ‘In a small place such as this, everybody knows everybody else’s business,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘It’s quite unavoidable. But of the people I have spoken to recently, none of them that I can remember showed any out-of-the-ordinary interest in your doings. And anyway, surely you don’t suspect any of our friends? I should have thought that the culprit was far more likely to be someone local.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Angela.

  ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, at present. I shall wait and see if I receive any more before I decide which course of action to take.’

  ‘Mark my words, the letter was sent by some local tradesman who has some complaint against Miss Trout and wants to do her a bad turn,’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘I dare say you are right,’ said Angela. ‘I shall put it out of my mind for now. But you will tell me, won’t you, if you remember something that might give a clue?’

  ‘Of course I shall,’ said Mrs. Walters.

  Marthe came in just then with more drinks and the conversation turned to other matters.

  ‘Well,’ said Barbara after their guests had left, ‘what do you think? I still say she could have done it herself.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Angela. ‘They both looked puzzled enough when they saw the letter.’

  ‘She’s obviously told everyone in Tregarrion about you, so that doesn’t help narrow it down.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now she’s going to tell everyone in Tregarrion about your anonymous letter,’ said Barbara. ‘We should have thought of that before.’

  ‘I did think of it,’ said Angela, ‘but decided on reflection that there was no harm in it. Perhaps it might even help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it might spur the letter-writer into some sort of action.’

  Barbara looked doubtful.

  ‘Well, I hope we haven’t frightened whoever it is into doing anything dangerous,’ she said. ‘We don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Angela. ‘Nobody is going to get hurt.’

  SIXTEEN

  By the next morning, the sea fret had turned into a settled drizzle, to the disappointment of Barbara, who wanted to bathe, and for the first time they were forced to take breakfast indoors. They were just finishing when a note arrived for Angela. She glanced at the envelope, and saw that it was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. She tore it open.

  ‘Is it another anonymous letter?’ said Barbara.

  ‘No, it’s from Miss Trout,’ said Angela. ‘Good gracious!’ she said, as she read it.

  ‘What is it?’ said Barbara, bouncing up and down with impatience.

  ‘Mr. Maynard has been attacked!’ said Angela.

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘Yes—in the night, it seems.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘They don’t know. Miss Trout just mentions a “mysterious assailant”. She wants us to go there at once.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Barbara. ‘You see what’s happened? Mrs. Walters has gone away and told all her friends about the letter and one of them has taken fright and attacked Mr. Maynard.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Angela. ‘Why, if the attack was anything to do with the letter then surely the target would have been me, not Mr. Maynard. What has he to do with the matter? I don’t believe there’s any connection at all.’

  ‘Oh, but there must be,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s far too much of a coincidence for there not to be.’

  Fifteen minutes later they were walking along the cliff path towards Poldarrow Point.

  ‘Is Mr. Maynard all right, do you think?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela.

  ‘I wonder whether he was stabbed or shot? Is he dead, do you think? Or perhaps he has been beaten to a bloody pulp and will have to take his food from a spoon, and Miss Trout will have to nurse him until he fades gently away.’

  ‘Barbara, please,’ said Angela.

  Barbara closed her mouth, but continued the bloodthirsty speculation happily in her head until they arrived at Poldarrow Point.

  They found Clifford Maynard in the drawing-room, reclining on a divan, with Miss Trout sitting by him and patting his hand sympathetically.

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Marchmont, I am so glad you have come!’ the old lady exclaimed. ‘Poor Clifford has had quite an awful time of it.’

  Clifford moaned feebly. He certainly looked in a bad way. He had a black eye and a graze on one cheek, and wore a bandage round his head. He dabbed occasionally at his face with a cold compress.

  ‘Don’t you need a doctor, Mr. Maynard?’ asked Angela. ‘Barbara can fetch one if you like.’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry about me,’ said Clifford with a martyred air. ‘I shall be quite all right. Just a few bruises here and there. There’s no need for a doctor.’

  ‘Are you quite certain?’ said Angela.

  ‘I’ve tried to persuade him, but he won’t hear of it,’ said Miss Trout.

  ‘An old groom of ours was kicked in the head by a horse once,’ said Barbara, ‘and his injuries looked just like yours. He said there was nothing wrong with him and refused to see a doctor, and went back to work quite cheerfully that afternoon.’

  ‘You see?’ said Clifford to his aunt. ‘What did I—’

  ‘A week later he dropped down dead,’ went on Barbara.

  ‘There!’ said Miss Trout to Clifford in triumph. ‘One ought always to see a doctor for a head injury. You don’t want to meet the same fate as Barbara’s groom, now, do you?’

  ‘Of course, it might not have been the horse that did it,’ said Barbara reflectively. ‘He was ninety-three, after all, and they said it was a heart attack that carried him off.’

  ‘What exactly happened to you, Mr. Maynard?’ asked Angela.

  Clifford put on an indignant expression and struggled to sit up.

  ‘I have been brutally assaulted, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘And in my own home, too!’

  On further questioning, it emerged that early that morning, at about four o’clock, Cliffor
d had suddenly woken up, sure he had heard a noise downstairs, and had decided to investigate. On creeping down the stairs and into the hall he had heard the noise again, coming from the drawing-room. Picking up his walking-stick as a weapon, he opened the door carefully—but unfortunately for him, he had forgotten that the hinges needed oiling, and it squeaked loudly. Whoever was in the room went silent.

  ‘Who goes there?’ called Clifford, plucking up all his courage, but almost before he had finished the sentence, a shadowy figure had hurled itself on top of him and thrown him violently to the floor. Clifford had struggled mightily and put up a valiant fight, but his assailant had caught him by surprise and thus had the advantage. The thief had belaboured him soundly about the head and then jumped up and escaped.

  ‘How did he get out?’ asked Angela.

  ‘Through the window,’ said Clifford, waving a hand weakly in that direction. ‘I imagine that is how he got in, too. He must have left it open in order to give himself a quick means of escape.’

  ‘It was very brave of you to tackle him alone,’ said Miss Trout. ‘You ought to have come and fetched me first.’

  Clifford did not look as though he appreciated this doubtful compliment. He raised the compress to his eye and did not reply.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ said Barbara. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘No, we have not,’ said Miss Trout, ‘and we have no intention of doing so.’

  ‘Yokels!’ said Clifford, sitting up suddenly. ‘I want nothing to do with them.’

  He fell back again against the sofa cushions and dabbed gingerly at his wounds.

  ‘Clifford had a rather unfortunate experience a few weeks ago with some young men who had come down from Oxford for the holidays,’ said Miss Trout. ‘They had just finished their exams and were—in somewhat high spirits, let us say.’

  ‘Delinquents!’ said Clifford. ‘Criminals, in fact.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘They stole my hat from my very head while I was taking my morning walk into Tregarrion, and placed it on the statue of Queen Victoria that stands in the market square,’ said Clifford.