The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘This way,’ she said, and ducked under the cave entrance.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Jeremiah. ‘I want to go to bed.’

  ‘You shall go to bed,’ Barbara promised, ‘but you must come with me. It’s not far.’

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him across the beach towards the cliff. He mumbled and muttered but did not resist as they struggled up the steep path that led past Kittiwake and Shearwater cottages.

  ‘Just a second,’ said Barbara, stopping. It had suddenly struck her that she ought to let Angela know she was safe. She delved in her knapsack and brought out a crumpled bit of paper and the stub of a pencil. She scribbled a note, then ran up the path of the cottage and shoved it under the door. A light was still on upstairs, and she wondered whether it was Angela awaiting her return. But there was no time to stop: they must get to Mr. Simpson as quickly as possible.

  ‘You wait here,’ said Barbara to Jeremiah when they had almost reached the hotel. Given his shabby state, she thought it best that he remain in the shadows while she went to find Simpson.

  ‘Where are we?’ he said. ‘I want to go to bed.’

  ‘Soon,’ she said.

  She ran in through the main door. It was almost two and the whole place slumbered. The sleepy man at the desk eyed her askance as she entered, filthy and unkempt, then laughed without humour as she demanded he fetch Mr. Simpson.

  ‘Ha! That’s a good one, that is!’ he said. ‘What do you take me for, an idiot? Go on with you now, hop it!’

  ‘But it’s frightfully important,’ said Barbara. ‘I need to report a terrible crime.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go and find a policeman, ’stead of bothering our guests? But you won’t, will you? I know your sort. You won’t go near the police if you can help it.’

  ‘But Mr. Simpson is a—’ Barbara stopped and bit her tongue. Nobody was supposed to know that Mr. Simpson was an under-cover Scotland Yard man.

  ‘Go on, get out!’ said the man, coming out from behind his desk with a threatening look and picking up a broom.

  Barbara made her escape. It took her a few minutes to find Jeremiah, who had wandered off and was looking up at the windows with interest.

  ‘I’ve seen this place before,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s the Hotel Splendide,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Lots of people with plenty of money here,’ said the old man. ‘I bet they’d be pretty pickings.’

  Barbara was not listening, for she had just spotted her friend Ginger, who was working a late night and sweeping the terrace outside the ball-room.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said when he saw her. ‘What you doing out at this time of night? Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to Mr. Simpson,’ said Barbara, ‘but the man at the desk threw me out.’

  ‘Mr. Simpson? What do you want to speak to him for?’ said Ginger.

  ‘It’s rather a long story,’ said Barbara. She indicated Jeremiah. ‘This is my grandfather,’ she said. ‘He was hit on the head by a cricket-ball a few years ago and doesn’t remember anything, so my aunt put him in the most awful nursing-home where they were horribly cruel to him and didn’t give him any food or drink for days and days. Now he’s escaped, but I don’t want my aunt to know as she will make him go back and I’m terribly afraid they’ll starve him to death. Look at the state of him!’

  The kind-hearted Ginger regarded the old man sympathetically. He was indeed a sorry sight, having managed to smear dirt and sand all over his face and clothes.

  ‘Pore thing,’ said Ginger. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure—that’s why I wanted to talk to Mr. Simpson. He’s my uncle, you see. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Regular family party you’ve got down here,’ observed Ginger. ‘This aunt of yours seems to have caused a bit of bother. Why do you all stand for it?’

  ‘Because she’s frightfully rich, and we have nothing, and she could throw us out onto the streets if she chose.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ginger, nodding sagely. ‘There’s money mixed up in it, is there? I’m glad I haven’t got none myself. So, then, I suppose you want me to fetch Mr. Simpson.’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Barbara.

  Ginger sighed and went off. A few minutes later he returned, shaking his head.

  ‘There’s nobody in,’ he said. ‘Either that or he’s sleeping so soundly he can’t be woken. I knocked for a good five minutes.’

  Barbara rubbed her chin anxiously. It looked as though she would have to take Jeremiah back to Kittiwake Cottage after all. But Jeremiah evidently had other ideas. He sat down on a chair and refused to stir, despite all that Barbara could say to try and persuade him.

  ‘No,’ he said stubbornly. ‘It’s past my bed-time. You said I could go to bed.’

  In vain Barbara pointed out the short distance between the hotel and the cottage. Jeremiah would not budge. Barbara was almost at her wits’ end, then an idea came to her.

  ‘Ginger, would you mind awfully doing me an enormous favour?’ said Barbara. ‘Is there an empty bedroom here where we can go until tomorrow? Mr.—my grandfather is dreadfully tired and just wants to go to bed.’

  Jeremiah brightened up immediately.

  ‘Yes, it’s my bed-time,’ he said. ‘I’ve just escaped, you know, and when Clifford has gone away I’m going to do some gardening.’

  ‘See?’ whispered Barbara to Ginger, tapping her head with her finger. ‘He’s completely ga-ga.’

  Ginger scratched his head.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s room 402, I suppose. It’s a bit small and poky so it only gets used at the busiest times, but it’s empty at the moment. It’s only for tonight, mind.’

  ‘Oh, thanks awfully,’ said Barbara with relief. ‘Of course we’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

  Ginger sighed.

  ‘This way, then,’ he said, ‘and for goodness’ sake, keep quiet!’

  He conducted them cautiously through a side door and up to the top floor, stopping only to remove a large bunch of keys from the housekeeper’s cupboard.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, opening a door at the end of the corridor. The room was cramped and tiny, and contained only a bed and a chair. Jeremiah beamed when he saw where they were. He got into bed with his shoes on and fell asleep immediately.

  ‘Here’s the key,’ said Ginger. ‘Put it back when you leave. And for goodness’ sake, make sure you’re not caught here.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Barbara, ‘and thanks awfully.’

  He nodded and went off. Barbara yawned. Jeremiah had taken the only bed, so it looked as though she had an uncomfortable night ahead of her. She regarded the chair with disfavour, then curled up into it as best she could and fell asleep too.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Angela waited up as long as she could bear to, wondering where Barbara had gone and whether she ought to raise the alarm. At one o’clock or thereabouts she decided that she might as well read in bed while she waited, and went upstairs. She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard a rustling sound from the hall. Thinking that Barbara must have returned home, she went downstairs. Nobody was there, but her glance fell on a piece of crumpled paper that had presumably been shoved under the door.

  Angela picked it up and gazed at it with some perplexity.

  ‘“Don’t worry, we are safe and have gone to the hotel. I will explain all tomorrow,”’ she read. She turned the paper over but there was no other message. ‘Dear me,’ she said. ‘What on earth is the child up to now? Who is safe? And why have they gone to the hotel?’

  She pondered for a moment or two, then decided to go to bed. Barbara had evidently disobeyed her orders and gone to Poldarrow Point with the aim of convincing Miss Trout that Clifford was up to no good. Presumably she had succeeded, and they had both escaped safely to the hotel. At any rate, the note stated quite clearly that there was nothing to worry about, so there was no need for Angela to do anything. She was re
lieved, as truth to tell she had not relished the idea of running about the place in the middle of the night, hunting for Barbara. She would go to the hotel in the morning and find out what was going on.

  By eight o’clock the next day she had already arrived at the Hotel Splendide and was inquiring at the desk as to whether a Miss Trout and a Miss Wells were staying there. The young man at the desk was not the same as the one who had chased Barbara out the night before, and he shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘There’s no-one of that name here.’

  Angela was puzzled. Had they perhaps registered under false names? That would be like Barbara.

  ‘I might be mistaken with the names,’ she said, ‘but I think they must have arrived very late last night—after midnight, in fact.’

  The young man looked at the register again.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Our last arrivals yesterday were Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis, at half-past three.’

  Angela thanked him and walked away slowly. As she did so, she became aware of a boy with flaming red hair standing nearby, who appeared to be scowling at her. He looked away when he realized she had seen him, and she supposed he must have mistaken her for someone else. She left the hotel, and as she passed him she was almost sure she heard him mutter something that sounded like, ‘Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought.’ She looked at the boy in surprise, but he was staring hard at the ceiling, as though he had spotted a dirty mark up there. She walked on, assuming that he must have been talking to somebody else. Or perhaps she had misheard. At any rate, Barbara was not at the hotel, but there was no time now to wait until she chose to show herself, as Angela had a train to catch.

  The little train was already puffing and blowing impatiently when she arrived at the station, so she paid for her ticket quickly and boarded, and they set off. Seated comfortably in the first-class carriage as the train chugged gently along the cliff top towards Penzance, she wanted to relax and enjoy the journey, but her thoughts insisted on intruding, and in the end she saw very little of the countryside, being occupied with the mystery at hand and her object for today.

  The train drew into Penzance station with a great hiss, and Angela alighted and found a taxi.

  ‘Take me to the library, please,’ she said.

  The library was a handsome white building on top of a hill, set in beautiful grounds and with delightful views over the sea. Angela entered and handed herself over to the elderly librarian, who was only too pleased to help.

  ‘I have a fancy to read some French history today,’ said Angela. ‘I am especially interested in finding out more about Queen Marie Antoinette and the scandal of the diamond necklace. Do you have anything on that subject?’

  The librarian beamed.

  ‘Why, certainly,’ he said. He went off and shortly afterwards returned with two or three large tomes. ‘You will find what you are looking for in here,’ he said.

  Angela thanked him and sat down at a table to read. After half an hour or so she closed the last book and set it aside. That all seemed clear enough, although it did not prove anything. She returned the books to the librarian.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I wonder—I am also interested in the history of an old house not far from here. The name is Poldarrow Point. Do you know of it?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said the old man. ‘Poldarrow Point is very well-known in these parts. Many years ago it was the home of a famous smuggler known as Preacher Dick Warrener, and I believe the house is still in the hands of his descendants to this day.’

  ‘I understand that there is a lease on the property,’ said Angela. ‘It was drawn up fifty or sixty years ago, apparently. I don’t suppose you keep copies of that sort of thing here?’

  ‘Oh, but yes we do,’ replied the librarian. ‘We keep copies of nearly all deeds and leases pertaining to notable and historical buildings in the area, although if the lease in question was drawn up less than fifty years ago it is possible that we may not have it. Let me have a look for you.’

  He hobbled off, and was gone for some time. Angela waited.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said when he returned. ‘We do not appear to have a copy of the lease you asked for. Perhaps you were misinformed as to its date, and it is more recent than you thought.’

  ‘That is entirely possible,’ said Angela. ‘How would one find out?’

  ‘You would have to ask the leaseholder or, more likely, his solicitor, for a copy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angela thoughtfully.

  ‘We do, however, have a rather marvellous copy of the lease pertaining to Raikes Castle, just on the other side of Penzance, if you would like to see it,’ said the librarian, in the manner of one offering a forbidden treat to a favourite grandchild. ‘It contains the most fascinating clause which gives the tenant permission to shoot on sight any trespasser caught wearing anything other than black breeches on a Sunday.’

  ‘Another time, thank you,’ said Angela. ‘You have been enormously helpful and I should like to stay here all day, but I am afraid I must go. I have just one last question: do you know of a solicitor named Penhaligon hereabouts?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the librarian. ‘You will find him on Chapel Street. It is not far.’

  Angela thanked him and said goodbye, then left the library and set off to walk along the quaint, narrow streets of the town in quest of Mr. Penhaligon. Chapel Street was, as the librarian had assured her, very near, and she found the solicitor’s office, a grey stone building by the chapel itself, without too much trouble. She went in and asked if she might speak to Mr. Penhaligon. Business was evidently quiet that morning, for she was very soon ushered into a comfortable office by a lowly clerk and invited to take a seat.

  Mr. Penhaligon had presumably been taking advantage of the lull in business to have a nap, for he presently emerged from another room, straightening his tie and stifling a yawn. He was a well-fed, middle-aged man who looked as though life had treated him kindly. He straightened up when he saw Angela and darted a glance at his clerk that boded ill for the young man. The clerk suppressed a mischievous grin and went out.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the solicitor. ‘I had no idea anybody was here. I am Mr. Penhaligon.’

  ‘Angela Marchmont,’ said Angela. ‘I’m sorry—I know I ought to have made an appointment to see you, but I just happened to be in Penzance and decided to risk a visit.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite,’ said Penhaligon. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that you represent the owner of the freehold of Poldarrow Point in Tregarrion?’

  The solicitor stiffened.

  ‘I believe I know the person to whom you are referring,’ he said cautiously. The odd tone in his voice caught her attention.

  ‘I am by way of acting as a representative of Miss Trout, the sister of the late Jeremiah Trout, who was the former leaseholder of the property,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ he said, nodding.

  Angela paused, wondering how to proceed, since strictly speaking she had no right to demand to inquire into his clients’ private matters.

  ‘I understand the lease is due to expire on the fifth of August,’ she went on. ‘On that date, if Miss Trout has been unable to agree an extension with your client, she will be required to leave Poldarrow Point.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Mr. Penhaligon. ‘Or, rather, that was correct when I sent her my last letter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Angela.

  ‘Why, that my client has sold the freehold of the house and thus no longer has any interest in the property. If Miss Trout wishes to agree another lease then she will have to deal with the new owner.’

  Angela stared in surprise. This was a fresh complication.

  ‘Might I ask the name of the new owner?’ she said at last.

  ‘I see no harm in telling you,’ replied the solicitor. ‘He is a Mr. Smart, of London.’

  There was a pause, then Mr. Penhaligon unbent a l
ittle.

  ‘Had Miss Trout intended to request an extension to the lease?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe she was hoping to do so if circumstances permitted,’ said Angela. ‘I think she might perhaps have even considered making an offer for the freehold.’

  ‘It is a pity, then, that she did not act sooner,’ said Mr. Penhaligon.

  ‘Unfortunately, she was not in a position to do so—is still not in a position to do so, in fact,’ admitted Angela. ‘But she has expectations—of a sort, at least, and—’ she paused. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, I suppose, since this Mr. Smart has got there before her.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the solicitor. ‘It does seem a shame, but this gentleman approached my client very recently and offered him a most generous sum for the freehold of the property—far more than its real worth, given that the place is almost certain to disappear into the sea in the next twenty years or so. Mr. Warrener is very frail and infirm, and has to pay the expenses of his own care, so he was only too happy to accept the offer, given that the lease was about to expire and the property would be very difficult to sell in its current condition.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Angela quickly. ‘Did you say that the name of your client is Mr. Warrener?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Mr. Penhaligon. ‘He is a descendant of the original owner of the house, who was once rather famous in these parts for his smuggling activities.’