The Treasure at Poldarrow Point Read online

  THE TREASURE AT POLDARROW POINT

  Clara Benson

  Copyright

  © 2013 Clara Benson

  All rights reserved

  The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-1-291-65373-1

  clarabenson.com

  Cover design by Yang Liu waterpaperink.com

  The Treasure at Poldarrow Point

  When Angela Marchmont goes to Cornwall on doctor's orders she is looking forward to a nice rest and nothing more exciting than a little sea-bathing. But her plans for a quiet holiday are dashed when she is caught up in the hunt for a diamond necklace which, according to legend, has been hidden in the old smugglers' house at Poldarrow Point for over a century.

  Aided by the house's elderly owner, an irrepressible twelve-year-old, and a handsome Scotland Yard detective, Angela soon finds herself embroiled in the most perplexing of mysteries. Who is the author of the anonymous letters? Why is someone breaking into the house at night? And is it really true that a notorious jewel-thief is after the treasure too? Angela must use all her powers of deduction to solve the case and find the necklace—before someone else does.

  ONE

  ‘What you need, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Dr. Wilding, ‘is a holiday. A bout of influenza like the one you’ve just had is bound to leave you feeling below par. A few weeks of sun and healthy sea air will see you as right as rain.’

  Angela Marchmont sighed.

  ‘I dare say you’re right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I have been over-exerting myself.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ said the doctor. ‘Fit and healthy people don’t tend to faint all over the place—especially not in the Royal Enclosure.’

  ‘Don’t!’ said Angela, blushing at the memory. ‘You can’t imagine what a fool I felt. And to do it in front of Cynthia Pilkington-Soames too! She won’t admit to it, but I have it on good authority that she writes the society gossip column in the Clarion. Now I suppose I shall be all over the papers again, and just when I was hoping for a little peace and quiet.’

  ‘All the more reason to get away, then. Yes,’ he went on, ‘you may consider it as doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Where do you suggest I go?’

  ‘Anywhere you like, so long as it’s not London. What about the South coast? Bournemouth, perhaps? Or if you really want to get away from it all, then Cornwall is the place to go.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Cornwall,’ said Angela thoughtfully. ‘A quiet hotel or a little cottage by the sea would be delightful.’

  ‘A cottage, you say?’ said Dr. Wilding. ‘Ah, now if it’s a cottage you’re talking about, then perhaps I can help. Another patient of mine, Mrs. Uppingham, was telling me just the other day of a house she has down there. She had been going to spend the summer there, but she broke her leg and so won’t be going anywhere for a few weeks at least. I wonder if she’d be interested in renting it to you.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Place called Tregarrion, near Penzance. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of it. It’s a quaint old fishing-village—or used to be, at any rate. The artists discovered it a few years ago, and the tourists followed shortly afterwards. Still, I gather from my patient that it hasn’t been totally spoilt yet, and is still pretty quiet by comparison with St. Ives and all those other fashionable places.’

  ‘It sounds the very thing,’ said Angela, ‘but I’m not sure it will be possible. I am engaged every evening next week, and after that I promised to go and stay with the Harrisons in Kent for a few days. Then, of course, there’s Goodwood, and by that time perhaps Mrs. Uppingham will have recovered and want her house back.’

  ‘I should have thought you had had enough of racing after that little exhibition of yours at Ascot. Well, I can’t make you do it, but I’ll be disappointed if you don’t. You can’t be too careful of your health, you know. We none of us are getting any younger.’

  ‘By which I suppose you mean I am not getting any younger,’ said Angela dryly. ‘How very tactful of you to put it that way.’

  The doctor grinned unrepentantly.

  ‘You are easily in as good a shape as a woman ten years younger, Mrs. Marchmont. If all my patients were as healthy as you I should make no money. But you are not eighteen. You can’t simply shake these things off in the same way you should have done twenty years ago.’ He glanced at his watch and rose. ‘Well, I must be going, but do think about what I said.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Angela.

  He nodded and went out.

  ‘Shall you go, madame?’ said Angela’s maid, who had been busying herself silently about the room during the doctor’s examination.

  ‘I don’t know, Marthe,’ said Angela. ‘I’d like to take a holiday, certainly, but you know what the Harrisons are like. Marguerite goes into such a huff if one cancels a visit. I should have to spend the next two years making it up to her.’

  ‘She is like a spoilt child, that one.’

  ‘A little, perhaps, but she is very good company, and I have been promising to go to them since last year.’

  ‘You do too much, madame,’ said Marthe. ‘Everybody wants you. It is very tiresome. The doctor is right: you have been ill and should rest yourself.’

  Marthe had firm ideas as to her own influence and importance which were very nearly correct.

  ‘And I shall,’ replied Angela, ‘only it may have to wait a few weeks, until I have the time.’

  ‘You must make time. It is foolish to be afraid of one’s friends in such situations as these.’

  ‘I am not afraid of Marguerite Harrison,’ said Angela with dignity. ‘Whatever makes you think I am?’

  The girl made no reply but her expression said much. Angela was about to defend herself further but was saved the trouble when the telephone-bell rang. Marthe answered it.

  ‘Mrs. Pilkington-Soames would like to speak to you,’ she said.

  Angela’s heart sank. She took the receiver.

  ‘Hallo, Cynthia,’ she said warily.

  ‘Angela, darling,’ said an excitable, high-pitched voice at the other end of the line. ‘I do hope you’re feeling better now. How simply awful for you, to faint in front of the King like that!’

  Angela closed her eyes briefly but was given no chance to reply.

  ‘His Majesty was terribly concerned for you, naturally, but he had to rush off and present the Gold Cup so he couldn’t stay. I did hear that he was asking about you afterwards, though.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angela.

  ‘I understand you’ve been quite ill, lately. Is that why you fainted? Of course, we all know about that business at Underwood, and how you were attacked. Tell me, was it very dreadful?’

  ‘Er—’ said Angela.

  ‘It must have frightened you out of your wits. The papers were full of it all. Is that why we haven’t seen you very much recently?’ Mrs. Pilkington-Soames lowered her voice to a more sympathetic level. ‘They do say that you had a sort of nervous breakdown afterwards.’

  ‘That’s absolute non—’ began Angela, but Cynthia pressed on.

  ‘Oh, c
ome now. You can tell me. Why, everyone knows that I am absolutely the last word in discretion. Now, somebody said it was influenza, but you can’t fool me, darling. Influenza, at this time of year? Whoever heard of such a thing? But seriously, Angela, I can recommend a tremendously good doctor—well, I suppose one ought to call him a psychiatrist, really. You remember Naomi McNamara, don’t you?’

  ‘I—’ said Angela.

  ‘You know, the one who had that rather unfortunate episode with the gardener’s boy? Nymphomania, I think they called it. Well, she saw this Dr. Gambara—or is it Gambetta?—I can never remember these foreign names, and he put his hands on her head and chanted something terribly esoteric and now of course she’s left her husband and gone off to Scotland to join the Order of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. So you see, he’s obviously an expert in matters of the mind.’

  ‘Er—’ said Angela.

  ‘Do remind me to give you his card. Now, darling,’ said Mrs. Pilkington-Soames, suddenly becoming brisk and business-like, ‘I have something to propose to you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. Let me explain. I was at an evening party the other night and just happened to fall into conversation with a terribly clever man, a Mr. Bickerstaffe who, I was quite astonished to discover, turns out to be the editor of the Clarion. Naturally, I know nothing about the business—’ (here, Angela pulled a disbelieving face) ‘—but he was quite the gentleman, which surprised me, as I had always understood that newspaper people were rather rough.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ went on Mrs. Pilkington-Soames, ‘you won’t believe it, but while we were talking about this and that it somehow came out that I knew you. He was terribly excited when he found out, and asked me if there was any chance that I should be able to get an interview with you. Now do say yes, darling.’

  ‘Are you quite mad?’ said Angela before she could stop herself. Fortunately, Cynthia was not listening, and went on:

  ‘Why, just think what an enormous scoop it would be for me! You are one of the most famous women in England today thanks to your recent exploits. The public are simply dying to know everything about you. I thought perhaps I could write about you from a more personal angle, with some photographs—you know what I mean: “Mrs. Marchmont relaxing at home,” and all that sort of thing. You could give the readers your advice for baking the perfect sponge cake, or something of the kind.’

  ‘Baking?’ said Angela, aghast.

  ‘Oh yes, our women readers love all that domestic stuff: “When at home, our lady detective puts away her gun and takes up her rolling-pin.” We could even have a picture of you in a pinny.’

  ‘Our women readers?’

  Cynthia was brought up short as she realized what she had just almost admitted.

  ‘Well, the Clarion’s readers. I was quoting Mr. Bickerstaffe directly,’ she said rather feebly. ‘Anyway, I’ve told him that you’d be delighted. It will be easy enough—we can do the interview itself at the Harrisons’ next week, and I can send a photographer round after that to take some pictures of you in your flat.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going to be at the Harrisons’.’

  ‘Didn’t Marguerite tell you? Yes, I shall be there. Anyway, darling, I really must dash now, but I’ll see you next week. And don’t worry about the interview—it will just be a cosy chat between friends.’

  She saluted Angela gaily and hung up. No sooner had she gone than Angela rattled the button urgently and asked to make a trunk call.

  ‘Go into the bedroom and start packing my things,’ she said to Marthe as she waited for the operator to connect the call. ‘I am not going to Kent after all. I am going to Cornwall instead. I am just going to tell Marguerite now. You see, you were wrong,’ she could not help adding. ‘I am not afraid of anyone.’

  ‘I see nothing of the kind, madame,’ said Marthe. ‘I see only that you are more afraid of Mrs. Pilkington-Soames than you are of Mrs. Harrison.’

  Since this was perfectly true, Angela made no reply.

  TWO

  Angela Marchmont threw open the French windows onto the terrace and took a deep breath of bracing salt air. The warm sun glinted on the sea, and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks beneath was at once uplifting and soothing. Above and below her seagulls wheeled, swooped and shrieked, and the sea was dotted here and there with brightly-coloured fishing boats and pleasure craft.

  ‘This is quite delightful,’ said Angela to herself. ‘I can’t think why I have never come here before. I’m sorry for Mrs. Uppingham and her broken leg but I must say it has all turned out rather well for me.’

  As befitted its name, Kittiwake Cottage was perched halfway down the cliff path that led from the former fishing village of Tregarrion to the sea. It was one of a pair of quaint old white houses that sat side by side, maintaining a dignified distance from the bustle of the town itself. The other was named Shearwater Cottage, and was presently inhabited by an elderly woman and her daughter. To Angela’s left lay the wide sweep of Tregarn bay, which stretched into the distance and ended in a headland some miles away, its curving shoreline broken only by the town’s little harbour. Tregarrion was an undeniably picturesque place, its hilly streets lined with brightly-coloured houses that looked almost like a child’s toy building-blocks stacked one on top of the other. It was easy to see why artists had begun flocking here a few years before. Away to the right and far below was a rocky cove, tucked out of sight of the town, its cliffs scarred and pitted from thousands of years of battering by the ocean. The cove was reached by means of the cliff path, which forked in two just before it reached Kittiwake Cottage and descended steeply to a tiny beach of yellow sand. The other branch of the path led along the cliff top to a nearby promontory, where sat a big house in dark stone which stared gloomily out to sea and appeared to be in a state of some disrepair.

  Angela sat on the terrace for a while, taking in the sunshine and thinking of nothing in particular. Eventually, however, lured irresistibly by the possibilities of the day, she got up, fetched a parasol and went out through the gate that separated the little garden from the lower cliff path. As she was looking to the left and right, wondering which way to go, she caught sight of a figure toiling up the track from the beach. As it drew near, the figure revealed itself to be a young woman wearing a bathing-dress and cap and carrying a damp towel. She caught sight of Angela and waved.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Marchmont,’ she said, as soon as she was within speaking distance. ‘Isn’t it the most splendid day? The water is simply heavenly down there. I shouldn’t have come out at all had I not promised Mother I’d be back within the hour.’

  ‘Isn’t it cold?’ said Angela.

  ‘A little, at first,’ said the girl, ‘but the exercise soon warms one up.’ Her normally pale, serious face was alight with enjoyment. ‘What about you? Do you intend to bathe while you are here?’

  ‘Why, I haven’t swum in years,’ said Angela, ‘but I’ll admit it does look very appealing. Perhaps I shall give it a try one day.’

  ‘You must do it at low tide, though,’ said the girl. ‘At high tide the sea gets very rough and dangerous and can dash you against the rocks. Not only that, but if you’re not careful you can get cut off from the path and drown.’

  ‘I shall keep that in mind,’ promised Angela.

  ‘Helen!’ cried a voice suddenly from the window of Shearwater Cottage. The girl lifted her head and her face immediately drained of all its radiance and once again became pallid and expressionless.

  ‘That’s Mother,’ she said. ‘She gets cross if I leave her for too long, but I’m afraid I was enjoying my bathe so much I rather forgot the time.’

  The voice called again, more loudly this time, and Helen smiled apologetically.

  ‘I must go,’ she said, and hurried in through the gate and up the garden path. As Angela watched her go, she caught sight of a woman’s face at the open window. It was a discontented, querulous face: the sort of f
ace that looked as though its owner liked nothing better than to find fault. The woman caught sight of Angela and her habitual frown disappeared, to be replaced by a wide smile. Angela waved and went on her way.

  She reached the fork in the cliff path and, after a moment’s thought, took the branch that led back behind her own cottage and towards the big house on the headland. The sun was high in the sky now, and it would have been very warm had it not been for a refreshing sea breeze that was just strong enough to bring relief from the heat without blowing one’s hat off. Angela strolled along the path, stopping every so often to drink in the sunshine and the scenery and to look back at the way she had come. Her spirits lifted with every step and she idly pondered the possibility of buying a little holiday house in the area.

  The place was quite deserted—or so she thought until she came to the point where the cliff top curved around and jutted out to form the headland. Here a bench had been placed at the side of the path in such a way as to take best advantage of the view. On the bench a man sat, smoking a cigarette and idly drawing patterns in the earth with a malacca cane. He was impeccably dressed in a light suit and straw hat, and was the very picture of ease and contentment.

  Angela glanced at him as she passed by and would have thought no more about him had he not happened to look up and give what she was almost sure was a start of surprise when he saw her. Her attention caught, she turned her head sharply to look at him, but in that instant he had recovered himself, and merely put down his cane and raised his hat with an affable smile. Angela acknowledged the salutation and walked on. She must have imagined it; or perhaps he had recognized her—after all, her photograph had been in the newspapers often enough lately.

  After a few minutes she reached the end of the headland and stopped to look at the old house which, she now saw, stood perilously close to the cliff edge. At one time it must have had a large expanse of garden, but the erosion of the cliffs had caused a portion of it to be sacrificed to the sea, and what remained looked as though it had once been well-tended but was now in need of attention. The state of the house itself was little better: paint peeled from its doors and window frames, and one of the upstairs windows was actually boarded up. It must have been a handsome building once—perhaps the home of a wealthy farmer or boat-owner—but its glory days were long gone and it sat there forlornly, a sad relic of better times.