The Treasure at Poldarrow Point Page 12

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Angela, ‘we must do it again. How long are you staying at the hotel, Mrs. Dorsey?’

  Harriet shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps another week or two. Lionel’s business is slow in summer so we can please ourselves.’

  ‘Oh? What is your business, Mr. Dorsey?’

  ‘Imports and exports,’ said Lionel shortly. He seemed to realize that he had sounded unduly blunt, and went on, ‘I deal mostly with the Italians and the Greeks, and they all take the summer off.’

  ‘And so you can too,’ said Mrs. Walters, with a little trill of laughter. ‘It must be such a relief for you to take a well-earned rest once a year,’ she went on. ‘I always find that by the time May comes round, one feels the need for a holiday growing ever stronger, and when the time finally arrives, it is so delightful to breathe in the sea air and let one’s cares slip from one’s shoulders.’

  Angela glanced at the plump and well-cared-for Mrs. Walters and wondered uncharitably what cares the woman could possibly have. She turned her head and saw Mr. Simpson looking at her with an amused expression, and had the oddest feeling that he knew what she was thinking. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and she took her cue.

  ‘Yes, I was hoping for a nice rest, myself,’ she said brightly, ‘but this affair of the letters has quite ruined any hopes I might have had of a quiet holiday.’

  Mrs. Walters nodded sympathetically and the Dorseys looked up—warily, Angela thought.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mr. Dorsey. ‘What letters?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t Mrs. Walters tell you?’ said Angela. ‘I received an anonymous letter a day or two ago, which warned me not to go to Poldarrow Point again or my life would be in danger.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Harriet. ‘Why should anybody send you a letter like that? And who was it?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Angela, ‘but I imagine it was the same person who has sent several similar letters to Miss Trout herself.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs. Walters in surprise. ‘You never mentioned that before.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether I ought to make it public,’ said Angela, ‘but now I have reached the conclusion that the more people who know about it, the better. Some of the letters were quite threatening, you see, and I thought it might be a good idea to get the matter out into the open, so to speak. I am thinking of the safety of poor Miss Trout, who has been threatened with all kinds of dire things if she doesn’t leave her home immediately. Think of that! Who could possibly write such terrible things to such a kind old lady? Why, I never should have thought it possible.’

  ‘It was probably someone local,’ said Lionel Dorsey. ‘Someone with a grudge against her, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps. But who could have a grudge against me? I haven’t been here long enough to make any enemies,’ said Angela.

  ‘What does Miss Trout say about the letters?’ asked Mrs. Dorsey, with a sudden show of interest. ‘Is she frightened, do you think?’

  Angela saw Mr. Simpson observing Harriet covertly, and replied, ‘Not at all, I should say. She is certainly mystified, but I shouldn’t say she was the type to be easily frightened.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I should have said,’ said Lionel Dorsey, as though that settled a long-standing argument. His wife pouted but said nothing.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any reason for Miss Trout to be frightened for her own safety,’ said Simpson. ‘I have always understood that the sort of people who write anonymous letters are generally not the sort of people to take direct action themselves. That is, they write the letters instead of taking action, in the hope that the letters will be enough in themselves to achieve the aim they have in mind.’

  ‘Until yesterday I should have agreed with you,’ said Angela, ‘but recent events have contradicted that view.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs. Walters.

  ‘Why, that yesterday, Miss Trout’s nephew, Clifford Maynard, was attacked by an intruder in the middle of the night.’

  The others all gave exclamations of surprise and concern, and Angela related the events of the day before.

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’ asked Mrs. Walters.

  Angela thought she saw a disbelieving look pass briefly over Harriet’s face, but it was replaced immediately by her customary mask of detachment.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Angela. ‘He has some bruising to the face and is in a certain amount of discomfort, but there is no danger to his life. Nonetheless, it was a serious incident.’

  ‘Do you think there is a connection between this attack and the anonymous letters?’ prompted Simpson.

  ‘It would be a great coincidence if there weren’t, don’t you think?’ said Angela.

  ‘Rot,’ said Lionel Dorsey rudely. ‘Why, I’ll bet there’s no connection at all. In fact, I’ll bet there wasn’t even an intruder. Maynard was probably sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to help himself to the contents of the drinks cabinet and tripped over his own feet. He was too embarrassed to confess it, so had to invent a story about a burglar to explain his injuries without looking like an idiot.’

  His wife giggled.

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Angela politely.

  ‘Mark my words, that’s what happened,’ said Lionel. ‘The silly old fool.’

  Shortly afterwards the Dorseys stood up and prepared to leave. They were going out that evening, they said. Angela wondered whether they were going to make another late night of it. As they were going, Harriet Dorsey brushed past Angela, leaving a strong gust of scent behind her.

  ‘I like your perfume,’ said Angela boldly. ‘Shalimar, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  They separated and Mr. Simpson accompanied Mrs. Walters and Mrs. Marchmont back along the cliff path. He deposited Mrs. Walters with great ceremony at her door, then walked the few yards to Kittiwake Cottage with Angela.

  ‘What did you think?’ said Angela as they stood together at the gate.

  Mr. Simpson raised his eyebrows significantly.

  ‘About the Dorseys? Yes, I do think they bear further investigation,’ he said.

  ‘Harriet is left-handed,’ said Angela, ‘and Marthe says the letters were written by a left-handed woman. And she wears Shalimar.’ Simpson glanced at her questioningly and she said with a smile, ‘I rely on Marthe more than I can possibly say. If she says that a sheet of note-paper smells of Shalimar, then she is almost certainly right.’

  ‘I was interested to observe the Dorseys’ reaction to the story of the assault on Clifford Maynard,’ he said ruminatively.

  ‘Yes, that was odd, wasn’t it? They didn’t seem to give it any credence at all,’ said Angela. ‘But if it is true that Lionel Dorsey is Edgar Valencourt, then he must have carried out the attack himself, while he was searching Poldarrow Point for the necklace in the dead of night. At the very least one would have expected him to show pretended concern for Mr. Maynard, but instead he insisted that the story must have been entirely fabricated.’

  ‘Perhaps Dorsey wasn’t the intruder, then.’

  ‘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.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Shh!’ hissed Angela. She grabbed Barbar
a’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 sp
ent 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.

  TWENTY

  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.