The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (10 page)

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.’

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, Clifford 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.

‘I say!’ said Barbara in delight.

‘It was not funny,’ said Clifford with dignity. ‘They knocked me to the ground in order to remove it. I might have been seriously hurt.’

Barbara attempted a solemn expression and almost succeeded.

‘The police, I am afraid to say, were inclined to take a lenient view of the affair,’ said Miss Trout.

‘They laughed when I said I wanted to press charges,’ said Clifford. ‘There was one in particular—a red-headed sergeant, who was most disrespectful. If
that
is how the law is enforced in this area, then I shall do without the help of the police, thank you.’

‘But what was the man doing in the house?’ asked Angela. ‘Was he searching for the necklace, do you think?’

‘I think he must have been,’ said Miss Trout.

‘Did you hear the altercation yourself?’

‘No,’ said Miss Trout. ‘Or perhaps I did, but did not notice it. I often hear noises in the house at night—especially recently, but I always assumed that they were due to the wind blowing in a particular direction at this time of year. I’m afraid, therefore, that poor Clifford had to face the thief all on his own.’

‘Oh, Angela,’ said Barbara, ‘we
must
find the necklace soon. Someone else is after it and we can’t let them get it first, we simply can’t. Angela has had an anonymous letter too, you know,’ she went on to Miss Trout.

‘What?’ said Clifford and Miss Trout at the same time. Barbara nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It said that she would be killed if she came to Poldarrow Point again.’

‘That’s not
quite
what it said,’ said Angela.

‘Was it the same as the other letters?’ asked Clifford. He looked almost cross.

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘It was certainly from the same person, and said much the same thing as before.’

‘I see,’ said Clifford, and relapsed into a moody silence.

‘There must be a connection between the letters and the attack on Mr. Maynard,’ said Barbara, ‘and even if there isn’t, I think we ought to have another look for the necklace.’

‘I think you might be right,’ said Angela. She was thinking hard. Who was the mysterious attacker? Could it be Edgar Valencourt, making an attempt to find Marie Antoinette’s necklace in the dead of night? If so, had he been here before? Miss Trout said she often heard noises in the night. Perhaps he had been here already, searching the house carefully night after night until finally his luck ran out and he was caught in the act by Clifford.

‘I’m going to search the kitchen,’ said Barbara. ‘Are you coming, Angela?’

‘I shall come too,’ said Miss Trout. ‘We shall have to do without Clifford today, I fear.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Clifford. ‘My head aches and I can hardly think. Shall you be able to manage alone, Aunt Emily?’

‘I think so, dear,’ said Miss Trout. ‘I shall call you if any difficulties arise.’

‘She won’t be alone,’ said Barbara. ‘She will have us.’

They went out, leaving Clifford lying in a dramatic attitude on the divan and groaning with great feeling.

‘If the necklace isn’t in the house, then where can it be?’ said Barbara the next day. Their second search had proved just as unsuccessful as the first and she was very grumpy about it, feeling somehow as though the necklace were defying her by remaining firmly hidden despite their efforts.

‘I don’t know,’ said Angela, frowning abstractedly over her post. She had received a letter from Marguerite Harrison, expressing her best wishes for Angela’s quick recovery while at the same time berating her for cancelling her trip to Kent.

‘What are you doing today?’ said Barbara.

‘Apparently I promised to play tennis with the Dorseys this afternoon,’ said Angela. ‘Or, at least, that is what Mrs. Walters tells me.’

Barbara wrinkled her nose.

‘That sounds awfully dull,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll join you.’

Since nobody had invited her anyway, Angela made no objection, and a short while later Barbara went out on mysterious errands of her own. Angela was glad of this, as she wanted to speak to Inspector Simpson in private. Accordingly, she walked down to the Hotel Splendide to find him. He was not on the terrace, but when she asked at the desk he was swiftly located and came out to meet her. He greeted her as an old friend, and invited her to take a stroll along the lower promenade.

The sun had re-emerged after the rain of the day before, and the day promised to be a warm one. As they walked down the steep steps, Angela related to him the results of their search of Poldarrow Point, and he nodded.

‘It was only to be expected,’ he said. ‘Something that has been hidden for so long is unlikely to be found so easily. Do you intend to keep trying?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘It’s hardly how I expected to be spending my holiday, but Miss Trout is so kind that it is very difficult to refuse her—especially since she is clearly so reluctant to ask.’

Simpson laughed at her rueful face.

‘The dangers of an active conscience!’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘But it’s not just that. Barbara is still keen, too, and someone needs to keep an eye on her or she will carry all before her. She is my responsibility, I suppose, and believe me when I say that nobody deserves to have Barbara inflicted upon them when she is in the full flow of one of her enthusiasms.’

Where is Miss Barbara this morning, by the way?’ he said.

‘I have no idea,’ said Angela, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if she has gone to look
for more secret passages. She has an insatiable appetite for mischief.’

Simpson laughed.

‘And she looks a sharp one, too,’ he said. ‘When I saw her in the garden the other day as I was passing I dared not ask to see the anonymous letters—which, of course, were the real purpose of my visit.’

‘Yes, I guessed as much,’ said Angela. ‘That is why I brought them with me today.’

When they reached the promenade at the bottom of the steps they sat down on a seat and she took the small sheaf of papers from her pocket and handed them to him. He read them through carefully, then handed them back to her.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘What did you make of them?’

‘Not much, myself,’ said Angela. ‘I’m afraid all the credit must go to my maid, Marthe, who knew immediately by the style of the writing and the scent of the paper that they were written by a woman.’

‘A woman, eh?’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose the handwriting is more feminine than masculine.’

‘Then they could not have been written by Edgar Valencourt,’ said Angela. ‘Unless, of course, he has a female accomplice. His wife, perhaps, or a sister.’

‘He is not married,’ said Simpson.

‘But do you know that for certain? Pardon me, but you seem to know very little about him, and people do tend to marry as a rule.’

Simpson considered the point.

‘He was said to have had a wife once, but she died,’ he said. ‘We have always assumed that he did not remarry, but of course he might well have done. I am not married myself, so I dare say I look at life from the bachelor’s point of view and therefore assume that Valencourt is working alone. There you have the advantage over me, Mrs. Marchmont, since you can see things from the wife’s side.’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ said Angela, before she could stop herself. There was an under-current of bitterness in her tone and he looked up sharply.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I had no idea you were a widow.’

‘You didn’t offend me,’ she said, ‘and I’m not a widow.’

‘Then—’ he hesitated.

‘My husband and I parted company some time ago,’ she said. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then she smiled. ‘But this is all quite beside the point,’ she said. ‘I have not yet told you about the latest letter.’

She brought out the anonymous note that had been sent to herself and handed it to him. He read it with concern.

‘So you have received one too,’ he said. ‘This is a rather worrying development.’

Angela nodded.

‘I must confess I was not convinced initially by your view that the writer of these letters was dangerous,’ she said, ‘but subsequent events have given me pause for thought.’

‘What do you mean?’

Angela told him about the attack on Clifford Maynard and his frown deepened.

‘Was he badly hurt?’ he asked.

‘Not as badly as he wanted us to think,’ said Angela. ‘I believe he was rather enjoying the attention, and so perhaps exaggerated his injuries somewhat. He refused to have a doctor.’

‘I see. And what are the police doing to find the attacker?’

‘Nothing,’ said Angela. ‘Mr. Maynard would not have them called.’

‘Why not?’

‘It appears that there was some disagreement with the local constabulary a few weeks ago in the matter of a stolen hat,’ she said.

His eyes twinkled.

‘Perhaps that is for the best,’ he said. ‘Things are already complicated enough as it is.’

‘Well, I have told
you
now,’ said Angela, ‘so at least the police do know about it.’

‘Yes we do,’ he said, ‘and I shall add it to my notes this evening.’

‘Have you had any more luck in finding Valencourt?’

‘None at all, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘We are very much hamstrung by the fact that we have no accurate description of him. Up to now his victims have only seen him in disguise, and he has disappeared from the scene before anybody has been able to unmask him. He could be tall or short, fat or thin, bearded or clean-shaven—we simply don’t know.’

‘That is certainly a disadvantage,’ agreed Angela. She seemed to be thinking about something, and it caught his attention.

‘Do you have any suspicions yourself?’ he asked, with a sharp glance at her.

‘Not exactly,’ said Angela slowly, ‘but it did occur to me to wonder why the Dorseys have been staying out all night recently.’

‘Now, that is interesting,’ said Simpson. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Mrs. Walters. She has seen them on several occasions returning to the hotel at about four or five o’clock in the morning. She assumed they had been out dancing, but Tregarrion is still a small town and I don’t believe it has any night-clubs.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Perhaps they have been going into Penzance.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Angela. ‘What do you know about the Dorseys, Mr. Simpson?’

‘Only what I have learned from themselves since I arrived,’ he said. ‘They are from London and are here on holiday. I don’t know what Dorsey does, but they seem to live comfortably. They have not exactly put themselves out to make friends, and such as they do have appear to have been procured for them by the indefatigable Mrs. Walters, who insists on knowing everyone’s business and forcing people to be sociable.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Angela, laughing. ‘She can be rather tiresome.’

‘But through her I have met you, so she can’t be all bad,’ he said gallantly.

‘I am supposed to play tennis with the Dorseys and Helen Walters this afternoon,’ said Angela, shaking her head at the compliment. ‘Mrs. Walters has arranged it all for us. I shall have to see what I can discover.’

‘Three women and one man?’

‘Yes. It’s not ideal, but Mr. Dorsey has promised to give the opposing side a two-game head start in each set. Is Valencourt a dab at tennis, do you happen to know?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Simpson with a laugh. ‘So that’s your little theory, is it? Dorsey as the fugitive from justice? I suppose it’s always possible that Valencourt is now disguising himself as a respectable married man. Perhaps I shall come down and watch you this afternoon, in that case.’

‘Do,’ said Angela, ‘and you shall see exactly what happens when a middle-aged woman who is completely out of practice tries to remember how to return a back-hand. I only hope the hotel has plenty of spare balls.’

He laughed and offered her his arm, and they strolled off amicably.