The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (14 page)

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ said Mrs. Marchmont, regarding the
Miss Louise
doubtfully as it bobbed up and down in the water several feet below. The battered old fishing lugger had peeling paint and several visible repairs, and looked as though its better days were far behind it.

‘’Course she’s safe,’ said Mr. Gibbs from the stern of the boat. ‘She’s been out every day of her life ’cepting Sundays since eighteen eighty-seven. Forty years of rough winters she’s lived through. Isn’t that right, Bill?’

His son, a hardy-looking lad of fifteen, nodded in agreement.

‘That is what concerns me,’ said Angela. ‘This boat is older than I am.’

‘And she’ll live through forty more,’ went on Gibbs, ‘as long as she’s treated right. Anyway, you can swim, can’t you?’

Angela ignored this last remark.

‘But you said you didn’t go out on Sundays,’ she said.

‘Not for the fish, I don’t,’ said Gibbs. ‘The fish’ll still be there tomorrow. But for a nice lady and gentleman what takes a fancy to going on a picnic—well, I was young myself, once. The sunshine might be gone by Tuesday and then what will you do?’

‘Mr. Gibbs comes highly recommended,’ said Simpson, who was down in the boat, having stowed the picnic-basket, and was now examining the engine in the typical manner of the male of the species. ‘The head waiter at the hotel sang his praises in the most effusive terms.’

‘I dare say he did, but I must confess I had been thinking on the lines of a pleasure-cruiser, rather than a Cornish lugger,’ said Angela.

Simpson assumed an expression of mock horror.

‘A pleasure-cruiser? What, mingle with a hundred screeching and perspiring day-visitors, all fighting for the best seats and dropping their sandwiches everywhere, when we can have this quaint and traditional old fishing-craft to ourselves and enjoy the sea breeze in our faces in peace?’

‘Nothing like it,’ agreed Gibbs.

‘Very well, I shall take you on trust, Mr. Gibbs,’ said Angela, ‘but if you wish for a tip, you had better get us back alive. And preferably dry,’ she added as an afterthought.

Gibbs grinned and watched as she climbed nimbly down the iron rungs that were set into the pier. Simpson held out a hand and she jumped lightly into the boat.

‘Down the coast, then, was it?’ said the old fisherman.

‘Yes,’ said Simpson. ‘We’d like to see the western end of Tregarn Bay, which I understand is a fine sight.’

‘Ah,’ said Bill, nodding.

‘That it is,’ agreed Gibbs. He brought out two rather grubby cushions and threw them to his guests. ‘The accommodations here aren’t what you might call Buckin’am Palace, but you’ll be comfortable enough if you don’t expect too much.’

‘Shall I cast off, then, Dad?’ said Bill.

‘Right you are,’ said Mr. Gibbs, firing up the motor.

Bill untied the rope and the engine roared and smoked as the
Miss Louise
drew slowly away from the dock. The boat turned, describing a large semi-circle, then headed out towards the harbour mouth. Angela gazed back the way they had come, and there was Tregarrion, glowing colourfully in the strong midday light, its brightly-painted houses looking more than ever like a child’s building-blocks, stacked higgledy-piggledy one on top of another. They passed the small light-house at the end of the pier, with its line of fishermen sitting and day-dreaming by their rods, and then they were in open sea. The
Miss Louise
turned to the North-West and chugged along the coast, rocking gently with the waves, for it was a calm day. They passed Kittiwake Cottage and Poldarrow Cove, and came to the headland on which Poldarrow Point stood. The old house looked even more gloomy and ramshackle from the sea, if that were possible, and they could see where parts of the garden had begun to collapse over the edge of the cliff. Angela wondered whether Miss Trout would ever be able to afford the repairs that were so clearly necessary. Perhaps, after all, it would make more sense for her to leave the place, rather than have the worry of it for the rest of her life.

The sun was warm, and Angela pulled off her hat to let the breeze cool her head. She turned and found George Simpson staring thoughtfully at the house as they passed. He saw her looking at him and smiled.

‘It’s a fine old place, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘If I were rich enough, perhaps I should buy it myself and spend my time in restoring it to its former glory.’

Angela looked back at the house and, for the first time, saw it as it must once have been a hundred or more years ago: a comfortable old manor house, home to a family of some local importance. The Warreners must have been responsible in great measure for relieving poverty in this area thanks to their smuggling activities, which had all been possible thanks to the secret tunnel to the house. A great many local people must have had cause to thank Preacher Dick for their livelihoods—however
illicit. As was the way of all things, however, the Warreners’ fortunes had declined in the end. Smuggling had all but died out and with it, the family’s main source of income. Now only Miss Trout, a frail, elderly lady, remained to preserve the Warreners’ legacy (Angela disregarded Clifford Maynard, who did not appear to have the necessary strength of character).

‘Do you think the place could be made comfortable again?’ she asked. ‘You might not be able to live in it for long, as it seems to be falling into the sea at a rather rapid rate.’

‘Think of the romance of it all, though,’ he said eagerly. ‘I can think of nothing better than to spend my days living in this remote place, among such beautiful, rugged scenery.’

‘It’s all very well in the middle of July, when the sun is shining and the day is clear,’ said Angela practically, ‘but you wouldn’t say that if you had to live here through a cold and stormy November, with the wind howling through every crack and cranny of the house, chilling your very bones and making you wish for the warm fires of London.’

‘Oh but I should,’ he said. ‘Remember, I intend to repair the place. Once it had been restored to all its former comfort I should sit by the fire in my library, reading improving books and listening to the sound of the rain battering at the windows, while feeling unspeakably satisfied with myself and my achievements.’

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever read an improving book,’ said Angela, ‘but I understand they are meant to be good for the soul, if a little on the dull side. They will give you something to do during the long winter, though, when the social calls begin to peter out.’

He laughed.

‘Yes, perhaps it would become tedious after a while. Perhaps I shall keep Poldarrow as a holiday home, then, and come here only in fair weather.’

‘Now that I do approve of,’ said Angela, and turned to give the house one last look as it receded into the distance.

They had now come into Tregarn Bay proper, and they fell silent for a few minutes, admiring the beauty of the rugged Cornish coast-line. The boat kept a good way out to sea for a while, then turned in and hugged the shore, to allow them to see it more closely. Angela, lost in her own thoughts, shielded her eyes from the sun to look at a stone cross that stood on a distant hill. She wondered who had built it, and why. She turned to point it out to Simpson and found him looking at her intently. Resisting the urge to smooth her hair, she smiled and said:

‘I suppose we ought to compare notes on the case.’

‘Don’t let’s just yet,’ he said. ‘This is all so pleasant that I don’t want to spoil it with work. Let’s have our picnic first.’

‘Where are we going to have it?’

‘Just there,’ said Simpson, pointing.

Angela looked in the direction of his finger and saw that they were heading for a narrow inlet that formed a sort of natural harbour. The
Miss Louise
nosed her way in through the entrance, which widened into a pretty little cove, surrounded by low cliffs and clumps of trees. The lugger chugged slowly shoreward, and Mr. Gibbs brought it with great care alongside a rocky promontory, which was evidently used as an occasional landing-stage, for a mooring-post had been fixed to one of the larger, flatter rocks. Almost before the boat had stopped Bill sprang out with great agility and tied it up. His father handed him the picnic-basket and he carried it to the beach, leaping from rock to rock at a breakneck pace without once missing his step. Simpson and Angela followed more slowly. Bill set the basket down without saying a word, then immediately went back to the boat, presumably for his own lunch.

‘What a delightful spot,’ said Angela, looking about her. The place was deserted apart from themselves, and nothing could be heard except the splashing of the waves and the gentle swish of the trees around them.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ agreed Simpson. ‘I had thought about lunch in Penzance, but Gibbs insisted that this was the better choice, and I must say I agree with him.’

Since the sun was high and rather hot, they sat down in a shady spot at the edge of the beach, under a tree, and Angela began unpacking the basket. There was a lot of food.

‘I think Cook must have misunderstood my instructions, and somehow thought that she had been asked to feed an army,’ said Angela as she regarded the spread of freshly-baked bread, cold ham, eggs and tomatoes, as well as an entire fruit cake, that was laid out before them. ‘Either that or she must have thought that Barbara was coming.’

Simpson laughed and helped Angela to a sandwich.

‘Where is Barbara today?’ he said.

‘She said she was going to walk to Land’s End,’ said Angela. ‘I
think
she was joking, but one can never be entirely sure with Barbara. She is a law unto herself.’

‘She has no parents, I think you said?’

‘Yes, and she spends most of the year at school—although I sometimes wonder what they are teaching her. She certainly doesn’t seem to be learning any discipline.’

‘Perhaps not, but she seems to have her head screwed on all right,’ said Simpson.

‘That is my comfort,’ agreed Angela. ‘She is old beyond her years, and has a decent amount of common sense, so I am
almost
sure she won’t end up in prison.’

They laughed and set to demolishing the picnic. It was very pleasant to feel the soft sand under the rug and the warm sun on one’s skin, and to lose oneself in the beauty of the day. Angela gazed out at the distant promontory, watching the
Miss Louise
bobbing gently on the waves. She could see Mr. Gibbs and Bill busying themselves on deck, and admired their activity without feeling any inclination to imitate them. On the contrary, she rather felt as though she would like a nap. She roused herself with an effort and looked at the remains of the food. There was less than she had expected.

‘Perhaps Cook was right after all,’ she said. ‘I must have been hungrier than I thought.’

‘Yes, we have eaten rather a lot, haven’t we?’ said Simpson, who was lounging idly against a tree trunk. ‘Your cook evidently has lots of experience in catering for boat parties. There is something about the sea air that seems to give one a tremendous appetite.’

‘There is still plenty of the cake left,’ said Angela. ‘Barbara will be pleased. She has the schoolgirl’s love of all things sweet. Perhaps Mr. Gibbs and Bill would like a slice each too.’

‘I should like another slice myself,’ said Mr. Simpson regretfully, ‘but I’m afraid I simply haven’t room for it.’ He sat up. ‘I feel I am about to fall asleep, which would be dreadfully rude. You must talk to me, Mrs. Marchmont, and keep me awake.’

Angela laughed.

‘As a matter of fact, I do have one or two things I should like to discuss with you. Barbara insisted most particularly that I speak to you today about them.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She had rather an adventure last night.’

Angela related Barbara’s story and he pursed his lips in a whistle.

‘So the nephew and the Dorseys are in league together? Is that the story?’ He paused for a few moments, thinking. ‘That certainly puts an interesting aspect on the case,’ he said.

‘It does indeed,’ said Angela, ‘and it has also caused me to wonder about the real identity of Edgar Valencourt.’

Simpson was instantly alert.

‘Oh? Why is that?’ he said.

‘Something that Barbara said,’ she replied. ‘We were wondering why Clifford had asked the Dorseys to help him in his search, and had come to the conclusion that Mr. Dorsey’s import and export business would make the ideal cover for the sale of stolen goods.’

‘So it would,’ said Simpson. ‘We shall have to look into that.’

‘Yes, but I had been viewing Lionel Dorsey as a possible Edgar Valencourt, not just a “common little man who sells stolen goods”, as Barbara put it.’

‘Don’t you think he could be both?’

‘Perhaps. But all the knowledge I have of Valencourt I have got from you, and the impression you gave me doesn’t quite square with what I have seen of Mr. Dorsey up to now.’

‘In what way?’

Angela hesitated.

‘I should say that Mr. Dorsey is a rather small-minded man, not too bright, who might just have the wits to run a shady business but nothing more. I certainly can’t see him as the master-mind behind a series of audacious and cleverly-planned thefts all across Europe. From what you say, Valencourt is a man who delights in taking risks—why, he thinks nothing of going directly into the lion’s den and achieving his object by sheer force of personality. Think of all the rich women he has fooled into handing over their most valuable possessions! I can’t see Lionel Dorsey playing such a part. He simply hasn’t the charm.’