The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (11 page)

After lunch, Mrs. Marchmont picked up her tennis racquet and set off to the hotel as agreed to meet the Dorseys, stopping to call for the Walters’ on the way. Somewhat to her surprise, only Mrs. Walters accompanied her, since Helen was feeling unwell and had asked to remain at home.

‘So inconvenient when I need her to hand,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘What if I am taken ill myself? Who is to look after
me
?’

‘Oh, but you have been so well lately,’ said Angela encouragingly. ‘You told me yourself that the sea air had made you feel much better. I am sure you won’t need any assistance.’

‘Let us hope not,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘I should be quite lost without my daughter, Mrs. Marchmont. She is all the world to me. Such a pity that
you
have no-one of your own to look after you when you reach the age of infirmity—although perhaps your god-daughter might be persuaded.’

Angela suppressed a smile as she tried to imagine Barbara as the patient and constant companion of a demanding old woman.

‘I think that if it ever comes to that, I shall hire myself a nurse,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Barbara would take too kindly to the idea of spending half her life attending to the whims of a tiresome invalid. And I should certainly never ask it of her. What—demand that she give up her youth—all fun, and dancing, and laughter, and love—to attend to an old woman who can afford to pay for help? Why, I shouldn’t dream of it!’

Mrs. Walters had no reply to make and Angela, who felt sorry for Helen, hoped the shot had gone home.

They reached the hotel and found the Dorseys standing by the tennis court, talking to George Simpson.

‘My dears,’ exclaimed Mrs. Walters, ‘I’m afraid we are one short this afternoon. Helen finds herself very unwell today and unable to get up. She asks to be excused.’

‘Oh, what a shame, poor darling,’ said Harriet Dorsey in her usual uninterested tones.

‘It looks as though the doubles match is off, then,’ said Lionel Dorsey, ‘unless you’d both care to take me on at once.’

Mrs. Walters had a better idea.

‘Do you play, Mr. Simpson?’ she said.

Simpson looked surprised.

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘When the occasion presents itself.’

‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Lionel Dorsey.

Simpson took little persuading and went off to change into his whites. He returned a few minutes later, and Angela was surprised at the transformation in him. She had not supposed him to be particularly athletic, but he looked completely at home in his tennis gear, displaying a suppleness and energy that she had not noticed in him before. He took a few practice swipes with his racquet and declared himself ready to be beaten, and they all went off to the court.

Angela found herself paired with Lionel Dorsey and play began. As she had suspected, the Dorseys were excellent players and she had to concentrate very hard to keep up with their pace. The real revelation, however, was George Simpson, who astonished everyone with his prowess, serving ace after ace and returning volley after volley. He seemed to be everywhere at once, diving for shots that Harriet had missed and slamming the ball over the net faster than the eye could blink. The result was a foregone conclusion and the game was over in two sets.

‘You never said you could play tennis,’ said Lionel Dorsey accusingly, as he shook hands somewhat reluctantly with Simpson. ‘I believe you kept it quiet on purpose.’

‘I did play a little at Cambridge,’ admitted Simpson apologetically, ‘but it was a long time ago, and I don’t play anywhere near as much these days. I certainly didn’t mean to show off.’

‘Of course you weren’t showing off,’ said Mrs. Walters, who had been watching the play with interest, ‘but what a talent! Why, I have never seen anything like it! You ought to play in competitions. Helen will be so sorry to have missed it.’

They stopped for a rest, then resumed play. This time Simpson was paired with Angela, who felt herself to be the weakest player of them all and was glad of the support. Now the opposing sides were much more evenly matched—so much so that Angela began to suspect that Simpson was deliberately lowering his game, either in deference to her or in order to avoid irritating Lionel Dorsey, who had not taken kindly to being beaten by the older man and appeared to be harbouring a grudge. Angela concentrated on keeping her end up—not an easy task when playing against Harriet, who had a tricky left-handed serve—and was pleased when she managed to return several difficult shots and win two games in a row.

‘Good work!’ said Simpson admiringly. ‘That’ll settle them.’

Despite his words, this time the match went to three sets and Angela and Simpson were just edged out by the Dorseys, thanks to a stunning back-hand shot
from Harriet, which whizzed past them and ended the game.

‘What a beautiful shot, Harriet!’ cried Mrs. Walters from her seat. Harriet looked almost pleased for once, and shook hands good-naturedly with her opponents. Lionel was cock-a-hoop at having made up the lost ground, and was all for a best-of-three, but the ladies demurred, so they all went and had cold drinks on the hotel terrace, complimenting each other on their play. Mrs. Walters was particularly fulsome in her praise, although it was clear from her remarks that she knew little of the game. It was evident to all, however, which of them was the best player. Mr. Simpson disclaimed all extraordinary compliments and insisted that his partners had done at least as much work. Angela was by now pretty certain that he had thrown the last match, but said nothing. She wanted to remain on good terms with the Dorseys, as she was anxious to find out more about them.

‘You shall all have to play again very soon,’ said Mrs. Walters, ‘and next time perhaps Helen will be well enough to join in.’

Harriet Dorsey had relapsed into her usual indifference and merely nodded as she leaned forward to allow her husband to light a cigarette for her. She drew in a mouthful of smoke and Angela noticed that she held the cigarette in her left hand, between fingertips that ended in red-painted nails.

‘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.’