The Treasure at Poldarrow Point (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (2 page)

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 face 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.

Angela was just wondering whether the house was inhabited when a side door opened and out came a frail, elderly lady, accompanied by a middle-aged man. They were dressed for walking, and Angela eyed them discreetly as they came out through the gate and headed in her direction.

As they passed the old lady paused and smiled at Angela.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘You are admiring our view, I see.’

‘I am,’ replied Angela, ‘and it is a beautiful one. You are very fortunate.’

‘We are indeed,’ agreed the woman, ‘although of course you are seeing it at its finest today. There is nothing more delightful than taking a bracing walk along the cliff top, but the winter storms we get here may not be so appealing to the less hardy.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela with a laugh. ‘I can imagine that this place would not be for the faint-hearted during a gale.’

‘No—there is always the danger that one might be blown out to sea!’

‘Or that the cliff will collapse,’ Angela said, indicating the garden. ‘Don’t you worry that you will lose the house?’

‘Oh no,’ said the old woman. ‘One day the sea will surely come to claim its own,
but that is unlikely to happen in my lifetime. You see how the garden has been ravaged, but it has taken many, many years for it to reach that state. I believe I am safe for the present.’

‘You are more sanguine than I, Aunt Emily,’ said her companion with a slight shudder. ‘When the winds are battering at the house I confess I do occasionally wonder uncomfortably whether we shall wake up in the same place that we went to bed—if indeed we wake up at all.’

The old lady let out a musical peal of laughter.

‘What nonsense!’ she said. Turning to Angela, she went on, ‘Dear Clifford has always been the cautious one of the family. Odd, since one tends to associate youth with daring and recklessness.’

Since dear Clifford was plump and balding, and unlikely to see forty-five again, Angela did not find this as odd as his aunt apparently did.

‘Are you staying nearby?’ went on the woman.

‘Yes, I am at Kittiwake Cottage.’

‘Which one is that?’

‘The house just along there. It belongs to Mrs. Uppingham.’

‘Oh, of course, Mrs. Uppingham. Is she a close friend of yours?’

‘I have never met her. The house was recommended to me by her doctor, who knew it to be available at present.’

‘Such a charming lady—I know her very well. Oh, forgive me, I ought to introduce myself. I am Miss Emily Trout, and this is my nephew, Clifford Maynard.’

‘How do you do? I am Angela Marchmont.’

As she spoke, she thought she saw Clifford glance briefly at his aunt and raise his eyebrows.

‘I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Miss Trout. Shall you be staying here long? You must come to tea very soon. We have few friends in Tregarrion and we are so isolated up here that it is quite a treat to us to have company. Do
say you will. I have many exciting tales to tell about things that have happened at Poldarrow Point over the years.’

‘Poldarrow Point? Is that the name of your house?’ asked Angela.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Trout, ‘and it has a very interesting history. You know, of course, that this area used to be notorious for smuggling in the olden days? Well, the house has a close connection to the nefarious activities that went on many years ago. But I shan’t tell you another word. You must come to tea if you want to hear more. Can you come tomorrow? You may bring anyone you like.’

Angela laughed at Miss Trout’s disarming method of getting her own way.

‘If you will promise to tell me about the smugglers then I shall certainly come,’ she replied.’

The old lady clasped her hands together in girlish delight.

‘Oh, I am so glad!’ she said. ‘Then we shall see you at four tomorrow. Don’t be late!’

‘I shan’t,’ promised Angela. She said goodbye and set off back to Kittiwake Cottage, leaving Miss Trout and her nephew to continue their walk.

The man had gone from the bench when Mrs. Marchmont passed it again, but she was not thinking about him, as she was turning over in her mind the encounter with Miss Trout and her nephew. She had rather taken to the old woman who, despite her frail appearance and gentle, ladylike manners, gave every impression of being rather a character. Angela was curious to know more about her.

It was almost one when she returned home. Dr. Wilding had told her that the cottage was provided with a cook and a cat, but up to now she had met only the former. As she sat resting on the terrace after lunch, however, she noticed a large tabby sitting on the garden wall, gazing down at her. Angela immediately put down her book and raised her hand in invitation. The cat sniffed at it delicately, then after a moment’s indecision leapt down onto the terrace and began winding in and out of the legs of her deck-chair.

‘I seem to have passed muster,’ said Angela to herself as she settled back into her chair and resumed reading.

It was very pleasant, sitting outside in the sunshine with the cool breeze fanning one’s face gently. Angela was gradually overcome by a delicious drowsiness, and the words began to dance on the page in front of her.

‘Goodness, I feel as though I could fall asleep,’ she murmured, and that was her last conscious thought until she awoke with a start some time later. Blinking, she looked at her watch. It was just after three o’clock, and she had been asleep nearly an hour. She sat up.

‘That’s quite enough of that!’ she said firmly, and rose from the chair. As she did so, she thought she heard a familiar sound, and turned her head to listen. Yes, she could definitely hear music playing somewhere in the distance. It sounded rather jolly, and Angela decided to seek the source of it. As she went out through the garden gate, she met Helen Walters and her mother, who were just setting out for a walk themselves from Shearwater Cottage, and she was invited to join them.

Mrs. Felicia Walters was something of an invalid—or, at least, it suited her very well to say so. Angela suspected that there was nothing much wrong with her that a short spell of having to look after herself would not put right, but of course that was unlikely to happen as long as her daughter was there to satisfy her every whim. She walked with a stick, leaning on Helen’s arm all the while, and together the three of them proceeded along the cliff path towards Tregarrion.

Despite—or perhaps because of her physical infirmity, Mrs. Walters had an
enthusiastic, nay, passionate interest in the business of others. As soon as she had arrived in the area, she had cast out her net and set her snares among the local populace, and through a combination of artfulness and perseverance had soon learned almost everything that could be told about anyone living or staying in the immediate vicinity. Having drained the well dry, she had been looking about for new sources, and had therefore been delighted when Angela had arrived at Kittiwake Cottage a day or two earlier—all the more so as Mrs. Marchmont’s name was familiar to her from the newspapers. As they walked, Mrs. Walters went on the attack. Angela recognized the type, but from her recent fame had become well used to fending off impertinent inquiries by offering up unimportant snippets of information that could hurt no-one. Thus the walk proceeded in a state of amicable compromise, interspersed with occasional bouts of fencing.

Mrs. Walters was most interested to hear that Mrs. Marchmont had been invited to Poldarrow Point for tea.

‘Miss Trout and her nephew are very agreeable people,’ she said. ‘It’s such a pity that they don’t mix more with the people of the town. They must be very lonely out there in such an isolated spot.’

From this, Angela deduced correctly that Mrs. Walters had been unsuccessful in her attempts to draw them in.

‘And Poldarrow Point is such a fine old place,’ went on Mrs. Walters. ‘Or, at least, it must have been, once. I suppose they can’t afford the upkeep any more. It is difficult, these days, to keep a large house running smoothly—and without the help of her brother I suppose it is even harder.’

‘Miss Trout had a brother, did she?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know? Yes, her brother was old Jeremiah Trout. He had lived there for about thirty years before Miss Emily came to stay, but he went away a few months ago, leaving the house in the care of Miss Trout and her nephew. He died abroad shortly afterwards. I believe he was quite ga-ga, the poor old thing, although he kept the garden beautifully for many years, before he lost his mind. In fact, I believe he won prizes for it.’

She stopped to bow a stiff greeting to a gentleman who was just then coming up the path in the opposite direction. The man smiled and bowed in return, and went on past. He was dressed somewhat outlandishly in a pair of knee breeches and a waistcoat, and sported a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it that looked almost exactly like his moustache. He was weighed down by an extraordinary assortment of knapsacks, glass jars, field-glasses, digging implements and a number of other items
that were identifiable only as scientific equipment, and he jangled as he walked.

‘That is Mr. Donati,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘He is a scientist from Switzerland. I am not at all sure that I approve.’

Angela could not tell whether she was referring to his nationality, his
métier
or his clothing, but forbore to inquire.

Helen Walters had walked silently beside them up to now, but she suddenly looked up and said:

‘Mother, you have forgotten your scarf again.’

Mrs Walters gave a click of impatience.

‘So I have. Why didn’t you remind me, you silly girl? I shall catch my death of cold without it. Well, you will just have to go and get it for me. You can catch us up.’

Helen ran off without another word.

‘She is such a forgetful girl,’ said Mrs. Walters. ‘It is very provoking sometimes.’

They were now coming into Tregarrion itself. On the cliff top at the very edge of town stood a square, modern building that gleamed white and was visible from miles around. The Hotel Splendide had opened a year or two ago and had become immediately popular with the younger, more fashionable set. It offered sun-bathing and swimming, having not one, but
two
swimming-pools, as well as a large terrace from which led a flight of rocky steps that went down to the beach. It also offered cocktails, fine food and daily entertainment in the form of a jazz orchestra.

‘Oh, there is the music again,’ said Angela as they approached. ‘That must be what I heard earlier.’

The hotel terrace was set out with tables and chairs, many of which were occupied by holiday-makers dressed in their summer finery, laughing, talking and enjoying the sunshine while harried waiters ran to and fro carrying trays. As the two women watched from the path, three girls in bathing-dress ran up the steps from the beach, screaming with laughter. The whole scene was very gay and lively and Angela was tempted to stay a while.

‘Suppose we stop and have tea,’ she suggested.

Mrs. Walters looked a little doubtful, but at that moment the band finished with a flourish the exuberant dance tune it had been playing, and struck up a gentler, more soothing number.

‘Very well,’ she said.

Once they were seated, she became more animated as she eyed the people sitting at the tables nearby. She was particularly interested in a young couple who were sipping cold drinks and looking bored. The woman had fair hair, dark eyebrows and
red lips and was rather pretty, while the man was handsome enough, with dark hair and eyes and very white teeth. He lounged carelessly in his chair, not looking at his wife, except when he threw an occasional remark at her.

‘Do you know that couple?’ whispered Mrs. Walters. ‘I don’t suppose you do. They are the Dorseys. Lionel and Harriet Dorsey. They arrived a week or two ago. They’re terribly glamorous, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Angela, glancing at them. In reality she had not been paying much attention, for she had spotted someone she recognized. The elegantly-dressed man she had seen on the bench near Poldarrow Point earlier was sitting at a table a little way away, reading a newspaper and drinking tea. There was something out of the ordinary about him, and she wondered who he was.

Just then they were joined by a breathless Helen, carrying her mother’s scarf.

‘At last, my scarf!’ exclaimed Mrs. Walters. ‘How slow you are, dear. I have been absolutely freezing cold without it. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if I am unwell tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ said Helen colourlessly.

Angela looked at her in curiosity. Helen Walters was young and healthy, and should by rights have been forging a life of her own, dancing with young men and having fun. Instead she seemed a slave to a selfish old woman. ‘It can’t be much of a life for her,’ she thought, ‘running around after her mother. I wonder whether she is happy.’

She remembered the radiance in the girl’s face that morning as she returned from her bathe. Perhaps the occasional moment of pleasure made up for the long hours of servitude.

‘Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Simpson,’ said Mrs. Walters suddenly, and Angela looked up to see the man from the bench passing their table. He stopped.

‘Good afternoon,’ he replied in a rich, pleasant voice.

‘Have you met Mrs. Marchmont? She is staying in Kittiwake Cottage at present.’

The man turned to Angela and his deep blue eyes twinkled.

‘We met this morning on the cliff top, I believe,’ he replied. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Marchmont. I am George Simpson.’

The introduction was acknowledged and they exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the scenery, then he bowed and passed on. Angela was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment at the stolid Englishness of his name. From the looks of him she had half-expected something a little more dashing.

Mrs. Walters shortly afterwards announced that she was tired and wished to
return home, so they paid for their tea and left.

‘You must tell me all about your visit to Poldarrow Point,’ said Mrs. Walters as they said goodbye at the gate of Shearwater Cottage. Angela promised to do so, and returned to her own house.

She was greeted by Marthe, who was in a state of some agitation.

‘Oh,
madame
, I am so glad you have come back,’ she said. ‘The gipsies have come and they want to steal everything! I have hidden your jewel-case but these people are cunning—they stop at nothing. Perhaps they will creep into the house while we are asleep and cut our throats!’

‘What is all this nonsense?’ asked Angela, half-laughing. ‘Marthe, have you taken leave of your senses? There are no gipsies around here.’

‘But I tell you there are,
madame
,’ said Marthe, throwing up her hands. ‘They sent a little ragamuffin before them to beg for food and a bed, but I am not a fool. I know their tricks. She will let them all in and then we are done!’

‘Someone was begging for food and a
bed
?’ repeated Angela, puzzled. ‘Why, that’s—’

She was interrupted by Marthe, who looked out of the window and gave a little scream.

‘There she is now! Did I not tell you? We shall all be murdered! Oh, why did we come here?’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Angela. She went to the door and flung it open, then started at the sight before her. A girl of about twelve stood there, covered in grime from head to toe and with bits of straw sticking out of her clothes and hair.

‘Barbara!’ said Angela in astonishment.

‘Hallo, Aunt Angela,’ said the girl. ‘Why on earth did you have to go all the way to Cornwall? I’ve had the devil of a job to find you.’