The Cortés Enigma (10 page)

8

1pm

Valeria had been working on reception since noon. She had relieved Danny from his twelve-hour shift as the dining room opened for lunch and had not had a break since.

Danny was randy, as he always was after a nightshift – at least that was the claim. After seven years at the Gibbous Moon, she had got used to his advances; harmless, she deduced, if not a little predictable.

As the only Spanish woman on the island, she held a position of exotic prestige, and as the inn’s only female employee, her affect on the male folk was almost like that of a lighted candle to a moth. At twenty-nine she was still in her prime, every aspect of her appearance worthy of admiring compliments. Her long dark hair, which had perfectly flanked her smooth tanned Latino skin the day she arrived, was as pretty now as it had ever been. The natural waviness, for many something only an expensive trip to a salon could bring, was for her almost a birthright: a feature that she had inherited from her mother. While the tan had faded, everything else remained unchanged. In the winter months the occasional cosmetic top-up would sustain the image; not that anyone would have guessed it was faked. Working twelve-hour, five-day-a-week shifts, many might forgive her for the occasional lapses in her immaculate appearance, but in seven years there had been none.

“Mr Malone,” she said, catching Ben’s attention as he wandered past the desk. “Your grandfather’s room is available.”

Ben hesitated before walking toward the desk, accepting the key with his outstretched hand. “Much obliged.”

Room seven was like his previous room in every way, but somehow it felt different. Like the last, a four-poster double bed occupied the centre of the room, its heavy base leaving marks on the original oak floor. Prints and various other artworks covered the cream-coloured walls, their appearance, somehow, more auspicious than the last, giving the room a unique atmosphere.

Ben heard a knock at the open door, heralding the arrival of Chris. Like earlier that day, he was dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans and was carrying TF’s diary.

“D’you find the guy who found the boat?”

“Matter of fact, I did. The man’s name is Peter Kernow, a local fisherman. Found the
Dunster
with the help of one of his pals. Apparently it had become dislodged from a small cave after a storm.”

“How did it look?”

“Horrendous,” Ben replied, getting out his phone and showing Chris a selection of photographs. “At least you can’t smell it.”

Chris looked at the photographs, all of which were of a wooden vessel covered in a slimy grey coating. “Gee, I’d always wondered what a boat cocooned for a hundred years in silt would look like. Anything of interest?”

“Not really,” Ben replied, almost feeling as though he had dishonoured TF’s memory. “Most of it had fallen apart. How about the diary?”

“Interesting. Seems TF was captivated by some graveyard. And a particular stained-glass window in the nearby church.”

“Which?”

“I asked the waitress. She said the main graveyard is in a place called Old Town. It’s just outside of town.”

Chris offered Ben the diary, speeding him through the important stuff. As he read, Ben could feel a sense of anticipation rising within him. For thirty-two years he had been fed the stories of his family’s past: snippets, myths, blotches of information, specks on history’s timeline that he had no idea how to validate or disprove.

Whatever the reason TF came back to the Isles of Scilly, Ben knew it must have been important.

Ben scanned the pages concerning the graveyard, paying close attention to the diagrams of the symbols on the six graves. He recognised one immediately: a double-headed eagle, which had apparently appeared consistently on all six. Ben knew it represented the supreme symbol of power of church and state.

TF associated its design with the Hapsburgs.

The other symbols were less easy to decipher. TF had speculated several were Aztec, one being the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl. Ben immediately understood the interpretation. According to accounts written by the conquistadors, Montezuma had mistaken the arrival of Cortés for the return of their god.

In addition to drawings of the graves, there were others of things TF had seen inside the church. There were diagrams of angel statues in the Lady Chapel: one was clearly of a woman, her slender figure adorned with a large necklace in the shape of an eight-pointed rose. Ben rubbed his chin, sensing the image was somehow familiar. He remembered another story associated with Cortés; supposedly among the countless emeralds he brought back from Mexico, five were notably special: shaped like a rose, a cup, a bell, a fish and a trumpet.

The next thing he noticed was the window above the entrance, where each of the five emeralds were located at various points.

Ben closed the book and rose to his feet.

“Come on. I suggest we check it out.”

Somewhere in Spain

On the far side of a distant hill, the three Spaniards got out of their black Renault Mégane and made their way through the undergrowth on foot.

A hundred years is a long time, particularly if you’re a gardener. The array of wild flowers, once so beautifully kept, had become a ragged jungle of death and decay. The entire east side of the hill was overgrown with long grass, particularly around the entrances to the old buildings. Countless dilapidated stone cottages littered the hillside like lookout towers, their jagged white rocks overrun by ivy and moss. There was little glass in the windows. Even the doors had mostly disappeared.

A single pathway led up the side of the hill, ascending at a gentle gradient before reaching the summit. At that point it straightened, continuing in a direct line before reaching a battered lichgate.

The three men followed the path to the other side of the hill, at which point they spread out. Something was there, hidden amongst the brambles and nettles.

And had been for over four hundred years.

9

Ben was standing in the east section of the churchyard, reading the inscription on the nearest grave. He had learned from the diary that TF had discovered three graves, all bearing the name Wilcox.

He was still to find any of them.

He had been looking for something specific, something TF had mentioned as a guide. The diary described it as a memorial stone or monument. The diagram was rough but accompanied by precise descriptions: five burly men carrying a ship, perhaps a Spanish galleon. The monument had allegedly been erected in honour of all those who had lost their lives in the nearby waters, but TF had clearly been sceptical. He had also described it as a ‘strong stone structure, orange or brown, depending on the light’.

Again, Ben was still to find it.

Old Town Church is one of two churches on St Mary’s. It is located in the centre of Old Town, a fifteen-minute walk from Hugh Town and situated atop a hill that offers inspiring views of the south coast. Like most churches in England, what began as a Roman Church in the mid 12th century turned Anglican at the height of the reformation, with building work carried out at various intervals during the following two centuries until it fell into disrepair. Decrepit, forlorn, the charming remains were lovingly restored on the orders of the island’s governor, bringing it back to its former glory.

Though the church had rarely been used in over a century, the graveyard was the largest on the island and remained the principal cemetery for all of the Isles of Scilly. Over the centuries, the lush green field had become the final resting place for all of the important local families, including those of the sailors who had lost their lives since the early Middle Ages.

Chris returned from inside the church, carrying a pamphlet. “There’s a service on at half five,” he said, stopping beside Ben. “You know, according to this, they don’t even have electricity. They have to conduct the entire thing using candles.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Makes you appreciate St Michael’s all the more, doesn’t it?” he said of the local church back home.

Chris folded the pamphlet and placed it inside the right pocket of his jeans. As he did, he noticed the name on the grave in front of him. “Harold Wilson.”

“Used to be Prime Minister of the UK.”

That, Chris did not expect. “Wow.”

Ben moved to one side, passing a row of graves. Despite the aid of the diary and its many diagrams, the stones TF spoke of were nowhere to be found. The cemetery itself was generally well cared for: flowers were starting to bloom, the majority of the graves in a good state of repair, the smell of recently cut grass teased the nostrils.

Ben concentrated on an area close to the perimeter of the graveyard that was slightly worse kept. Seven years as a history lecturer told him it was in areas like these where the poorer, more obscure graves were found. The grass was longer in this part: there was no evidence of regular maintenance, nor any obvious sign it was even consecrated ground. According to the diary, the graves were located on the south side of the churchyard in an area overgrown with vegetation.

Strange, the graves TF spoke of were not there.

Stranger still, what the hell was a Spanish captain doing buried on the island?

Finding nothing of relevance, Ben entered the church. After taking his time to explore the interior, a visually appealing but also fairly typical CofE structure that was in danger of falling into disrepair, he failed to track down the vicar or anyone else who might be able to help. Both the cemetery and the church appeared deserted.

Had the church not been unlocked, he would almost have taken it for being unused.

The two cousins followed the walls of the church to the south side, examining the gravestones as they passed. There were trees everywhere, the majority of which were palm trees that shielded the area from the wider world.

Ben saw something partially hidden amongst the foliage. There was a structure close to the trees, old, grand, clearly a mausoleum. Like many of the type, it had a Palladian appearance, most notably four stone pillars similar to those that supported ancient Greek temples. The door was locked, as expected; he guessed it had been for some time. The structure was about twelve feet high, with thick yellow brick walls and a sloping roof. Stone aside, the main element used in its construction was lead, heightening Ben’s initial suspicion that the people who had been laid to rest inside had been wealthy. A double-headed eagle was etched into the front wall above the door as part of the family coat of arms, accompanied by statues of two knights in armour facing one another. He read the names inscribed on a plaque by the door.

Here lie the remains of the Godolphin and Osborne families.

The names meant nothing to Ben.

As he continued to inspect the architecture of the neoclassical tomb, he became aware of a crack along the right wall, about half a metre in width and at least two in height. The crack widened the further down it went, he estimated almost to the width of his shoulders. The stone was damaged and discoloured at that point, and the base muddy from the recent heavy rain. It was impossible to tell when the cracking had occurred.

Common sense told him it had been during a recent storm.

A small panel had come loose, probably from the roof. Ben bent over to retrieve it.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Stopping mid action, Ben turned around, his eyes on the wall of the church. A man was standing there, black shirt, dog collar, a livid expression.

“You must be the vicar?”

The man walked quickly toward them. “Kindly put that down and go about your business.”

The tile was still in Ben’s hand, swaying from side to side as he walked. “It needs repairing. Must’ve come loose in the earlier storm.”

The man snatched it. “Thank you for your observations. Now please leave it alone.”

Ben was inwardly amazed that the moving of a battered tile could be the cause of so much anger.

He caught up with the man as he walked across the graveyard. “Excuse me,” Ben said, mustering the best smile he could. “Sorry to bother you with silly questions, but who were they? The Godolphins?”

The vicar stopped and turned. “The family were the original leaseholders of the isles,” he said, his tone barely any calmer. “Back before the island was more densely populated.”

Ben loved his use of the words ‘densely populated’. “You mean they lived here alone?”

“Not exactly. However, the island had a much smaller population back in the 1600s. Before the tourism boom, you understand?”

A wry smile. “Do any of them still live here?”

“I’m afraid the last descendent died in the early 1900s. Now, sir, if you please.”

The vicar resumed his walk. He headed across the graveyard toward the entrance to the church and disappeared completely from sight. No sooner had he gone, Ben returned to the other side of the mausoleum, measuring up the size of the crack.

Potentially wide enough for someone to squeeze inside.

He looked at the stone decorations; like those in most places on the island, the majority were sea related, suggesting the families had strong naval traditions. As he slowly walked around the mausoleum, Ben looked closely for anything out of the ordinary. As best he could tell, there was nothing Spanish or Aztec related.

He looked at Chris, resigned.

“Let’s go get something to eat.”