The Cortés Enigma (17 page)

21

9:10pm

“Hey, wait.” Ben grabbed her arm as she prepared to leave the room. “What is it?” he asked, receiving no response. “Just now, what did you mean?”

She looked at him and he at her, her expression one of sudden awkwardness. Ben felt her breath on his cheek, a soft appealing minty scent tainted by recent consumption of a gin and tonic.

“Ben, let me go.”

Reluctantly he released her. “Tell me what you know about the legend? Come on, please. I’d really like to know.”

Valeria left the bar area and headed into the main corridor. Though well lit, the corridor was deserted, its maroon walls reflecting the light of its countless wall lamps, their shades shaped like Victorian lampposts.

Again Ben chased after her. “Why are you being so secretive?” he asked, now standing in front of her, forcing her to a standstill. “What’s your problem?”

Valeria looked away, her attention on the ground.

Ben’s patience was waning. “Tell me, please. What do you know?”

She looked him in the eye, now unsure whether he was genuinely in the dark or simply fishing for information. “People come to the island for one of two reasons. To vacation or to search for the Cortés treasure. You and your ancestor came here not to relax. People should not stick their noses into other people’s business. It’s not wise, nor is it safe.”

Ben rubbed his face, wondering exactly what she meant and just how much she knew. His gut feeling told him there were people on the island who knew a lot more than him, particularly about TF’s attempts to locate the origin of the mysterious graves. “What is it? The Cortés treasure, what is it exactly?”

“How can you not know? You are a professor of history. And you have your ancestor’s stories.”

“My ancestor’s boat was found hidden in a cave, cocooned in a layer of silt. He was found aboard with a musket ball in his skull. I don’t know who killed him or why, but I intend to get to the bottom of it.” He held her softly around the shoulders. “Please, Valeria, help me.”

Valeria’s expression became distant, no longer warm but sceptical. “Some people in this part of the world love a good mystery. Others, no. People who come as tourists go to Tresco or St Mary’s. Usually those who come to St Agnes or St Lide’s only have one thing in mind. That is why they are not welcome.”

Ben folded his arms. “Why? What’s so significant?”

“According to legend, great treasures are buried on the islands.”

“What treasures?” he asked doubtfully. “Cortés? Aztec gold? Diamonds? Rubies? Emeralds?”

“I…I shouldn’t speak of such things. It’s not safe.”

“Now listen here. Less than a week ago I’d never heard of this island. I had no intention whatsoever of visiting this godforsaken place. My great-great-grandfather disappeared; his remains were found. I have no idea why he died, but I’m not gonna leave here till I find out what happened. You hear me?”

Valeria looked away, this time briefly. Despite the anger in Ben’s voice, the hard furrowed brow above his eyes, she no longer believed he was actually looking to hurt her.

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his fingers across his brow. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Valeria remained quiet. She folded her arms and looked around, her eyes darting from side to side. She considered leaving, heading somewhere where there were people. Instead, she decided to stay.

“Chris told me things the night before you come,” she said, this time more calmly. “He said you had notes. Things passed down from your family.”

Ben was secretly livid. “He told you that?”

She looked away, not answering.

“You know him very well?” Ben pressed.

“A bit like you. Less perhaps.”

Until now the idea that Chris had spoken to her in detail had never occurred to him. Staying in the same hotel, it stood to reason that she would have spoken to him before his arrival.

“You think me and my cousin are simply here to find gold? To loot? Find what my ancestor failed to find? I have no idea what I’m even looking for.”

“According to tradition, a Spanish galleon was wrecked near St Agnes before the great Armada.”

Ben shrugged. “So what? Is that it? I’ve seen the remains myself.”

“No, that’s not it. Although a search party was sent to find the ship, according to the captain who made up the report, the crew was never found. Nor was anything else. Years later, before the Civil War, other things were found near St Lide’s, including gold, mainly in the water.”

“Who was he? The captain?”

“Sir Walter Raleigh.”

Ben folded his arms, intrigued. For the first time, he considered the possibility that TF had acquired the rare biography of Raleigh for a reason.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. After ten days without a shave, the firm bristles he was used to feeling against his hand had become soft and fluffy. The revelations still seemed incredible. Even if the galleon had existed and had carried gold, the tale was little different from the typical treasure stories of that period.

“I don’t understand,” Ben said. “Worldwide, there are millions of treasure stories. What’s so special about this one?”

Valeria hesitated.

“What happened to my great-great-grandfather?”

“I don’t know what happened to your relative,” she replied nervously. “Over the years many people have searched, but the same thing always happens. People get too close, then they disappear. There are many people who live on the island who do not care for outsiders. In public, they claim there is nothing; that the legend is simply for tourists, only to attract publicity. Instead, they want only to find it for themselves.”

“Find what? Gold? Is that it?”

“No.” She looked at him for slightly longer, her attention taken with the unsure, nervous, almost violent look in his eye.

Standing opposite, Ben inhaled deeply and slowly breathed out. “Just tell me everything.”

Ben banged fiercely on Chris’s door before finally getting a response.

“Jeez, you look like hell.”

Chris was white as a sheet. “Thanks.”

Ben entered the room, attempting to ignore the foul smell coming from the en suite. “It was the garlic bread, by the way.”

“No kidding.”

“What did you say to the waitress?”

“When?”

“The night you arrived.”

Chris covered his mouth as if preparing to vomit. “We just talked.”

“Well, it turns out, so did we.” He moved closer. “I think I understand the connection with the Godolphins.”

He showed him the biography of Walter Raleigh that he had in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“According to this, Raleigh was captivated by a Spanish legend. Supposedly he saw a great ship named the
Santa Estella
one night while sailing in the Bay of Biscay. His fleet shot at it and almost sank it; he even saw gold in the water. Weeks later he found evidence of a wreck in the exact same place the galleon was later found.”

“Walter Raleigh?”

“Exactly. According to the book, Raleigh became obsessed with something called the Stone of Fire. I’d heard of it, but this is the only book that goes into detail. According to this, it was the reason Raleigh made trips to America.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Possibly some kind of relic or idol. The Aztecs believed it had the power to move the sun. The kind of thing ancient astronaut theorists have connected with anything out of the ordinary.”

“You think it’s here?”

Ben bit his lip. “There’s something about the Godolphin coat of arms that’s bothering me. I’m gonna head to the mausoleum again now. You coming?”

Chris returned to the en suite and vomited.

“Fine. I’ll go alone.”

Five minutes later Ben walked out of the front door of the Gibbous Moon, completely rejuvenated.

He moved swiftly along the main road, heading in the opposite direction from the harbour. It was after 10pm and the sun had set, the last glimpse of red light now vanished beyond the distant horizon. Above him the stars were out in full, sparkling intermittently behind moderate cloud. The moon was at its highest point, its phase ironically gibbous. Thinking it over, he had never heard of an inn with that name before.

He assumed it was probably unique.

He hurried along the nearest pathway, heading east. Thanks to Valeria, he now had something worth investigating. Valeria had gone into considerable detail, at least compared to what she had given him earlier. Still it seemed impossible to comprehend – impossible or improbable. In all honesty the story of the shipwreck alone didn’t surprise him; there were countless records of shipwrecks in the Isles of Scilly, particularly prior to the 1800s. Why a Spanish galleon would have been there was a more intriguing question. Should the ship have come from Spain in the first place, he’d have put the most logical reason down to piracy. Only according to Valeria, it wasn’t from Spain, but travelling to Spain.

From Mexico.

If Valeria was right – or at least telling the truth – the ship had come from Mexico and the cargo was not only gold, but perhaps other things.

Ben paused to reflect on what he had learned. Thanks to his meeting with Dr Phillips he was convinced the shipwreck story was credible. A Spanish galleon went down sometime after 1554.

Perhaps there were even two ships.

The part that didn’t make sense was the Cortés theory. He knew that Cortés had died in 1547. Even if Cortés was not involved in the wreck, the story of lost gold could still possibly check out. The Montezuma gold was out there somewhere – that was plausible. Less likely it came to England.

Or St Lide’s.

He followed the road out of Hugh Town and continued toward Old Town. The road wound slightly as it followed the contours of the hills. Despite the recent rain, the gravel beneath his feet was predominantly dry, causing a fine dust to mark his dark trousers.

The road had brought him back to Old Town churchyard, the large mausoleum looming up above a thick growth of brambles like an Egyptian pyramid. At night, its appearance was decrepit and forlorn, the long piercing gap in the wall he guessed still to be repaired.

He took a breath and walked on, heading toward the lichgate. There were lights shining nearby, but as far as he could tell there was no sign of anyone following him. If Valeria’s story was true, the connection with the family went deeper than he’d first thought. No wonder the vicar was so pissed with him, he thought.

TF had been murdered, and Ben was starting to think it might well have been premeditated.

Chris had been on the toilet since Ben left. He felt horrendous, and not just his backside. Pain pounded through his head, throbbing so relentlessly he felt his pulse beating in his temples.

His stomach was in agony.

Won’t someone make it stop?

At just after ten he emerged from the en suite, sweating but praying the worst was over. At the same time he heard a knock at the door.

He guessed Ben.

He opened the door and looked at the figure in front of him.

“Hey.”

22

10:30pm

The graveyard was full of ghosts – that was another legend associated with the place. Ben had heard that one from Kernow and then again from Valeria. He didn’t believe this one; he remembered Kernow had been laughing when he’d said it. Valeria on the whole sounded more serious; then again, she was the type, he mused. Not that he was in a mood to make quick judgements.

The girl may well have done him a great service.

The lichgate was lit up by an old streetlamp, situated alongside a statue of what he guessed was an old sailor. He’d heard a story that there were more sailors buried there than people from other walks of life.

Ben didn’t doubt that for a second.

The gate opened, a prolonged whining creak that he was already used to from the day before. Once inside, he closed the gate, ensuring it was firmly shut. He remembered from first-hand experience how it could bang from side to side when the wind picked up.

Not surprisingly the churchyard was deserted. The light was non-existent, the atmosphere still; a deathly silence filled the air, disturbed only by the occasional gust of wind passing through nearby trees. The birds had disappeared, as for now had the moon, the intense darkness creating the illusion that a heavy veil had descended. Ben moved slowly along the path. The light from outside the lichgate was more ornamental than useful, and he didn’t dare use a torch just yet.

Without the aid of moonlight, he would have to rely on memory.

Ben wiped his brow and adjusted his hair, his tired mind contemplating his next move. As the seconds passed, the pathway appeared brighter, lit up by the hazy light of the re-emerged moon. The path was now more visible, but he knew the route to the mausoleum required him to head across the grass. The thought of surveillance still made him nervous; he reasoned observation at this hour would be unlikely, but he couldn’t discount it altogether. A resident of a nearby building, the returning vicar, a local out for a late night stroll…he knew that there was nothing wrong in walking in a churchyard after nightfall, it just didn’t feel right. Thanks to Valeria, he had no wish to attract attention.

Thanks to his earlier encounter with the vicar, he guessed he already had.

He made his way across the grass and stopped on reaching the mausoleum. He remembered from the day before that there was a plaque close to the door stating that the Godolphin family and their Osborne descendants were interred in the neo-Greek structure. It was a privilege of the rare few, reserved only for governors of the isles. Though to Ben the role of governor of the Isles of Scilly was like being president of a market stall, the façade of the structure suggested something grander: it commanded respect, craved it even. Like the emperors of the old Byzantine Empire, the Hapsburgs and many more from bygone times, the double-headed eagle was a symbol of absolute power, both temporal and spiritual. Existing at a time when the flat world had inflated into a round ball.

Ben removed the torch from his pocket, daring to chance some light. Now illuminated, the stone engravings seemed all the more grand, as if he was looking at a temple from the distant past. Passing the two statues on either side of the front door, he placed his hands against the wall, allowing his bare palms to feel the smoothness of the stone. Again, he noticed the coat of arms etched into the wall. It was strong and authentic, appearing just as it had in TF’s diary.

Moving on, he navigated the far wall, searching for the large crack. Under the torchlight, it seemed larger than he had remembered, as if a gigantic lightning bolt had struck it from top to bottom. He got down on one knee and muttered beneath his breath.

He could just squeeze inside if he had judged things correctly.

The largest gap was at the bottom of the wall. Guided by the torch, he moved to the point where the crack met the nearest supporting pillar and lowered himself, using the pillar as a back support. The ground beneath his feet was soggy; it was difficult to move his feet without slipping. The column behind him, though solid, was wet and damp; even through his large leather jacket he could feel moisture on his back. As he edged further on, water trickled down his neck, a cold unpleasant sensation, as if a wriggling insect had become trapped inside his shirt.

He shivered, took a deep breath and forced himself into the gap. It was smaller than he had anticipated. The stone caused friction all the way down his back, escalating as he reached the midpoint. Space above him was minimal. The sharp edge of the crack pressed firmly along his forehead; even in the dark he could tell it had penetrated the skin. He lowered himself as far as was physically possible, his jeans now touching the ground.

He took a deep breath and ducked his head before raising it again on reaching the other side of the gap. As he straightened his back, he felt the jagged edge of the broken wall jamming against his right shoulder. He heard something rip, possibly in more than one place.

Ben didn’t need a mirror to know his right sleeve had torn.

He tried to move, but was stuck. There was something to his left, obstructing his movement. Adjusting his free hand, he shone the torch in all directions, seeing nothing but stone. Pushing against the stone object to his left, he adjusted himself against the wall to see if he could move his right shoulder. Straining, he succeeded; the impact forced him low and to his left, his lungs gasping for air. Whether by luck or judgement, he had found himself in a small enclosure, almost like a primitive airlock. Using the wall to his right and whatever was to his left, he raised himself from a sitting-down position to a crouch.

He tried to keep his breathing shallow. The air was foul; dust and cobwebs irritated his nose and throat. Shining the torch, he made out different shapes on the nearby walls and various objects lower down. He had reached the heart of the mausoleum.

Ben shone the torch to his left and rose to his feet. Standing, he was able to see the surrounding objects more clearly. Rather than a supporting wall, a giant sarcophagus had impeded his progress, a cross between something found in ancient Greece and in a 12th century cathedral. Examining the upper region, he saw an effigy above the lid, clearly a man, roughly five feet seven in height, bearded, with long hair and wearing a Tudor ruff, his hands joined together in prayer.

Ben placed him in his mid-fifties when he died.

He rose fully to his feet and placed his hand against the tomb for balance. Standing was a relief after over a minute of being squashed like a sardine against the walls. His bottom was wet and muddy after sitting on the floor, but, worse still, he could see from the torch there were tears to the back of his jacket and dust stains all over his clothes. He brushed himself down, satisfied he had removed the majority of the dust and cobwebs, and turned his attention to the interior of the mausoleum.

Slowly he began to acclimatize. The interior consisted of one room, lots of tombs – Ben counted twenty-four, set out in three rows of eight. He walked along the first row, one by one, his attention on the stone effigies. He saw women as well as men, either daughters or wives of past governors. Reading the names along the edge, he saw all were Osbornes or Godolphins.

Ben turned his attention to the walls, starting with the one directly in front of him. In the light he saw the main doorway located dead centre: a large iron door attached to the wall with iron hinges and bolts.

He tried opening it; it didn’t budge.

He turned to the next wall, confused by what he saw. There was writing on it, but other things as well. He turned next to the third wall, the one opposite the main doorway, and then the final wall from where he had entered. The final wall was in the worst condition: bricks had disappeared, debris was falling, water dripped down from above. A foul smell continued to pervade his nostrils, one he immediately attributed to a combination of damp and destruction. The tombs themselves appeared to be in good condition, damage restricted to the bases.

As the seconds passed, his eyes began to adapt to the dull light. Things became visible for the first time. Again he found himself looking at the walls. Although the final one appeared largely blank, he was able to make out things on the second and third: a series of drawings marked the second, the majority of which were not readily distinguishable.

The third wall, however, was less difficult to understand. There were no symbols, just a single sentence written in English.