The Cortés Enigma (18 page)

A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.

Ben looked at the wall, rereading every word carefully. He considered the sentence for several seconds, gobsmacked.

He’d heard the words before.

He associated them with Cortés.

Confused, buoyed, completely bedazzled, he investigated the other parts of the mausoleum, the other walls, the floor, the ceiling…the tombs…

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Outside the mausoleum he heard the sound of water falling, slowly then more consistently. Water was flowing along the floor, entering from the gap and heading closer to his feet. He knelt down next to the hole and peered outside. The rain had returned, and was getting steadily heavier.

He guessed it would get worse before it got better.

Standing no more than fifty metres away, Colts didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The American had emerged from the hole in the wall. The man was clearly rattled, his clothes dirty, his expression one of clear anguish. Getting through the hole had been a struggle, but doing so cleanly had proven impossible. Even from a distance, Colts could make out the mud stains around his knees and a light yellow sprinkling around the shoulders.

He knew from personal experience that the mausoleum was heavy with dust.

Using the nearest tombstone as cover, he watched the tourist rise to his feet and set off quickly towards the lichgate.

Consumed by thought, notably of not getting wet, Ben was entirely unaware he was being watched from the shadows.

Valeria contemplated the coastline of St Agnes from her bedroom window, taking in the same sights she had seen time and time again. A flock of wild birds, probably gulls, perched themselves around a large puddle, padding along the outskirts of the water for several seconds before flying off, two false starts before ascending into the night-time air. On nights like this observation was easy, at least compared to those when the moon wasn’t out. Somehow it was these nights that made the old stories seem truer: they were the conditions for pirates and smugglers. Through the darkness, she could almost make out the hazy shape of a ship gliding across the water, depositing its gold on a sandy knoll, an X marking the spot. In reality she knew such happenings were rare, but the romanticism was never lost. In her youth she had become obsessed with the stories:
Moonfleet
,
Treasure Island
…

As the moon disappeared behind a moving cloud, she left her position at the window ledge and returned to her bed. A solitary lamp was flickering on her small bedside table; the electrics had again been temperamental due to recent bad weather. That was another thing that plagued her mind: it was as if time never moved forward on St Agnes; as if they were permanently stuck in a former age. Such things never occurred on the mainland, and even in Spain they had become less frequent over time.

She raised the duvet of her bed and snuggled in alongside an old teddy bear, a large, well-worn, yellow thing with a smiley face that she named Fernando after her father. She adjusted herself for comfort before moving the lamp nearer, and picked up the leather-bound book from the table to resume reading from where she’d left off.

Thomas Maloney had disappeared for knowing too much; most likely he had been killed at the time.

One question remained unanswered.

What had happened to the things he had found?

Ben unlocked the door of his room and immediately switched on the light.

He looked himself over in the mirror –
good god, what a sight
. The cuts and bruises he’d sustained rooting around the graveyard on St Lide’s had developed further after entering the mausoleum. The majority were largely hidden by his black polo shirt – thankfully he still had one item of clothing that wasn’t completely ripped. He removed his polo shirt and looked himself over. Several red scratches were visible on his arms, front and back; on the plus side, there was no evidence of new blood.

He rubbed the abrasions on his upper body with cream and did the same for his legs before examining his face in the light.

Still handsome, he thought.

He threw himself down on the bed, combing his fingers through his hair. He contemplated taking a shower before deciding instead what he needed first was a coffee.

He opened TF’s diary as he sat down in the chair and read it while waiting for the kettle to boil. TF had made detailed drawings of the Godolphin Mausoleum, placing particular emphasis on some of the symbols.

He guessed the man had ascertained its importance.

He read the words and looked at the diagram.

A curious sight indeed it is to see, within this, an age-old church that, should it have not been for the efforts of the recent governor, would long since have fallen into disrepair, such a marvellous example of Palladian architecture, the like of which would not have looked out of place in the ancient world or the ones of which they so greatly spoke. The large columns, accompanied by great statues, which also line the corridors of the nearby mighty castle built in the shape of a star, are decorated on every side, something not easily seen unless one knows for what one is looking.

Ben rolled his eyes, his attention taken by the boiling kettle. He filled his cup before returning to the diary. TF spoke of the Star Castle, as if it had things in common with the mausoleum. ‘Something not easily seen unless one knows for what one is looking.’
The man always seemed to speak in riddles.

The western wall, easily identified not only from the point of the compass at which it stands, but also the curious imagery located at the lower right corner, is unique not only to the island but, besides the imagery of which I have already spoken in its neighbour, unique to the isles as a whole. Having made the breakthrough, about which these three weeks on this otherwise beautiful setting had been fraught with complexity and tribulation, I now believe the riddle of Hernán’s treasure and, indeed, the construction of the nearby building, makes complete sense. Due to recent events, I have as yet been unable to ascertain the true treasure that remains stored there, but I am in no doubt of both its location and importance.

A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.

Ben breathed out desperately. He looked to one side, sipped his coffee, and placed the book down on the side table.

The imagery of which he had previously spoken. Having read the diary, he guessed he must have been talking of St Lide’s.

The lower right corner of the mausoleum was apparently lined with symbols. Ben had not seen them; it was the same area where he had made his entrance.

As far as he could tell, they no longer existed.

He picked up the diary again. His instinct told him that TF had also seen what he had just seen. The outer wall had been intact when the drawing was made; the large gap, which had allowed Ben entry, had not existed.

Clearly TF believed something of significance was buried or hidden there.

Ben got to his feet and left the room, stopping outside Chris’s door. He knocked loudly three times, waiting for a response.

Hearing none, he tried again.

Probably sleeping off his Aztec curse, he thought.

Leaving the corridor, he returned to his room.

The Third Day

23

7:30am

Cortés was in the depths of despair. The night had been a disaster, one of the worst in living memory. It was not just a failure. His entire world had been shattered.

It was beginning to get light outside. The sun was rising slowly in the eastern sky, the faintest tip of orange making itself visible above the sea. The rain that had lasted over eight hours had ceased about twenty minutes ago, the remaining cloud now scattered.

They had spent the night aboard Pizarro’s yacht, an impressive white £1,500,000 model that had recently celebrated five years on the seas. They had anchored back in Tresco, choosing a well-protected and uninteresting area amongst several other vessels moored by holidaymakers. It wasn’t the type of place that attracted attention. As the wind picked up, most of the owners shut up shop, choosing to ride out the storm in the galleys or in a bed and breakfast ashore.

Cortés had barely slept. Thanks to the topography of the bay, it was more sheltered than most, but the Spaniard had other things on his mind. The manuscript Pizarro had found in Valladolid was genuine – that much was now beyond doubt. The map was clearly based on something that once existed.

Once existed – but no longer!

He rolled over in his makeshift bed, pulling the duvet over his head. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it: the excavated pit, the primitive tools, the fact that nothing remained.

It was every treasure hunter’s worst nightmare. And every Spaniard’s.

The English had beaten him to it.

He heard movement behind him, the door sliding open and closed. Someone had entered the cabin; he looked and saw it was Pizarro. The man looked the same as ever, a white T-shirt, tatty blue jeans, greasy black hair, unshaven. Had he not acknowledged the biological link, the slight facial similarity between them, he would have simply dismissed him as scruffy.

“Why do you bother me so early?” Cortés said, turning his back on Pizarro, “I’m in no mood to be disturbed.”

Pizarro had brought him a coffee. “After all these years at sea, I’d have thought you’d have grown used to the storms,
amigo
.”

Cortés was in no mood to answer, but the last thing he wanted was to lose face. He rolled back over, removing the duvet from his naked chest.

“Did you not see what I saw? The map is redundant.” He jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of blue jeans. Doing up his belt, he looked himself over in the mirror. There were bags under his eyes, but otherwise all was normal. Like Pizarro, his long hair was slightly unkempt, but nothing that a comb wouldn’t fix. He looked at Pizarro, preparing to shout. “The pit was cleaned out, Fernando. You saw what I saw, the English took it years ago. There are no leads as to what became of it.”

Pizarro smiled before his expression turned more hostile. He slammed something down on the bedside table, the impact causing the coffee to spill. It took Cortés a moment to realise what he had done.

“Read,” snapped Pizarro.

Cortés looked back with an angry expression, his eyes never leaving his cousin as he picked up the item. Inspecting it, he saw that it was a local newspaper article that had been printed off the Internet.

“Read it to me.”

Pizarro knew the content without having to look at it again.

“It says that the Englishman who was found the other day had relatives.” He pointed to the accompanying photograph. “Two are now on St Mary’s.”

Cortés studied it, immediately engrossed with the content.

“Also, I found this.” He showed Cortés a second piece of paper. Also an Internet article.

Cortés read the article, his eyes particularly drawn to the accompanying photograph.

“I…”

Pizarro pointed. “The English built a second castle in 1590. Notice the shape.”

Cortés was speechless. Living his life in the shadow of his great ancestors was both a curse and privilege: a life of scrutiny, unimaginable expectation, but one that also granted access to rare things. The signs were there in front of him, impossible to deny.

“Where?”

“The building still exists; it stands at the highest point on the island.”

He took the paper from Cortés. “Come on,
amigo
. Why waste time?”