The Cortés Enigma (20 page)

Valeria took them to a small sitting room located off the corridor near the bar. At one time the room had been the heart of the coaching inn. These days, it was just used for private functions and special occasions.

Valeria led them inside and invited the two men to sit down in identical armchairs located either side of a large coffee table adjacent to an original log fire, which was already lit. Like most rooms in the inn, original artwork covered the main walls, whose cream surfaces were in need of redecoration.

“I’ll bring you both some coffee.”

Hammitt watched her leave the room before turning his attention to Ben. He added another log to the fire and jabbed it with the poker before slowly lowering himself into the chair.

“Certainly in need of it today,” he said, smoothing his hair that had gone flat beneath his hat.

“Worse before it gets better,” Ben replied.

Valeria returned immediately, carrying a tray of refreshments. She poured coffee into two cups and smiled at Ben as she departed.

Hammitt added milk to his coffee, stirred it and took the first sip.

“Now then,” he said, placing the cup on a coaster and removing a small notepad and a pencil. “Let’s just see I’ve got this correct:

“Your name is Benjamin Maloney of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. You’re thirty-two years old and currently reside in Hanover, New Hampshire?” he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“That’s right.”

“You’re a teacher?”

“As a matter of fact, I lecture in European History at the University of Dartmouth.”

“I guess that takes care of my next question,” Hammitt replied, sipping from his coffee. “And how about your cousin?”

The question was where to start
. “Chris is between jobs right now. Though, like me, he studied at college. He trained for the navy at Annapolis and served for five years before leaving on medical grounds…”

“What exactly?”

“He was injured in combat. Ever since, my cousin, well…let’s just say he struggles sometimes with distance perception. Things can look closer or further away than they actually are.”

“Which you need in the navy, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

Hammitt decided to move on. “And what now?”

“Well, like I say, Chris has done different jobs, but, like me, his passion is history. He’s dabbled with freelance journalism – has written dozens of articles on the Spanish colonisation of America.”

Hammitt leaned his chin against his fist. “What brought you both to St Mary’s?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the discovery of my great-great-grandfather’s boat off St Lide’s a week ago.”

A half smile. “So that’s who I’ve been reading about in the papers. What brought him to the Scillies?”

“Apparently some years back our ancestors emigrated to the US from England and Ireland. At least one is said to have died around Tresco,” he said. “My great-great-grandfather believed he was buried somewhere on one of these islands. It was one of his great ambitions to trace the family’s history back as far as he could.” He looked at the policeman. “What?”

The policeman smiled. “What brought him to St Lide’s?”

“From what I can gather, my ancestor came across a story, something about a naval disaster.”

“Ah, 1707,” the officer said, shaking his head. “Not exactly our finest of moments.”

Ben continued. “Apparently one of our ancestors, perhaps more, was killed in the wreck. TF was on his way to Spain and originally only stayed a few days. Came back a year later for a few weeks.”

Hammitt was confused. “And how long have you and your cousin been on the island?”

“Three days. Chris a day longer.”

“I see.” Hammitt crossed his legs. “You prepared for a long stay?”

“Being honest, we hadn’t really decided.”

Hammitt nodded, continuing to make notes. “Did he succeed, by the way? Your ancestor?”

“Succeed?”

“Finding his ancestor? Three weeks seems something of a long stay for a guy who only intended to stay a few days.”

“Apparently he did.”

“And your name’s Maloney?”

“What about it?”

The policeman grinned. “I’ve been a detective on this beat for over thirty years. Never once have I come across a Maloney. Surname, at least.”

“Like I say, he was Irish. And originally we were called Wilcox.”

“Wilcox?”

“Yes.”

Hammitt nodded, though Ben was sure the whole thing was of no relevance.

“What exactly have the two of you been doing since your arrival?”

Ben went into partial detail of their activities, concentrating on his time with Dr Phillips. He avoided talk of the mausoleum and St Lide’s.

The policeman nodded, playing with his pen between his fingers. “And you hadn’t decided how long you were planning on staying?”

“No.”

While the American tourist and the English policeman continued their talk, the intruder inserted the key into the door of the American’s room and closed it on entering.

Nothing was particularly hidden. There were books on the side, five in total, all old and showing the signs of their age.

The intruder didn’t know what four of them were meant for.

After scanning the covers of the first two, the intruder looked more closely at the third book, the diary. It was old, but extremely useful.

Perhaps priceless.

Moments later, the intruder entered Nicholl’s deserted office and lifted up the flap on the photocopier.

With any luck, the job would take under ten minutes.

“Let me see if I’m following this correctly,” Hammitt said at last. “Your great-great-grandfather, one T.F. Maloney, a highly respected professor of history from Cambridge, came to Scilly on a pre-planned holiday while on his way to Spain. On finding his way to St Lide’s, he comes across evidence of family buried there. A year later he returned, now for longer…” He looked at Ben. “Any idea why he decided to stay?”

“No,” Ben lied.

“Any idea what he was doing on the boat?”

“With all due respect, Officer Hammitt, what in God’s name does any of this have to do with my cousin? Now, if someone wants to solve the mystery of what happened to my great-great-grandfather, I’m all for it, but right now, I’d really appreciate it if you could focus your attention on what happened to Chris.”

Hammitt sipped again from his coffee, his eyes never leaving the tourist. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he replaced the cup on the table. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Yesterday evening during dinner. Again just after.”

“What happened after that?”

“He was ill. He disappeared…his garlic bread was long past its use by – ask the owner.”

Hammitt nodded, sucking on his pen. “You didn’t check on him afterwards?”

“I did to start off with. Then I finished my dinner, had a few drinks…”

“Alone?”

“No, as a matter of fact, the waitress accompanied me.”

Hammitt nodded, again his focus cold. “Then what?”

“Nothing really. She went home. I went for a walk.”

“I see,” Hammitt said, adjusting his position in his seat. “I understand nothing was taken. From his room. Nothing was stolen.”

“Not as far as I can see.”

“Well, before we go any further, I’d best be checking your cousin’s room. You mind if I check yours too?”

Ben shook his head. “No. Be my guest.”

Ben unlocked the door of his room and watched from the doorway as the detective carried out his inspection. The bed had been freshly made, the linen changed, a new mint left on the pillow.

“Mint,” he said, picking it up and putting it down again. “Yum.”

“Be my guest. I’ve had two.”

Hammitt laughed. “Perhaps some other time,” he said, looking around, his attention focusing on the side table. “You sure like your books.”

Ben folded his arms. “Yeah.”

“Fun way to spend a holiday?”

“Yeah.”

Hammitt decided to move on. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mr Maloney, that any detail, no matter how trivial, could be of the greatest importance.” He watched for any sign of acknowledgement. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

Ben looked at the policeman, concentrating on his eyes. After holding his gaze for several seconds, he broke eye contact and looked at the wall. The nearby night storage heater had recently turned on, its vents throwing out enough heat to make the curtains move.

“Where was your cousin?”

Ben led Hammitt to Chris’s room; the door was locked.

They returned to the front desk, finding Valeria.

“You mind opening Chris’s room?”

“Of course.”

The room was empty, apart from the furniture. According to Valeria, nothing had been moved. Chris had arrived carrying a light brown case and hand baggage. The case was still lying open in the corner of the room; some of his clothes were drying on the radiator or on the clotheshorse by the en suite door, whereas others were scattered everywhere. The hand baggage was still there; Ben knew for a fact he carried nothing when he came down to dinner. There were no signs suggesting an intention not to return: toiletries, books, pamphlets picked up from the lobby – all indicating that the room was occupied.

Hammitt was troubled. “I think the best thing I can do is dust for prints.”

Hammitt was done within ten minutes. He adjusted his hat and offered Ben his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Maloney. I’ll make further enquiries and keep you up to date with any developments. Please let me know if you recall anything further that may help with our enquiries.”

27

12:45pm

Nicholl was in the office when Valeria entered. Looking up from his papers, he saw not a young waitress in her late twenties, model complexion, deep brown eyes, hair wavy like a Greek goddess, but a timid expression, puffed-up cheeks and a warm woolly coat.

He looked at her, concerned, “My dear, you look awful.”

She smiled weakly. “Forgive me, Mr Nicholl. I feel so poorly.”

He responded with a kindly, sympathetic smile. Over seven years as her employer, he had come to think of her almost as a daughter. He remembered the day they’d met; back then she was a customer looking to holiday at the best inn in town. His thoughts at that time had been very different; the prettiest thing the island had seen since the baby seal,
You’re damn right that was interesting
. He knew some people might have questioned him – he was old enough to be her father and then some – but who were they to judge? When he gave her a job the same thoughts applied; she had no experience waiting tables, even her English left a lot to be desired. For the first month the feelings resurfaced, but these days they were very protective. He treated her well, not that he treated his other waiters badly, and after two months at the GM he’d developed something of a paternal bond for her. She still had her grandmother, but she wasn’t always right in the head, bless her. In times of crisis, she came to him: that was the one thing he did ask of her.

And that was the one thing she needed of him.

Nicholl rose slowly from his seat. “Sit down,” he insisted, guiding Valeria into the chair. He placed his palm on her forehead. “Well, your temperature seems normal. When exactly did this come on?”

“Just this last hour,” she said, breathing slightly deeper than usual. “I was upstairs and felt dizzy. I’m sure it is nothing.”

He smiled at her and placed his hand over hers. Over seven years his employee, this was the first time he had known her to be unwell.

“I want you to go home and get some rest,” he said. “You’ve been overdoing things, Vally. I’ve told you before; health always comes first.”

She smiled back, this time with much more energy. He always called her Vally. In the early days she put it down to him not being able to remember her actual name, but now it had become his pet name for her.

“Are you okay with the boat?”

She rose to her feet and nodded. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “I’ll be fine by the morning.”