The Cortés Enigma (21 page)

Valeria was home within twenty-five minutes, thanks to Nicholl, with the rest of the day off. She was scheduled to have the evening off anyway, so losing four hours was hardly the end of the world.

Judging by the lack of visitors, she knew it wouldn’t make a huge difference to her boss.

She re-entered her house through the kitchen door and headed straight for the cellar. Though the room had been fully refurbished, fitted out with modern furniture, laminate flooring and painted white in a manner visually reminiscent of a luxury cabin, it still retained a slight odour of old brickwork that betrayed its age and historical origin. The original red brick wall remained behind the new layer of white paint, the smell of decay particularly strong in one corner. The original plan had been to convert it into a bedroom, but these days Valeria used it mainly for laundry and storage. She knew they would never have enough visitors to make an extra bedroom worthwhile; even if they needed three, the upstairs rooms served that purpose.

A large boiler was located at the far end of the room, alongside a redundant washing machine that had once been kept in the kitchen – Valeria once joked that it predated the lighthouse. Her grandmother never changed anything; she knew the same was true of most of her family. What was good enough then remained so now.

Eventually, though, Valeria won the argument about refitting the kitchen, which now looked immaculate.

She walked toward a doorway at the far end, not an original fixture, but not completely modern either. The knob was brass, the frame oak, its general appearance impressive – like those at the Gibbous Moon, the kind that led to a wine cellar of a fine manor house. She removed a key from a pocket in her jeans, opened the door and entered. She was now beneath the lighthouse in what had once been the maintenance room. In the past, a long wall had existed, partitioning the two buildings, but that had changed during recent developments. In the early days it had become her retreat – her getaway. There was no view more romantic on the island; there was no symbol more romantic than the lighthouse.

Her grandmother aside, she refused to reveal to anyone anything of the building’s true significance.

Unlike the recently renovated cellar, the former maintenance room was derelict and bare, lined with the original red brick wall, the same obnoxious smell of abandonment and age. A single light bulb dangled from the socket above, the dim glow of the forty-watt bulb barely making an impression on the darkness.

She had seen the room several times before but not like this. It was her frame of mind that was different: a new sense of perspective, of possibility and perhaps of awe. Never judge things by their appearances – that was what her grandmother had always told her. It was a difficult thing to accept – particularly in a world where people did nothing but. As a desirable hot-blooded Latino woman, she had become used to it, accepted it as normal even. Never before had she considered the idea that such important things could be hidden within such unassuming places, the valuable mistaken for being worthless, something shining possessing false value. She remembered a line from Shakespeare, words that seemed appropriate.

‘All that glisters is not gold.’

She continued toward the end of the room and stopped before the wall. Unlike the other three, this one was not red but grey, not brick but stone.

Once upon a time she guessed it had probably been painted white.

She felt it with her hands. Unlike the other three, the surface was smooth.

She removed the recently photocopied papers from her pocket and began to read.

28

Over an hour later, Ben was lying on top of the covers of his bed, still struggling to gather his thoughts. The only thing missing from Chris’s room was Chris himself. Valeria was right to be cautious.

Question was: what else did she know?

Any doubts he’d had about the story Valeria told him the night before had been partially dispelled after his trip to the mausoleum, but even though he had seen it first-hand he was still to learn anything definitive. In many ways, he felt worse because of it. The clues were cryptic, just like the notes left behind by TF.

Ben knew they wouldn’t have been recorded in the diary if they weren’t relevant.

The book Dr Phillips had given him was interesting rather than useful. Chapter eight began with the author introducing the legends of the islands before spending ten pages recounting Cortés’s life story. It focused on the telling of the Noche Triste – or as it was translated into English, The Night of Sorrows. The Night of Sorrows, he thought.

Plural, not singular.

The story of Cortés was legendary. Born in 1485 to a family of Spanish nobility, he lived a childhood of almost complete anonymity. In his early years he had been a sickly child, unlikely to be destined for greatness, despite being of honourable stock. His father had commanded troops in the Spanish army, whereas his mother had lived a more sheltered life. Tradition had it they wanted him to be a lawyer, leading to him attending the University of Salamanca. Ben shook his head as he read that.

Seven years a university lecturer had taught him the story was probably fiction.

Whatever the circumstances, Cortés was never destined for the law. At age nineteen he joined Diego Velázquez and Nicolás de Ovando on their voyages to the New World. By 1511 he had progressed well in his chosen way of life. He moved to Cuba, becoming Velázquez’s secretary. His reward: a ranch and several acres of farmland for years of dedication.

But it wasn’t just the land Cortés gained. Arguably he had also inherited an indomitable sense of adventure. In 1518 he led an expedition inland, an event that would make him famous in Europe, infamous in Mexico. His explorations were successful, gaining him both money and wisdom. Those who stood in his way he conquered, either by the sword or through diplomacy. The gold inflated his reputation, but also his ego. To his men, he was unrivalled. A man who would leave no stone unturned; never once turn his back on a challenge.

A man who would burn his ships to eliminate the option of retreat.

The conquest of the Aztecs was achieved in several stages, but most famously one night. The Night of Sorrows. Either by trickery or gift, Cortés’s pockets became filled with gold. No one knew for sure how much was taken – nor how much was subsequently lost. The sceptics said it was minimal. The ambitious, uncountable. A combined one million carats of cut and uncut emerald, and at least the same in gold.

In today’s terms: priceless.

Ben felt sure that the treasure had existed. Every account spoke of it, including Bernal Díaz – the soldier who wrote a biography of Cortés at the ripe old age of seventy. The hoard was lost when they escaped. The Aztecs recovered some of what was lost, but the majority was never found, at least according to all known historical accounts.

What the hell was TF onto?

For the first time Ben was learning something new. If the book he was reading was correct, most of the hoard was never lost. The bounty was hidden in a cave near Tenochtitlan – now Mexico City. It was buried so well the Aztecs never found it.

Nor Cortés’s own men who had looked for it.

It was discovered in 1581 by one of his grandchildren, a woman, not a man. Catalina Cortés had officially died before reaching age two, yet according to this, her daughter of the same name sailed to Mexico, armed with a map and knowledge passed down by her mother and grandfather. The hoard was recovered and placed on a ship.

By 1582 the boat was set to return. Empowered by her newfound wealth and what prestige remained from her grandfather’s exploits, the granddaughter bargained with the King of Spain. In exchange for titles, the King would have his share.

The gold would return to Spain.

What happened next remained a mystery. Either through intent or fate, the gold failed to return. The ship disappeared, along with all who sailed on her, its story lost from history.

The legend of St Lide’s belonged to the granddaughter.

Not the grandfather.

Ben scratched his chin, not knowing what to think. If the author was right, the small band of men – and one woman – ended their expedition on St Lide’s. Shipwrecked, hungry, depleted by smallpox, they met their end in anonymity. The treasure was buried. The signposts put along the way.

The treasure had never been found.

Ben finished the chapter on the Cortés treasure, spending extra time looking at the final page. There was a map of where the author thought the treasure might be: one of the caves just off Hell’s Bay.

Ben reasoned that if it existed, it would have been found by now.

He turned to his left, looking at the bedside table on which there was a small guidebook next to an alarm clock. The time was just after three.

Ben picked up the book and turned to the map. The bird’s-eye view was simplified as always and supported his initial assessment that the shape was like that of a horseshoe.

He studied it, comparing it to the one in the older book. New Town was certainly the main settlement. The Old Town was little more than a few isolated dwellings, most of which had become dilapidated by the 1800s. The east side of the island seemed more remote. The Queen’s Castle, located in the south-east part of the island, was already a ruin by the 1750s. He remembered seeing its rugged walls during his visit to Hell’s Bay.

Hell indeed, he thought.

Looking at the maps, he noticed the older one looked even more like a horseshoe. Although it was a rough diagram at best, there was clear evidence the island had suffered far less coastal erosion at that time. He remembered what Kernow had told him.

Hell’s Bay had once been a lagoon.

The older map seemed to confirm that.

At one time the island would have been a complete horseshoe. Today, Hell’s Bay was the only part that wasn’t within that shape.

Ben concentrated on Hell’s Bay in both maps, slightly confused. Judging by the newer map, there were points of interest there. There were six caves, all spread out evenly, surrounding what remained of the beach. He had visited the caves, even poked his head inside.

Then he remembered the diary. It spoke of a secret cave. Ben certainly didn’t remember as many as seven.

Away from the caves, the north-east corner of the island was more open. The guidebook described it as an area of natural beauty, vast swathes of greenery as far as the eye could see. A long winding path dissected the hills – a former pilgrims’ trail, according to the guidebook. Close to the area where the hills were at their steepest stood the three large standing stones that had earlier reminded him of Stonehenge.

The Giants’ Table, they were apparently named.

They looked the same on both maps, arranged in a perfect triangle, curious, all things considered. The guidebook stated that they were the oldest things on the island – dating back to the Stone or Bronze Age, making them a minimum of 3,000 years old.

Apparently there were different theories about their exact purpose.

Ben put the guidebook down on the side and eased himself gently to his feet. The aches and pains from the visit to the mausoleum, though less intense, were still troubling him.

He picked up the diary and quickly scanned the pages, looking for TF’s descriptions of the island itself. Stopping, he saw the diagram of the Cortés coat of arms. Still he was confused. It had been lost till twenty years ago.

How had TF seen it?

Suddenly he was even more confused. Looking in detail, the pattern was laid out in quarters. There was a two-sided eagle in the upper left quarter and what he guessed was a lion in the one below it.

Like the map, the Cortés coat of arms was in the shape of a horseshoe.

How the hell had he missed it? Even after everything that had happened, he cursed himself for missing something so blatantly obvious. The coat of arms was laid out in a perfect horseshoe, the exception being the item at the top, a crown. Something else flanked the coat of arms on every side, human faces, clearly men of Aztec features.

He smiled to himself.

There was no doubt about it.

TF had made the distinction.

He turned to leave the room and then stopped as he caught sight of something on the table. The bronze chest Kernow had given him was still lying there.

He’d forgotten to open it.

Walking toward it, he blew on the side, causing dust to fly into the air. Unlike the exterior of the
Dunster
, there was no evidence of silt, but the coating was bronze with corrosion around the side.

Ben removed his Swiss army knife and cut against the lock, making no progress. Resigned, he opened his case, finding something in one of the flaps.

Metal cutters, strong ones.

He lined them up with the lock and pressed down hard. He pulled, trying to force the lid of the chest open. It was stiff, but it moved.

Slowly.

The lid opened. Small clouds of dust escaped, forcing him into a coughing fit. As the dust settled he saw there was a single object wrapped in a brown cloth. He picked it up and opened it, seeing a large, slightly heavy object.

It was stone, coloured white and looked like a bell.

He looked at it, awestruck, remembering the story of Cortés and the five emeralds. Only this one was made of stone.

What the hell had TF found?