The Cortés Enigma (22 page)

Sitting alone in his bedroom less than twenty metres away, Colts double-clicked on the mouse of his MacBook computer and waited for the results to come up.

The search yielded several results, the first clearly the most relevant. According to the University of Dartmouth faculty webpage, Dr Benjamin Maloney was an expert in Medieval European History and Indo-European History. For the last seven years he had been a lecturer. His career began at Harvard, then Dartmouth for a masters and PhD before becoming a research fellow at Notre Dame prior to returning to lecture at Dartmouth.

The man was enjoying quite a career, Colts mused.

In twenty years, Colts had seen it all. The first time he had visited St Lide’s he had found it an island full of ghosts. Lost souls, lost promise.

Nothing had changed.

In less than two weeks, he’d got to know the whereabouts of everyone on St Mary’s, a routine that had barely changed all these years later. As a black man living at a time when the Scillonians were used to nothing other than skin the colour of paper, he was instantly recognisable, making his job a lot more difficult. His cover story was simple: he was an employee of the Duchy of Cornwall, a land surveyor charged with the task of maintaining the sites and holdings of the Prince of Wales. Technically he wasn’t lying, except that land surveyors as old as sixty rarely worked on the island. As his hair went grey, he updated the story: semi-retired, then retired but working as a consultant. Nobody doubted the validity.

It came from the mouth of a gentleman.

Colts placed his pipe to his mouth and lit it, singing softly to himself as he exhaled. The story of the man in front of him was watertight; better yet, he also had confirmation the man spoke Spanish. The reason for the disappearance of his cousin, however, was more of a mystery. Colts had an idea, but he knew finding proof would be difficult.

He sucked again on his pipe and exhaled, watching the hazy rings of smoke disintegrate into clear air as they rose toward the ceiling.

He didn’t doubt the reasons for the visit. Only the potential outcome.

He knew it was only a matter of time before the same thing happened.

29

3pm

Valeria moved the latest pile of rubble to one side and sat down on the floor for a rest.

Shovelling debris was a chore. Working in an inn, she was used to the occasional heavy lifting, but this was taking things to an extreme.

The light keeper’s storeroom had not been used for a long time. The room had been blocked off during renovations, and Valeria had no plans to use it again. In its heyday, countless barrels and bags of coal, along with other materials such as wood, would have filled the room from top to bottom. The walls, dirty with black coal dust and grime, reeked of a powerful odour that could only be associated with fire.

A second storeroom adjoined it. At certain times of year, it would have been used for food: cheese, dairy, tinned food, fruit…anything that would keep. In her mind she thought she could sense the smell of old food, perhaps bread, rolls, butter.

Or maybe her mind was playing tricks.

She rose again to her feet, taking a deep breath before starting again. From what she’d learnt of the history of the Old Man’s Foot, the last lighthouse keeper had vacated the property in November 1948, the last year of the lighthouse. The building next door – for seven years her home – had been shut the winter before, allegedly because of its poor condition. No one had lived there for over fifty years.

Until her grandmother.

Valeria forced the shovel into the gap between the bricks in front of her, attempting to knock them loose. Her hands were blistered, her brow sweaty, her slender tracksuit clung tightly to her body beneath baggy overalls. Breathing was also becoming difficult. Every time she tried, she felt dust tickling her throat. Her body craved rest. Her mouth water.

In front of her she heard a snapping sound, followed by a brick falling. A small gap had appeared in the wall, revealing a shimmering light, either natural or artificial, for now she could not tell.

She walked toward it, prodding her shovel into the gap again, loosening further bricks.

The gap was now twice the size, large enough to reveal a new room lined with planks of wood.

The diary was correct; the room existed in the place described.

If the photocopied pages were accurate, its existence could conceal the answer to one of the oldest riddles of the island.

30

3:30pm

Ben was completely rejuvenated. The map, moments earlier a source of endless confusion, now made perfect sense. It was like looking at a foreign language that he had finally mastered or, better yet, a veiled and cryptic message that could only be understood when viewed through a certain lens or in a certain light. TF knew of its relevance.

Ben guessed that was the reason he had gone to Hell’s Bay.

After failing to find Peter Kernow on the beach or in his boathouse, Ben searched high and low throughout the town. It was getting dark out, surprisingly gloomy. Heavy cloud was gathering in the eastern sky, suggesting anything from a shower to a thunderstorm. The wind had also picked up, the occasional gale-strength gust hitting him as he walked the empty streets. He tried Kernow in the Mermaid, then the North Atlantic.

He found him in the Gibbous Moon of all places.

“I need to charter a boat,” he blurted out on entering.

Kernow was sitting alone at the bar, while Adrian Nicholl was standing behind the counter, pulling a pint.

Nicholl’s bearded face broke into a grin while Kernow’s remained unchanged. However, Ben could see a puzzled look in his eyes.

“You want to hire a boat?” The question came from Nicholl.

Ben nodded, replying to Nicholl but looking at Kernow. “Yes, please, I’d like to hire a boat. The vessel you took me on earlier will be just fine.”

Kernow looked earnestly at Ben. “You seen the forecast this evening, friend?” he asked, taking a sip from his beer and replacing the glass on a coaster. “Isn’t a sailor on the island – the whole isles for that matter – who would be foolish enough to venture out on an evening such as this.”

“Be that as it may, I’d like to charter a boat. There’s £2,000 in it for you if you get me to St Lide’s and back.”

There was a stunned, shocked silence in the bar. Kernow was still to reply; his navy blue eyes, ironically reminiscent of the colour of the sea, seemed unfocused, as if his senses were numbed.

Again Nicholl was the first to speak. “I’d be happy to sell you one for £4,000. But even then, I’d have to be either a fool or a crook to recommend you take it out tonight of all nights.”

Ben wetted his lips. “I only need it for tonight.”

Kernow sipped again from his ale, draining the glass. He wiped the froth from his lip with the back of his hand and stared fixedly at Ben. “Mind if I ask what business you have with the sea tonight of all nights? Now forgive me if I’m wrong, but based on your time here, I’m guessing you haven’t developed a sudden urge to take up night fishing.”

Ben stared back, fighting a frown with a smile. “If you must know, I think I know what might have happened to my great-great-grandfather.” He looked at Kernow. “I need to get to St Lide’s.”

There was laughter, not from the bar but from someone with a deep and arrogant voice, definitely a man.

To his left, Ben saw movement, the appearance of a figure walking in front of the fire. Ben had been so caught up with his purpose of hiring a boat from Kernow that he’d failed to see the stranger sitting in the quiet partitioned section in the corner of the bar.

“Take a brave man to venture to St Lide’s even on a calm day,” the man said, his accent possibly American, though difficult to distinguish. “Very brave. Or very stupid.”

The man staggered into the main bar. For the first time Ben made out his features: a black man, five foot eight, aged somewhere in his sixties.

“Your great-great-grandfather may have been a lot of things,” he said, approaching the bar, “but taking a boat to St Lide’s in low light and unescorted, I think it’s safe to say that is highly unlikely.”

Colts gestured to Nicholl. “Get this man a drink, and for both of you.” He passed over a £20 note and headed back to the area where he had previously been sitting. “Appreciate it if you give us a little privacy.”

Nicholl smiled. “Nothing but, Geoff. Nothing but.”

Ben was angry, but also intrigued. Forgetting about the drink, he followed the stranger into the cosy corner of the bar located by a log fire.

“Listen, sir, I appreciate your concern and the drink, but really, this is none of your goddamn business.”

Colts smiled as he lowered himself into his chair. He reached for the poker and jabbed the nearest log. “You certainly have some fire in your belly, Mr Maloney. But it’s going to take more than belly fire to plot a successful mission back from St Lide’s with a storm coming the way it is. Now you may think you know what’s there, but take it from me, someone who knows these islands, the last thing you want to do is get caught up in something you know nothing about.”

Ben made to reply, but movement through the nearby doorway left him tongue-tied. Nicholl had appeared, carrying two whiskeys, which he placed down on the table.

“Much obliged,” Colts said, smiling.

Ben waited for Nicholl to leave. “Who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Colts,” he said, his smile widening. “Geoffrey Colts. But people round here call me the sheriff. And you must be good old Ben?”

Ben bit his lip. “How the hell do you know who I am?”

“I know a lot of things, Ben. I can always call you Dr Maloney if you prefer?”

Ben didn’t answer. Instead he found himself concentrating on the man’s eyes: a deep shade of caramel trapped inside an eyeball lined with blood-red veins. Though the expression was friendly, Ben found it transfixing, as if the man was intent on playing him for a fool.

Ben’s face was reddening. “You seem to know a lot about sailing, friend,” he said, using Kernow’s words. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in chartering me a boat?”

Colts sipped from his whiskey and prodded again at the fire. His hands were cold, as was the rest of him. Though he kept a calm façade, Ben couldn’t help notice the way he shivered, as if his body was fighting some kind of ailment.

“Been a long time since I chartered out a boat. Even if I did, chartering it out to a rookie hell-bent on carrying out a foolish personal crusade, particularly on a night like this, well, that would just be plain irresponsible of me.”

Ben folded his arms and breathed out, a loud and lengthy exhale. He bit his lip so hard it nearly began to bleed, his upper teeth grinding against the lower gum. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but didn’t know where to start. There was something about the man that was undeniably convincing.

“I remember the first time I set sail to St Lide’s. I didn’t care for it. I was sailing on a night just as this. Started off clear, barely a cloud to be seen, nice full moon, endless starlight moving throughout the sky, as if the whole galaxy was out to assist me on my way. Of course, I was a lot more stupid back then.”

Ben sat down. “I’ve got over £2,000 waiting in my bank and a chequebook in my pocket. Think hard, Mr Colts. That’s one heck of a lot of money for one night’s use of a boat.”

Colts remained unmoved. “I know what it is you’re looking for, Mr Maloney. Was looking for the same thing myself over thirty years ago.”

“You’re looking for your cousin?”

Colts laughed. “Actually, a friend. He was like a cousin in many ways. He was a lot older than me, blue-eyed, fading blond hair, greyish beard.” He rubbed the side of his face with his hands. “Spent over fifty years travelling the world, looking for the same thing as you are now. Least until the Spaniards came.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, and Colts noticed. The man watched him, sipping his whiskey. He took a long swig, replaced it on the coaster, and exhaled. “Ah.”

Ben folded his arms. “What are you talking about?”

Colts laughed, only without humour. “You think you’re the only person on the island looking for what you’re looking for?”

“Since his disappearance, I’m looking for my cousin.”

“And what was he looking for? Huh? The story of your ancestor is famous, Ben. You don’t make two visits to the same island looking for a long-lost relative.”

Ben was getting rattled. “How did you know about me?”

“Because I’ve been watching,” Colts replied calmly, draining his glass. “Adrian, same again.”