The Cortés Enigma (3 page)

The door to the sacristy was locked, as were two others. Failing to find anything else of relevance, he left the church and then the graveyard.

The church was located at the highest point of the island, a large hill overlooking the sea. The only access, aside from walking across a nearby field, was a muddy pathway that connected the church to the nearby hamlet, a settlement of several cottages. Islanders nicknamed it New Town, but that wasn’t its official name.

Being the only settlement on St Lide’s, it simply didn’t have one.

Ten minutes later Maloney approached the hamlet, still to see any sign of life. There were two buildings on the left, a fisherman’s cottage and a tavern, above the door of which hung a sign depicting a well-dressed individual dressed in a Georgian-style wig, holding an ale glass.

The Duke of Cornwall.

Maloney opened the door and entered a dimly lit establishment with a varied assortment of wooden furniture. Immediately he was overcome with a weird sensation – warmth; after four hours outdoors, he had already forgotten the feeling. A fire was roaring in the corner of the room, a wood burner surrounded by an iron grille and several keepsakes from the building’s past. The landlord was standing in front of it, poking the logs, causing the fire to glow orange.

The tavern was small, and open, despite it being a Sunday. Instead of a bar, several long tables were joined together and extended all the way across the room, surrounded by eight wooden chairs, five of which were vacant. The interior was dated, brown and prone to woodworm, furnished with memorabilia of the village’s seafaring past. Among them was a framed photograph that had been taken ten years earlier; Alfred the gravedigger was standing alongside the landlord.

Alfred was also sitting at the table.

Maloney took a seat alongside him just as the landlord was returning. “I say, do you always open on a Sunday?”

The four men looked at him, their expressions offering little warmth. Their appearance matched that of the tavern, dirty and run-down. As Maloney sat down, he became aware of several smells, in particular the strong odour of damp wood and natural scent vaguely overpowered by the stench of smoke coming from the fireplace.

“Here on St Lide’s we often do things a little differently, sir,” the landlord said, standing opposite, his large frame leaning across the table. The landlord was a stout, bearded individual of indeterminate age, probably closer to fifty than thirty, his thick hair black to grey.

Maloney turned to Alfred. “How long did you say you’d been working at the churchyard?”

The man was nursing two drinks at once, a large brandy and a small ale. He took a long swig from his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well now, let me see,” he said, pretending to mull the question over. “Must be going back all the way to 1881. That was the year the
Dunbar
went down.” He glanced at the landlord and shook his head. “You remember that one, boys?”

The locals muttered, all in agreement. Heads shook in unison. Sitting opposite, the landlord filled his pipe with tobacco and smoked freely.

Maloney didn’t know what to say. “What happened?”

“Back in ’81 there was this wooden-hulled brigantine called the
Dunbar
– the
Charlotte Dunbar
, that be its full name,” Alfred began. “Nice vessel, too. One night, must’ve been about this time of year, it was sailing away past Burnt Island. You ever set foot on St Agnes, sir?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. At least I haven’t had a chance to yet.”

“Folks are real different there,” one of the men sitting close by said. He had red hair, a scruffy beard, his clothes on the verge of falling apart. “They say people there don’t take kindly to strangers.”

Maloney did his best to ignore him.

Alfred sipped again from his ale. “The sea was rough that night, real choppy like. Must have been past midnight when it happened. See, the
Dunbar
ran aground; the captain misjudged the gap between the islands. Been sailing from Newport out to France. No one knows what happened to the crew.”

Maloney cleared his throat, unsure whether the story was over. Having seen the man tending graves and now nursing two drinks on a Sunday afternoon, it didn’t take any extra persuasion to decide he needed to be on his guard.

“A number of them are buried right there in the churchyard,” he added.

“Is that so?” Maloney said, cupping his hands together and placing his forearms on the table – no elbows. “Well, if you are correct in what you say, and you do know the churchyard better than any other, perhaps you might tell me about Pizarro?”

“Tell you about who?”

“Pizarro?”

Alfred looked back with a blank expression. “Been tending those graves since 1881. In all that time, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any Pizarro.”

“I assure you, he’s definitely there.”

Maloney jumped, startled. The door to the tavern opened, its thick oak frame banging against its rusty hinges before closing with equally great force. A young man had entered: thin, nervous, and, judging by his appearance and manner, not old enough to drink in a tavern. He was tall for his age, approaching six foot, and dressed in a thick dark overcoat that matched the colour of his hair. He surveyed the low-beamed ceiling from a distance before walking towards the table.

The landlord was furious. “What you doing in here, boy?”

“Probably the same as the rest of us,” the final local replied. Like most there, he was aged somewhere in his late forties, rugged, his grey hair largely receded. “Something to keep out the damn cold.” He looked at the boy. “You okay, Sam?”

The boy smiled faintly. “Mum sent me,” he said to the landlord. “The boiler’s gone again.”

“Ah, heck. That’s the third time this week. That thing will damn near bankrupt me.”

The landlord opened a bottle of brandy, poured two shots into a large round glass, and slid it across the table.

“Here. You get that down you. It’ll help keep out the cold.”

Maloney watched as the boy gripped the glass and sipped it down slowly. He could tell from the boy’s red raw fingers that he had spent significant time out in the cold. A deathly hush had descended, the atmosphere tense, as if everyone was afraid to break the silence.

Maloney turned to Alfred, still thinking about Pizarro.

“You know, I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced. My name’s Maloney. Dr Thomas Francis Maloney.”

Alfred grinned as he accepted his hand. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr Maloney. My name’s Slater. Alfred.”

Maloney smiled, recognising the name from the graveyard. “Now then, Mr Slater, if you’d be so kind, I’d very much like to hear about Pizarro.”

“I told you already, Doctor, I don’t recall the name.”

“You were cleaning a monument near his tombstone not one hour ago,” Maloney replied. “It was that very large monument, the one we were standing beside. The one that looks rather like a galleon being taken away by Spanish soldiers.”

“Is that a fact?” the local with the red beard asked. “Truth is, none of us have ever been to Spain.”

Laughter swept round the tavern, the sound interrupted by the howling of the wind as it blew against the door, forcing it open. It banged against the wooden frame, harder and harder.

“Shut that door, boy,” the landlord barked at Sam.

“Mum said about the boiler.”

“Later.”

Maloney watched the landlord disappear into an adjacent room while Sam left his seat to close the door. With the door closed, the room once again became silent.

Alfred raised his glass to his lips and finished his ale in one swift gulp. He looked to his right and saw Maloney staring at him.

“There were six of them in total,” Maloney resumed, “near the large monument. Ring any bells?”

“Why, that’s the graves of the original settlers.”

The statement came from the young boy, his attention firmly on Maloney. He had already polished off his brandy.

Maloney eyed the boy and everyone else around him in turn. “I’d like to buy everybody in here a drink,” he said, removing a shilling from one of the pockets of his waistcoat. “Something to keep out the cold.”

The landlord returned, shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s time to close.”

“It’s not two o’clock yet,” Sam protested.

“It’s Sunday,” the landlord replied, gathering up the takings with his stubby fingers. “Besides, your mother needs me to take a look at that boiler.”

“I say, if you’ll wait just one moment,” Maloney began.

The man with the red beard rose to his feet. “You heard the man,” the local said, squaring up to him. “It’s time to leave.”

Maloney remained unmoved, his eyes exploring the faces of all present. He placed the shilling down on the table and decided not to argue. Outnumbered and significantly smaller than the man before him, he chose to leave with the others.

As Alfred Slater and the others disappeared down the hill, Maloney considered his options. The boat wasn’t due to leave till six.

That left four hours before he needed to return.

The road to the right led back to the church, whereas the one to the left was downhill, leading to several cottages. Choosing the right, he followed the path uphill and ten minutes later was back outside the lichgate to the church.

The landlord’s son, apparently named Sam, was in the churchyard, leaning against one of the headstones.

“What’s your interest?” Sam asked abruptly. “With the settlers?”

Maloney folded his arms, doing his best to keep out the cold. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”

“People on the island have never cared for strangers. Particularly one with a motive,” he said, walking toward the lichgate. “Between you and me, I don’t think you’re as foolish as you look.”

Maloney was dumbstruck. He considered leaving, but decided to stay. Eventually he laughed. “What makes you say that?”

“For a start, you see things that others don’t, specific things…so how much you gonna give me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For the information you need.”

The boy folded his arms, perching his bottom against the nearest tombstone, Joseph Smith, died 1783. Considering his options, Maloney removed a small coin from his pocket.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Sam said indignantly.

Maloney frowned. Looking at the contents of his pocket, he removed a half crown. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you might tell me how many Wilcoxes are buried in this cemetery.”

The teenager accepted the coin and placed it in his right pocket. “I know every inch of this cemetery. There are three Wilcoxes.” He gestured with his hand to the south side of the church where Maloney had already found two such graves. “Two are buried quite close together and one about twenty feet further away. It’s where the poorest families were buried.”

Maloney let the insult slide. “Who was Pizarro?”

“Why, he was Cortés’s first mate.”

“I meant the one in this cemetery.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Cortés? As in Hernán Cortés?”

“Could be.”

Though he heard correctly, he knew the suggestion was preposterous. “Francisco Pizarro died in Mexico.”

“Says who?”

“Says everybody,” Maloney retorted. “Why, there isn’t a history student in the world who doesn’t know this. Not to mention every history book. Original letters. I’ve seen his grave.”

“So have I,” the boy replied, smiling.

Maloney was confused. “Who told you this?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

Maloney was starting to get annoyed. “Well, that depends. Tell me, and we’ll see what it’s worth.”

The boy stopped slouching, preparing to leave.

“Right,” Maloney interrupted. He walked toward him, stopping so close he could see the pinpricks on the boy’s neck. “I assume you’re a lad of your word. After all, it would take a pretty dishonest kind of chap to go back on his word.”

The boy grinned. “I guess that’s up to you to find out.”

Maloney took an annoyed breath and gave him an extra shilling. “What’s so significant?”

“According to legend, it was here Cortés’s granddaughter crashed on her way back from Mexico.”

Maloney’s eyes narrowed. “Says who?”

“Locals.”

Maloney bit his lip, unconvinced. Like most people in his field, he was familiar with the countless unsubstantiated stories regarding the conquistadors, but he was still to find any firm evidence. He knew for a fact there were hundreds of stories about Cortés, ranging from lost ships to lost sons.

“And why exactly did they come here?”

The boy smiled. “Legend has it, it’s here Cortés buried all his treasure.”