The Cortés Enigma (35 page)

Ben’s first port of call was the bedroom. His bag was on top of the dressing room table located by the side of his bed. He rummaged through everything and took out one of the books.

The translations of Leland.

Colts and Valeria were in the drawing room. Valeria had used the opportunity to make coffee.

Ben entered a grand room with pine wood floor, vivid white walls, an opulent settee, an original fireplace, large open windows and several more pieces of art, again mainly portraits, hanging from the wall.

“Here,” Ben said, passing Colts the book. He picked up a coffee, added two sugars and sipped it black.

“What’s this?”

“The answer to your prayers.”

Ben wasn’t wrong. Five minutes later Colts knew everything he needed.

“Who the hell gave you this?”

On this occasion, Ben was in no mood to spill everything. “Does it matter?”

Colts adjusted his hat. “You really had no idea the treasure was here?”

Valeria was starting to find herself worked up. “You two care to explain instead of keeping things to yourself?”

“The book was a family heirloom. It’s over one hundred years old,” Ben said.

“That a fact?” Colts asked.

“Ben?”

He looked at Valeria, showing her the book. “It was owned by TF.”

“What is it?”

“Among his possessions, he had a couple of other books: a biography of Raleigh and this one here that included select translations of a Latin chronicle. They focus on the Great Work Mine. I didn’t know that until I saw it.”

“Clearly he did,” Colts added.

Ben was in truth unsure. “If TF had figured out everything, why was he found in St Lide’s?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Colts said, with almost a sneer.

“Stop it, both of you,” Valeria said, looking at them in turn as though a nanny looking at her children. “Ben, explain yourself.”

Ben folded his arms. “In the 1540s, there was a guy named John Leland. Basically he travelled around England–”

“And the Scillies,” Colts interrupted.

“And the Scillies, making observations of life. Among other things, he visited the mine here. According to TF’s translations, the mine was humongous, even compared to what is written in books or on the Internet. Apparently there was even a second section, one I can’t find reference to anywhere else.”

Valeria was intrigued. “You think if we find this, we find treasure.”

“Your great-great-grandfather would not have included it if he didn’t think it was necessary, Ben,” Colts agreed.

Ben noticed extra emphasis on the ‘he’. “Sadly it still doesn’t say where it is. Or even if it really exists.”

Colts was willing to believe. “You sure there was nothing in that diary? Nothing else? No extra pages? Missing pages? Things you’re just not bright enough to understand.”

Ben decided to let the insult slide. “You’re perfectly welcome to try,” he said, looking again at the diary and shuffling through the pages. After the storms of the previous night the paper was getting tattered, the edges becoming shrivelled and dirty from use. He opened it up toward the end, stopping on the final diagrams.

Colts was waiting for the diary, his hand out ready to receive it. “What now?”

Ben was lost for words. The diagram of the façade of the mansion, two pages from the end, was the penultimate one in the diary. The last one, what he guessed was some kind of statue, perhaps dedicated to a conquistador or someone similar, suddenly triggered a reaction in his mind. The replica emeralds, TF’s diagram of the façade of the house…

“Ben?” Colts was getting impatient.

Ben turned to look at him. “We need to go back outside.”

Within the gardens of the Godolphin Estate was a more private area enjoyed only by the house-sitters. Many of the walls were ruined, their grey stone overgrown with vegetation that intruded through the former windows. Unlike other parts of the house, the walls were older, the architecture more medieval, like that of a ruined abbey or castle. Large doorways separated the gardens from the wider estate, guarding it from intruders like a portcullis.

A gravelled pathway began on the other side of an outer doorway, leading into the wider estate. Like the areas Ben had seen so far, this one was heavily wooded and surrounded by well-maintained lawns and wild flowers, their colours spanning the spectrum.

Ben knew what he was looking for, but he didn’t know where it would be. Holding the photocopied diary in his hands, he showed the picture of the statue to Colts and Valeria.

“If it’s still here, I’m guessing the statue is probably somewhere near the gardens. They wouldn’t have it in the wider estate where anyone could have trespassed.”

Colts couldn’t dispute the logic. “If it’s still there.”

“You never saw anything the first time?”

“No. See, back then, I was looking for serious stuff.”

Ben followed the path, entering another area of thick greenery. He passed a lawn, dubbed one of the ‘ancient squares’, and followed it into a more wild area.

The scenery was picturesque, particularly in the good weather. As the path ended, they came to the woodland, which was accessible, but the ground underfoot was more rugged, wild. There was bark and fallen leaves everywhere, the soil moist from recent rain. For Ben, the atmosphere was becoming heavy, whether a trick of the mind or the geography, he was unsure. Sweat was gathering across his brow; he felt it also on his back, his armpits, even the soles of his feet. The diary was the key, as it had always been, all that was missing was the final clue.

The elusive clue.

“Come over here. I’ve found something.”

The voice was Colts’s. He was somewhere nearby. Ben jogged between the trees, seeing a location overgrown by shrubs. There was something in front of Colts, large, bent over at an angle, clearly made of stone. The nearer he got, the more features Ben could see: arms, body, head, a three-pointed hat, an elegant sword in hand. The man was an Englishman, despite the Spanish features, which was surely itself a clue. Ben recognised the man before he’d even read the inscription.

“Sir Walter Raleigh.”

Colts adjusted his hat. “I reckon that just about goes and solves another mystery now, doesn’t it?”

Valeria had caught them up, wading through wild flowers that were coming all the way up to her waist. She saw the statue up close, confused. “What does it mean?”

That was the question Ben still hadn’t answered. He walked toward it, touched it. The stone was cold, a mixture of both rough and smooth, and all the same colour and material.

The same as the replica emeralds.

“Granite,” Ben said, getting closer, then circling the monument. The entire thing was impressive, back and front. There was more dirt on the back, leaves, water, evidence of damage and mould; Ben dated the statue to about the 1800s.

There was no writing on the statue itself.

As Ben continued around the statue, he noticed a depression, a cut into the earth, not quite a pit but not far off. Beneath the forest floor, hidden by natural debris, there was a solid metal plate, a door, hinged and secured with a padlock.

Colts noticed it immediately. Wasting no time, they set about clearing the area that was visible, and then finding which parts were hidden. Twenty seconds later they had cleared everything. The opening was about two-feet-six square: big enough for a person to squeeze through.

Ben guessed it had once served as a ventilation shaft.

Ben removed his metal cutters from his side bag.

Colts waited until hearing the lock snap before opening it up. He could see a ladder: the first three steps of many that led downward into the gloom. “You got a light?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, removing his torch and shining it on the steps, prompting Valeria to do the same.

“It could be a long way down.”

The Spaniards entered the garden from the side of the property. Getting into the estate, especially when having a helicopter, had been easy. They came down in a field and continued on foot between the briars and thickets, not daring to chance exposure on the path.

On coming near the house, they turned to the right, circling the building and entering the garden. The windows, despite their fine size, offered little in terms of a view of the interior, unless standing close and at a precise angle.

As far as they could see, there was no one at home.

They followed the pathway just as the others had done, which took them through the heart of the garden.

Again there was no sign of activity.

Cortés was adamant there was someone close by. He’d heard sounds, definitely human, possibly talking.

Up ahead he saw where the sound had come from. The American, the black man and Valeria had entered woodland but were now standing not walking. Concealed behind the ruined wall, the glassless window offering perfect sight, Cortés waited. All his life he had been blessed with patience, a virtue that cursed others.

Tonight it could win him what he sought.

As the seconds passed, he noticed movement, not forward, backwards, left or right but apparently downwards.

It left him puzzled.

He gestured to Pizarro. “Come. Silent as the grave.”

Nicholl was in his office when Danny entered. At the Gibbous Moon, a visit from his trusted employee was not unusual.

Today, however, it was a complete surprise.

“Danny?”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr Nicholl. Only I had to come. She took it.”

Nicholl looked at Danny, a perplexed expression on his face. In his experience the boy had no tendency to drink.

Must be something else he was still to pick up on.

“You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, lad. Who took what and why?”

“Valeria,” he said resolutely. “They have the five pieces. They took the Devil’s Cup.”

48

The ladder was grounded into solid earth approximately forty feet below the opening. Less than twenty metres away was a staircase, stone, solid, at least a hundred years old.

The staircase continued for exactly 363 steps. Valeria knew because she counted. Placing her slender size five feet safely onto each step was no mean feat. Though easy by size, it was difficult by nature. Everything was pitch black, every last source of light extinguished. Even the torches penetrated no more than a few metres ahead. The cave absorbed the light as opposed to reflecting it; the small things that were lit up offered no unexpected features. They were surrounded by rock and darkness.

And there was only one way out.

As the stairway ended, the ground became flatter, at first smooth and then much rougher. As the seconds passed, the light improved, or at least their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. It was like being in a cavern or, better yet, an enormous trench. Thick granite walls flanked them on either side. Their footsteps echoed, as did other sounds: water dripping, rocks dropping, bats flying, if not bats something else smaller, nocturnal and with wings. Even Colts could feel the tension. His heart was racing, his lungs were tight, sweat poured from his forehead across his brow.

Even in the darkness, one thing was clear.

This was unlike any tin mine he had ever seen.

About five hundred metres in, they noticed something different.

“Is that what I think it is?” Ben asked.

On this occasion Colts spared Ben any sarcasm. “Railway tracks – iron,” he agreed, noticing the ancient rails directly below him. There were other items as well, tools, pickaxes, used barrels of gunpowder, broken lanterns. The smell of the powder lingered in the air, like burnt chalk, its fragrance mixed with the natural odour of the granite, and possibly something else.

Ben couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Colts was curious.

“Bee in your bonnet, Mr Colts?” Ben asked.

“Matter of fact, I was just wondering why a mine of this type had the need for iron railway tracks.”

Ben was not at all surprised. “It’s a big operation. Makes perfect sense to me.”

Colts turned, the light shined in Ben’s eyes. “As I told you before, the mine closed in about 1790. Any tracks that existed before then should’ve been wooden, not iron.”

Now he mentioned that, things no longer made sense.

The path by the tracks was narrow, so much so the only way to follow it was to walk along them directly. Some were broken, others uneven, wooden sleepers had rotted away. Ben was feeling distinctly uneasy. He walked with the light directed down at his feet, his concentration solely on negotiating each step safely. All around him he was sensing things. Colts deep in thought, Valeria worried, the sounds and smells of things nearby. He felt the walls closing in on him; at any minute he would become trapped, isolated, marooned. He thought of Chris, then TF, the diary, the man, the boat that was found in St Lide’s, covered in silt, lost, the man himself with a musket ball lodged in his skull.

Was it a hero’s death or a pauper’s? Ben wondered.

Colts had stopped, and Ben noticed. There was something blocking the way. Despite the poor light, he could see things. The cave was at its largest here. The walls were further away, pits built everywhere, equipment scattered in all directions.

“This must have been the heart of the mine.”

Colts was too busy to reply. He shone his torch directly in front of him. His eyes made out strange patterns, the likes of which he had never before seen. It was like looking at a door, only no ordinary door, the kind out of a fantasy novel, or at least a good movie. There were grooves, some several inches deep. They formed part of the patterns. Familiar patterns. Ones he’d seen very recently.

Ben had noticed before Colts pointed them out. “Oh my God.”

Valeria was becoming increasingly nervous. “What is it?”

“Aztec,” Colts said, convinced they were nearing the end of the search. A whole night’s work, the culmination of an entire career, a lifetime.

The treasure was close.

“Care to do the honours, Professor?”

On this occasion, Ben was already halfway there. The wall was smooth, granite once again but unlike the large ones that surrounded them on every side. The cliff was natural: it had formed over many millennia, the angle at times changed by the past blasts of gunpowder and the blows of pickaxes.

The one in front was not natural.

But it was here. Blocking the path.

Studying it in the light, Ben noticed further patterns, inscriptions, ranging from things he had seen before to things he’d only heard of in myth. TF’s final book now made sense, as if it translated an ancient code. There were messages, apparently written in Aztec.

“What’s it say?” Colts asked.

Ben took a while to respond. “Nothing,” Ben said. “Whoever wrote this either didn’t understand the inscriptions or they were faked.”

Nevertheless, other things made sense. He studied the grooves; there were five of them, all of different shapes. He looked at the first.

It was the outline of a bell.

“Hand me the stones.”

Valeria moved forward tentatively, carrying the bag. She brushed her hair back, trying to study the wall.

Ben took the bag and searched for the bell. He found it, removed it and walked toward the wall. “Give me some light.”

Valeria shone her torch in the direction that Ben required while Colts took the other one from Ben. As Ben moved toward the wall, they realised what he was doing. He lined the bell up with the groove, making sure it was a perfect fit.

Then he pushed it.

He heard something click.

The next one was the fish, after that the rose and the cup. The rose went in the dead centre of five, like a sun surrounded by planets. Each had been a perfect fit, made to measure, all for this one purpose, the same purpose that had led them here. All were needed to complete the job. Ben loved it. The idea was foolproof. The stones had three purposes, the last of which they had now established.

Only one problem remained.

“We need the trumpet.”

Colts was standing beside Ben. He had already realised that the door could only be opened with all five of the stones.

And the fifth wasn’t here.