The Cortés Enigma (5 page)

3

The first day of my second trip to St Mary’s was in many ways no different to the first. The ferry voyage from Penzance had taken a gruelling twenty-four hours, the like of which I never again wish to undergo.

Leaving the harbour on arrival on St Mary’s, I took a walk south along Garrison Hill and continued to a familiar haunt overlooking the sea.
The Gibbous Moon inn
had been a faithful friend to me on my first visit, and I was pleased also to renew my acquaintance with
Mr Thomas Pryce, a well-respected gentleman of Eton education who had retired from the law
to take a well-earned retirement in calmer waters. As before, our conversation was wide ranging and pleasant, flowing like water from a waterfall, never paused, not rushed, but fine and free…

Valeria Maria Flores had been twenty-one years old when she first heard the legend of St Lide’s.
She came to the island that year, determined to find answers for herself. She arrived in the middle of summer; had she not done so, exploration of the caves and crevices would have been impossible. She took a room at the Gibbous Moon
in the heart of Hugh Town, St Mary’s
, a traditional coaching inn with white walls and original beams, the oldest establishment on the island. When the money ran out, she took a job washing pots, and then as a waitress.
Seven years later, she was still there
.

She never did find the treasure.

In seven short years she had seen it all. Stories derived from the local legend were always popular topics. Some visitors displayed a casual interest, viewing them as entertaining
after-dinner
amusement, a perfect way to unwind with a beer or a glass of wine before retiring to their beds. Others were sceptical: to them, there was no treasure. It was just a modern marketing strategy to bring in the tourists.

But the belief of others was greater. Some arrived fully equipped with the latest technology to aid their search. Others came without the technology, but with a plan. Either way, the result was the same. People from all walks of life, ranging from those inspired by the adventurous spirit of Livingstone and other great explorers to the just plain stupid, had been coming for centuries; each destined to meet with the same lack of success. The legend had caused more deaths than anything else on the isles, including the wrecks.

Some said the treasure was cursed.

Then there was the one who was different. Doctor Thomas Francis Maloney
,
FRSA
, an esoteric archaeologist and scholar well known in Victorian high society. The man had first appeared in the winter, which was strange; most came only in summer. A year later he returned in the spring, this time ready for a much longer stay. He came at night, which was even stranger; the others had always arrived in the day. He stayed for three weeks, and disappeared halfway through the fourth. Even to the nearest detail, Valeria remembered the story well. The man had eaten lunch at just before one o’clock on 8 April 1905 and left just before two. He departed carrying only a light duffel bag, leaving his remaining possessions in his room. Over a week later, he had not returned. The initial conclusion at the Gibbous Moon had remained unchanged for a century. The man was a fraudster and had slipped out without paying.

That was also the official verdict.

Until the boat was found.

Valeria was working in the dining room when the latest guest arrived. Even without an introduction, she immediately knew who he was. Ever since the remains of the famous adventurer had been discovered, the papers had been full of pictures, the most frequent a photographic portrait of the man taken during his heyday. Another guest had arrived the night before, apparently a descendent. That lad had been younger, she guessed
no more than twenty-eight
, whereas this one was slightly older, more mature. The first had been clean-shaven, whereas this one was more like the man in the portrait. He had something of a beard: stubble if you could call it that. His dress was different too, but then again, styles vary. Unlike the man of a century ago, Dr Livingstone had been replaced by someone somewhere between Indiana Jones and Tom Brady. His Levi’s were dark blue, matching the colour of his T-shirt, presently hidden by a black windproof jacket that was necessary on a night like tonight.

Like the two men before him, he came in the rain.

Ben Maloney shook off the excess water from his hair and forehead as he made his way inside the inn. It was after 10pm, and the foyer was deserted, the quiet sound of the radio and the ticking of a grandfather clock from the Victorian era the only exceptions.

He paused for a second to take in the surroundings. Wooden furnishings and a setting that was calm and quaint reminded him of the country inns that dotted the towns and villages of his native New England. A man was standing behind the counter at the other side of the room. Ben approached across a smart yellow carpet that was covered in watery footprints, dropped his case to the floor and placed his hand baggage on the counter. Like the man of a century ago, he travelled light.

The
receptionist was a man named Daniel Anakoto: a well-built, handsome man aged somewhere in his mid twenties with a large forehead and a strong shock of black hair
. The man was
famous at the GM, not only for being the most charming, but also the only black
. Though born in Ghana, after eighteen years in Cornwall and St Mary’s he had acquired a strong accent that was unmistakeably Cornish.

He smiled from behind the counter. “Good evening, sir,” he said, studying the man’s appearance. “How may I be of assistance?”

Ben looked back with a stern expression. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

“Mr Maloney, I presume?”

“That’s right.”

Danny
turned around and removed a large key with a gold key ring from a selection of hooks. “Your cousin is upstairs; he gave precise instructions that we should inform him when you arrive.”

“Thanks. I’ll find him when I’ve showered and unpacked.”

“Of course. Your cousin specifically asked for room seven. Apparently it was the room once frequented by your relation.”

“Well, how about that,” Ben replied, silently impressed.

“Unfortunately the room is unavailable for tonight but available from tomorrow if you’d like to use it then.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“In the meantime we have another double room available,” he said, offering Ben the key to room seventeen. Despite the advances in technology, the owner refused to compromise the inn’s historical character by changing to the use of swipe cards. “It’s located next door to your cousin. Yes?”

Ben unzipped his jacket and ran his hands through his
long brown locks
that were almost pitch black as a result of the rain.

“Fine,” he replied at last.

Danny smiled. “Please fill in the form, sir.”

Standing near the doorway, Valeria watched the newcomer as he filled in his details on the form. His name, in essence, was irrelevant. She knew from the old stories that the man who disappeared had had children, and later his children had had children.

She didn’t need to see any ID to know the latest was now standing in front of her.

“Is it raining hard?” Danny asked as Ben filled in the form. “Or has it largely stopped?”

Ben looked up as he completed the form and tossed the pen across the counter. As he picked up the key, he noticed the nametag on Danny’s chest. “That your real name?”

Danny grinned. “The only one I have.”

Ben picked up his bag, smiling faintly. “What floor?”

“Number two,” he replied, “the waitress will show you to your room.”

Ben turned away from the counter, his eyes taking in the features of the lobby. There was someone standing by the doorway to the dining room, a dark silhouette barely visible in the poor light: slender, sleek, elegant.

Stunningly attractive.

Danny waved in the direction of the doorway, and Valeria hurried into the lobby. She looked at Ben briefly as he handed her the key; despite the obvious similarities between the man and the face from the recent newspapers, even a brief glimpse was enough to notice the differences. The man was younger, unquestionably, and more raw.

A young man.

And a modern man.

“I sure hope it comes with a shower.”

Danny smiled. “Yes, sir. All of our rooms have
en suite
.”

Ben adjusted his wet hair a second time and followed Valeria up the stairs. His footsteps thudded to a predictable pattern on the uncarpeted surface, the sound becoming ever louder as he reached the landing. They continued up the second set and then along a narrow corridor illuminated by a series of small yellow lights and lined by doorways and cream-coloured walls.

Standing behind the desk, Danny listened as the footsteps changed direction, taking the corridor and approaching the door.

Then the noise faded.

Valeria unlocked the door to room seventeen and stepped aside for Ben to enter. As the light was switched on, he turned to see Valeria standing in the doorway, her slender hand still touching the switch. In the light her white blouse was semi-transparent, revealing a strong black bra that covered a well-developed chest.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” she asked, with a slight trace of her native accent on her near perfect English.

He looked at her, her eyes, her breasts, her legs. Finally he smiled. “Perfect, thank you.”

“Should you have any problems, the night manager will be behind the desk.”

“Thanks.”

She smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Now alone and soaked through, Ben placed his bag and suitcase down on the floor and removed his jacket, hanging it up on the radiator. His T-shirt was soaked, despite the jacket, and his jeans weighed him down like lead. Water dripped onto the floor, leaving stains on the rough red carpet.

It was obvious from the room’s appearance it hadn’t been redecorated in recent times.

Removing his wet clothes, he entered the shower.

Chris was reading in his room when Ben knocked on his door. He put down his book, a guidebook of the islands, and opened it to find Ben wearing clean jeans, a black T-shirt, and with hair that looked surprisingly well presented.

“Let me guess? You’ve met the waitress?”

Ben pushed past him, carrying a black shoulder bag. He placed it down on a desk in the corner of the room and unzipped one of the pockets, removing a fifteen-inch MacBook laptop, which he plugged into a wall socket and switched on.

“
Dr Phillips
sent me everything she had,” he said of
the local academic who he had arranged to meet in two days time
. A folder on the laptop’s desktop opened immediately; he was feeling so tired from the flight he had forgotten to shut it down properly. There were several photographs in the folder, accompanied by a pdf document, all of which were recent.

“Apparently this one’s the newest.”

Chris looked at the photographs over Ben’s shoulder. The most recent was of a shipwreck, presently being salvaged.

“Where’s the
Dunster
now?” Ben asked.

“No idea,” Chris replied. “According to the local paper, it was salvaged by some local fisherman.”

“Name?”

“No idea.”

Ben yawned and clicked again on the mouse, bringing up the next selection. Each photo was similar: an ageing boat covered in silt. The wood was deeply rotted, leaving the structure severely unstable. Judging by the pictures, the entire ship had been badly damaged.

Ben turned and looked up thoughtfully at Chris. “How was it?”

“Strange. There was no skin left, but the skeleton was intact, almost perfect.”

The description matched what Ben had already heard. “Any progress on…you know?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Chris picked up a small object from the nearby table. “
Musket ball
, discovered somewhere in the lower skull. Even in his day and age, not particularly modern.”

Ben took the ball, feeling it with his fingers and palm. The hard rounded surface felt like a large pellet in his hand.

Chris looked to one side, noticing the shoulder bag. “Did you bring them?”

“Yep.” He unzipped the next pocket, removing the four books he had taken from his grandmother’s attic. He had passed the time studying them on the flight.

Chris moved to the bedside table and picked up a fifth, leather cased and similar in appearance to the others.

Ben was awestruck. “Oh my.”

“He carried it in a pocket bag.”

Ben took it, sliding his finger and thumb gently across the hundred-year-old cover. The book was
ink-written
as opposed to being printed, clearly a diary.

“Anything interesting?”

“Haven’t got past the opening few pages. Seems Nana was right after all. The old boy came here originally to look for dead relatives. Guys by the name of Wilcox.”

Ben smiled, a smile that developed into a broad grin. He’d heard the stories since he was a kid, but till now he was still to find physical evidence of his ancestor’s final voyage.

Now he had proof the family legend was potentially true after all.