“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?”
&n
bsp; “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.”
1
The Noche Triste Treasure had never been found. According to some, it had never existed. It was merely a fantasy. A myth. A tale of strange fallacies and inaccuracies that had become ever more distorted over time.
Everyone who knew anything about the conquistadors was familiar with the story. Supposedly it all began with the Aztecs, sometime in the early 1500s. That much of the story was almost certainly historical. It was written in the texts of the Spanish conquistadors that there was once a great emperor named Montezuma, whose empire spanned far into Mexico, crossing many mountains. Its cities were unlike any ever seen on earth. They were the dwelling places of gods, the homes of beautiful women. Hot water entered each house in abundance, their palaces overflowed with gold. If the stories were to be believed, it wasn’t just the palaces that were overflowing.
The city was even made of gold.
The only part of the story that was known for certain was the part that preceded the conquistadors’ departure. It happened on the night of 30 June 1520 in the middle of Mexico, in a city named Tenochtitlan. It was the nation’s capital, the heart of the empire.
And the heart of its destruction.
According to the accounts written by the Spaniards, it started with the capture of Montezuma by the great conquistador Hernán Cortés. With Montezuma held hostage, the emperor was ransomed. Gold was brought from everywhere, all corners of the empire. As tensions rose, attempts were made to free Montezuma, leading to fighting between native and Spaniard. When Montezuma perished, all hell broke loose. The Spanish sought to retreat, some making it to the coast. Some sources stated the number of Spanish deaths were minimal; others said there were over a thousand.
Most placed the number somewhere in the middle.
Whatever the exact number, the loss of life had a dramatic effect on Cortés. Tradition told that the man broke down and wept for hours beneath a tree. Because of that the night was remembered as La Noche Triste.
The Night of Sorrows.
The Spaniards escaped, regrouped, conquered. Yet the question remained: what happened to the treasure? According to some, it was left behind: it would have been almost impossible for the fleeing Spaniards to have travelled so far across ground with so much gold weighing them down. And even if they did, getting it as far as the water was only half the battle.
Many claimed the treasure had existed, but it was later lost or destroyed. Some said the Mexicans recaptured it, hiding it away in the mountains. Others said the Spanish kept it, melted it down and packed it away in gold bars.
Even painted it the colour of wood to avoid detection.
Most agreed the treasure did exist. After the conquistadors ransacked the great cities, the loot was boarded onto their galleons and set off to sea. According to some, the treasure was taken to Spain and remains to this day safely stored within the vaults of the great buildings, its location known only to the king and his government.
Many claim the treasure never made it to Spain. According to some, it never left America. Others said it was taken elsewhere: Africa, Portugal, Italy, or even somewhere else completely.
Then there were those who claimed to have found it. One had discovered the proof in Ireland, hidden in ancient woodland. Another had apparently found it in another part of Spain while beachcombing in the Costa del Sol with a metal detector. There were similar stories from everywhere between Norway and the Czech Republic, each more far-fetched than the last.
Then there was the most famous of the lot: Juan Carlo Hernandez, an alleged descendent of Cortés who was supposedly working on insider knowledge. The map led him to a secluded area off the coast of West Africa, somewhere between Mauritania and Senegal. There he entered a cave at low tide, expecting to find it overflowing with gold, just as the legends promised.
What he found remains a mystery.
No one alive knew for sure what the treasure was or what it had once comprised. According to most, it was mainly gold, possibly with other jewels, including emeralds, and perhaps the occasional sapphire or ruby: the spoils of Montezuma’s empire. According to others, it wasn’t the treasure itself people were trying to find, but the directions to its hiding place. For some it was not about the gold at all but a search for knowledge.
How the Aztecs had amassed such riches in the first place.
The legend refused to die. The treasure was still out there. Some unsubstantiated accounts reported that it had even made it further afield, reaching its final resting place on a small island in the Isles of Scilly, where, it was claimed, Cortés landed, shipwrecked in a storm that killed at least seven of his crew, and buried the treasure in a cave, its whereabouts no longer known. Others said it was not Hernán Cortés, but his granddaughter acting on her grandfather’s knowledge, doing her utmost to keep hold of what the King of Spain never deserved.
According to legend, it was still there. Waiting to be discovered.
But that was legend. As far as history was concerned, only one thing was known for certain.
The treasure was still to be found.
Hanover, New Hampshire, Present Day
The academic was sitting in his office when the phone rang. Unlike the twenty-plus other calls he had already received that morning, he noticed something different about the ringtone.
The cordless landline phone that sat neatly between his brand new iMac computer and a pile of unmarked coursework was quiet and unblinking. There was no flashing light signalling an incoming call, nor any sign that the five voicemail messages was about to become six.
This ringtone was different, accompanied by a loud buzzing sound that caused the desk to vibrate.
It was his mobile phone that was ringing. The one reserved for close friends and family.
The academic picked up the phone and lifted the flap of his $10 market-bought cover that protected it from accidental drops. The display was lit up, indicating the name Chris. His cousin.
He slid his finger across the display, answering, “Hello?”
“Ben,” the voice replied, excited. “You’re never going to believe this. They’ve just found the Dunster.”
The words meant nothing. “Who found…what?”
“Mom just found it on the Internet. They found TF’s ship. They found the Dunster.”
Ben leaped forward, crashing his knee into the right leg of his desk. Though the words had failed to register at first, its significance now came at him clear as day. The ship his great-great-grandfather had taken to sea on his final voyage, apparently somewhere in Europe, had been missing since 1905, perhaps even longer.
He gripped the phone, static, numb. “When…wh-where?”
“Article was dated two days ago. Mom found it less than an hour ago. There was an article on the Internet, written in some local newspaper. It was found near a cave, covered in silt.”
Ben’s mind was racing, his pulse even faster. For over thirty-two years his family had fed him the stories, things he had never been able to substantiate – or at least never believed he would be able to.
“Where?” he asked again. “Where was it found?”
“Just off the Isles of Scilly. Apparently it’s been there for over a hundred years. Are you at a computer?”
“Yes,” Ben said, swivelling in his chair. He moved the mouse to interrupt the screensaver and typed in the password on his keyboard. Safari was already open, divided into four tabs, content ranging from emails to the Google page.
He opened a fifth and typed the keywords into Google.
Immediately his eyes lit up. S
tories were coming through on several pages, dated not two days ago.
“Oh my god,” he replied, reading. The ship had been found in a small cove, close to a number of caves. Scan reading, he learned it was discovered off the furthest south of all the islands.
St Lide’s.
“Ben, there’s something else.”
Ben scrolled to the bottom of the screen, his eyes focused on the image accompanying the main story.
The Cortés Enigma Page 3
