The Cortés Enigma

by John Paul Davis

  He froze, gobsmacked.

  “TF was on the boat.”

  Twenty-four hours later Ben pulled up in a large driveway lined with a grey Honda Civic and a ten-year-old RV. He locked his Ford Sports Coupe automatically and ran along the driveway. There was fresh mail in the mailbox, which was close to full. He collected it as he passed before wiping away some dirt that had appeared on the box where the owner’s name was written. The name he had known all his life.

  His name.

  Maloney.

  A woman was waiting in the doorway, short, grey-haired, his only living grandmother. “I’ve told you before, Ben. Ring first. That way I know you’re coming.”

  He grinned, quickly kissing her on the cheek. “I can’t stay, Nana. I need your grandfather’s books.”

  “Why, they’re all in the same place.” She looked at him, confused. “Ben, what is it?”

  “They’ve found TF’s boat near England.”

  The attic light wasn’t working, not that that was anything new. A large lamp was resting on the second stair, inside the doorway; judging from the temperature of the glass, it had been used recently.

  Ben switched it on and climbed the stairs, navigating a selection of boxes. He found what he needed by a wall, surrounded by empty boxes and Christmas decorations. The box he wanted was older, not cardboard but wooden, small and antique. The lid was closed, secured by a bronze latch that his grandmother had always made an effort to keep well oiled.

  He blew on it, causing flecks of dust to dance around in the light like tiny moths. He lifted the lid and removed the contents. There were four items in total, all books, library bound, one printed, the others handwritten.

  His grandmother had appeared behind him, carrying a second lamp. “I told you, Ben. They’re always in the same place.”

  He shuffled the books and replaced them in the box. “You mind if I take these?”

  “Bring them back. They’re priceless.”

  He smiled, kissing her on the cheek as he left. “If I leave now, I can get the flight out of Logan at six.”

  2

  8pm, St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, the next day

  The remains of the body had been laid out on the table, awaiting the inevitable tests. A large white sheet covered it, the outlines of the bones easily visible beneath the folds. The surgeon was standing alongside it, dressed in a typical white jacket, a green facemask and rubber gloves.

  The other man was dressed far more casually. Standing at just over six feet in height, he had the build of a sportsman, perhaps a basketball player or something equally competitive. His thick sandy-coloured hair was neatly combed but slightly curly, its natural waviness prone to becoming tangled when it got too long. His face, though handsome, revealed signs of a hazardous and eventful past, with the rugged, clean-shaven skin on his right cheek displaying evidence of past scars.

  For Chris Maloney, it was a consequence of a hard and perilous life at sea.

  Chris folded his arms, tucking his cold hands into the folds of his thick black leather jacket, and took a deep breath. The twenty-minute flight from Land’s End to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, had been largely straightforward, at least compared to the one that preceded it. The journey had started on Monday morning, just before 10am. At seven that evening he was boarding a plane, a direct flight from Boston to Heathrow. By the time he landed, it was morning, the faint glimmer of the rising sun barely visible behind the thick rain clouds that had enveloped the plane for the final hour of the flight. By 10am GMT he was in London, where he embarked on a train to Penzance.

  It was now 8pm Wednesday, and he was tired.

  But he was here.

  Soon, his cousin would join him.

  The surgeon removed the white sheet that covered the cadaver and quietly took in the sight. Alongside him, Chris Maloney did the same.

  The skin had almost completely decomposed. According to eyewitness accounts, it had been in far better condition when the body was first discovered four days ago, but in that short intervening period, it had degenerated considerably through exposure to the air.

  Everything else had disintegrated less recently. The eye sockets were an empty void, as were the ribcage and the stomach. A sickly gelatinous liquid was seeping from the area of the skull where the brain had once been.

  Chris looked on, uneasy. Although his stomach had been upset since the in-flight meal, he knew it wasn’t a digestive problem that was affecting him. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body, and this one was much as he had expected from the initial reports. It had been extremely well preserved, particularly the bone structure. The skull was intact, except for a cavity on the left side. The jaw was slightly out of alignment, giving the impression of a grim smile and ironic humour.

  It was the face of a man who had been shot.

  Biting his lip, Chris took a step backward and began to wander around the room. Though the find itself was unsettling, what hit him most was the smell. It was the reason for the preservation. A strong odour emanated from a coating of moist silt that had formed a cocoon-like covering preserving both the boat and body.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Cover it up. I’ve seen enough.”

  The surgeon complied, replacing the sheet without argument. Finishing, he removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink.

  “I understand he had some belongings?” Chris asked.

  The surgeon nodded, walking toward a second table located by a recently painted white wall that reflected the overhead lights. He opened the lid of a large cardboard box and removed three items.

  “One compass, Victorian,” the surgeon began, showing it to Chris. After a century buried in silt, it was impossible to open.

  “One pocket watch, also Victorian.”

  Chris accepted it with an outstretched hand and tried to force it open. Though it was no longer ticking, the exterior was in surprisingly good condition; fortunately its owner had kept it deep within a waistcoat pocket. Inside the casing was a small photograph, also well preserved, that he recognised immediately. A fair-haired woman was looking away from the camera, an elegant expression crossing her young face. As a Maloney, Chris was certain that he had seen her before, both in photographs and in real life. She was a spitting image of his grandmother.

  The man’s wife. His great-great-grandmother.

  “One external pocket.” The surgeon gave Chris what looked to be a hundred-year-old shoulder bag. The strap was broken, but the thick leather carrier itself was perfectly intact, its original dark brown colour lightened by a century of being cocooned in silt.

  Chris opened the bag, causing dry debris to fall to the floor, some covering his hands and sleeve. There were objects inside: a bottle of vitamins, alongside one of bicarbonate of soda. What appeared to be a small map or perhaps a piece of paper with a diagram had become crunched into a dry ball, in danger of falling apart. There was a small broken pair of binoculars, a dented tin of tobacco – still half full – and a small box of what he guessed were once matches, the wooden sticks all smashed to pieces.

  The final object was far easier to distinguish. The casing was also leather, approximately a quarter of an inch thick and, unlike the bag itself, in as good condition now as it had been the day it was made. The casing had served its purpose, covering over one hundred pages of 19th century paper, the majority of which were blank. There was writing on the first page, the first entry dated, arranged in the form of a diary. The handwriting was elongated and messy. The words were written in English with black ink and, judging by the style, he guessed a hard and, probably, expensive nib. Yet it was readable, at least with effort. Skimming through it, he made out at least twenty pages that included writing, all within the date range 12 March 1905 to 8 April the same year.

  He closed the book and smiled at the surgeon.

  “Thank you.”

  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 sh
ower.”

  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.