The Cortés Enigma

by John Paul Davis

“I’m most sorry about the torches,” he said, looking around the room. “It seems the recent stormy nights have taken their toll on the electricity.”

  He looked at each man in turn, pleased to see them.

  “Gentlemen.” He gestured them to place the coffin on the floor by the table.

  While two of the three sat down immediately after, the leader waited a while longer. He walked slowly toward the head of the table, removed an object from his pocket and threw it down on the table.

  Cortés eyed the object from a distance before examining it with his hands. The book was old, bound in the 16th century, the hard exterior considerably worn. He opened it to around the midpoint and read a sentence at random. Though written in his native tongue, the style was elongated and the text worn, the language hard to comprehend.

  “You came all the way to Medellín, Fernando, to give me a book?”

  The leader of the three smiled, which immediately developed into a laugh. “Not a book. This, my friend, is the book.”

  Cortés closed it and examined the cover. “You mean?”

  “Yes, Juan,” Fernando interrupted. He walked nearer, their faces almost touching. “Behold the last account of Lady Catalina.”

  Cortés was stunned; his bewildered expression confirmed a sense of unique humility, a new unworthiness, something that could only be attributed to the overdue inheritance of a long-lost heirloom.

  He looked again at the leader of the three. “You have read it already?”

  The man’s expression remained unaltered. “Yes,” he said unequivocally. “The final clue was written inside the coffin. Our journey takes us to the coast of England. And the island of St Lide’s.”

  11

  8pm

  Chris was feeling restless. The search for the graves had proved fruitless, even with the diary. Making sense of its leads was difficult.

  He left the GM just before 8pm, comfortably full. The cuisine at the inn was different to what he was used to – sloppy joes were never a bad shout back home – but it easily exceeded his requirements. He took Ben’s advice, plumping for scampi and chips followed by a homemade bread and butter pudding and devoured both in record time. The breaded fish in tartar sauce was particularly appetising.

  He could still taste it on his tongue.

  The heart of Hugh Town was a well-planned selection of long streets lined by various shops and restaurants. After strolling along Silver Street through the heart of the town, he took a left along Garrison Lane and continued up Garrison Hill.

  It was getting dark. The nearby concrete glowed under the light of early streetlights and lights from nearby buildings, their windows occasionally blocked by curtains or metallic shutters. On reaching Garrison Hill, the view improved: to his left, the medieval Star Castle rose into the sky like an ancient skyscraper, its strong walls seemingly impenetrable, whereas in the other direction the nearby harbour was lit up by the bright glow of overhead floodlights. Hundreds of boats, colours of all hues, were moored between the ferry terminal and Little Porth, their engines silent and their owners in the galleys below or taking a walk onshore, perhaps to nearby houses and inns.

  For Chris, the harbour was already his favourite sight on the island. His goal in life had been to join the naval academy, and he succeeded, graduating Annapolis without any major difficulties. Five years of naval service had been distinguished: rising through the ranks as a NCO, the potential was there to be an officer. A landmine explosion ended his career. Since then, he had tried everything, but everything lacked adventure. He wasn’t like Ben – at least that was what his grandmother had always said. Whereas Ben was the studious introvert with tough skin, Chris had other talents.

  He sometimes felt he was still to find them.

  He walked to the end of Garrison Hill and stopped, leaning against a metal railing. There were several more inns in this part, with names such as the Mermaid and the North Atlantic, all with lights shining from their windows and the sound of merriment within.

  As he rested against the railing, the cold material bracing against his hands, he saw Valeria heading along the beach toward one of the boats. He saw her climb aboard a slick white vessel, its appearance like that of a miniature yacht.

  He walked toward it before stopping, realising he had no chance of catching her. Instead, he watched from the end of the walkway as the small craft kicked up the waves and turned left, circling the island and heading toward the island of St Agnes.

  The Old Man’s Foot was one of the oldest houses on St Agnes. So named because of its bizarre shape, a long body with a large tower at the far end, it was an iconic part of Scillonian folklore.

  Originally the tower had been the lighthouse. Dating back to the 1500s, its original purpose had been carried out through the burning of coals, whereas in its heyday that had been replaced by an Argand lamp. For over two hundred years, the structure had been the heart of the island, the fulcrum of the local shipping industry.

  Today, it served a different purpose. Following the establishment of the new lighthouse just off St Mary’s, the Foot became redundant and fell into disrepair. Over the following fifty years, it developed a reputation for being haunted; some said the most haunted building on the island. In the 1970s the windows had been boarded up, the chimney destroyed by gales. In the ’80s, the whitewashed façade was covered in soot, the roof on the verge of caving in.

  That was when its saviour came.

  Elena Valeria Flores had been born Elena Valeria Sanchez in a small town near Mérida, one of the smallest cities in Spain. Her father had been a Mexican, a renowned farmer and, once upon a time, a famed classical guitarist; her mother, on the other hand, was born in Mérida, a fiery Latino woman of dark hair and excellent courage. Her father had fought in the Spanish Civil War and later against the Nazis. When the Axis collapsed, he returned to Spain and set up a business in construction.

  The expertise was passed on.

  Elena married at twenty and had two children: a boy who died young, and a girl who mirrored her in both attitude and appearance. Like her mother, she had two children: two girls, again destined to possess the hereditary family traits. One lived in Madrid as a dancer.

  The other worked on St Mary’s as a waitress.

  Elena was already living in St Mary’s when her granddaughter decided to make it her home. Buoyed by stories of lost Spanish gold, Valeria became enthralled. A two-week holiday developed into four, and, when the money ran out, what started as a part-time job in a local inn became a new life. Elena’s vision to move out of her two-bedroom terrace in Hugh Town and restore the Old Man’s Foot to its former glory soon became a labour of love. In 2008 it was reopened. The lighthouse as a tourist attraction, the house as a home.

  It was after nine o’clock when Valeria returned. Entering to the familiar sounds of the key catching on the latch and the door creaking open, she walked along a corridor cloaked in darkness, save for a dim glow at the far end.

  The light was from the lounge, a roaring log fire that burned within the original fireplace. Three black armchairs had been placed around the coffee table, the far right of which was occupied. An elderly woman sat asleep, her shoulder-length grey hair resting against the armrest. The woman snored, the sound restricted by her right hand that was unintentionally holding on to the woolly blanket that was falling slowly.

  Valeria smiled at her grandmother as she replaced the loose blanket over her shoulders. The woman spoke in Spanish, despite her eyes being closed. Valeria had witnessed the sight a thousand times, perhaps even more.

  “Buenas noches, abuela.” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek.

  Valeria poured herself a sherry and took it up to her bedroom. She placed it down on the coaster on the bedside table and carefully picked up the book lying next to it. The exterior was old, she guessed at least two hundred years, and the contents written in English. Over the last seven years she had read many, this the latest of a long line.

  She turned to the most re
cent page and immediately began to read.

  At around 10pm the night manager of the Gibbous Moon was on hand to witness the arrival of a new guest. A visit from a fellow black was no longer unheard of on the island, but such occurrences were still fairly rare.

  The arrival of this man, though, was less unexpected.

  “Mr Colts,” Danny said, smiling warmly, a key in his hand. “I have your usual room for you.”

  Colts walked slowly toward the front desk, his footsteps creaking, his breathing heavy. As usual, a black leather hat covered a receding hairline that was predominantly grey with hints of natural curly black that matched the colour of his beard. An unlit pipe occupied the gap between his lips, accompanied by the customary smell of tobacco.

  He removed the pipe and smiled.

  “Much obliged.” He tipped his hat and moved slowly up the stairs.

  On the second floor Ben was oblivious to the sound of footsteps on the nearby stairs. Tired, drained, slightly cold, he took a seat at the end of the bed and continued with his efforts to read TF’s diary.

  The settlers’ graves were nowhere to be seen; he had checked every inch of the churchyard. According to TF, the graves were on the south side, away from the church itself.

  It wasn’t until he’d read the pages in detail he realised why he’d missed them. Chris was wrong. It wasn’t Old Town Church they needed. The church was on St Lide’s.

  St Lide’s, he thought to himself.

  He didn’t remember seeing anything there himself.

  He concentrated on the pages regarding the tombstones. The diagrams were crude, at least by modern standards, but he trusted TF. The man was an acknowledged expert in his field and not prone to flights of fancy.

  TF returned to the Gibbous Moon in March 1905, almost fourteen months after his first visit. He had seen the graves again after his arrival and, apparently, hit a brick wall. He had been on St Mary’s for over a week before he finally hit the breakthrough.

  The galleon.

  TF had found evidence of the wreck himself, aided by one other, a man named Slater, a gravedigger from the church. The vessel was found off Bartholomew Ledge, a stretch of water located between St Mary’s and St Agnes. The wreck was deemed to be Spanish, a deduction based on a combination of evidence gleaned from a superficial excavation and TF’s willingness to trust local folklore.

  Ben yawned. He’d never been one for suffering jet lag, but the time difference was starting to catch up. Leaving his seat, he made himself a coffee using the room’s kettle and the sachets of instant stuff, added two sugars and took it black.

  Horrible!

  Moving toward the desk, he moved the mouse of his MacBook to interrupt the screensaver and entered a search into Google.

  Immediately he saw results. A shipwreck had been found in the area TF had described. The Bartholomew Ledge wreck was protected by the Protection of Wrecks Act and had been partially excavated in the 1980s and beyond. He read everything TF mentioned about the wreck in the diary and compared it to what he found on the Internet.

  The wreck had been discovered in the late 1970s.

  Seventy years after TF had visited the Isles of Scilly.

  Ben was feeling excited again, a familiar feeling he not only loved but craved. He continued through the subsequent pages, concentrating on TF’s deductions. TF believed the wreck to be Spanish and the graves those of the sailors.

  What happened to them and their treasures was another matter.

  TF spoke about the wreck for over three pages before describing visits to Tresco, St Agnes and St Mary’s. Suddenly something caught Ben’s eye. There were more diagrams, a churchyard but not the one on St Lide’s. He recognised it from his earlier visit. Old Town Church. TF had made diagrams of a large structure: a mausoleum with four pillars at the front, belonging to that of the Godolphin and Osborne families.

  TF had also been taken by the Godolphin Mausoleum, but better still, there were other things included in the diary. As Ben had remembered, the family crest was included near the door: a double-headed eagle surrounded by a knight’s armour. On the next page TF had included another diagram: also a coat of arms, this time with the name Cortés. There were patterns on it, the colour predominantly maroon.

  Ben was now seriously confused. Though he recognised the image, he knew it shouldn’t have been there. Ten years specialising in European history had taught him the coat of arms of Hernán Cortés had only been rediscovered within the last twenty years.

  Again, TF seemed to possess knowledge others did not.

  The next few pages concerned a second trip to St Lide’s, including further diagrams of the wider landscape. Ben moved away from the bed and started browsing the Internet, searching for images of St Lide’s and the surrounding islands.

  Thanks to a day of sightseeing, he was starting to recognise things.

  He concentrated on Hell’s Bay, photos taken both at low and high tide. The six caves had clearly been a source of fascination for TF. Allegedly there were wall markings on some, both natural and deliberate. Academics viewed them as prehistoric.

  Ben had no way of dating them from the photos or diagrams alone.

  The next landmark was the nearby ruined castle overlooking the Atlantic to the south. The walls were rugged and decrepit, like something out of a historical romance novel. He smiled, once again recalling the legend of Lyonesse, the land lost beneath the waves. He’d heard a story that the locals were obsessed with it: that on stormy nights the bells of 140 churches could be heard to ring, their ghostly chimes audible even from beneath the waves. There was a sense of romanticism about the place that he found irresistibly charming.

  Silently, he wondered whether TF had been influenced by the tale.

  TF had visited the castle and before that the three standing stones. He had mentioned things specifically: the scenery, plant life, not the usual daffodils but cacti, things unique to that part of the island. Ben remembered seeing something about the standing stones on the map in Kernow’s boathouse, and then again from a distance in real life.

  Apparently they were the oldest things on the island.

  He read the next six pages of the diary, taking in as much as his tired mind would allow. TF had clearly paid the area a visit, concentrating on the caves.

  And then out of nowhere we found it, located within the unknown cave. The entrance, having been previously restricted when the tide was at its highest, now appeared before us like an open doorway.

  Discussing the find with the most learned of my companions, I was persuaded we only had one chance in twenty-four hours to make our entrance, after which time we would be deprived until the same time the following evening. In any case, patience would need to be a virtue. After our entry, it would be necessary for twenty-four hours to pass in order to come out the same way. Unless, with great fortune, we should find something hidden within the castle itself.

  Ben bit his lip, trying to make sense of it all. TF had found a previously unknown cave, suggesting it led to a tunnel somewhere, apparently connecting to an area beneath the castle. Looking up its history on the Internet, Ben discovered the castle had been built by the Cavaliers and later abandoned on the orders of its owner.

  The Godolphin family.

  However, there was a flaw in this theory. Ben had seen the caves himself.

  He counted six caves, not seven.

  Was it possible TF had discovered one that others had missed? Ben feared later storms might have altered the geography.

  He looked again at the diary, returning to the page with the diagrams of the tombstones. The only grave that included a name was the one with the Aztec symbols: Pizarro, which might, or might not, be significant. It was true that at least two Pizarros had been involved in the exploration of the New World, but it didn’t necessarily mean they had any link to the grave. The evidence of history suggested otherwise. Furthermore, Ben knew exactly where they were supposed to be buried.

  Yet there was one other thing t
hat couldn’t be denied. The figure on the final grave, a feathered serpent, he’d seen the type many times before. Had his education been different, it might have made little sense. If TF’s diagram was accurate, the image was of Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god for whom Montezuma mistook Cortés, as if an ancient prophecy was being fulfilled. Ben knew the evidence was debateable.

  He no longer doubted TF had found something intriguing.

  But what was it doing on a gravestone in the Isles of Scilly?

  The Second Day

  12

  7am

  The helicopter was flying at approximately 2,000 feet as it passed over Hell’s Bay. The weather was calm, the cloud scattered, the sea almost a millpond. A gentle tide lapped onto the shingle beach that separated the water from the six caves. As the light continued to become brighter beyond the distant horizon, the pale moon disappearing into the light blue sky, the waves weakened further still, breaking almost into silence, their dying flow overwhelmed by the shrill cries of the gulls.