The bay itself was equally quiet. Marine life aside, the caves were deserted, as were the nearby ridges; even the nearest lighthouse was automated and unmanned. There was no remaining evidence of the crashed ancient schooner amongst the rocks as had been reported a week before; no debris of a battered stern; no injured captain clinging to life. The only sign of life was a moving shadow belonging to the helicopter.
The evidence confirmed the reports that the island was no longer inhabited.
Cortés looked out of the window, his attention on the bay. He looked at one area in particular, comparing it to what he saw in the five-hundred-year-old manuscript.
Alongside him, Fernando Pizarro sat with his elbow against the glass, his hand supporting his unshaven chin. Suddenly he saw what Cortés was seeing.
“There.” He pointed to the three large standing stones situated at the centre of the nearby hills some three and a half miles away.
Cortés nodded. “Take us nearer.”
The helicopter completed its pass, now heading directly across the widest part of the island. The area below was mainly green, field and woodland, with no sign of modern civilisation. Cortés focused on the greenery, comparing what he saw to the ancient map. The author had taken the step of dividing the island, which looked an almost perfect horseshoe, into four equal sections. The so-called Queen’s Castle didn’t exist back then; allegedly the island was not even inhabited at the time. Instead, a large void existed where New Town later stood, the natural coastal landscape a mixture of either shingle beach or barren cliff face. The map suggested the castle site had once been home to another older structure, possibly another fort or something similar.
Again Cortés focused on the three standing stones, each so wide they appeared almost like small buildings. Each stone was a pale grey, almost white, and stood up to heights of twenty feet.
Each one was marked on the map.
As was their purpose.
“Let’s take her down here.”
13
9:30am
Ben was up by the time the rain started. According to the forecast, the shower was only expected to be a light one. The rain came at just after 8am; he knew that because it had obscured his view from the dining room as he munched on his toast and cereal. He had never been one for greasy fry-ups – it was a different culture to back home. Nevertheless, he hated rain even more.
The weather also differed from back home.
He saw the waitress again, smiling at him as she passed. He didn’t remember her name; he recalled it was something Spanish, beginning with V, like Victoria, but not Victoria.
He saw her looking at him again, this time touching her hair as she did so. There was a certain coyness to her, perhaps playfulness. Being the GM’s only female employee, she was used to attention, he guessed, but, then again, the place was hardly heaving. In another time and place he knew he might act on it.
Today, he could barely muster the enthusiasm.
His plan for the day was to meet Dr Phillips, a retired history lecturer from the University of Keele who spent her semi-retirement as curator of the Museum of the Isles of Scilly.
As planned, she had got wind of his arrival and wanted to meet him.
He left the dining room through the lobby entrance and headed toward the front door. As he passed, someone called.
“Mr Malone,” Valeria called. “I have a message for you.”
The message was from Kernow, saying it was urgent.
Ben had no idea what it would be about.
Predictably, Chris was still asleep. After banging heavily on his door, finally persuading him to part with his covers, Ben told him about his appointments with Kernow and the curator and about the latest finds in the diary.
“Wait ten minutes. I’ll come with you.”
Ben didn’t like the sound of that. This was something he would prefer to do alone.
“I have a better idea. Once you’re ready, locate the local library and find out everything you can about the Godolphins. I want to know why their coat of arms is so similar to that of Cortés.”
Leaving Chris, Ben left the inn and walked past the harbour to the heart of Hugh Town. The storm had passed, the dark cloud replaced by bright sunshine. Although the ground was still wet underfoot, the road itself was clear apart from the occasional puddle, the majority of the water running away into nearby drains and gutters. Despite the wind, it was warmer than it had been, the walk along the coast brisk but fair. This was the best he had seen of the island. A tourists’ hotspot, its lovers had dubbed it; he was starting to think they had a point.
He headed down the same alleyway he’d seen the day before. Kernow was working in the boathouse.
“What the hell happened to the Dunster?” Ben asked, seeing nothing but a large void.
Kernow emerged from a rolling ramp. “Don’t you be getting your knickers all in a twist. Work’s almost over. In a couple of days I’ll be transporting her along the road to the museum. I trust you wouldn’t object if the museum gets to keep her.”
In truth he hadn’t even considered it. “As a matter of fact, I’m heading over there now. I don’t suppose you could direct me?”
Peter Kernow was standing by the fire, trying to light it. “Continue past the Thoroughfare and take a left along Church Street. Only an idiot would miss it.”
“Thanks. So what was so important it couldn’t wait?”
Kernow walked across to the table and picked up a large container. It was a small chest, bronze and heavy, its exterior both covered with, and smelling of, silt.
“Found it in the galley. I’m guessing it now belongs to you.”
Ben accepted it, running his hands across the sharp metal lid. He tried opening it.
“You need something to cut it?”
On second thoughts he decided to wait.
Kernow grinned again. “If you need me, I’ll be in the North Atlantic.” He pointed toward the main stretch, a highly civilised area, with shops, restaurants, roads and people. “It’s an inn. Not an ocean!”
Ben followed Kernow’s directions. He dropped the box off back in his room and headed through the heart of Hugh Town. Over a day on the island, this was the first time he had really explored the town itself. Unlike the other settlements on St Mary’s, it was situated on an isthmus that joined the rest of the island. It was also unique in being independent. While the rest of the island – the rest of the Isles of Scilly – was technically part of the Duchy of Cornwall, Hugh Town was sold to the inhabitants in 1949 and had remained independent ever since.
The Museum of the Isles of Scilly was located about half a mile from the ferry terminal, about an equal distance from the sea on either side. Following Kernow’s directions, Ben headed south past the Lower Strand and the Thoroughfare, and left on reaching Church Street.
The museum was a detached building located about halfway along the street. Like most in the vicinity, it had an impressive yellow stone exterior, with brown-framed glass doors at the front. The word MUSEUM was written in black letters on a long white background. He smiled to himself as he entered. Kernow was right.
You’d have to be an idiot to miss it.
The museum was one of the main tourist hotspots on St Mary’s. Unlike the ones Ben was used to, it was a simplistic old-fashioned treasure trove of local keepsakes that ranged from old coins to dog bones.
The museum was deserted. Everything on display was accompanied by a simple description, a mere title and a few words. There were no hi-tech interactive features; as best he could tell, there wasn’t a computer in sight. For a museum, he couldn’t get over how small the place was.
A woman emerged from a nearby doorway, wearing a smart black blazer and skirt, bright red lipstick, glasses, and her grey hair done up in a bun. She wore a nametag above her left breast.
“Dr Phillips.” Ben offered his hand.
“You must be Dr Maloney? I’m so glad you were able to spare the time. I’ve already heard so much abou
t you.”
He released his hand from hers. “This is quite a selection you have here,” he said, musing.
She smiled. “You’re most kind. Thanks to the generosity of various benefactors, we now have access to far more research facilities than ever before.”
“Actually, I’m kind of surprised that an island so small would have access to such things at all.”
She smiled again. “It wasn’t always this way,” she said, walking. “The museum dates back to 1967. Originally we started five years earlier in the Wesleyan Chapel. Of course, back then we were only open in the summer months.”
Ben followed her through a set of doors, now entering the heart of the museum. “In my experience, it’s often ones like that which prove the most authentic.”
“You know, I’ve often thought exactly the same thing. The actual foundation was really quite by accident.”
“Yes, I noticed from your website. It’s not often you can say about a scientific institution that it started with a gale.”
The woman laughed. “That’s actually quite true. Back in 1962 we were having the worst storms,” she said, unclear from her appearance whether she was old enough to remember them. “Look here.” She showed him a display of old coins in a glass container. “The severe gales that summer were really something of a blessing in disguise. Over a period of many days, they uncovered the most rare of Romano-British finds. The locals here were really quite marvellous. Had it not been for their enthusiasm, the museum would probably never have gone ahead.”
Ben looked at the coins before studying the items alongside them. He struggled to place them from sight alone, but judging from the descriptions, they were mainly household objects, ranging from metals to pottery.
He followed her along the corridor, examining more exhibits as he passed them. “What kind of things do you specialise in?”
“Our collections are really extremely diverse,” she said, stopping by one in particular. “Look at these.” She gestured to a small collection of stuffed birds, their colours ranging from green to gold. “The oldest we have is over 4,000 years old. As you’ll shortly see, we welcome all items of Scillonian fascination.”
She headed for the nearest door and opened it.
“Would you like to follow me?”
14
Dr Phillips took Ben on a complete tour, which took less than twenty minutes. The woman wasn’t exaggerating. The selection was small, but extremely diverse, including everything from medieval coins to fossilized shells, stuffed birds and other animals to a wild flower display dating from a hundred thousand years ago. Had the circumstances been different, he knew his interest would probably have been more enthusiastic.
Today, though, he had only one thing on his mind.
She took him to the final part of the museum. The selection was by far the most extensive, the subject matter primarily nautical. Even prior to his visit, Ben was familiar with the islands’ history of shipwrecks, but what awaited was definitely a surprise.
“What we have here are the remains of many of the recorded shipwrecks that have occurred around the isles over the past five centuries.”
Ben placed his hand to his chin, concentrating intently on the latest display. He was looking at the original remains of past wrecks, some dating back to the time of the Vikings.
“Wow.”
The woman smiled. “Take a look at this.” She gestured slightly to her right. “What you see here are the remains of the great Scilly naval disaster.”
The name rang a bell. The most common title given to the night of 22 October 1707. Six ships, perhaps more, dashed to pieces on the rocks. Four ships capsized, over 1,000 dead.
The worst naval disaster in British history.
“What vessel is this?” he asked of the remnants of wood on display, apparently once part of a ship.
“One of the ships that capsized,” she replied. “Experts believe from its size it might have been the Association. But we can’t tell for sure.”
He nodded, silently examining the find. He knew that HMS Association had been one of the key ships in the conflict.
“Tell me, what’s the oldest wreck there’s ever been in these parts?”
“We have one over here that dates back to the Vikings, although technically this wasn’t wrecked in the Scillies,” she replied, walking Ben past the keepsakes from HMS Association, heading on to the next part of the display. “The next oldest is this.” She pointed to the scattered remains of another ship. On this occasion the remains were fragmentary and difficult to identify.
Ben looked at the display, paying close attention to the inscription. “You don’t know the name?”
“Unfortunately not. It was wrecked on the coast of Tresco in around 1305. Sadly, much was taken by the mob.”
Ben nodded. “I was fascinated on my arrival to hear of folklore on St Agnes and St Lide’s of a Spanish galleon going down somewhere in these waters. Is there any truth in that?”
She smiled. “As a matter of fact, the next oldest is this. I think you’ll find it most impressive.”
She showed Ben another display, this one more comprehensive than the last. For the first time Ben smiled widely, inwardly struggling to believe what he was seeing. Although the fragments of wood, which were taking up much of the glass container in front of him, could have been from virtually anything, thanks to the descriptions alongside it he knew exactly what he was looking at.
“The only vessel of its type to ever go down in these parts.”
He looked at Dr Phillips and then again at the description accompanying the wreck. According to the printed text, the vessel was believed to be either of Spanish or Spanish Netherlands origin.
“1555.” He smiled.
“Yes, or at least that is what has been estimated.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, his interest fully piqued. “Could it be something else?”
“The wreck here was discovered rather recently; in fact, it was only found in around 1978,” she began. “Sadly the site had already been the subject of a long salvage mission prior to the official designation in 1980.”
Ben bit his lip, disappointed. Salvage prior to the site’s designation meant the good stuff had probably already been removed. “Where was it found?”
“The wreck was found in an area called Bartholomew Ridge, located between St Mary’s and St Agnes.”
Ben nodded. That coincided with the entry in TF’s diary.
“Thanks to the great effort that went into the salvage mission, we were successful in putting together a picture of both the cargo and what the ship might have looked like. Look at this, for example.” She directed him to the next display. There were several corroded bronze artefacts on a shelf that, according to the description, were parts of a bell. “We believe much of the cargo was to be melted down when they returned to land. Most likely used for artillery purposes.”
“You say it was discovered in 1978?”
“That’s correct, yes.”
“Now, and forgive me if I’m wrong,” Ben laughed, “but I was rather under the impression from my short time here that folklore of a Spanish shipwreck goes back a lot further.”
She started laughing. “You’ve clearly done your research, Mr Maloney. As a matter of fact, folklore talks about members of the wrecked ship’s crew being stranded on both St Agnes and St Lide’s. Those on St Agnes, in particular, even claim to be descended from them.”
“Any evidence?”
“Alas, no. Apparently the ship was one from the famous Spanish Armada of 1588 that got blown off course somehow and dashed to pieces on the rocks. Sadly, there’s no way of substantiating the rumour.”
“How can you be sure about the date?”
“As mentioned, efforts to name the ship itself have come up blank. One theory put forward is that it is the remains of the elusive San Bartolome, which was one of the Spanish Armada ships and alleged to have gone down in this area. Since the structure of the ship was no
longer intact when the wreck was found, it has not been possible to confirm this. However, among the finds was a chest of coins.”
She walked on, passing a further two displays, both filled with remnants of wood and pottery from the same wreck, before stopping at a smaller glass cabinet that included six coins, two of which were badly damaged.
The Cortés Enigma Page 11
