“Read,” snapped Pizarro.
Cortés looked back with an angry expression, his eyes never leaving his cousin as he picked up the item. Inspecting it, he saw that it was a local newspaper article that had been printed off the Internet.
“Read it to me.”
Pizarro knew the content without having to look at it again.
“It says that the Englishman who was found the other day had relatives.” He pointed to the accompanying photograph. “Two are now on St Mary’s.”
Cortés studied it, immediately engrossed with the content.
“Also, I found this.” He showed Cortés a second piece of paper. Also an Internet article.
Cortés read the article, his eyes particularly drawn to the accompanying photograph.
“I…”
Pizarro pointed. “The English built a second castle in 1590. Notice the shape.”
Cortés was speechless. Living his life in the shadow of his great ancestors was both a curse and privilege: a life of scrutiny, unimaginable expectation, but one that also granted access to rare things. The signs were there in front of him, impossible to deny.
“Where?”
“The building still exists; it stands at the highest point on the island.”
He took the paper from Cortés. “Come on, amigo. Why waste time?”
24
8:15am
Ben awoke with a cough and a splutter. His mouth was dry and his nose partially blocked, the feeling worst at the back of his throat. As a former lacrosse player, he was used to waking up with aches and pains, but he didn’t need a physio to tell him his present grogginess was not sports related.
He looked his body over in the bathroom mirror, his attention mainly on his back. There were scratches everywhere, particularly around his right shoulder, with evidence of dried blood prevalent on both his body and clothes. He could feel pain where his skin had grinded against the stone, but he knew the stiffness in his joints was down to walking back to Hugh Town in the pouring rain.
He prayed it wouldn’t lead to a cold.
As usual, showering helped. He took a paracetamol and washed it down with a glass of water, hoping it would rid him of any lingering feelings of grogginess. In an ideal world, he knew the best remedy would be ten minutes in the sauna or, better yet, a whirlpool bath.
Sadly, the Gibbous Moon didn’t cater for that kind of treatment.
He left his room and headed for Chris’s, knocking on the door. He waited several seconds and tried again, receiving no response.
Nicholl was in his office, doing the usual things. He looked up to his left, seeing Ben walk in.
“Mr Maloney, a very good morning to you, sir. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr Nicholl. Have you seen Chris?”
“That your cousin?”
“Yes, sir, that’s his name.”
“Sorry. Why, have you lost him?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it might be a little more serious than that. You see, I tried knocking his door twice and tried his cell phone, and both times got nothing. He wasn’t in the dining room either.”
“Probably just gone for a walk,” Nicholl mused.
“I’m not sure. You see I tried knocking his door late last night and got no reply then either. It’s not like him. And earlier his stomach had been awful bad.”
Nicholl frowned philosophically. “Valeria told me all about that. I’m ashamed to say the garlic bread was not fit for purpose. I take full responsibility, and I assure you, you’ll be receiving a substantial reduction off your bill to compensate.”
“I’m sure it’ll be just a minor thing,” Ben said gratefully. “Even so, you mind if I have a key to his room?”
“Of course, be my guest,” Nicholl said, rising to his feet.
He left his office and entered the lobby. Danny was on reception, writing something in the daybook.
“Danny, when you have a moment, please escort Mr Maloney to his cousin’s room. He hasn’t been seen today; we fear he may be unwell.”
Danny put down his pen. “Of course, Mr Nicholl.”
Danny led Ben to Chris’s room, armed with the master key. He inserted it into the lock and opened the door as far as it would go.
What they saw left them speechless.
The room had been trashed throughout. The covers had been stripped off the bed, furniture tipped over, everything disorganised. Chris’s suitcase was open, his belongings scattered across the bed. His laptop was open, but the power was off, a loose lead still plugged in at the wall.
Ben was numb with panic. He entered the room, looking through everything, trying to find an explanation for the chaos.
Danny stuttered, “I’ll call security.”
Ben remained in the room alone, checking everything, the bed, under it, the bathroom.
As far as he could tell, nothing was missing.
Except for his cousin.
25
10:30am
Cortés smiled at the woman behind the front desk as he handed over the completed form. He accepted the key and thanked her for her assistance before heading into the dungeon bar.
The Star Castle was one of the main tourist attractions on St Mary’s. Formerly the largest castle on the Isles of Scilly, the eight-pointed building that once made up the majority of the defensive garrison was now a four-star hotel and a favourite destination for holidaymakers.
Pizarro was sitting down alongside the two other Spaniards, one a bald man with a goatee, the other equally well built with blond hair. All three were sitting at a table, chatting quietly and sipping beer, when Cortés returned. Pizarro was animated, but that was nothing unusual.
Despite his faults, he was a master of discretion.
Cortés pulled up a fourth chair. “Two rooms,” he began. “Top floor.”
Pizarro looked at him, with his usual expression of distaste. “And just how exactly do you propose to pull this off?” he asked, his eyes darting around the bar. The site was incredible. Four hundred years ago the most notorious prisoners of the day would have been incarcerated there. Today, however, the room – with its pine roof and bar, flanked by pale cyan stonewalls, decorated by works of art, memorabilia, antiques, and furnished with comfortable tables and cushioned booths – was an oasis of calm and comfort.
Pizarro leaned closer to Cortés, tapping his hand against a piece of paper in front of him. “There are people everywhere.”
Cortés looked across the table at the well-built man with the goatee. “Get me a drink please, Alvarez. Quickly.”
The man with the goatee sprang to his feet and headed toward the bar.
“Busquets, you help him.”
Busquets dithered for a fraction too long, receiving a punch in the thigh from Pizarro.
Pizarro eyed his cousin. “Look around you. The interior, the lights. Everything is modern.”
Cortés brushed the fingers of his right hand against his goatee, his eyes focused on the other side of the table. Alvarez returned in record time, carrying a pint of local ale.
Cortés threw three one-pound coins across the table. “Treat yourself to a game of pool.”
Alvarez nodded but said nothing, leaving.
Alone again, Pizarro’s frustrations were getting the better of him. “Now look here.” He grabbed Cortés by the scruff of the neck. “Look around you. Everywhere we go, people. Even if we knew where to look, everywhere we go, people, people, people.”
Cortés thrust Pizarro’s hand away. “What must it be like to have so little faith?”
Pizarro lowered his hand as a married couple left the room. He smiled at them as they passed, pretending everything was fine.
“Listen to me,” Cortés continued when they were gone, “all we have is speculation. For all we know, the treasure has long since been taken.”
“Then why are we wasting time here?”
“Again. Always with the fear. The castle here is old; its dungeons and w
alls are strong. You said it yourself on the boat: the shape matches the description exactly. It is the most logical place.”
“Can you not see? It’s been turned into a hotel.”
“Would you prefer to stay on the boat? At least here we have a place to think.”
Pizarro folded his arms, his attention locked on the corner of the bar. Alvarez and Busquets had disappeared, he prayed to God not to make idiots of themselves.
Cortés passed Pizarro the room key, though he hated the idea of sharing a room with his cousin. “Here. I suggest you get some rest. After that, we can regroup. At least we have a place to do research.”
Pizarro snatched the key and left the table. As he did, he felt a hand on his arm.
“Check the rest of the book. It might contain other clues. Hints as to where they might have taken it.”
26
Ben felt numb. The sight of the trashed room, the overturned furniture, the disorganised clothes…it was all fresh in his mind.
He still couldn’t believe it. The large double bed, covered with its soft duvet, luxurious coating and extra large pillows that had been so neat and tidy on his arrival, looked as though a cyclone had hit it. There were rips in the linen, marks on the carpet, broken furniture everywhere.
The evidence indicated it was no typical burglary.
He walked along the Lower Strand, struggling to stop shaking. He bought a coffee from a café but found it difficult to swallow. He tried Chris on his mobile. It rang, but he received no answer. He tried leaving voicemails, sending texts, ringing again.
Still no answer.
Leaving the café, he wandered toward the beach. For the third day in a row, his mind was troubled, and not just because of Chris’s disappearance. Sure enough, staying in room seven was starting to have an affect: the persistent thoughts, the unanswered questions, the fact that he knew TF had been there…
Later murdered.
But since last night a new fear was growing, stalking him like a shadow. It was what the Spanish girl had said, or to be more precise, what she didn’t say. She and Chris had spoken, yet about what, he was still slightly in the dark. Every now and then he found himself returning to the diary, rereading TF’s words – all cryptic or vague, they might as well have been written in code. What made him come to these islands? Or to be more accurate, why did he return? The girl was wrong: this was no simple quest for treasure: he knew the man; he wasn’t the type to embark on foolish fantasies.
Questions about the murder remained unanswered.
Deep in thought, Ben walked along the road, heading back to the Gibbous Moon. Thanks to recent events, he was alert and had his wits fully about him. There were people out, but not in large numbers, a typical day in Hugh Town. Despite the pleasant exterior, the welcoming shops, the sea trade, the restaurants that claimed to welcome visitors, he now knew it wasn’t a place for outsiders. Someone, somewhere, in some part of the island had been responsible for Chris’s disappearance, perhaps other things as well.
And whatever they knew, they had every intention of keeping it a secret.
Ben shook his head as he walked, trying to think of other things. No sooner had he stopped thinking about Chris, his thoughts turned to Valeria, then finally to the 16th century sailor known to the world as Hernan Cortés.
The Montezuma Treasure had never been found – he’d established that many times already. According to Valeria, the ship had come to St Lide’s. A wreck had been found, allegedly from 1581. As a history student, he knew it was too late for Cortés himself, but not too late for the Spaniards.
Someone had brought the treasure back from Mexico.
He looked at his watch, seeing it was after 11am.
The policeman would be visiting anytime.
Valeria was on the front desk when the front door opened. Despite the inn being half full, eleven of the twenty rooms recorded as being occupied, the opening of the door was the first movement she had seen in the lobby since Ben left. She looked up from her newspaper as a man entered: approximately six feet in height, well built, bearded and aged somewhere in his mid-fifties.
She smiled at the newcomer. “Hello, Officer Hammill,” she said. In seven years on the island, this was the first time she had ever seen a policeman in uniform.
The policeman walked toward the counter, placing his hands against the side. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, putting on the most charming smile he could and ignoring her mispronunciation of his name. “How are you this fine April morning?”
Valeria smiled warmly. “Officer Bill, I am very well, but I’m afraid Mr Malone is still not back from his earlier outing.”
The policeman removed his hat and ran his fingers through his long grey hair. After more than thirty years as a member of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary, one of only two full-time officers on St Mary’s, he had learned that the Scillies’ famous and renowned reputation for lawlessness was very much a thing of the past.
“I don’t suppose you know where he went?” he asked.
At that moment, the door opened for a second time, followed by the return of Ben. He saw the policeman in front of him.
“Mr Maloney?” the officer asked, immediately recognising the American. Even though they had never met in person, the resemblance to the man in the photographs was clear.
“You must be Officer Hammock?”
A wry smile. “Hammitt. It’s a Cornish name.”
“Sorry to cause offence.” They shook hands.
“None taken, I can assure you,” Officer Hammitt replied, before returning his attention to Valeria, in truth sorry his brief interaction with the attractive Spaniard was about to end.
“I don’t suppose you have somewhere private we can go?”
Valeria took them to a small sitting room located off the corridor near the bar. At one time the room had been the heart of the coaching inn. These days, it was just used for private functions and special occasions.
Valeria led them inside and invited the two men to sit down in identical armchairs located either side of a large coffee table adjacent to an original log fire, which was already lit. Like most rooms in the inn, original artwork covered the main walls, whose cream surfaces were in need of redecoration.
“I’ll bring you both some coffee.”
Hammitt watched her leave the room before turning his attention to Ben. He added another log to the fire and jabbed it with the poker before slowly lowering himself into the chair.
“Certainly in need of it today,” he said, smoothing his hair that had gone flat beneath his hat.
“Worse before it gets better,” Ben replied.
Valeria returned immediately, carrying a tray of refreshments. She poured coffee into two cups and smiled at Ben as she departed.
Hammitt added milk to his coffee, stirred it and took the first sip.
“Now then,” he said, placing the cup on a coaster and removing a small notepad and a pencil. “Let’s just see I’ve got this correct:
“Your name is Benjamin Maloney of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. You’re thirty-two years old and currently reside in Hanover, New Hampshire?” he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“That’s right.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“As a matter of fact, I lecture in European History at the University of Dartmouth.”
“I guess that takes care of my next question,” Hammitt replied, sipping from his coffee. “And how about your cousin?”
The question was where to start. “Chris is between jobs right now. Though, like me, he studied at college. He trained for the navy at Annapolis and served for five years before leaving on medical grounds…”
“What exactly?”
“He was injured in combat. Ever since, my cousin, well…let’s just say he struggles sometimes with distance perception. Things can look closer or further away than they actually are.”
“Which you need in the navy, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
&nbs
p; Hammitt decided to move on. “And what now?”
“Well, like I say, Chris has done different jobs, but, like me, his passion is history. He’s dabbled with freelance journalism – has written dozens of articles on the Spanish colonisation of America.”
The Cortés Enigma Page 17
