The Cortés Enigma

by John Paul Davis

  “Sam became a lighthouse keeper, kept that light right up to the end of World War Two. Sam’s last will and testament included a diary. He claimed, through much sadness, to have failed as a young man to save the life of a great man who had been hunting wrecks off Hell’s Bay.”

  “A great man? He wasn’t named?”

  “Sadly, no. Then again, at that time people would have been unaccustomed to addressing social betters as equals.”

  Ben realised he had a point.

  “Some say he found something buried in the lighthouse as the great man had told him.”

  Ben placed his hand to his face, dumbstruck. Memories of the diary came flooding back. “Could he?”

  “When the Civil War was over and the then governor, Sir Francis Godolphin, decided to move operations to the Star Castle, work was carried out pretty quickly. The walls are strong and include large dungeons, the kind that could quite easily hide something for a few hundred years.”

  “You think something is still buried there?”

  “Problem was, Osbornes and Godolphins were related by marriage, not blood. The chain was broken: brother replaced by brother-in-law; one family replaced the other. It wasn’t as if the secret was being passed from father to son. After 1760, the Godolphins lost prestige. The lease of the island was lost to another. There was no guarantee the chain would continue. But even if it did, by 1830 the Osbornes had also died out. Least the direct line.”

  Ben leaned forward, his hands almost touching Colts. For the first time he felt as if the story had a climax, as if the riddle was at last coming to an end.

  “Go on.”

  “Smethick wrote a diary, as they all did, more a log than anything. Apparently the Godolphins left behind markers that together offered some clue as to what the treasure really was and where it was hidden. According to Smethick’s diary, one of these was apparently hidden in the basement of the old lighthouse. Of course, these days, it’s on private property. And redeveloped.”

  Ben punched the wall, furious. “The Spanish girl.”

  Colts grinned. “Rumour has it, people keep taking quite a shine to her. Mighty pretty, that girl.”

  36

  6pm

  They left the castle the same way, hurrying across the island to return to the boat. Dark cloud had gathered across the western sky, moving slowly toward the island. The wind was getting stronger, accompanied by a rumble of thunder in the distance. The sea was becoming choppy, particularly around the area of St Mary’s Sound, that treacherous stretch of water between St Agnes and St Mary’s that had allegedly once brought down the Spanish galleon. Below the castle, the sea pounded against the rocks, waves splashing up over ten metres high. As they hit the heights, rocks fell below, rolling along the cliff and into the sea. It was a sight that had been frequent throughout history. Because of that, the lagoon was now a cove. As they approached the boat, Ben felt the wind strengthen further, sending a penetrating chill through his body.

  The worst was still to come, as Kernow would say.

  Twenty minutes later Colts pulled up on the island of St Agnes, the fifth largest of all the isles. Ben was still to visit or see it up close, but there was one feature that even he couldn’t fail to recognise. It was over eighty feet in height, painted white, and had an iconic appearance.

  The Old Man’s Foot. Restored from a dilapidated state.

  “You sure you don’t want me to wait?” Colts asked.

  Ben wrapped his jacket collar around his mouth, trying to protect himself from the cold. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  “You’d better.”

  Colts saluted half-heartedly as he shifted the boat into reverse and did a three-point turn on the water. He jammed the lever into gear and began to sail forward, the bow tracing a regular pattern through the water as the craft accelerated toward St Mary’s.

  Ben was like a ferret on acid. Following the path that connected the small jetty to the one that led to the lighthouse, he glanced one last time over his shoulder at the departing boat.

  The Duke of Cornwall, he thought to himself glibly.

  The Old Man’s Foot was less than a quarter of a mile away, located on a hill. It was just after 6pm; even in the last twenty minutes the sky had darkened considerably. Clouds dominated the western sky, thick and menacing. Though it was still not raining, the wind was now unbearable. The pathway was isolated and without any supporting rail to hold onto.

  Walking took all of his available energy.

  Ben came to within two hundred metres of the main entrance and stopped on reaching a wooden fence. A large white house adjoined the lighthouse, 18th century and recently renovated. There were no lights on, nor any other obvious sign of life. A large flag blew fiercely in front of the main door from a solitary pole. Some of the windows were boarded up, particularly on the top floor.

  Renovation was clearly ongoing.

  He continued along the pathway, trying to ignore the ceaseless sound of the howling wind rattling against nearby scaffolding. The noise was tuneless, piercing and annoying.

  At the end of the path he saw a sturdy white door, surrounded by a thick stone archway. He sprinted toward it.

  Valeria was in the hallway, sitting on a chair. The box she had discovered earlier that day was on the nearby table, while the artefact that had been hidden inside it was lying on her lap.

  Still she struggled to make sense of it. The object was white, weighed about 9kg and shaped like a trumpet.

  It was what she had expected.

  But it somehow felt different.

  She heard a noise outside, a loud consistent thud, clearly not the wind. She sat still for several seconds, undecided whether or not to answer. She was not expecting visitors. Seconds later, she heard a voice call her name.

  It was Ben’s.

  Tentatively she moved toward the door.

  Finally she opened it.

  Ben entered without waiting for an invite. As usual, he was dressed for the outdoors, his black windproof jacket, dark jeans and walking boots along with a dark woolly hat that covered his dark brown locks and sideburns.

  “What happened to my cousin?” he demanded, so pumped up he barely noticed her unusual appearance. “Who was Smethick?”

  Valeria was confused. “Smethick?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Your grandmother knew what was buried here; why else would a dilapidated lighthouse in the Isles of Scilly be bought by a Spaniard?” He looked her up and down, his eyes piercing with aggression. “What happened to my cousin?”

  “You keep asking, and I keep telling. I don’t know.”

  He turned on her, placing his hands around her neck. She felt herself lose balance.

  “Ben, please. You’re hurting me.”

  He loosened his grip and looked her over, this time noticing her unusual appearance. “Nicholl said you were sick.”

  Valeria didn’t answer. Struggling to catch her breath, she darted to one side, trying to get away. Ben followed, catching her. He knocked into a cabinet near the dining room table: brown, ornate, obviously antique, the character unquestionably Spanish. There was a box on top of it, blue but slightly corroded.

  He opened it, saw that it was empty and noticed another object located on the side. “The trumpet.”

  Valeria snatched it back, placing it inside her sweatshirt. She took another step away from Ben and removed a large knife from inside her jeans. “Touch me, and I swear to god.”

  Ben was shell-shocked. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed such a thing possible. This petite slender girl, a mere hundred and twenty pounds at best, holding her own against a former lacrosse player.

  “Why do you come?”

  Thoughts returned to the present. “What do you mean, why do I come? You know why. What happened to Chris?”

  “I tell you before, I know nothing. We barely even met.”

  “I met a man; he’s staying at the Gibbous Moon. He told me ev
erything: the story of the treasure being found, the lighthouse keeper, what was hidden beneath the lighthouse.” He looked her in the eye, their gazes locked on each other. “Is that it?” he asked of the small white trumpet-shaped item she had recently placed in her sweatshirt. “What does it mean?”

  “It means nothing.”

  Again Ben rounded on her, coming close but without touching her.

  Valeria hesitated, briefly considering handing it over before deciding to keep hold of it. “The treasure belongs only to the rightful heir. You are an outsider. What gives you the right to things that are not yours?”

  Again Ben was livid. “Rightfully yours? It’s been five hundred years; these things are not rightly anyone’s. I didn’t come here looking for buried treasure. I came to find my cousin.”

  Valeria edged to her left, heading toward the doorway that led to the kitchen. Ben saw what she was doing and went for her, grabbing her around the waist.

  Smack.

  Her hand came hard across his cheek, leaving a red mark from the impact. It caught him so hard it forced him off balance, causing him to fall to the floor. He bounced back up immediately, his eyes never leaving hers. Valeria had made it as far as the door and was halfway through opening it before feeling arms around her shoulders.

  She screamed, louder and louder. As she tried to move, she felt Ben’s hand move across her face, restricting her breathing.

  Someone was shouting, this time from upstairs. Ben didn’t recognise the voice, but he could tell by the tone and accent it was a woman, and Spanish. He looked at Valeria, her large brown eyes looking back, terrified, her soft words muffled against his hand. Slowly he released her.

  The shout came again, calling Valeria’s name.

  “It’s only me, Nana. I just dropped something down in the cellar.”

  Valeria considered speaking again, but heard no reply. For several seconds she looked at Ben. He had no idea what to do next; for the first time he started to wonder why he was even there. He was so fired up after his meeting with Colts he was no longer thinking things through.

  He saw her move, this time slowly. He followed her, for now keeping his distance. He could tell from her tone that her mood had softened.

  She placed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”

  Ben stood still, silent except for his breathing. From somewhere nearby he heard the sound of a grandfather clock ticking consistently to the movement of the pendulum. He heard other things as well, Valeria breathing, her heart beating rapidly, audible despite the sound of the wind blowing through the gaps in the nearby windows. Close to the porch he thought he heard other sounds, footsteps maybe, moving outside the front door. He thought about Colts; did he decide to come after him, see what was going on? Had someone else been drawn to the house, heard sounds of an argument? As far as he was aware, the nearest neighbour was several hundred metres away.

  He looked at Valeria, and she looked at him.

  She sought to speak.

  A loud bang echoed throughout the hall, followed by sudden movement. The door had blasted open, forcing it from its hinges. Two men entered: both were tall, at least six feet, well built, their rugged faces flanked by long black hair.

  Something moved to Ben’s right and then to his left. Two more men entered, each of similar build. One was blond and clean-shaven, while the other bald, a thick goatee and a round face.

  He didn’t need to hear their voices to know they were Spanish.

  What happened next was something of a blur to Ben. Two of the Spaniards rounded on him with punches to the sides and lower back. He felt another across the side of his face, bruising and drawing blood. He tried to fight back, but as he raised his arms, he felt himself being restricted, then lifted, his body swinging at least a foot from the ground. As he cried out he felt a hard blow to the stomach, winding him.

  He was dropped, falling to his haunches.

  On the other side of the room, Valeria was screaming. Wounded, on his knees, Ben looked up and saw her dangling, legs kicking. Large grubby hands ripped her sweatshirt and leggings.

  One of them found the trumpet.

  “It’s here,” Pizarro shouted, waving it in Cortés’s face.

  Cortés stood by the door, surveying the scene. He accepted the trumpet from Pizarro and studied it with a pensive expression. The object was large and heavy, painted white, its coat faded and flaking. He scratched away at it and turned it over, captivated by the way the light danced on it as it moved.

  Pizarro, meanwhile, found the box on the side cabinet and picked it up. “This is it.”

  Cortés ignored him, continuing to look at the trumpet. He pulled his long tanned fingers through his hair and looked at Valeria.

  “Where are the other four?” he walked towards her, his large brown eyes looking mesmerizingly into hers.

  She trembled, not daring to look, but incapable of looking away either.

  Recovering from the punch to his stomach, Ben looked up, speechless. He could tell from the way Cortés addressed her they had met before.

  “Where are the other four?” he repeated.

  Valeria turned away, her frightened eyes on the wall. Alvarez and Busquets were still holding her, their grip so strong she’d given up kicking and screaming. She felt Cortés’s hand grabbing firmly against the side of her cheek, forcing her to look upon his face.

  “I’m waiting, cousin.”

  Ben assumed he must have misheard. “Cousin?”

  Pizarro punched Ben in the gut, his actions catching a piercing glance from Cortés. He looked at Ben, then Valeria, who was still trapped within the fierce arms of Busquets and Alvarez.

  Cortés leaned toward her. “You have found them already, no?” he asked, trying to determine an answer from the expression on her face and the look in her eyes. From that alone, she gave nothing away, like a seasoned poker player calling another’s bluff. As Cortés leaned in close, she moved away, a reflex. Her nose wriggled, an instinctive action against the familiar scent, strong and overbearing – though many years had passed, she remembered it so well.

  Ben was still on his knees, recovering. The sound of his breathing caught Cortés’s attention. He turned away from Valeria and looked down at Ben, his perpetually serious expression becoming hostile.

  “I have heard what people say of you,” Cortés began, examining him like a king to a peasant. “Your ancestor’s story is legendary.”

  Ben looked back, gritting his teeth. “I’d say yours is greater still.”

  Cortés laughed, a low-pitched drone. “Your ancestor was searching.” He waved the trumpet-shaped object before Ben’s eyes, unintentionally allowing him the best view of it so far. In truth, it was smaller than Ben had imagined.

  “Search him,” he barked at the other three. “He may know much.”

  Ben struggled as Alvarez, the largest of the three, left Valeria and immediately rounded on Ben. Another punch to the gut forced him to keel over, helpless to put up a fight.

  Pizarro found the diary. He held it up in the light, his eyes squinting to make out the text.

  Cortés recognised it immediately. He took it gently, allowing the leather cover to rest delicately in his hands, opened it to the first page and scanned the early lines.

  He smiled at Ben. “Your ancestor was a man of many talents, Professor.”

  Ben had got his breath back. “What have you done with my cousin?”

  Cortés seemed confused. “Your who?”

  “What have you done with his cousin?” Valeria fumed. “You trash his room; you take his belongings. Why?”

  Pizarro walked over to Valeria and slapped her across the face; a red mark appeared immediately. She placed a hand to her wounded cheek and fought back the tears.

  Ben was furious. He looked up at Cortés with fire in his eyes, failing to break the Spaniard’s concentration. Cortés stared at Valeria for several seconds, a hard penetrating glance that he could tell she felt intimidating, perhaps on another level.
>
  Pizarro, meanwhile, had returned his attention to Ben. “You find it, eh?” he pushed him. “Tell us now and do us all big favour. Save yourself pain.”

  Ben was biting his lip so hard he felt it was in danger of bleeding. “Where’s my cousin?”

  Pizarro returned his glance. “Always with the same questions. We don’t have your stupid cousin.”

  Cortés walked toward him, lowering himself onto one knee. His face was inches from Ben’s. “Whatever you think, I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  He looked at Valeria, his expression hard.