That wasn’t really what Ben had in mind. “You know where it is?”
“Yes,” she replied, heading toward the door. “It is the only other pub in Hugh Town owned by Mr Nicholl. He gave me keys as a precaution.”
“Valeria.”
“Come. I think I know where we must go.”
40
Ben left the boat as Valeria parked, taking her usual spot in the harbour within a stone’s throw of both the ferry port and the Gibbous Moon.
“Wait,” Ben said.
He returned to the Gibbous Moon and unlocked the door to his room. He walked toward the desk, leaving it to Valeria to switch on the light. The antique box his grandmother had given him was still there, closed and undisturbed.
And alongside it the other box.
He removed the bell and held it aloft.
Valeria was dumbstruck.
“Kernow found it in the galley of the Dunster.”
Valeria was both hurt and overjoyed at the same time. “Why you not say?”
“I had to be sure I could trust you,” he said uncompromisingly.
She huffed indignantly, but was so caught up with the second item that she decided to forgive him. After placing the fish on the table, she checked out the bell. Like a real bell the inside was hollow, only without a ringer.
She knocked against it, as if expecting to hear a chime or an echo. There were three letters on the side, G O D.
“Godolphin,” Ben said, putting the three sets of letters together.
“Whatever could it mean?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He turned his attention to the box with the books. TF’s diary may have been taken, but there were still other things that could be of help.
Ben lifted the latch of the antique wooden box and removed the four books. He checked them off one by one:
The first diary.
No.
The miscellaneous book about the Aztecs.
No.
The biography of Walter Raleigh...
It was the fourth he was looking for. Originally written in Latin by the English chronicler John Leland, TF had been translating pieces.
Why?
He looked at Valeria, remembering he still had the book Dr Phillips had lent him.
“Here.” He passed her the book. “See if it says anything about the Star Castle or the passageway you mentioned.”
She took the book and followed Ben’s instructions, her eyes displaying only confusion.
Ben was too busy to notice. He opened up the book with the translated passages and speed read through the early pages. Like TF’s diary, the translated chronicle was also handwritten, the handwriting clearly TF’s. There were countless long passages in Latin, some lasting over ten pages. To Ben, it seemed to have been a consistent practice of his ancestor to write out the original first and then the English translation beneath.
Fortunately the book contained less than fifty pages of handwriting.
Ben punched the desk, this time in delight. “Here,” he said, showing Valeria. “You were right about the castle. Only, according to this, it was modified after the English Civil War.” He looked at her, his eyes bright. “The castle was built in the 1590s, but its original shape was not a star. That came later.”
Valeria was stunned. “When was this written?”
“The original was in the mid-1500s.”
“Then how can he have known about the change?”
“He didn’t. TF discovered the change. He included it as a footnote.”
“Was it important?”
“TF highlighted that a dungeon existed. Now I may be wrong, but it sounds to me like the one you spoke of.”
“Does it say what was there?” asked Valeria.
“No,” Ben said, disappointed. “It didn’t.”
Both of them stood in awkward silence. Standing by the desk, Ben took the book Valeria was holding and began reading it himself. He scanned the pages for thirty seconds.
“It says here that there was a story that a second dungeon was put in below the main one, solely to incarcerate the most foul of prisoners.” He looked Valeria in the eye. “Do you have the keys?”
“Yes. They’re in my bag.”
The North Atlantic Inn was located on the same street as the Gibbous Moon and was similar in style, stature and appearance. Its stone façade was in good condition, its large slabs of brick clean despite the recent poor weather. A large sign overlooked the door, white letters on a black background, identifying the name of the inn, while another smaller one hung from a beam, an illustration of a whale swimming at sunset in close proximity to a rugged coastline.
Ben stopped on the pavement outside and waited for Valeria to enter first. Though the street itself was quiet, light shone brightly from the inn’s five windows, indicating it was business as usual, its patrons and guests sharing a meal or a drink at a cosy table.
Valeria pushed the door open and held it open for Ben, revealing a well-lit interior with the usual long bar and lots of wooden upholstery. Valeria had entered cautiously, and Ben noticed. The plan was not to draw attention to themselves, but that immediately failed when she saw the man behind the bar.
“Valeria,” the man shouted, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He was mid-forties, dark hair and clearly hadn’t shaved for days.
Valeria smiled awkwardly as she walked toward the bar. Ben recognised the man; he’d also seen him working at the Gibbous Moon in the bar.
“How’s the boiler?” she asked.
“Same as before,” the barman replied.
She forced a smile. “I was afraid you would say that. Mr Nicholl asked me to look.”
That provoked a grin from both the barman and the nearby barflies. “He asked that?”
“Who you think keeps these places in order? Magical fairies?”
The barman held his grin, his eyes looking her up and down. The girl’s appearance never failed to impress, despite her opting for a pair of old jeans and a jacket as opposed to her usual glamorous dark jacket and long leggings. There was dirt on her face, possibly her jacket as well.
“You help yourself.”
Valeria headed to the end of the bar, lifted the counter and went through the next door into the kitchen.
Ben followed, observing the interior as he walked. The kitchen was empty apart from the chef, who was busy chopping vegetables. Valeria did her best to ignore him, smiling briefly as she made her way toward the cellar.
The light was off, at least for now. Valeria flicked the switch, revealing a small original stone stairway and an open-plan cellar with lots of bottles of wine, kegs of beer and goodness knows what else.
The far wall was made of brick, sturdy but noticeably different to the grey stone façade of the outer building.
“This isn’t old!”
“The wall was replaced in the 1950s,” she replied, moving past the boiler and finding her passage prohibited by twenty beer kegs stacked up in rows of four.
“You, move them.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”
He started on the first; the keg was so heavy he needed to swivel it to make it move. A few minutes later, Valeria had access to the wall.
There was something leaning up against the wall. It looked like loose tarpaulin. Ben moved it to one side, revealing a closed door.
“This is it?”
She brushed past him and unlocked it with a key. “What you expect? Secret cavern?”
For Ben, the doorway was far too easy – and civilised. “Well, actually, yes.”
She shot him a piercing stare. He was unsure whether to take it seriously or not.
“You do know where we’re going?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Again, he didn’t know whether to take her seriously.
After turning to its last page, Pizarro threw the diary down onto the bed.
“Hey! Hey!” Cortés exclaimed, immediately inspecting the book for damage. “This is antiq
ue. Collectible.”
“It says nothing,” Pizarro retorted, getting to his feet and pacing restlessly around the room. He scratched his head and punched the nearby table, causing a lamp to move. Alvarez and Busquets remained quiet, clearly disturbed.
“You have that mad look in your eye, Fernando.” Cortés waved his finger, as if a teacher telling off a pupil. “Patience.”
“Patience, patience…my whole life has been patience. This achieves nothing.”
Cortés picked up the diary, silently relieved the cover and pages had not been torn. He brushed lightly against the leather with his fingers, inspecting it for damage.
“The work of Thomas Maloney is of great historical significance.” He spoke with emphasis. “Even without the treasure, these pages are not without value.”
He opened the diary toward the end, looking at the diagram TF had made of the stained-glass window.
“Tell me what you see?”
Pizarro looked at the page, firstly from a distance and then nearer. He was looking at a freehand-drawn diagram of a stained-glass window, apparently one that had once existed in the church at St Lide’s. He examined it quickly and, “Aha!”
Cortés was far less animated. “I believe we may have come to the right place after all.”
41
What lay behind the door was not what Ben had expected. Rather than being a simple extension of the cellar, what started off as an underground street, like those famed in Edinburgh and Rome, became a well-constructed tunnel that continued in a straight line.
His first thought was for the torch – that and his feet. With the light shining, he saw the tunnel was arch-shaped and constructed out of the rock. Thick layers of granite surrounded him on every side, its hard grey exterior absorbing more light than it reflected. Up ahead, the passageway was becoming wider and higher. Ben estimated it was at least ten feet in height and the same in width.
Large enough to march an army through.
“What was it used for?” he asked, suddenly noticing the effect on his breathing.
“Smuggling,” Valeria replied, her own breathing much more controlled. “Sometimes for moving supplies. Take little breaths. It affects the lungs.”
That seemed an understatement.
The tunnel was shorter than Ben had anticipated; he estimated a quarter of a mile at the most. It ended with a slope, first to the left then the right. There were things on the ground, no ordinary debris.
Ben got down on one knee and examined what looked to be an ancient tool, possibly a sickle. “What is this place?”
“I tell you before. Don’t ask silly questions.”
He raised his head and put his hand to his woolly hat, dropping the sickle as he stood. About fifty metres further along he saw iron bars on both sides of the tunnel, joined together to create a series of cells.
The clearest evidence yet the area had once been used as a dungeon.
Breathing was becoming ever more difficult. The smell was different, powerful and dreadful.
Faeces, water and rock.
“Take short breaths,” Valeria repeated. “Soon your body will adjust.”
He coughed, “When was the dungeon in use?”
“Only in the Civil War, I think. Fortunately you only have to stay a few minutes.”
Ben stopped for a longer breath, standing with his hands pressed down on his knees. When he looked up again, he saw the light was disappearing.
Valeria was walking on without him.
He increased his pace, losing her in the gloom and nearly bumping into her.
“Careful.”
Ben bit his lip. “Where are we heading?”
“You’ll see.”
The passage continued. There were cells on both sides, the iron bars rusted but otherwise in good condition. In the darkness, making out shapes was becoming all the more difficult. Though his eyes were adjusting to the light, the way remained lit only by the light of the torches. The smell had changed, but not improved. He sensed wetness, possibly mixed with something else.
Valeria continued to lead, following the direction of the tunnel. Up ahead, the walls opened up, revealing a large, square chamber. Ben shone his torch in every direction, focusing on the walls and ceiling. As the seconds passed, he began to find his bearings. He estimated the room to be about twelve metres by ten, not quite a perfect square but pretty close. He recognised things, statues – several of them. They reminded him of the two that guarded the mausoleum.
He remembered TF had mentioned that statues like those had also lined the corridors of the castle.
He shone the torch in Valeria’s face. “You knew about this place?”
“Yes. Only until now I never know why.”
Ben was sceptical. “Care to elaborate?”
Valeria shone the torch on the nearest wall, the left side of the room when viewed from the entrance. Like those in the passage it was of stone construction, light grey colour. While every wall in the room was made of stone, there was something about this one that made it stand out. The central area was more solid, without cracks and cement. Stranger still, there was clear evidence of writing etched into the stone with a sharp instrument.
Ben read it, almost speechless. Like the mausoleum, it said: ‘A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper’, only, unlike the mausoleum, there was a second line:
‘A wise man’s too, who knows the truth, as his Majesty will do very soon!’
Ben looked at Valeria, smiling inanely. “Oh my God.”
“You understand?”
The question was almost impossible to answer. “According to Díaz–”
“Who?”
“Cortés’s biographer.”
“The soldier?”
“Yes. According to him, an identical message was added to the wall at Coyoacán. Apparently some of his men were of the opinion Cortés planned to cut the Spanish Crown out of the deal.” He looked at the wall, reading the words one at a time. “It must be of relevance.”
“It might not be,” she replied.
“What else can it mean?”
“It could mean…yes, you say the Star Castle was changed in the Civil War?”
“Yes.”
“And the castles often change hands.”
Ben saw what she was getting at. “You think Francis Godolphin planned to cut Charles I out of the treasure?”
She hesitated. “Possibly.”
Possibly was probably the right word. More likely, it would be impossible to ever know for certain.
Ben walked close to the wall, feeling the area lower down. There was a strange handle on the wall: what seemed to be a stone ornament that extended into a perfect circle. Looking to his right, he noticed the floor sloped in the centre of the room, while an identical circle was located on the opposite side.
“It’s a tlachtli,” Ben exclaimed.
“Excuse me?”
“A tlachtli,” he said, finally understanding the strange set up of the chamber. “It’s a replica of the court the Aztecs used to play the game ullamaliztli.”
“You mean the ball game?”
“Yes,” Ben said, feeling the surface of the circle with his hands. “The opposing sides had to get a rubber ball into the hole using only their elbows, knees or hips. According to some variations, the ball wasn’t even allowed to touch the ground.”
Valeria’s attention was taken by an object located in the corner of the room. It looked like cannonballs stacked into a solid triangle.
She walked toward it and touched the one at the top, which was not attached to the others. She picked it up and felt it, comparing it to the others. She was half right, she realised. While the others were cannonballs, hard, small and cold, this one was lighter, she guessed about 4kg, and made of rubber.
“This what they used?”
Ben had already noticed. He accepted the ball from her and walked toward the stone circle.
Suddenly he felt the floor move.
The barman was to
o busy to notice the latest visitor enter through the main doors of the North Atlantic. Colts made use of the timing and sneaked behind the counter and then through the kitchen.
The Cortés Enigma Page 26
