Alfred was also sitting at the table.
Maloney took a seat alongside him just as the landlord was returning. “I say, do you always open on a Sunday?”
The four men looked at him, their expressions offering little warmth. Their appearance matched that of the tavern: dirty and run-down. As Maloney sat down, he became aware of several smells, in particular the strong odour of damp wood and natural scent vaguely overpowered by the stench of smoke coming from the fireplace.
“Here on St Lide’s we often do things a little differently, sir,” the landlord said, standing opposite, his large frame leaning across the table. The man was a stout, bearded individual of indeterminate age, probably closer to fifty than thirty, his thick hair black to grey.
Maloney turned to Alfred. “How long did you say you’d been working at the churchyard?”
The man was enjoying two drinks at once, a large brandy and an even larger ale. He took a long swig from his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well now, let me see,” he said, pretending to mull the question over. “Must be going back all the way to 1881. That was the year the Dunbar went down.” He glanced at the landlord and shook his head. “You remember that one, boys?”
The locals muttered, all in agreement. Heads shook in unison. On the opposite side of the table, the landlord filled his pipe with tobacco and smoked freely.
Maloney didn’t know what to say. “What happened?”
“Back in ’81 there was this wooden-hulled brigantine called the Dunbar – the Charlotte Dunbar, that be its full name,” Alfred began. “Nice vessel, too. One night, must o’ been about this time o’ year, it was sailing away past Burnt Island. You ever set foot on St Agnes, sir?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. At least I haven’t had a chance to yet.”
“Folks are real different there,” one of the men sitting close by said. He had red hair, a scruffy beard, his clothes on the verge of falling apart. “They say people there don’t take kindly to strangers.”
Maloney did his best to ignore him.
Alfred sipped again from his ale. “The sea was rough that night, real choppy like. Must o’ been past midnight when it happened. See, the Dunbar ran aground; the captain misjudged the gap between the islands. Been sailing from Newport out to France. No one knows what happened to the crew.”
Maloney cleared his throat, unsure whether the story was over. Having seen the man tending graves and now sitting with two drinks on a Sunday afternoon, it didn’t take any extra persuasion to decide he needed to be on his guard.
“A number o’ them are buried right there in the churchyard,” he added.
“Is that so?” Maloney said, cupping his hands together and placing his forearms on the table. “Well, if you are correct in what you say, and you do know the churchyard better than any other, perhaps you might tell me about Pizarro?”
“Tell you about who?”
“Pizarro?”
Alfred looked back with a blank expression. “Been tending those graves since 1881. In all that time, I don’t think I’ve ever heard o’ any Pizarro.”
“I assure you, he’s definitely there.”
Maloney jumped, startled. The door to the tavern opened, its thick oak frame banging against its rusty hinges before closing with equally great force. A young man had entered: thin, nervous, and, judging by his appearance and manner, not old enough to drink in a tavern. He was tall for his age, approaching five feet eight, and dressed in a thick dark overcoat that matched the colour of his hair. He surveyed the low-beamed ceiling from a distance before walking towards the table.
The landlord was furious. “What you doing in here, boy?”
“Probably the same as the rest of us,” the final local replied. Like most there, he was aged somewhere in his late forties, rugged, his grey hair largely receded. “Something to keep out the damn cold.” He looked at the boy. “You okay, Sam?”
The boy smiled faintly. “Mum sent me,” he said to the landlord. “The boiler’s gone again.”
“Ah, heck. That’s the third time this week. That thing will damn near bankrupt me.”
The landlord opened a bottle of brandy, poured two shots into a large round glass, and slid it across the table.
“Here. You get that down you. It’ll help keep out the cold.”
Maloney watched as the boy gripped the glass and sipped it down slowly. He could tell from the boy’s red raw fingers that he had spent significant time outside. A deathly hush had descended, the atmosphere tense, as if everyone was afraid to break it.
Maloney turned to Alfred, still thinking about Pizarro.
“You know, I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced. My name’s Maloney. Dr Thomas Francis Maloney.”
Alfred grinned as he accepted his hand. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr Maloney. My name’s Slater. Alfred.”
Maloney smiled, recognising the name from the graveyard. “Now then, Mr Slater, if you’d be so kind, I’d very much like to hear about Pizarro.”
“I told you already, Doctor, I don’t recall the name.”
“You were cleaning a monument near his tombstone not one hour ago,” Maloney replied. “It was that very large monument, the one we were standing beside. The one that looks rather like a galleon being taken away by Spanish soldiers.”
“Is that a fact?” the local with the red beard asked. “Truth is, none of us have ever been to Spain.”
Laughter swept round the tavern, the sound interrupted by the howling of the wind as it blew against the door, forcing it open. It banged against the wooden frame, harder and harder.
“Shut that door, boy,” the landlord barked at Sam.
“Mum said about the boiler.”
“Later.”
Maloney watched the landlord disappear into an adjacent room while Sam left his seat to close the door. With the door closed, the room once again fell silent.
Alfred raised his glass to his lips and finished his ale in one swift gulp. He looked to his right and saw Maloney staring at him.
“There were six of them in total,” Maloney resumed, “near the large monument. Ring any bells?”
“Why, that’s the graves of the original settlers.”
The statement came from the young boy, his attention firmly on Maloney. He had already polished off his brandy.
Maloney eyed the boy and everyone else around him in turn. “I’d like to buy everybody in here a drink,” he said, removing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. “Something to keep out the cold.”
The landlord returned, shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s time to close.”
“It’s not two o’clock yet,” Sam protested.
“It’s Sunday,” the landlord replied, gathering up the takings with his stubby fingers. “Besides, your mother needs me to take a look at that boiler.”
“I say, if you’ll wait just one moment,” Maloney began.
The man with the red beard rose to his feet. “You heard the man,” the local said, squaring up to him. “It’s time to leave.”
Maloney remained unmoved, his eyes exploring the faces of all present. He placed the shilling down on the table and decided not to argue. Outnumbered and significantly smaller than the man before him, he chose to leave with the others.
*
As Alfred Slater and the others disappeared down the hill, Maloney considered his options. The boat wasn’t due to leave till four.
That left two hours before he needed to return.
The road to the right led back to the church, whereas the one to the left was downhill, leading to several cottages. Choosing the right, he followed the path uphill and ten minutes later was back outside the lichgate to the church.
The landlord’s son, Sam, was in the churchyard, leaning against one of the headstones.
“What’s your interest?” Sam asked. “With the settlers?”
Maloney folded his arms, doing his best to keep out the cold. “I’m
afraid that’s none of your business.”
“People on the island have never cared for strangers. Particularly one with a motive,” he said, walking towards the lichgate. “Between you and me, I don’t think you’re as foolish as you look.”
Maloney was dumbstruck. He considered leaving, but decided to stay. Eventually he laughed. “What makes you say that?”
“For a start, you see things that others don’t, specific things . . . so how much you gonna give me?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“For the information you need.”
The boy folded his arms, perching his bottom against the nearest tombstone, Joseph Smith, died 1783. Considering his options, Maloney removed a small coin from his pocket.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Sam said indignantly.
Maloney frowned. Looking at the contents of his pocket, he removed a half crown. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you might tell me how many Wilcoxes are buried in this cemetery.”
The teenager accepted the coin and placed it in his right pocket. “I know every inch of this cemetery. There are three Wilcoxes.” He gestured with his hand to the south side of the church where Maloney had already found two such graves. “Two are buried quite close together and one about twenty feet further away. It’s where the poorest families were buried.”
Maloney let the insult slide. “Who was Pizarro?”
“Why, he was Cortés’s first mate.”
“I meant the one in this cemetery.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Cortés? As in Hernán Cortés?”
“Could be.”
Though he heard correctly, he knew the suggestion was preposterous. “Francisco Pizarro died in Mexico. His famous namesake died in Peru.”
“Says who?”
“Says everybody,” Maloney retorted. “Why, there isn’t a history student in the world who doesn’t know this. Not to mention every history book. Original letters. I’ve seen the graves.”
“So have I,” the boy replied, smiling.
Maloney was confused. “Who told you this?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
Maloney was starting to get annoyed. “Well, that depends. Tell me, and we’ll see what it’s worth.”
The boy stopped slouching, preparing to leave.
“Right,” Maloney interrupted. He walked towards him, stopping so close he could see goose pimples on the boy’s neck. “I assume you’re a lad of your word. After all, it would take a pretty dishonest kind of chap to go back on his word.”
The boy grinned. “I guess that’s up to you to find out.”
Maloney took an annoyed breath and gave him an extra shilling. “What’s so significant?”
“According to legend, it was here Cortés’s granddaughter crashed on her way back from Mexico.”
Maloney’s eyes narrowed. “Says who?”
“Locals.”
Maloney bit his lip, unconvinced. Like most people in his field, he was familiar with the countless unsubstantiated stories regarding the conquistadors, but he was still to find any firm evidence. He knew for a fact there were hundreds of stories about Cortés, ranging from lost ships to lost sons.
“And why exactly did they come here?”
The boy smiled. “Legend has it, it’s here Cortés buried all his treasure.”
1
The Noche Triste Treasure had never been found. According to some, it had never existed. It was merely a fantasy. A myth. A tale of strange fallacies and inaccuracies that had become ever more distorted over time.
Everyone who knew anything about the conquistadors was familiar with the story. Supposedly it all began with the Aztecs, sometime in the early 1500s. It was written in the texts of the Spanish conquistadors that there was once a great emperor named Montezuma, whose empire spanned far into Mexico, crossing many mountains. Its cities were unlike any ever seen on earth. They were the dwelling places of gods, the homes of beautiful women. Hot water entered each house in abundance, their palaces overflowed with gold. If the stories were to be believed, it wasn’t just the palaces that were overflowing.
The cities were practically made of gold.
The only part of the story that was known for certain was the part that preceded the conquistadors’ departure. It happened on the night of 30 June 1520 in the middle of Mexico, in a city named Tenochtitlán. It was the nation’s capital, the heart of the empire.
And the heart of its destruction.
According to the accounts written by the Spaniards, the chaos began with the capture of Montezuma by the great conquistador, Hernán Cortés. With Montezuma held hostage, the emperor was ransomed. Gold was brought from everywhere, all corners of the empire. As tensions rose, attempts were made to free Montezuma, leading to fighting between native and Spaniard. When Montezuma perished, all hell broke loose. The Spanish sought to retreat, some making it to the coast. Some sources stated the number of Spanish deaths were minimal; others said there were over a thousand.
Most placed the number somewhere in the middle.
Whatever the exact number, the loss of life had a dramatic effect on Cortés. Tradition told that the man broke down and wept for hours beneath a tree. Because of that the night was remembered as La Noche Triste.
The Night of Sorrows.
The remaining Spaniards escaped, regrouped, conquered. Yet the question remained:
What happened to the treasure?
According to some, it was left behind: it would have been almost impossible for the fleeing Spaniards to have travelled so far across ground with so much gold weighing them down. And even if they had, getting it as far as the coast was only half the battle.
According to others, the treasure had existed, but it was later lost or destroyed. Some said the Aztecs recaptured it, secreting it away in the mountains or dropping it into the large lake that surrounded the city. Others said the Spanish managed to keep hold of it, melted it down, and packed it away as gold bars.
Even painted it the colour of wood to avoid detection.
Most agreed that the treasure could still exist. Legend in Spain told that after the conquistadors ransacked the great cities, the loot was boarded on to their ships and they set out to sea. Once back in Spain, the treasure was taken to Madrid and remains to this day safely stored within the vaults of the great buildings, its location known only to the king and his government.
Many claimed the treasure never made it to Spain. Some said it never left America; others that it was taken to another place: Africa, Portugal, Italy, or even somewhere different altogether.
Some claimed to have found it. One had discovered alleged proof in Ireland, hidden in ancient woodland. Another did the same in a different part of Spain while beachcombing in the Costa del Sol with a metal detector. There were similar stories from everywhere between Norway and the Czech Republic, each more far-fetched than the last.
Then there was the most famous of the lot: Juan Carlo Hernandez, an alleged descendant of Cortés who was supposedly working on insider knowledge. The map led him to a secluded area off the coast of West Africa, somewhere between Mauritania and Senegal. There, he entered a cave at low tide, expecting to find it overflowing with gold, just as the legends promised.
What he found remained a mystery.
No one alive knew for sure what the treasure was or what it had once comprised. According to most, it was mainly gold, possibly with other jewels, including emeralds, and perhaps the occasional sapphire or ruby: the spoils of Montezuma’s empire. According to others, it wasn’t treasure people were trying to find, but knowledge.
How the Aztecs had amassed such riches in the first place.
The legend refused to die. Rumour abounded that the treasure was still out there. Some unsubstantiated accounts reported that it had even made it further afield, reaching its final resting place on a small island in the Isles of Scilly, where, it was claimed, Cortés landed, shipwrecked in a storm that killed at least seven
of his crew, and buried the treasure in a cave, its whereabouts no longer known. Others said it was not Hernán Cortés, but his granddaughter acting on her grandfather’s knowledge, doing her utmost to keep hold of what the King of Spain never deserved.
According to legend, it was still there. Waiting to be discovered.
But that was legend. As far as history was concerned, only one thing was known for certain.
The treasure was still to be found.
University of Dartmouth, Hanover, New Hampshire, Present Day
The academic was sitting in his office when the phone rang. Unlike the twenty-plus other calls he had already received that morning, he noticed something different about the ringtone.
The cordless landline phone that sat neatly between his brand new iMac computer and a pile of unmarked coursework was quiet and unblinking. There was no flashing light signalling an incoming call, nor any sign that the five voicemail messages was about to become six.
This ringtone was different, accompanied by a loud buzzing sound that caused the desk to vibrate.
It was his mobile phone that was ringing.
The one reserved for close friends and family.
The academic picked up the phone and lifted the flap of his $10 market-bought cover that protected it from accidental drops. The display was lit up, indicating the name Chris. His cousin.
He slid his finger across the display, answering, “Hello?”
“Ben,” the voice replied, excited. “You’re never going to believe this. They’ve just found the Dunster.”
The words meant nothing. “Who found . . . what?”
“Mom just found it on the Internet. They found TF’s ship. They found the Dunster.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 3
