“Apart from Hugh Town, right?”
She nodded. “Hugh Town was purchased by the town itself in 1949. The Duchy still claims ownership of all freehold land on the Isles. Though I must say they’ve been very good over the years at maintaining the sites of special historic, scientific and natural interest.”
Ben nodded. “Who were the family?”
“The Godolphins? Cornish landowners, many also became MPs. They really didn’t have much of a role in the day-to-day life.”
Ben smiled. “Forgive me for asking. I was merely curious. I saw their mausoleum yesterday in the cemetery of Old Town Church.”
“Yes. Though some are buried back in Cornwall or further afield. The mausoleum is one of the more famous features of the cemetery.” She started to laugh. “As a matter of fact, one of them is supposed to haunt one of the local inns.”
“Not the Gibbous Moon?”
“You know, I think it might be.”
“I hope to God it’s room sixteen,” quipped Ben. “It’s where my cousin’s staying.”
Dr Phillips laughed slightly louder.
“Tell me, is there any other cemetery in the Scillies? See, I was particularly interested in rumours of old graves, specifically of those who were shipwrecked. Would they all be buried on St Mary’s?”
“Most would have been, yes. Though there are other cemeteries on Tresco and St Agnes. Once there was one on St Lide’s.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The church is now largely a ruin. It was located in the centre of the island atop the largest hill, which apparently was an area where St Lide may once have established a hermitage, though there are no formal records of that. Neither the church nor the cemetery has been used for many years. The island was abandoned in 1909.”
Echoes of what Kernow had already told him. “What happened?”
“The island has always been in an awkward location, particularly in the days of early shipping lanes. I think over the years the combination of bad weather and severe coastal erosion created hazardous living conditions.”
In theory that makes sense, Ben thought. “Is the graveyard still there?”
“Bits of it. Though sadly not much remains. The church itself is really a pigsty.”
Ben’s mind was racing. “Just a thought here. If the ship went down in St Mary’s Sound, could St Lide’s have been the cause?”
“In terms of being the source of the damage, yes,” she said. “But, depending on the extent of the damage, a ship might well have been able to continue to sail on for a time without sinking. Most of the wrecks discovered in this area were Dutch, and several didn’t crash but went down under artillery fire, either from the Star Castle or the Cromwell Castle.” She spoke of the two fortresses on St Mary’s and Tresco.
As Ben looked at the wreck for the final time, the memory of the diagrams in the diary gnawed away at him. He smiled at the curator and offered his hand.
“Thank you so much for your time, Dr Phillips. I’ll send this back real soon.”
*
Ben found Kernow in the North Atlantic. He followed Dr Phillips’s directions from the museum and headed north, then west back to Garrison Hill until he reached a quaint 16th century inn with white walls, a black door and a large wooden sign that swayed softly in the afternoon breeze.
Kernow was alone, sipping a pint of beer and reading a book about sailing. Fortunately he was only on his second.
“I need to get to St Lide’s.”
Kernow turned slowly, a hint of a smile forming across his bearded face. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, friend. What will it be?”
“I just need a lift over there and back. How’s £200 sound?”
*
Kernow berthed the boat on the north side of the island, the opposite side to Hell’s Bay.
“You’re sure two hours is long enough?” Kernow asked, tying up the boat. “For £200, I’d say that buys you an extra half hour.”
Ben noticed the grin on his face as he said that. “I’ll bear it in mind,” he said, disembarking. “I hope you got something to read.”
15
11 a.m.
Cortés thought he had seen it all. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisaged anything quite like it.
Standing beside him, Pizarro was equally lost for words. What looked on the face of it to be three simple stones – albeit large ones – had turned out to be anything but.
Pizarro looked at Cortés, bewildered. “Only a man of unique quality could possibly replicate such an ancient skill.”
Cortés took a breath, speechless. Despite the cold, he found himself sweating; large beads of liquid fell from his right temple, leaving a trace down his tanned skin. Still he thought he was seeing things, dreaming, and that at any moment he would awaken, back safe and warm in the bedroom of his ancestors.
He looked again at the ancient manuscript, his attention solely on the map. Then he removed a print from his pocket, the family coat of arms. He had grown up with it for over thirty years.
But only now were things finally making sense.
11:30 a.m.
Chris stayed in Hugh Town on leaving the inn. Following Silver Street, one of the main roads that connected one side of Hugh Town to the other, he ignored the buzz of a passing helicopter as it appeared briefly above the Star Castle, before heading along one of the nearby side streets.
The roads, as usual, were deserted. According to the official statistics, there were over three hundred vehicles on St Mary’s, ranging from cars and vans to motorbikes and mopeds, but he was still to see anything like that many. Officially, St Mary’s was the only island where the use of motor transport was permitted. Elsewhere cars were officially banned, not that the decree was necessary. The main settlements were centralised, the facilities and tourist attractions accessible only by pathway.
There was simply nowhere to drive.
Chris continued along a small side alley and stopped in front of two buildings, a library and a pub. The library was old, its appearance reminding him of Diagon Alley. Most of the local buildings were Victorian if not older, their windows filled with various curiosities, from tinned fudge to antique porcelain dolls.
As far as he could tell, the library was open.
He entered and saw a deserted counter directly in front of him on which there was a computer monitor and one heck of a lot of dust. Three large bookcases stood to his right, filled with literature of all kinds, while a small doorway behind the counter was partially hidden by a loose red cloak.
A woman appeared, grey haired, gaunt expression but friendly, probably somewhere in her sixties.
Chris smiled. “Hi there. Do you have anything on the history of the island?”
“Phillips’ Encyclopaedia of Wildlife has a large selection on the various birdlife. Its focus is worldwide, not just the Scillies.”
That didn’t help. “I was thinking more along the lines of human history.”
The woman walked around the counter and led him along the second aisle of books. She studied them for several seconds before removing one particular title, a large hardback that dated back to the 1960s.
It was in surprisingly good condition.
Chris took the book and sat down at a nearby table. A quick glance at the book’s cover told him that it was a history of Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly, 1568–1850.
He found a coffee machine located on the other side of the room and bought himself an espresso, black. It was still too early for lunch; the toast, pancakes and cereal that he had devoured less than two hours earlier was still sitting comfortably on his stomach. He didn’t fancy returning to the GM either, particularly as Valeria wasn’t working till five. Whiling away the time within the confines of the inn’s dark recesses was beginning to play havoc with his mind. Every now and then his thoughts wandered to TF and his final days.
It still seemed incredible Ben was sleeping in the exact same room.
Chris started to look through t
he book, focusing on the Scillies as opposed to Cornwall. He could see that the Godolphins featured prominently – according to what he was reading they had been the original governors of the Isles.
The vicar from Old Town had been half right at least.
He started with the first: Sir Francis, governor during the reign of Elizabeth I. Supposedly the man was a prominent figure, a religious zealot who made a notable effort to improve the defences of the islands, particularly through the building of the Star Castle on St Mary’s and the planning of the Queen’s Castle on St Lide’s – Chris assumed that was the ruin Ben had been talking about. He was still to visit the Star Castle, but making out the large palace-like fortress, located on a hill on the west side of the island, was not difficult. He had read somewhere the castle was now a luxury hotel.
Two William Godolphins followed, both of similar, yet seemingly irrelevant pedigree, and after them a Sidney. Unlike the others, this MP was both a poet and a soldier, eventually meeting his end in the English Civil War. According to the book, his ghost was said to haunt the Gibbous Moon.
The thought made him smile.
The family estates were lost when the Roundheads captured them, but returned to Sidney’s brother, another Francis, on the accession of Charles II. On the death of a third Francis in 1766, the estates passed to his daughter and son-in-law, Thomas Osborne, fourth Duke of Leeds.
At least that made sense of the Osborne names in the mausoleum.
Following on from Thomas, two more Osbornes inherited the governorship before the Duchy of Cornwall sold the lease to Augustus Smith in the 1830s.
At which point the Godolphins and Osbornes disappeared from history.
At least on the Isles of Scilly.
Chris double-checked everything. Despite their positions as governors of the Isles, the majority of their lives and careers had been spent in England. The family seat was in Cornwall, a large estate that had been in their possession for centuries. The coat of arms was a double-headed eagle, apparently a symbol of their rule over the Scillies.
He finished his coffee and returned to the counter. “Where would I go if I was looking for the official records?” He asked the same woman as before.
“Official records?”
“Yeah. Summonses. Letters. County records. The works.”
The woman walked from behind the counter, taking him through an open doorway on the other side of the room. The next room was larger, home to seemingly dozens of bookcases, some glassed, some open, containing everything from original literature to things from the 1600s.
She sat him down at a large table that had been divided into twelve segments. A portable reading light was located to his right, not needed at this hour.
The woman returned with a large ledger-style book, the content printed but old.
“These are the local county records,” she said, opening it to a random place somewhere around the middle. “Is this what you were after?”
In truth he had no idea. “I’m much obliged.”
The woman left the room, returning to the counter, leaving Chris on his own in the otherwise deserted building. He left the seat briefly to ensure he was alone, satisfying that nagging feeling that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing no one, he opened the book, a record of summonses and legal records on the island, as well as preserved materials from local schools, businesses, lawyers and churches, and details of historic business transactions and wills of past residents dating back to the beginning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. He was still unsure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew TF’s disappearance had something to do with the islands’ early history.
And anything about that would surely be found among the official records.
16
12 p.m.
The Queen’s Castle had once been named the King Charles’ Castle. The Roundheads had expanded the single tower fortress, situated close to the ruined gun battery that overlooked the surrounding sea, when the Civil War was at its height. For three years the castle remained in Cromwell’s hands before the garrisons at St Lide’s, St Mary’s and Tresco all mutinied and defected to the king. Over the coming years, the sites changed hands again before returning permanently to the Crown on the accession of Charles II, and later falling into ruin.
Officially the castle was under the care and management of English Heritage, but the site was less high profile than most. There were no permanent staff, no volunteers, no tourists visiting on a regular basis. Access to the tower was gained through a large unrestricted archway, admission free of charge. On days of planned tours, the castle would accommodate up to fifteen or twenty people at a time, walking the walls, climbing the stairs of the tower, snapping away with their cameras; but today there were no such visits. An overwhelming feeling of loneliness was intensified by the sound of the gulls, their forlorn cries echoing off the nearby cliffs. Though the noise could be unnerving and distracting, today’s visitors were oblivious to it.
Experience and knowledge was on their side.
Instead of walking across the metallic bridge to continue their sightseeing, cameras aimed at the large tower, the surrounding sea, the passing birdlife or the distant isles across the water, the four Spaniards made their way slowly down a set of wooden steps and entered a ruined room that had once been a chapel. Their recent experience exploring the north side of the island had already provided proof the ancient map was reliable, the clues pointing in the direction of the next important landmark. Though the contents of the room had long been removed, their owners dead, their remains long since decayed in their graves, the appetites of all present remained whetted by the possibility the passage still existed, lost somewhere behind one of the walls.
The question was which wall?
Pizarro banged his shovel against the west wall and nodded at Cortés. “It’s this one.”
Cortés was sceptical. “How can you be certain?”
Pizarro did the same thing again, the impact making a dull clanging sound. Almost immediately a couple of bricks came loose, enough to allow partial observation. Pizarro peered first through the gap before moving aside for Cortés, his eyes narrowing beneath his furrowed brow. He adjusted his hat as he retreated.
“Go.”
17
12:30 p.m.
The church of St Lide was a depressing sight. Located on a site of approximately three hundred square metres, it was indeed surrounded by a small churchyard and a wall that had seen too many winters and insufficient maintenance.
The door to the church was open, as was the one to the nearby rectory. Ben inspected them both in turn, starting with the church. Four strong walls remained standing, despite the roof showing clear evidence of past trauma. Ten empty, or almost empty, archways punctured the walls at equal intervals where stained-glass windows had once been, while ten rows of wooden pews, suffering badly from wood rot and wet from recent storms, had been left abandoned either side of the main aisle.
Walking towards the altar, Ben became aware of a foul and oppressive odour that he immediately put down to prolonged neglect and exposure to damp. At the front of the church, the altar was still standing, its heavy stone legs at a slightly irregular angle. Inside the nearest archway, the Lady Chapel had been better protected. A large statue of an angel was lying in ruins at the rear of the room, and below it what appeared to be evidence of mortal remains. A short description, written in Latin, confirmed what TF had witnessed.
Here lie the remains of St Lide.
He looked around, exploring the interior. The statue of the angel was clearly 19th century, fierce and masculine.
As far as he could see, it was the only statue.
Leaving the Lady Chapel, Ben took a seat on the step before the altar. He took a deep breath, allowing his thoughts to focus on the view in front of him before removing TF’s diary from his pocket.
Two large angels were sited at the head of the Lady Chapel – that was what TF had recorded. Above the choir, located
at the back of the church, on a raised platform accessible by a narrow winding staircase, a stained-glass window depicted the story, or legend, of the island’s most famous occupants. From the position where Ben was now seated, TF described seeing a plethora of colours – gold, green, red, orange, and blue – telling of a long forgotten shipwreck.
Looking up, a hundred years on, Ben saw only a large void. The choir area had become thickly covered with leaves, exposed to the full force of the gales. The only thing the former window now contained was a large tree branch.
Ben guessed it had probably broken the window.
The rectory was located less than fifty metres from the church, and had clearly been as long abandoned. An original wood fireplace filled a large space in the farthest wall, its chimney blackened from past use. Unlike the church, much of the furniture and glass was still undamaged, yet in Ben’s opinion the atmosphere seemed heavier, ominous, as if a vow of silence had been placed upon it. Though there were signs of former occupancy, the bare walls and occasional artwork offered little more than a cryptic hint to its past.
With a heavy heart, Ben inspected every room and moved on.
The churchyard was smaller than the one at Old Town. There were no great graves, no ornate statues or grand mausoleums; instead the stonework was small and basic, the shapes almost identical.
Ben walked to the first slab he saw, and was immediately taken aback. The shape was rounded at the top, a thick layer of granite with evidence of former writing. The grave was predominantly red, discoloured by past weathering.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 12
