The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Though he saw no name, he recognised it immediately. Aside from the silt, it was exactly the same as the one he had seen in Kernow’s workshop.

  He walked across the graveyard and sat down on the wall. The views were far reaching and took in the surrounding coast. The wind was at its greatest; further afield, the sea was becoming choppy, the waves gathering to great heights, bringing an echoing crash as they hammered against the rocks.

  Ben guessed that Kernow would be getting anxious to return to St Mary’s.

  He walked across the graveyard, exploring the west section. Seeing no evidence of what he was looking for, he sat down again on the nearby wall and read from TF’s diary, dated 14 March 1905.

  Walking that path I had first taken this previous fourteen month, my mind was immediately drawn to the strange group of gravestones that had first been brought to my attention during that first visit. The great monument, attributed apparently to one Jimenez, on the south side of the churchyard was still standing as tall as I had remembered, though the outer coating had suffered from recent storms.

  Rising to his feet, Ben walked in the direction of the church, trying to follow TF’s directions. The grass was longer on the south side; dozens of trees of unidentifiable species flanked the churchyard like a small forest. The church was in better structural condition on the east side, though the outer appearance was far dirtier. Layers of grime had attached themselves to the stone and archways of the former windows, while dirt and leaves filled the gaps between the walls.

  There were more graves in this part, their faces old and weathered. Any inscriptions that had once been legible had now disappeared.

  There was no hint of a monument dedicated to past sailors.

  He stopped again to look at TF’s diary, trying to make sense of his present surroundings. The descriptions confirmed the existence of graves and a monument on the south side, but the directions were far from specific.

  He knew the diary was merely a record for the man himself.

  Heading away from the south wall of the church, he passed an area overgrown with bushes. Opposite one of the windows, the trees were more spaced out, like a glade in the middle of woodland. There were several slabs in this part, each one severely weathered and broken around the edges. He saw evidence of inscriptions, the name Slater appeared on two and something longer on another, he guessed Parkerson.

  Nothing Spanish.

  Further in, the graves appeared more broken still, these dating from the 1700s. There was a slight opening in between two trees, followed by another area choked by brambles.

  He looked again at the diary, comparing the diagrams to the scene before him. The wall of the church was about the same distance from where TF appeared to have been standing when he made the diagram, suggesting to Ben that the monument should be nearby.

  He walked to where he thought it should be. Though there was nothing there, aside from the usual grass and wild shrubbery, he noticed that the ground sank an inch or so deeper than normal, noticeable albeit only as he was looking hard. He crouched down, wondering if he could make out a shape. Although nothing was obvious, he knew the profuse growth of weeds and wild flowers could have changed the area’s appearance.

  Instinct told him he was on the right track. Rising to his feet, he walked further into the gap to an area that TF had described as ‘extensive mismanagement’. After taking care to ensure his footing was secure, he headed down a small slope into an area that was far muddier than the rest. There were graves in front of him, similar to the ones he had already seen but slightly smaller.

  The next thing he saw left him speechless. The rose colour of the stone was intercepted in the top section by a large engraving. Damage to the top had left the stone incomplete, but he could tell from TF’s diagram it was the very thing he had been looking for.

  The double-headed eagle.

  He investigated the other gravestones, and found the same was true of the next two. The remainder were broken, the top half of one lying among stinging nettles at the edge of the perimeter where a wooden fence had been placed centuries before.

  He leaned over, trying to pick up the stone without being stung. He failed in every way, losing his footing, stinging his arms and taking the impact of the loose stone on the side of his face.

  Furious, he got back to his feet and tried to calm himself. Concentrating on the loose tombstone, he felt his heart begin to skip, as if the secrets of the past were coming to light after over a century in darkness. The double-headed eagle was there again, engraved into the stone like a hieroglyph. Common sense told him the symbol could mean anything – a simple figure of authority, perhaps merely the head of a group of several – but the design seemed strangely precise. TF had been right.

  The design matched the Habsburg style.

  Placing the stone down, Ben inspected everything in the near vicinity. There were five stones, all displaying similar features, but there was nothing that looked Aztec. Scanning the nearby shrubbery, he saw fragments of rock in the mud, but nothing more solid. He checked the stones a second time.

  There were five. And they were there.

  There was no sixth.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked away to the other side of the churchyard and took a seat again on the wall. He looked for the Wilcox graves as he passed, but wherever they were, their inscriptions were no longer clear. Immediately his thoughts returned to the Spaniards: the mysterious Pizarro and his countrymen. The diary confirmed the six were together, the one with the Aztec symbols lying loose. TF claimed to have moved it briefly, showing it to the vicar, before replacing it in the same place. The next year it was still there, still lying loose.

  There was no indication from the diary TF had moved it.

  Wherever it once was, it was now gone.

  *

  Forty-five minutes later Ben was back on the dry dock of St Mary’s, tired and frustrated. He paid Kernow for an extra half hour, not that he needed to. After two days on the island, he figured being generous with a local might bring about some better fortune.

  “You still got that tombstone?”

  Kernow showed Ben into his garage and found the tombstone on the same table as before. The surface was shinier, the result of hard cleaning work and some kind of high-performance polishing product. The colour was identical to the ones that Ben had recently seen.

  He compared the stone that he had taken from St Lide’s to the one that Kernow had found on the boat. Side by side, the similarities were apparent, the stone found aboard the Dunster excessively weathered by comparison. Ben feared recent removal of the dried-on and ingrained silt had been damaging.

  But at least he now had proof that it had once existed.

  18

  4:30 p.m.

  Chris left the library at four, closing time. He had missed his lunch and gone over four hours without a drink, but he had been so engrossed in what he was reading that his increasing hunger had taken a while to register.

  The content of the book had been interesting, albeit largely unrevealing. Most of the inclusions had been financial records, some involving the former governors. Names reappeared regularly, some more important than others.

  Whatever the exact personalities of the Godolphin and Osborne governors, they were clearly of paramount importance in the running of the Isles.

  Finished, Chris returned the book to the librarian and read again from the first book – little further help, albeit an easy read. If Ben was correct, the islands harboured a different type of secret; something, he couldn’t help feel, certain people wanted to remain secret. The boy TF had met in the graveyard had suggested it had a connection with Cortés and the treasure from Mexico.

  The treasure had never been found. Chris knew that for a fact; he had tried finding it himself, convinced it was somewhere in the American Deep South. Eventually he had lost interest, disillusioned with the endless false leads. Just like the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine, there was nothing concrete – even to describe
it as a fairy-tale seemed to understate its fanciful nature. The treasure may have existed, but, wherever it went, it was too well hidden to waste time worrying about.

  Ben was in his room, nursing his wounds, when Chris returned. Ben complained about his injuries as he got dressed while Chris laughed at him in between banging on that he was starving.

  The dining room was deserted apart from them. Ben ordered a chicken and chips for himself and a lasagne for Chris, while trying his best to ignore Chris’s attempts to flirt with Valeria.

  “You do know she’s out of your league, right?”

  Chris grinned, not allowing Ben the satisfaction of seeing his ego deflated. “In LA maybe. This is hardly the boulevard of broken dreams . . . more like the boulevard of broken nails.”

  Ben nearly choked on his beer, laughing.

  “Must be difficult, don’t you think?”

  “What must?” Ben asked.

  “Trying to find a boyfriend on an island with less than seven hundred men, and half of them toothless and smelling of fish.”

  “Girl like that could have her pick anywhere.”

  Chris looked over his shoulder, watching Valeria carry a tray of empties into the kitchen.

  “Would you knock it off,” Ben complained, surreptitiously watching her himself. “What happened in the library?”

  “Nothing,” Chris replied, sampling his beer, a local ale he was still to decide whether he liked or not. “I was practically the only one there.”

  “How about the books?”

  “The first one was a history of the island.”

  “Anything of interest?”

  “Nothing much, just a background. Apparently the Godolphins were from Cornwall. Owned significant land; many became members of Parliament.”

  “What was their significance to the islands?”

  “Apparently all of the islands are owned by the Duchy of Cornwall. In the 1500s, they leased control to a governor, initially the Godolphins. They stayed there till the 1700s.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “When the male line died out, it passed to a daughter and her husband. He was an Osborne.”

  Ben nodded. At least that made sense of the Osborne name on the mausoleum. “How long did they last?”

  “1830s,” Chris replied. “Then for some reason, they decided not to renew.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Absolutely none. Only that the last Osborne was replaced by a guy called Augustus Smith who took on the lease for £20,000. Apparently he was very different to his predecessors. Tried to change the way of life.”

  “In what way?”

  “Expelled people who didn’t work . . .”

  “I get the picture,” Ben said. “How about a connection to Cortés?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Although the first book I read did have a facsimile of the Godolphin coat of arms. The knight and double-headed eagle are identical to the Cortés one.”

  Ben nodded, still disappointed. He sought to reply, but refrained. Valeria had returned, carrying two plates.

  “One chicken and chips,” she said, placing the plate down in front of Ben. “And one lasagne and garlic bread.”

  Chris inhaled the aroma as he placed his napkin on his lap. “Um, hmmm. That smells terrific.”

  Valeria smiled. “Enjoy your meals.”

  Ben picked up his knife and fork and cut through the first chip. “What?”

  Chris was grinning. “I was just thinking how handsome you were looking.”

  Ben was confused. He noticed that Chris was looking at his cheek. He put his hand to it and looked at his hand.

  The cut from his fall at the cemetery had reopened.

  “Son of a bitch.” He removed a tissue from his pocket and held it against the blood.

  Chris’s grin widened as he sampled his lasagne. “Melts in the mouth.”

  Ben was frustrated. “Tell me about the coat of arms.”

  “Nothing to tell,” Chris said, chewing. “It just confirmed what you thought from the mausoleum . . . speaking of which, how was the cemetery?”

  Ben removed the tissue from his face, pleased to see the bleeding had stopped. “As a matter of fact, surprisingly worthwhile.” He started on his chicken.

  “You found it?”

  “I found something,” he said, adding salt, vinegar and ketchup from the containers on the table. “The church was a mess. All the windows had vanished, including the ones TF had drawn.”

  “How about the angel statues?”

  “Also gone. There was only one there, a ruin, and it wasn’t like the one of Malinche.”

  “And the graves?”

  “I saw five, but not six. Have a guess which one was missing.”

  Chris cut up his lasagne and took another gigantic mouthful of the cheese and mince. “Any clues?”

  “No. That said, the one missing was almost certainly the one Kernow found. I took another look at it earlier. The front was silted over. You couldn’t read it with an X-ray.”

  “What about the five you did see?”

  “Not much to tell, really. All were the same colour, but the faces were badly worn.”

  “Including the inscriptions?”

  “Yes, at least on four of them. Fortunately one was still intact.”

  “That the one you stole?”

  Ben looked up, unimpressed.

  Chris grinned back. “What did it say?”

  “I couldn’t read the lettering. Though the symbol could be Habsburg.”

  “Like the one on the Godolphin coat of arms?”

  “Not identical, but pretty close.”

  “How about the one that was missing?”

  Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. The silt had covered whatever was there.”

  “You think TF was accurate?”

  Ben chewed and swallowed before answering. “The man was a genius. Why go to all this trouble over nothing?”

  Chris wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a first bite of his garlic bread. “So what does it mean?”

  “If the diagrams are accurate, the symbols are Mesoamerican: the main one being Quetzalcoatl. It stands to reason the grave has some connection with Cortés.”

  “Could it be his?”

  “No,” Ben said adamantly. “Hernán Cortés was buried in Mexico – at least eventually.” He hesitated slightly. “Besides, the name, according to TF, was Pizarro.”

  Chris nodded. “I forgot that. But weren’t Cortés and Pizarro related?”

  Ben swallowed his food. “Distantly. I can’t help wonder whether the connection is with his daughter.”

  “Which daughter?”

  “Cortés had many wives and children, including with Montezuma’s daughter. When he returned from the New World, he married his second wife, Juana Ramírez de Arellano de Zúñiga, daughter of Don Carlos Ramírez de Arellano, the second Count of Aguilar.

  “Now, according to the diary, TF saw a stained-glass window at the back of the church, behind the second storey where the choir stood. I saw the area myself; the window’s no longer there. If the diagram is correct, there was a woman in it.”

  To Chris the names meant nothing. “Who was she?”

  “Catalina Cortés de Zúñiga was born in 1531 and apparently died within a few months of her birth, at least that’s what every book on Cortés says.”

  “You think she didn’t?”

  “TF clearly questioned it – claimed she might even have married and had a daughter of the same name. But if so, it raises the question, if she didn’t die, why was her entire life not recorded in any official records?”

  Chris frowned, his face flushed.

  Ben looked at him, concerned. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  Chris rose quickly to his feet and sprinted through the dining room, into the lobby and up the stairs.

  Valeria was hovering around the corner of the room. She looked at Ben, confused.

  B
en rose to his feet and leaned over Chris’s lasagne. He smelt it, then the garlic bread.

  Mystery solved.

  “Oh, Mr Malone, I’m so sorry,” she said, picking up Chris’s plates. “I must tell the chef immediately.”

  Ben’s initial concern was replaced with a smile, his smile with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, not failing to miss the irony. They’d been talking about Cortés and lost treasure.

  Now Chris had Montezuma’s revenge.

  *

  Ben finished his chicken and chips without mishap, and Valeria came to clean away his empty plate. He ordered a banana bread pudding when offered dessert, and it arrived moments later.

  “So what’s your name?” Ben asked as she delivered the dessert, knowing the question was somewhat overdue.

  “Valeria,” she said, running her long delicate fingers through her strong wavy hair. Despite continuing with her duties, setting a table two along from his, her eyes remained focused on Ben.

  “Forgive me for asking, but what’s a pretty Spanish girl like you doing in a debatably English dump like this?”

  “I like it here. It upsets me you should think of it in such a way.”

  A wry smile. “I said it was debatable.”

  “Debatably English or debatably a dump?” The question sounded all the cuter when asked in her soft Spanish accent.

  “Both! I’m guessing this island does count as British.”

  She folded a napkin and set it down neatly on the next table. Despite the lack of customers, the girl clearly took pride in her work. “Only in name.”

  Ben laughed, this time softly. “Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question. What on earth brought you here from . . .”

  “Extremadura.”

  “Beautiful part of Spain.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I’ve seen Mérida.”

  She smiled, this time giving Ben a glimpse of her perfect white teeth. “I was born there.”

  He raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. “Forgive my misjudgement. I’d have put you down more as a rural village kind of girl.”