The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  She looked at him, either insulted or intrigued. “Why do you say that?”

  “The way you handle yourself. The way you seem to be able to take care of anything that comes your way.” He recalled the day before seeing her tending to an overflowing pump in the garden. “The way Mr Nicholl seems to save money by employing his waitress as his handyman.”

  She laughed, a giggle. “What can I say? I am truly indispensable.”

  He looked at her, enthralled by every aspect of her appearance. He noticed things he hadn’t seen before: her eyes, deep and brown, with an inner fire like a smouldering volcano on the verge of erupting; her skin, smooth olive, sultry, a never changing hue even after so long out of the Spanish sunlight. Tonight she wore two small earrings that dangled softly from both ear lobes, occasionally hidden beneath the flow of her wavy hair. A beautiful, but, he guessed, lonely girl, trapped in a run-down time warp.

  What possible reason does she have for staying here?

  “My cousin tells me he saw you getting on a boat yesterday evening, heading for that big lighthouse. I understand you live there.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “You live there alone?”

  “No. I live with my grandmother.”

  Ben nodded, assuming she was going to continue, but she didn’t. “Who came first?”

  “She did,” Valeria replied, smiling. “Without her, my mother could not have been born.”

  He grinned, as did she. For several seconds they held eye contact, Ben finally winning the stare out. As she looked away, she picked up some empty wine glasses from a nearby table.

  “Forgive me, Mr Malone. I must be moving on.”

  “What time do you finish?”

  She shrugged. “About seven.”

  “Then what say we have a drink in the bar?”

  19

  6:30 p.m.

  The Queen’s Castle on St Lide’s was unlike the other tourist sites on the Isles of Scilly. There were no employees working shifts, no cafés or gift shops – no watchful eyes to observe their activities. The site manager checked in every so often, perhaps once a week, usually a Thursday. It was a routine that had lasted over fifteen years, one of little change.

  Pizarro trusted the information.

  The breakthrough had come at 6:23 p.m. Despite the noise, Cortés knew there was no chance of them being seen or overheard. Being the only people on the island there was no one on hand to witness them knock through the wall and discover the long abandoned walkway on the other side.

  The new area was difficult to make out with the light fading. While the rooms on the ground floor were nearly always dark, even in the daylight, at this hour the area within the strong grey stonewalls was consumed in almost total blackness.

  Pizarro was the first to enter, followed immediately by the other two. As they made their way over the pile of rubble, the three intruders walked on carefully, the light from the torches offering little assistance. In the poor light, shadows moved in strange directions, giving the impression there were two people instead of one, a human cloaked by a sinister doppelgänger lurking in the shadows.

  Juan Cortés entered last and pointed his torch in front of him. They had entered a tunnel, a well-preserved subterranean passage lined by thick walls, similar to those in the castle. The tunnel continued, left then right like the start of a clockwise circle.

  The walls disappeared after about two hundred metres, replaced by solid earth supported by wooden struts and beams. In some areas the wood had cracked, leaving it susceptible to caving in. Pizarro grimaced as he examined the wood in the torchlight, concerned any minor disturbance might be significant.

  Quietly, he was surprised it was still in place.

  Further on, the area became wider. There were holes in the ground everywhere, not random, but purposely cut. Scattered along the tunnel were ancient tools, buckets, ladders, pickaxes, spades . . .

  The remnants of an ancient tin mining operation.

  Pizarro was becoming nervous; Cortés, on the other hand, remained calm and silent. Pizarro knew from experience that meant one of two things. Either he was equally nervous or he was just plain focused.

  The mine ended, following which they came to an open room. Incredibly there were barrels inside, firkins and something much larger. Cortés looked inside and immediately coughed.

  “Gunpowder.” Pizarro looked at the nearby barrels. “Worthless now.”

  Cortés rubbed his face, removing sweat. “What of the map?”

  Pizarro studied the ancient text, struggling to make it out in the torchlight. “Further, I think.”

  The entrance to the next room had been difficult to see at first, so dark was the surrounding area and so great was the quantity of barrels and firewood.

  “It seems incredible the soldiers could operate so close and not know,” Pizarro mused.

  Cortés was less surprised. “Perhaps that was their plan all along.”

  A second chamber was located further along the passage, less than fifty metres on from where the gunpowder had been kept. The second room was a lot like the first: crowded, dark and slightly cramped. A large wooden partition wall had been put up on one side; it was soon clear why. Behind it was a deep hole, a perfect square, surrounded by equipment, unmistakably of the Civil War era. A large bucket was attached to a thick white rope dangling freely into the hole below.

  Cortés felt his heart sink on seeing it.

  “Someone has beaten us to it.”

  20

  8:50 p.m.

  The bar was deserted apart from them. A cosy log fire burned in the original fireplace, the wood crackling when the logs split under the heat of the continuous flame. The glow matched the colour of the wall lights, whose yellow light shone dimly through thick orange shades. To Ben, the features were in character with the building, simple and quaint, as if it existed in a time before electricity.

  In reality, he guessed little had changed since his ancestor’s visit.

  Ben was sitting alone at a table, his attention on the door to the ladies’ room. Moments later, he saw it open, followed by the return of Valeria. As before, she looked beautiful, somehow even more so. Did he miss her in her three and a half minute absence? Was it a trick of the light? A new layer of lipstick and foundation makeup recently added to her already lovely face?

  He smiled at her as she sat down. “So what really made you want to come and live here?”

  “My grandmother moved here when I was very young.” Valeria played with her hair as she spoke; Ben noticed she had been doing so regularly. “My grandfather worked as a property developer. They visited here back in the 1970s, and my grandmother fell in love with the place. When they were here, they saw the old lighthouse – by then it had fallen into disrepair. My grandmother asked my grandfather to buy it, and he refused.”

  “He refused?”

  “My grandfather died in the 1980s, leaving my grandmother alone in a village she no longer loved. It was her decision to leave.”

  A ghost of a smile had formed across Ben’s face. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard of someone emigrating from Spain to England.”

  Valeria laughed for the first time in a while. “My grandparents always loved to travel. My mother was the same – and my father. When she was young, my mother and four of her friends went out one day into the mountains near our village. There was a church on the hill; it had once been part of a monastery. The site was dilapidated and had a reputation of being haunted. People in our village respected the rumours, particularly of dead monks.

  “For three days they were missing. The entire village was gravely concerned. The mayor called on people to help with the search. They looked everywhere.” She started to laugh. “When they found them, they were sleeping beneath one of the pews. To keep warm, they had even taken to using some of the old monks’ habits as blankets.”

  Ben laughed, not knowing what else to do. “What happened to them?”

  “Th
ey were fine. Even when she was a little girl, mother was always brilliant at taking care of herself – and others.”

  “I bet your grandparents didn’t see it that way.”

  “My grandmother was livid, as was my grandfather.” She laughed again. “Then again, how could they stay mad? Seeing their daughter in the habit of a monk?”

  He laughed again, this time for longer. “So tell me about your lighthouse.”

  “The Old Man’s Foot was the only lighthouse on the Isles of Scilly – at least until the 1800s. The adjoining building had been owned by the governors of the islands. Although I think they never used it.”

  Ben was intrigued. He assumed she was talking about the Godolphins.

  “What was it for?” he asked. “Was it a house?”

  “More a lookout post. Sometimes a hospital. For over three hundred years the Isles were in conflict with the Dutch, and sailors of both countries would seek refuge at the lighthouse. Many ships crashed here, more than anywhere else.” She lowered her head. “It’s sad, no? That so many people can die so suddenly.”

  Ben bit his lip and cleared his throat. He noticed a change had come over her, a distant look in her eye, a softness in her voice, as if she was speaking of a personal memory. For several seconds he studied her, the movement of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the sound of her breathing.

  For that brief time he had almost forgotten the reason for his visit to the island.

  “Being honest, I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “It must be so difficult,” she said, again playing with her hair, twisting it in a spiral around her index finger. “Being here, in a strange place. Stirring up ghosts of the past.”

  He forced a smile. “You know what they say? Nothing ventured . . .”

  She smiled again, this time sombrely. “I had an uncle – Pedro was his name. He heard about a great legend from somewhere in the south of Spain. During the Second World War, apparently some Nazi soldiers found something buried in the mountains. Stories spread like wildfire of lost gold, possibly brought back from the Crusades. But rumour is a frightful thing.” She looked at Ben, this time with fire in her eyes. “It is a desperate man who searches for treasure. Gold is never worth dying for.”

  Ben sipped his whisky, replaced the glass on a coaster and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at her for several seconds. “You think I’m searching for treasure?”

  “There’s no reason to play dumb, Ben. The story of your ancestor is legendary here. Even before he was found, people talked about the voyage of the great Thomas Malone.”

  He smiled, again taken with how cutely she mispronounced the name. “Perhaps you could fill me in; you seem to know a lot more about him than me.”

  She flushed coyly. “Forgive me, Ben. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m actually rather fascinated. What is this legend? What’s your take?”

  “I . . . I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She rose to her feet and headed for the door.

  21

  9:10 p.m.

  “Hey, wait.” Ben grabbed her arm as she prepared to leave the room. “What is it?” he asked, receiving no response. “Just now, what did you mean?”

  She looked at him and he at her, her expression one of sudden awkwardness. Ben felt her breath on his cheek, a soft appealing minty scent tainted by recent consumption of a gin and tonic.

  “Ben, let me go.”

  Reluctantly he released her. “Tell me what you know about the legend. Come on, please. I’d really like to know.”

  Valeria left the bar area and headed into the main corridor. Though well lit, the corridor was deserted, its maroon walls reflecting the light of its countless wall lamps, their shades shaped like Victorian lampposts.

  Again Ben chased after her. “Why are you being so secretive?” he asked, now standing in front of her, forcing her to a standstill. “What’s your problem?”

  Valeria looked away, her attention on the ground.

  Ben’s patience was waning. “Tell me, please. What do you know?”

  She looked him in the eye, now unsure whether he was genuinely in the dark or simply fishing for information. “People come to the island for one of two reasons. To vacation or to search for the Cortés treasure. You and your ancestor came here not to relax. People should not stick their noses into other people’s business. It’s not wise, nor is it safe.”

  Ben rubbed his face, wondering exactly what she meant and just how much she knew. His gut feeling told him there were people on the island who knew a lot more than he did, particularly about TF’s attempts to locate the origin of the mysterious graves. “What is it? The Cortés treasure, what is it exactly?”

  “How can you not know? You are a professor of history. And you have your ancestor’s stories.”

  “My ancestor’s boat was found hidden in a cave, cocooned in a layer of silt. He was found aboard with a musket ball in his skull. I don’t know who killed him or why, but I intend to get to the bottom of it.” He held her softly around the shoulders. “Please, Valeria, help me.”

  Valeria’s expression became distant, no longer warm but sceptical. “Some people in this part of the world love a good mystery. Others, no. People who come as tourists go to Tresco or St Mary’s. Usually those who come to St Agnes or St Lide’s only have one thing in mind. That is why they are not welcome.”

  Ben folded his arms. “Why? What’s so significant?”

  “According to legend, great treasures are buried on the islands.”

  “What treasures?” he asked doubtfully. “Cortés? Aztec gold? Diamonds? Rubies? Emeralds?”

  “I . . . I shouldn’t speak of such things. It’s not safe.”

  “Now listen here. Less than a week ago I’d never heard of this island. I had no intention whatsoever of visiting this godforsaken place. My great-great-grandfather disappeared; his remains were found. I have no idea why he died, but I’m not gonna leave here till I find out what happened. You hear me?”

  Valeria looked away, this time briefly. Despite the anger in Ben’s voice, the hard furrowed brow above his eyes, she no longer believed he was actually looking to hurt her.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Valeria remained quiet. She folded her arms and looked around, her eyes darting from side to side. She considered leaving, heading somewhere where there were people. Instead, she decided to stay.

  “Chris told me things the night before you came,” she said, this time more calmly. “He said you had notes. Things passed down from your family.”

  Ben was secretly livid. “He told you that?”

  She looked away, not answering.

  “You know him very well?” Ben pressed.

  “A bit like you. Less perhaps.”

  Until now the idea that Chris had spoken to her in detail had never occurred to him. Staying in the same hotel, it stood to reason that she would have spoken to him before his arrival.

  “You think me and my cousin are simply here to find gold? To loot? Find what my ancestor failed to find? I have no idea what I’m even looking for.”

  “According to tradition, a Spanish galleon was wrecked near St Agnes before the time of the great Armada.”

  Ben shrugged. “So what? Is that it? I’ve seen the remains myself.”

  “No, that’s not it. Although a search party was sent to find the ship, according to the captain who made up the report, the crew was never found. Nor was anything else. Years later, before the Civil War, other things were found near St Lide’s, including gold, mainly in the water.”

  “Who was he? The captain?”

  “Sir Walter Raleigh.”

  Ben folded his arms, intrigued. For the first time, he considered the possibility that TF had acquired the rare biography of Raleigh for a reason.

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. After ten days without a shave, the firm bristles he was used to feeling against hi
s hand had become soft and fluffy. The revelations still seemed incredible. Even if the galleon had existed and had carried gold, the tale was little different from the typical treasure stories of that period.

  “I don’t understand,” Ben said. “Worldwide, there are millions of treasure stories. What’s so special about this one?”

  Valeria hesitated.

  “What happened to my great-great-grandfather?”

  “I don’t know what happened to your relative,” she replied nervously. “Over the years many people have searched, but the same thing always happens. People get too close, then they disappear. There are many people who live on the island who do not care for outsiders. In public, they claim there is nothing; that the legend is simply for tourists, only to attract publicity. Instead, they want only to find it for themselves.”

  “Find what? Gold? Is that it?”

  “No.” She looked at him for slightly longer, her attention taken with the unsure, nervous, almost violent look in his eye.

  Standing opposite, Ben inhaled deeply and slowly breathed out. “Just tell me everything.”

  *

  Ben banged fiercely on Chris’s door before finally getting a response.

  “Jeez, you look like hell.”

  Chris was white as a sheet. “Thanks.”

  Ben entered the room, attempting to ignore the foul smell coming from the en suite. “It was the garlic bread, by the way.”

  “No kidding.”

  “What did you say to the waitress?”

  “When?”

  “The night you arrived.”

  Chris covered his mouth as if preparing to vomit. “We just talked.”

  “Well, it turns out, so did we.” He moved closer. “I think I’m starting to understand people’s fascination with all this, especially the Godolphins.”

  Ben showed him the biography of Walter Raleigh that he had in his hand.