The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “What’s that?”

  “According to this, Raleigh was captivated by a Spanish legend. Supposedly he saw a great ship named the Santa Estella one night while sailing in the Bay of Biscay. His fleet shot at it and almost sank it; he even saw gold in the water. Weeks later he found evidence of a wreck in the exact same place the galleon was later found.”

  “Walter Raleigh?”

  “Exactly. According to the book, Raleigh became obsessed with something called the Stone of Fire. I’d heard of it, but this is the only book that goes into detail. According to this, it was the reason Raleigh made trips to America.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly some kind of relic or idol. The Aztecs believed it had the power to move the sun. The kind of thing ancient astronaut theorists have connected with anything out of the ordinary.”

  “You think it’s here?”

  Ben bit his lip. “There’s something about the Godolphin coat of arms that’s bothering me. I’m gonna head to the mausoleum again now. You coming?”

  Chris returned to the en suite and vomited.

  “Fine. I’ll go alone.”

  *

  Five minutes later Ben walked out the front door of the Gibbous Moon, completely rejuvenated.

  He moved swiftly along the main roads, heading in the opposite direction from the harbour. It was after 10 p.m. and the sun had set, the last glimpse of light now vanished beyond the distant horizon. Above him the stars were out in numbers, sparkling intermittently behind moderate cloud. The moon was at its highest point, its phase ironically gibbous.

  Thinking it over, he had never heard of an inn with that name before.

  Thanks to Valeria, he now had something worth investigating. Still it seemed impossible to comprehend – impossible or improbable. In all honesty the story of the shipwreck alone didn’t surprise him; there were countless records of shipwrecks in the Isles of Scilly, particularly prior to the 1800s. Why a Spanish galleon would have been there was a more intriguing question. Should the ship have come from Spain in the first place, he would have put the most logical reason down to piracy. Only according to Valeria, it wasn’t from Spain, but travelling to Spain.

  From Mexico.

  If Valeria was right – or at least telling the truth – the ship had come from Mexico and the cargo was not only gold, but perhaps other things as well.

  Ben reflected on what he had learned as he walked. Thanks to his meeting with Dr Phillips he was convinced the shipwreck story was credible. A Spanish galleon went down sometime after 1554.

  Perhaps there were even two ships.

  The part that didn’t make sense was the Cortés theory. He knew that Cortés had died in 1547. Even if Cortés was not involved in the wreck, the story of lost gold still potentially checked out. The Montezuma gold was out there somewhere – that was plausible. Less likely it came to England.

  Or St Lide’s.

  He followed the road out of Hugh Town and continued towards Old Town. The road wound slightly as it followed the contours of the hills. Despite the recent rain, the gravel beneath his feet was predominantly dry, causing a fine dust to mark his dark trousers.

  The road had brought him back to Old Town churchyard; beyond the gate, the large mausoleum loomed up above a thick growth of brambles like a Greek temple. At night, its appearance was decrepit and forlorn, the long piercing gap in the wall he hoped still to be repaired.

  He took a breath and walked on, heading towards the lichgate. There were lights shining nearby, but as far as he could tell there was no sign of anyone following him. If Valeria’s story was true, the connection with the family went deeper than he had first thought.

  No wonder the vicar was so pissed, he thought.

  TF had been murdered, and Ben was starting to think it might well have been premeditated.

  *

  Chris had been on the toilet since Ben left. He felt horrendous, and not just his backside. Pain pounded through his head, the throbbing so relentless he felt his pulse beating in his temples.

  His stomach was in agony.

  Won’t someone make it stop?

  At just after ten he emerged from the en suite, sweating but praying the worst was over. At the same time he heard a knock at the door.

  He guessed Ben.

  He opened the door and looked at the figure in front of him.

  “Hey.”

  22

  10:30 p.m.

  The graveyard was full of ghosts – that was another legend associated with the place. Ben had heard that one from Kernow and then again from Valeria. He didn’t believe this one; he remembered Kernow had been laughing when he said it. Valeria, on the other hand, had sounded more serious; then again, she was the type, he mused. Not that he was in any mood to make quick judgements.

  The girl may well have done him a great service.

  The lichgate was lit up by an old streetlamp, situated alongside a statue of what he guessed was an old sailor. He had heard a story that there were more sailors buried there than people from other walks of life.

  Ben didn’t doubt that for a second.

  The gate opened, a prolonged whining creak that he was already used to from the day before. Once inside, he closed the gate, ensuring it was firmly shut. He remembered from first-hand experience how it could bang from side to side when the wind picked up.

  Not surprisingly the churchyard was deserted. The light was non-existent, the atmosphere still; a deathly silence filled the air, disturbed only by the occasional gust of wind passing through nearby trees. The birds had disappeared, as for now had the moon, the intense darkness creating the illusion that a heavy veil had descended.

  Ben moved slowly along the path. The light from outside the lichgate was more ornamental than useful, and he didn’t dare use a torch just yet.

  Without the aid of moonlight, he knew he would have to rely on memory.

  Ben wiped his brow and adjusted his hair, his tired mind contemplating his next move. As the seconds passed, the pathway appeared brighter, lit up by the hazy light of the re-emerged moon. The path was now more visible, but he knew the route to the mausoleum required him to head across the grass. The thought of surveillance still made him nervous; he reasoned observation at this hour would be unlikely, but he couldn’t discount it altogether. A resident of a nearby building, the returning vicar, a local out for a late night stroll . . .

  He knew that there was nothing wrong in walking in a churchyard after nightfall, but something about it just didn’t feel right. Thanks to Valeria, he had no wish to attract attention.

  Thanks to his earlier encounter with the vicar, he guessed he already had.

  He made his way across the grass and stopped on reaching the mausoleum. He remembered from the day before that there was a plaque close to the door stating that the Godolphin family and their Osborne descendants were interred inside. It was a privilege of the rare few, reserved only for governors of the isles. Though to Ben the role of governor of the Isles of Scilly was like being the president of a market stall, the façade of the structure suggested something grander: it commanded respect, craved it even. Like the emperors of the old Byzantine Empire, the Habsburgs and many more from bygone times, the double-headed eagle was a symbol of absolute power.

  Both temporal and spiritual.

  Ben removed the torch from his pocket, daring to chance some light. Now illuminated, the stone engravings seemed all the more grand, as if he was looking at a temple from the distant past. Passing the two statues on either side of the front door, he placed his hands against the wall, allowing his bare palms to feel the smoothness of the stonework. Again, he noticed the coat of arms etched into the wall. It was strong and authentic, appearing just as it had in TF’s diary.

  Moving on, he navigated the far wall, searching for the large crack. In the torchlight, it seemed larger than he had remembered, as if a gigantic lightning bolt had struck it from top to bottom. He got down on one knee and muttered beneat
h his breath.

  He could just squeeze inside if he had judged things correctly.

  The largest gap was at the bottom of the wall. Guided by the torch, he moved to the point where the crack met the nearest supporting pillar and lowered himself, using the pillar as a back support. The ground beneath his feet was soggy; it was difficult to move his feet without slipping. The column behind him, though solid, was wet and damp; even through his leather jacket he could feel moisture on his back. Water trickled down his neck, a cold unpleasant sensation, as if a wriggling insect had become trapped inside his shirt.

  He shivered, took a deep breath and forced himself through the gap. It was smaller than he had anticipated; the stone caused friction all the way down his back, escalating as he reached the midpoint. Space above him was equally minimal. The sharp edge of the nearest crack pressed firmly along his forehead; even in the dark he could tell it had penetrated his skin. He lowered himself as far as was physically possible, his jeans now touching the ground.

  He took a deep breath and ducked his head before raising it again once inside. As he straightened his back, he felt the jagged edge of the broken wall jamming against his right shoulder. He heard something rip, possibly in more than one place.

  Ben didn’t need a mirror to know his right sleeve had torn.

  He tried to move, but failed. There was something to his left, obstructing his movement. Adjusting his free hand, he shone the torch in all directions, seeing nothing but stone. Pushing against the stone object to his left, he adjusted himself against the wall to see if he could move his right shoulder. Straining, he succeeded; the impact forced him low, his lungs gasping for air. Whether by luck or judgement, he had found himself in a small enclosure, almost like a primitive airlock. Using the main wall to his right for support, he raised himself from a sitting-down position to a crouch and finally to his feet.

  The air was foul; dust and cobwebs irritated his nose and throat. Shining the torch, he made out different shapes on the nearby walls and various objects lower down.

  He had reached the heart of the mausoleum.

  Ben shone the torch to his left and began to move his feet. Standing, he was able to see the surrounding objects more clearly. Rather than an inner wall, he realised it had been a giant tomb that had impeded his progress, visually a cross between something found in ancient Greece and in a 12th century cathedral. Examining the upper region, he saw an effigy above the lid, clearly a man, roughly five feet seven in height, bearded, with long hair and wearing a Tudor-style ruff, his hands joined together in prayer.

  Ben placed him in his mid-fifties when he died.

  He rose fully to his feet and placed his hand against the tomb for balance. Standing was a relief after over a minute of being squashed like a sardine against the walls. His bottom was wet and muddy after sitting on the floor, but, worse still, he could see from the torch there were tears down the sides of his jacket and dust stains all over his clothes.

  He brushed himself down and turned his attention to the interior of the mausoleum. Slowly he began to acclimatise. The interior consisted of one room, lots of tombs – Ben counted twenty-four, set out in three rows of eight. He walked along the first row, his attention on the stone effigies. He saw women as well as men, either daughters or wives of past governors. Reading the names along the edge, he saw all were Osbornes or Godolphins.

  Ben turned his attention to the surrounding walls, starting with the one directly in front of him. In the light he saw the main entrance located dead centre: a large iron door attached to the wall with hinges and bolts.

  He tried opening it; it didn’t budge.

  He turned to the next wall, confused by what he saw. There was writing on it, other things as well. He turned next to the wall opposite the main doorway, and then the final wall from where he had entered. The final wall was in the worst condition: bricks had disappeared, debris was falling, water dripped down from above. A foul smell continued to pervade his nostrils, one he immediately attributed to a combination of damp and destruction. The tombs themselves appeared to be in good condition, damage restricted to the bases.

  As the seconds passed, his eyes at last adapted fully to the dull light, things became visible for the first time. Although the wall with the crack appeared largely blank, he was able to make out things on the second and third: a series of drawings marked the second, the majority of which were not readily distinguishable.

  The third wall, however, was less difficult to understand. There were no symbols, just a single sentence written in English.

  A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.

  Ben looked at the wall, rereading every word carefully. He considered the sentence for several seconds, gobsmacked.

  He had heard the words before.

  He associated them with Cortés.

  Outside the mausoleum he heard the sound of water falling, slowly then more consistently. Water was flowing along the floor, entering through the large crack and gathering around his feet. He knelt down next to the hole and peered outside. The rain had returned, and was getting steadily heavier.

  He guessed it would get worse before it got better.

  *

  Standing no more than twenty metres away, Colts didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he saw the American re-emerge from the hole in the wall. The man was clearly rattled, his clothes dirty, his expression one of clear anguish. Getting through the hole had been a struggle, but doing so cleanly had proven impossible. Even from a distance, Colts could make out the mud stains around his knees and a light yellow sprinkling around his shoulders.

  He knew from personal experience that the mausoleum was heavy with dust.

  Using the nearest tombstone as cover, he watched the tourist rise to his feet and set off quickly towards the lichgate.

  Consumed by thought, notably of not getting wet, Ben was entirely unaware he was being watched from the shadows.

  *

  Valeria contemplated the coastline of St Agnes from her bedroom window, taking in the same sights she had seen time and time again. A flock of wild birds, probably gulls, perched themselves around a large puddle, padding along the outskirts of the water for several seconds before flying off, two false starts before ascending into the night-time air.

  On such nights observation was easy, at least compared to those when the moon wasn’t out. Somehow it was these nights that made the old stories seem more real: they were the conditions for pirates and smugglers. Through the darkness, she could almost make out the hazy shape of a ship gliding across the water, depositing its gold on a sandy knoll, an X marking the spot. In reality she knew such happenings were rare, but even as an adult the romanticism was never lost. In her youth she had become obsessed with the stories: Moonfleet, Treasure Island . . .

  As the moon disappeared behind a moving cloud, she left her position at the window ledge and returned to her bed. A solitary lamp was flickering on her small bedside table; the electrics had again been temperamental due to recent bad weather. That was another thing that plagued her mind: it was as if time never moved forward on St Agnes; as if they were permanently stuck in a former age. Such things rarely occurred on the mainland.

  Even in rural Spain they had become less frequent over time.

  She raised the duvet and snuggled into bed alongside an old teddy bear, a large, well-worn yellow thing with a smiley face that she’d named Fernando after her father. She adjusted herself for comfort before moving the lamp nearer, and picked up the leather-bound book from the table to resume reading from where she had left off.

  Thomas Maloney had disappeared for knowing too much; most likely he had been killed at the time. One question remained unanswered.

  What had happened to the things he had found?

  *

  Ben unlocked the door of his room and immediately switched on the light.

  He looked himself over in the mirror – good God, what a sight. The cuts and bruises he had sustained rooting around the graveyard
on St Lide’s had developed further after entering the mausoleum. The majority were largely hidden by his black polo shirt – thankfully he still had one item of clothing that wasn’t completely ripped.

  He removed his polo shirt and studied himself in the mirror. Several red scratches were visible on his arms, front and back; on the plus side, there was no evidence of new blood. He rubbed the abrasions on his upper body with cream and did the same for his legs before examining his face in the light.

  Still handsome, he thought.

  He threw himself down on the bed, combing his fingers through his hair. He contemplated taking a shower before deciding instead what he needed first was a coffee.

  He opened TF’s diary as he sat down in the chair and read it while waiting for the kettle to boil. TF had made detailed drawings of the Godolphin Mausoleum, placing particular emphasis on some of the symbols.

  Ben guessed TF had ascertained their importance.

  He read the words dated 18 March and looked at the diagram.

  A curious sight indeed it is to see within this age-old churchyard that, should it not have been for the efforts of the recent governor, would long since have fallen into disrepair, such a marvellous example of Palladian architecture, the like of which would not have looked out of place in the ancient world or the ones of which they so greatly spoke. The large columns, accompanied by great statues, the like of which also line the corridors beneath the nearby mighty castle built in the shape of a star, are decorated on every side, something not easily seen unless one knows for what it is one is looking.

  Ben rolled his eyes, his attention taken by the boiling kettle. He filled his cup before returning to the diary. TF spoke of the Star Castle as if it had things in common with the mausoleum, ‘something not easily seen unless one knows for what it is one is looking.’ The man always seemed to speak in riddles.