Plural, not singular.
The story of Cortés was legendary. Born in 1485 to a family of Spanish nobility, he had lived a childhood of almost complete anonymity. In his early years he had been a sickly child, unlikely to be destined for greatness, despite being of honourable stock. His father had commanded troops in the Spanish army, whereas his mother had lived a more sheltered life. Tradition had it they wanted him to be a lawyer, leading to him attending the University of Salamanca. Ben shook his head as he read that.
Like many of his students, he had left without showing his best.
Whatever the circumstances, Cortés was never destined for the law. At age nineteen he joined Diego Velázquez and Nicolás de Ovando on their voyages to the New World. By 1511 he had progressed well in his chosen way of life. He moved to Cuba, becoming Velázquez’s secretary. His reward: a ranch and several acres of farmland for years of dedication.
But it wasn’t just the land Cortés gained. Arguably he had also inherited an indomitable sense of adventure. In 1518 he led an expedition inland, an event that would make him famous in Europe, infamous in Mexico. His explorations were successful, gaining him both money and wisdom. Those who stood in his way he conquered, either by the sword or through diplomacy. The gold inflated his reputation, but also his ego. To his men, he was unrivalled. A man who would leave no stone unturned; never once turn his back on a challenge.
A man who would burn his ships to eliminate the option of retreat.
The conquest of the Aztecs was achieved in several stages, but most famously one night. The Night of Sorrows. Either by trickery or gift, Cortés’s pockets became filled with gold. No one knew for sure how much was taken – nor how much was subsequently lost. The sceptics said it was minimal. The ambitious, uncountable. The book suggested a combined one million carats of cut and uncut emerald, and at least the same in gold.
In modern terms: priceless.
Ben felt sure that the treasure had existed. Every account spoke of it, including Bernal Díaz – the soldier who wrote a biography of Cortés at the ripe old age of seventy. The hoard was lost when they escaped. The Aztecs recovered some of what was lost, but the majority was never found, at least according to all the known historical accounts.
What the hell was TF on to?
For the first time Ben was learning something new. If the book was correct, most of the hoard was never lost. Instead, the bounty was hidden in a cave near Tenochtitlán – now Mexico City. It was buried so well the Aztecs never found it.
Nor Cortés’s own men who had looked for it.
It was discovered in 1581 by one of his grandchildren, a woman, not a man. Catalina Cortés had officially died before reaching the age of two, yet according to this, her daughter of the same name sailed to Mexico, armed with a map and knowledge passed down by her mother and grandfather. The hoard was recovered and placed on board a ship.
By 1582 the galleon was set to return. Empowered by her newfound wealth and what prestige remained from her grandfather’s exploits, the granddaughter bargained with the King of Spain. In exchange for titles, the king would have his share.
The gold would be brought to Spain.
What happened next remained a mystery. Either through intent or fate, the gold failed to arrive. The ship disappeared, along with all who sailed on her, its story lost from history.
The legend of St Lide’s belonged to the granddaughter.
Not the grandfather.
Ben scratched his chin, not knowing what to think. If the author was right, the small band of men – and one woman – ended their expedition on St Lide’s. Shipwrecked, hungry, depleted by smallpox, they met their end in anonymity. The treasure was buried. The signposts put along the way.
The treasure had never been found.
Ben finished the chapter on the Cortés treasure, spending extra time looking at the final page. There was a map of where the author thought the treasure might be: one of the caves just off Hell’s Bay.
Ben reasoned that if it existed, it would have been found by now.
He turned to his left, looking at the bedside table on which there was a small guidebook next to an alarm clock.
The time was just after 3 p.m.
Ben picked up the book and turned to the modern day map. The bird’s-eye view was simplified as always and supported his initial assessment that the shape was like that of a horseshoe.
He studied it, comparing it to the one in the older book. New Town was certainly the main settlement. Old Town was little more than a few isolated dwellings, most of which had become dilapidated by the 1800s. The east side of the island seemed more remote. The Queen’s Castle, located in the south-east part of the island, had already become a ruin by the 1750s. He remembered seeing its rugged walls during his visit to Hell’s Bay.
Hell indeed, he thought.
Looking at the maps, he noticed the older one looked even more like a horseshoe. Although it was a rough diagram at best, there was clear evidence the island had suffered far less coastal erosion at that time. He remembered what Kernow had told him.
Hell’s Bay had once been a lagoon.
The older map seemed to confirm that.
At one time the island would have been a complete horseshoe. Today, Hell’s Bay was the only part that wasn’t within that shape.
Ben concentrated on Hell’s Bay in both maps, slightly confused. Judging by the newer map, there were points of interest there. There were six caves, all spread out evenly, surrounding what remained of the beach. He had visited the caves, even poked his head inside.
Then he remembered the diary. TF spoke of a secret cave.
Ben certainly didn’t remember as many as seven.
Away from the caves, the north-east section of the island was more open. The guidebook described it as an area of natural beauty, vast swathes of greenery as far as the eye could see. A long winding path dissected the hills – a former pilgrims’ trail, according to the guidebook. Close to the area where the hills were at their steepest stood the three large standing stones that had earlier reminded him of Stonehenge.
The Giants’ Table, they were apparently named.
The stones looked the same on both maps, arranged in a perfect triangle, curious, all things considered. The guidebook stated that they were the oldest things on the island – dating back to the Stone or Bronze Age, a minimum of 3,000 years old.
Apparently different theories existed regarding their creation and purpose.
Ben put the guidebook down on the side and eased himself gently to his feet. The aches and pains leftover from his visit to the mausoleum, though less intense, were still troubling him.
He picked up the diary and quickly scanned the pages, looking for TF’s descriptions of the island itself. Stopping, he saw the diagram of the Cortés coat of arms. Still he was confused. It had been lost until twenty years ago.
How had TF seen it?
Suddenly he was even more confused. Looking in detail, the pattern was laid out in quarters. There was a two-sided eagle in the upper left quarter and what he guessed was a lion in the one below it.
Like the map, the Cortés coat of arms was in the shape of a horseshoe.
How the hell had he missed it? Even after everything that had happened, he cursed himself for missing something so blatantly obvious. The coat of arms was laid out in a perfect horseshoe, the exception being the item at the top, a crown. Something else flanked the coat of arms on every side, human faces, clearly men of Aztec features. He smiled to himself. There was no doubt about it.
TF had made the distinction.
He turned to leave the room and then stopped as he caught sight of something on the table.
The bronze chest Kernow had given him was still lying there.
He had forgotten to open it.
Walking towards it, he blew on the side, causing dust to fly into the air. Unlike the exterior of the Dunster, there was no evidence of silt, but the coating was partially corroded around the side.
Ben removed his Swiss Army knife and tried to cut the lock, making no progress. Resigned, he opened his case, finding something in one of the flaps.
Metal cutters, strong ones.
He lined them up with the lock and pressed down hard. He pulled, trying to force the lid of the chest open. It was stiff, but it moved.
Slowly.
The lid opened. Small clouds of dust escaped, forcing him into a coughing fit. As the dust settled he saw there was something wrapped in a brown cloth. He picked it up and opened it, seeing a large, slightly heavy object.
Coloured white and in the shape of a bell.
He looked at it, awestruck, remembering the story of Cortés and the five emeralds.
Only this one was made of stone.
*
Sitting alone in his bedroom less than twenty metres away, Colts double-clicked on the mouse of his laptop and waited for the results to come up.
The search yielded several results, the first clearly the most relevant. According to the University of Dartmouth faculty webpage, Dr Benjamin Maloney was an expert in Medieval European History and Indo-European History. For the last five years he had been a full-time lecturer. His career began at Harvard, then Dartmouth for a masters and PhD before becoming a research fellow at Notre Dame prior to returning to lecture at Dartmouth.
The man was enjoying quite a career, Colts mused.
In twenty years, Colts had seen it all. The first time he had visited St Lide’s he had found it an island full of ghosts. Lost souls, lost promise.
Nothing had changed.
In less than two weeks, he had got to know the whereabouts of everyone on St Mary’s, a routine that had barely changed all these years later. As a black man living at a time when the Scillonians were used to nothing other than skin the colour of paper, he was instantly recognisable, making his job a lot more difficult. His cover story was simple: he was an employee of the Duchy of Cornwall, a land surveyor charged with the task of maintaining the sites and holdings of the Prince of Wales. Technically he wasn’t lying, except that land surveyors as old as sixty rarely worked on the island. As his hair went grey, he updated the story: semi-retired, then retired but working as a consultant. Nobody doubted the validity.
It came from the mouth of a gentleman.
Colts placed his pipe to his mouth and lit it, singing softly to himself as he exhaled. The story of the man in front of him was watertight; better yet, he also had confirmation the man spoke Spanish. The reason for the disappearance of his cousin, however, was more of a mystery. Colts had an idea, but he knew finding proof would be difficult.
He sucked again on his pipe and exhaled, watching the hazy rings of smoke disintegrate into clear air as they rose towards the ceiling. He didn’t doubt the reasons for the man’s visit. Only the potential outcome.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the same thing happened again.
29
3 p.m.
Valeria moved the latest pile of rubble to one side and sat down on the floor for a rest. Shovelling debris was a chore. Working in an inn, she was used to the occasional heavy lifting, but this was taking things to an extreme.
The light keeper’s storeroom had not been used for a long time. The room had been blocked off from the maintenance room during renovations; at the time, Valeria had no plans to use it again. In its heyday, countless barrels and bags of coal, along with other materials such as wood, would have filled the room from top to bottom. The walls, dirty with black coal dust and grime, reeked of a powerful odour that could only be associated with fire.
A second, smaller section adjoined it. At certain times of year, it would have been used for food: cheese, dairy, tinned food, fruit . . . anything that would keep. In her mind she thought she could sense the smell of old food, perhaps bread, rolls, butter.
She reasoned her mind was playing tricks on her.
She rose again to her feet, taking a deep breath before starting again. From what she had learned of the history of the Old Man’s Foot, the last lighthouse keeper had vacated the property in November 1948, the last year of the lighthouse. The building next door – for five years her home – had been shut the winter before, allegedly because of its poor condition. No one had lived there for over fifty years.
Until her and her grandmother.
Valeria forced the shovel into the gap between the stonework in front of her, attempting to knock them loose. Her hands were blistered, her brow sweaty, her slender tracksuit clung tightly to her body beneath baggy overalls. Breathing was also becoming difficult. Every time she banged the wall, she felt dust tickling her throat. Her body craved rest, her mouth water.
In front of her she heard a snapping sound, followed by another brick falling. A small gap had appeared in the wall, revealing a shimmering light, either natural or artificial, for now she could not tell.
She walked towards it, prodding her shovel into the gap again, loosening further blocks of stone. The gap was now twice the size, large enough to reveal a new room lined with planks of wood.
The diary was correct; the room existed in the place described.
If the photocopied pages were accurate, its existence could conceal the answer to one of the oldest riddles of the island.
30
3:30 p.m.
Ben was completely rejuvenated. The map, moments earlier a source of endless confusion, now made perfect sense. It was like looking at a foreign language that he had finally mastered or, better yet, a veiled and cryptic message that could only be understood when viewed through a certain lens or in a certain light. TF had clearly known of its relevance.
Ben guessed that was the reason he had gone to Hell’s Bay.
After failing to find Kernow on the beach or in his boathouse, Ben searched high and low throughout the town. It was getting dark out, surprisingly gloomy. Heavy cloud was gathering in the eastern sky, suggesting anything from a shower to a thunderstorm. The wind had also picked up, the occasional gale-strength gust hitting him as he walked the empty streets. He tried Kernow in the Mermaid, then the North Atlantic.
He found him in the Gibbous Moon of all places.
“I need to charter a boat,” he blurted out on entering the bar.
Kernow was sitting alone at the bar, while Adrian Nicholl was standing behind the counter, pulling a pint. Nicholl’s bearded face broke into a grin while Kernow’s remained unchanged. However, Ben could see a puzzled look in his eyes.
“You want to hire a boat?” The question came from Nicholl.
Ben nodded, replying to Nicholl but looking at Kernow. “Yes, please, I’d like to hire a boat. The vessel you took me on earlier will be just fine.”
Kernow looked earnestly at Ben. “You seen the forecast for this evening, friend?” he asked, taking a sip from his beer and replacing the glass on a coaster. “Isn’t a sailor on the island – the whole isles for that matter – who would be foolish enough to venture out on an evening such as this.”
“Be that as it may, I’d like to charter a boat. There’s £1,000 in it for you if you get me to St Lide’s and back.”
There was a stunned, shocked silence in the bar. Kernow was still to reply; his navy blue eyes, ironically reminiscent of the colour of the sea, seemed unfocused, as if his senses were numbed.
Again Nicholl was the first to speak. “I’d be happy to sell you one for £4,000. But even then, I’d have to be either a fool or a crook to recommend you take it out tonight of all nights.”
Ben wetted his lips. “I only need it for tonight.”
Kernow sipped again from his ale, draining the glass. He wiped the froth from his lip with the back of his hand and stared fixedly at Ben. “Mind if I ask what business you have with the sea tonight of all nights? Now forgive me if I’m wrong, but based on your time here, I’m guessing you haven’t developed a sudden urge to take up night fishing.”
Ben stared back, fighting a frown with a smile. “If you must know, I think I know what might have happene
d to my great-great-grandfather.” He looked at Kernow. “I need to get to St Lide’s.”
There was laughter, not from the bar but from someone with a deep and arrogant voice, definitely a man.
To his left, Ben saw movement, the appearance of a figure walking in front of the fire. Ben had been so caught up with his purpose of hiring a boat from Kernow that he had failed to see the stranger sitting in the quiet partitioned section in the corner of the bar.
“Take a brave man to venture to St Lide’s even on a calm day,” the man said, his accent possibly American, though difficult to distinguish. “Very brave. Or very stupid.”
The man staggered into the main bar. For the first time Ben made out his features: a black man, five foot eight, aged somewhere in his sixties.
“Your great-great-grandfather may have been a lot of things,” he said, approaching the bar, “but taking a boat to St Lide’s in low light and unescorted, I think it’s safe to say that is highly unlikely.”
Colts gestured to Nicholl. “Get this man a drink, and for both of you.” He passed over a £20 note and headed back to the area where he had previously been sitting. “Appreciate it if you give us a little privacy.”
Nicholl smiled. “Nothing but, Geoff. Nothing but.”
*
Ben was angry, but also intrigued. Forgetting about the drink, he followed the stranger into the cosy corner of the bar located by a log fire.
“Listen, sir, I appreciate your concern and the drink, but really, this is none of your goddamn business.”
Colts smiled as he lowered himself into his chair. He reached for the poker and jabbed the nearest log. “You certainly have some fire in your belly, Mr Maloney. But it’s going to take more than belly fire to plot a successful mission back from St Lide’s with a storm coming the way it is. Now you may think you know what’s there, but take it from me, someone who knows these islands, the last thing you want to do is get caught up in something you know nothing about.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 18
