As with the box that contained the bell, there was an object within, wrapped in a white shroud.
Acting more quickly than Ben, Valeria removed the item and carefully unfolded the shroud. What she saw amazed her.
The object was made of stone.
And in the shape of a fish.
She held it up, taking note of every characteristic. Like the lost trumpet, it was painted white, cut into shape with a precision instrument, and weighed about 9kg. There were engravings everywhere, each bringing out the features of the fish: the eyes, the teeth, the gills, the mouth . . .
Standing alongside her, Ben inspected the object. Under no circumstances was he going to miss this opportunity.
“Is there writing on it?”
Valeria turned it over, searching for evidence of writing on both sides. She saw something engraved into the left side.
“It says O L P.” She looked at Ben. “What does it mean?”
“You said together they spell out where the treasure was taken. And the letters on the trumpet were H I N. It must spell Godolphin.”
Valeria was thoroughly confused. “What’s this mean?”
Ben shook his head, still trying to control his ever growing sense of frustration. Somewhere out there other people, a black archaeologist in the employ of the Duchy of Cornwall and at least four Spaniards, were looking for the same things. The thought made Ben nervous.
Every second that passed, Chris remained in jeopardy.
“You said together they spell out a name. The clues must lie in the others. What were they? A rose–”
“A bell and a cup,” she interrupted, picking up the photocopied diary and turning pages at speed. “It’s all useless. Your ancestor knew nothing.”
Ben bit his lip, again deciding against mentioning the bell. Suddenly he remembered the window. “There were diagrams,” he said, taking the sheets and quickly flipping through the pages. “A window.”
“A window?”
“That’s right, a window. Made of stained glass. Apparently it was once housed in the church of St Lide’s.”
Ben had reached the page he wanted. He looked at the diagram, searching in particular for the rose and cup.
“Here.” He showed her the five items in the window.
She followed his finger, her eyes bright. “How did he see this?”
“He drew it. When he was there, visiting the church, he drew what he saw.”
Valeria’s heart was thumping. Seeing the image there on the page in front of her just didn’t seem real. “It is not correct. The diagram is wrong.”
That piqued Ben’s interest. “How do you know? You’ve seen it?”
She looked Ben in the eye. “When the island of St Lide’s was ruined, everything that could be salvaged was taken away. Many things arrived here on St Agnes. Including that window.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “It still exists?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
*
The lighthouse was connected to the house via a door in the kitchen. The lights were presently not working as a result of recent power failures, leaving them no option but to proceed using torchlight.
There were 241 steps between the base and summit of the lighthouse, Valeria counted them every time. Ben sprinted after her, amazed that anyone could run so fast in slippers. In the poor light, seeing features was difficult; everything was dark, occasional shapes passing by like a wisp of cloud, a blurry image to his eyes. Every so often they passed doorways, all brown oak, locked and capable of withstanding great force.
Valeria stopped on reaching the third floor, removed a set of keys from her pocket and opened a large door. The room beyond was dark with faint gleams of moonlight penetrating the large windows, the only light apart from their torches. Valeria pointed her torch at a nearby cabinet and opened the padlock using the same set of keys. There were lanterns on the floor, battery operated. She picked up two and switched them on.
The sudden onset of light caught Ben by surprise. Covering the walls in front of him, what he had initially expected to be nothing more than plain walls in need of redecoration, was a fine array of artwork, antiques and artefacts, the likes of which belonged in a museum.
He looked at Valeria, speechless. “There must be over a hundred things here.”
“Two hundred and twelve,” she corrected, lifting up a large clay pot that had been resting on a nearby table. “Here. Apparently once used by St Lide himself.”
Ben was still struggling to come to terms with the contents of the room. On any other day the small bowl, reminiscent in his eyes of that used by Christ at the last supper, lying on the nearby table might have attracted his interest, but right now there was only one thing on his mind. Twelve stained-glass windows had been placed against the walls, kept secure and separated by strong wooden beams. While ten of the twelve were of equal size, each depicting scenes from the Bible, the other two were smaller and had clear relevance to the island’s history.
Ben compared the images in front of him with the diagrams in the diary. TF had drawn both. The first was of St Lide arriving at the island in a small boat. There were seven people in the second, including a woman, standing against the backdrop of St Lide’s, with the other islands visible in the distance. As expected, the five symbols, supposedly replicas of the original five emeralds, were also depicted in different parts of the window, some floating, some being carried, some seemingly located under the ground.
“What does it mean?” Ben asked, paying particular interest to the two he was still to see in real life.
“The original settlers came on board a ship called the Santa Estella. Originally it had cast off from Spain to the New World,” Valeria explained. Looking at Ben, she continued. “No one knows why she crashed.”
Ben thought he had a pretty good idea. “Who made the window? Surely there was a point to its creation?”
“I don’t know. The artist’s name is not recorded.”
Ben bit his lip, convinced she was probably right. TF hadn’t mentioned it in his diary either.
He guessed it was probably a Slater or a Godolphin.
He looked at the window, concentrating on the symbol of the fish located near the water. The next thing he noticed was the trumpet symbol, this time located near a lighthouse. Valeria was right.
TF hadn’t included everything in the diary.
The window confirmed an association between the trumpet and the lighthouse.
“The trumpet was found here,” he said to Valeria, who was now standing alongside him. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew. How could I not?”
According to the window, the bell was located in a bell tower; Ben guessed TF had found it on St Lide’s. While Valeria was getting excited, Ben’s thoughts turned to the other two emeralds. Without doubt there were landmarks in the glass, things that existed, or had existed once.
He didn’t know the islands well enough to recognise everything.
“Where is that?” Ben asked, looking at the eight-pointed rose, which was emerald coloured and seemed to be floating above an area of shoreline. “Is that Tresco?”
“No,” she replied. “It’s St Mary’s. See, that is Hugh Town, near the Garrison Peninsula.”
Ben hadn’t made that connection himself, but now that she mentioned it, things began to make a lot more sense. Geographically, St Lide’s, St Agnes and St Mary’s all formed a near-perfect triangle: St Lide’s being the furthest south with St Mary’s lying north-east and St Agnes east-north-east.
“Where is it?” he asked, talking solely of the rose. “You’ve lived here seven years. What area is that pointing to?”
“If I knew the answer, don’t you think I’d have found it by now?”
Ben bit his lip. “Chris’s life is in danger.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Valeria asked.
“I might have. Get me a map,” Ben replied.
&n
bsp; “It’s back downstairs.”
“Wait,” Ben said, removing his phone from his pocket. He pressed the Internet symbol and tried to open Google Maps. The reception was poor but not useless. The webpage opened slowly, showing Ben a map of the Isles of Scilly.
Immediately his heart jumped.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the screen.
Valeria looked over his shoulder, trying to make it out. Ben increased the size of the area using his finger and thumb, identifying a large building exactly the same shape as the rose.
“It’s the Star Castle.”
“The what?”
“The Star Castle,” she repeated. “It was the main home of the governors from the 1590s. It’s now a large hotel.”
“It’s the exact same shape as the rose.”
While Ben’s enthusiasm was going through the roof, Valeria was far more subdued. “No, the Star Castle was built in the 1590s. You said yourself, the treasure was only found in the Civil War.”
That was right, Ben conceded. He had said that. “There’s no way that can be a coincidence.”
Valeria was out of ideas. “How about the cup and bell?”
Ben looked again at the window, noticing the cup nearby, also somewhere on St Mary’s. He guessed somewhere else in Hugh Town.
“What do you know about the Star Castle? Any treasures? Any legends? Ghost stories?”
She shook her head, thinking. Suddenly her face burst into life. “There is a passage between the North Atlantic Inn and the castle. Apparently there was a dungeon used for wreckers and cavalier soldiers.”
That wasn’t really what Ben had in mind. “You know where it is?”
“Yes,” she replied, heading towards the door. “It is the only other pub in Hugh Town owned by Mr Nicholl. He gave me keys as a precaution.”
“Valeria.”
“Come. I think I know where we must go.”
40
Ben left the boat as Valeria parked, taking her usual spot in the harbour within a stone’s throw of both the ferry port and the Gibbous Moon.
“Wait,” Ben said.
*
He returned to the Gibbous Moon and unlocked the door to his room. He walked towards the desk, leaving it to Valeria to switch on the light. The antique books his grandmother had given him were still there, closed and undisturbed.
And alongside them the box Kernow had found.
He removed the bell and held it aloft.
Valeria was dumbstruck.
“Kernow found it in the galley of the Dunster.”
Valeria was both hurt and overjoyed at the same time. “Why did you not say?”
“I had to be sure I could trust you,” he said uncompromisingly.
She huffed indignantly, but, at the same time, she was so caught up with the second item that she decided to forgive him. After placing the fish on the table, she checked out the bell. Like a real bell the inside was hollow, only without a ringer.
She knocked against it, as if expecting to hear a chime or an echo. There were three letters on the side, G O D.
“Godolphin,” Ben said, putting the three sets of letters together.
“Whatever could it mean?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He turned his attention to the books he had taken from his grandmother’s attic. TF’s diary may have been taken, but he sensed there were still other things that could be of help.
He checked them off one by one:
The first diary.
No.
The book about the Aztecs.
No.
The biography of Walter Raleigh . . .
It was the fourth he was looking for. Originally written in Latin by the English chronicler John Leland. TF had been translating certain pieces.
Why?
He looked at Valeria, remembering he still had the book Dr Phillips had lent him.
“Here.” He passed her the book. “See if it says anything about the Star Castle or the passageway you mentioned.”
She took the book and followed Ben’s instructions, her eyes displaying only confusion.
Ben was too busy to notice. He opened up the book with the translated passages and speed read through the early pages. Like TF’s diary, the translated chronicle was also handwritten, the handwriting clearly TF’s. There were countless long passages in Latin, some lasting over ten pages. To Ben, it seemed to have been a consistent practice of his ancestor’s to write out the original first and then the English translation beneath.
Fortunately the book contained less than fifty pages of handwriting.
Ben punched the desk, this time in delight. “Here,” he said, showing Valeria. “You were right about the castle. Only, according to this, it was modified after the English Civil War.” He looked at her, his eyes bright. “The castle was built in the 1590s, but its original shape was not a star. That came later.”
Valeria was stunned. “When was this written?”
“The original was in the mid-1500s.”
“Then how can he have known about the change?”
“He didn’t. TF discovered the change. He included it as a footnote.”
“Was it important?”
“TF highlighted that a dungeon existed. Now I may be wrong, but it sounds to me like the one you spoke of.”
“Does it say what was there?” asked Valeria.
“No,” Ben said, disappointed. “It doesn’t.”
Both of them stood in awkward silence. Standing by the desk, Ben took the book Valeria was holding and began reading it himself. He scanned the pages for about thirty seconds.
“It says here that there was a story that a second dungeon was put in alongside the main one, solely to incarcerate the most violent prisoners.” He looked Valeria in the eye. “Do you have the keys?”
“Yes. They’re in my bag.”
*
The North Atlantic Inn was located on the same street as the Gibbous Moon and was similar in style, stature and appearance. Its stone façade was in good condition, its slabs clean despite the recent poor weather. A large sign overlooked the door, white letters on a black background, identifying the name of the inn, while another smaller one hung from a beam, an illustration of a whale swimming at sunset in close proximity to a rugged coastline.
Ben stopped on the pavement outside and waited for Valeria to enter first. Though the street itself was quiet, light shone brightly from the inn’s five windows, indicating it was business as usual, its patrons and guests sharing a meal or a drink at a cosy table.
Valeria pushed the door open and held it open for Ben, revealing a well-lit interior with the usual long bar and lots of wooden upholstery. Valeria had entered cautiously, and Ben noticed. The plan was not to draw attention to themselves, but that immediately failed when she saw the man behind the bar.
“Valeria,” the man shouted, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He was mid-forties, with dark hair, and clearly hadn’t shaved for days.
Valeria smiled awkwardly as she walked towards the bar. Ben recognised the man; he had also seen him working at the Gibbous Moon in the bar.
“How’s the boiler?” she asked.
“Same as before,” the barman replied.
She forced a smile. “I was afraid you would say that. Mr Nicholl asked me to look.”
That provoked a grin from both the barman and the nearby barflies. “He asked that?”
“Who do you think keeps these places in order? Magical fairies?”
The barman held his grin, his eyes looking her up and down. The girl’s appearance never failed to impress, despite her opting for a pair of old jeans and a coat as opposed to her usual glamorous dark jacket and long leggings. There was dirt on her face, possibly her coat as well.
“You help yourself.”
Valeria headed to the end of the bar, lifted the counter and went through the next door into the kitchen.
Ben followed, observing the interior as he walked. The kitchen was empty apart from t
he chef, who was busy chopping vegetables. Valeria did her best to ignore him, smiling briefly as she made her way towards the cellar.
The light was off, at least for now. Valeria flicked the switch, revealing a small original stone stairway and an open-plan cellar with lots of bottles of wine, kegs of beer and goodness knows what else.
The far wall was made of brick; sturdy but noticeably different to the grey stone façade of the outer building.
“This isn’t old!”
“The wall was replaced in the 1950s,” she replied, moving past the boiler and finding her passage prohibited by twenty beer kegs stacked up in rows of four.
“You, move them.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”
He started on the first; the keg was so heavy he needed to swivel it to make it move. A few minutes later, Valeria had access to the wall.
There was something leaning up against the wall. It looked like loose tarpaulin. Ben moved it to one side, revealing a closed door.
“This is it?”
She brushed past him and unlocked it with a key. “What you expect? Secret cavern?”
For Ben, the doorway was far too easy – and civilised. “Well, actually, yes.”
She shot him a piercing stare. He was unsure whether to take it seriously or not.
“You do know where we’re going?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Again, he didn’t know whether to take her seriously.
*
After turning to its last page, Pizarro threw the diary down on to the bed.
“Hey! Hey!” Cortés exclaimed, immediately inspecting the book for damage. “This is antique. Collectible.”
“It says nothing,” Pizarro retorted, getting to his feet and pacing restlessly around the room. He scratched his head and punched the nearby table, causing a lamp to move. Alvarez and Busquets remained quiet, clearly disturbed.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 24
