“I’m guessing this was about the time he returned with the five emeralds?”
“Those original emeralds were given to his wife, much to the dismay of the Queen of Spain. A couple of years later, he returned to the New World. According to the history books, nothing else happened. However, if you read Díaz’s uncut version—”
“Seriously! What happened to that?”
“Díaz’s original once lay in the archives in Valladolid – I’ve even read that one myself with my own eyes. Though rumour has it, it’s since disappeared.”
Ben gestured over his shoulder. “Him?”
“Perhaps.”
“He tell you this?”
“Not exactly. See, back when I began working for the Duke, I learned everything there was to know about the Cortés treasure from a man named Arthur Bavage – Sir Arthur, in fact. Mighty fine man, professor of history, taught at all the great colleges. Durham, Imperial—”
“Oxford, Cambridge?”
Colts was annoyed. “You know they say the worst mistake a man can make is to judge another by his title.”
“A strange response from somebody who works for the good old Duke.” Ben showed no remorse. “What happened?”
“Arthur died. Heart attack in a hotel room. Before he slipped away, he told me everything I needed to know.” Colts turned distant, his eyes on the window. The birds had returned, their melodious chirps intruding the silence. “Never forget the day I visited him in the hospital. See, Arthur knew there was a danger the knowledge he had spent his life acquiring would be lost. When he died, he left everything he owned to me. Including his estate in Cornwall.”
Colts paused momentarily. “Over fifty years Arthur spent searching. Came mighty close too, on more than one occasion. After the Noche Triste, it’s possible the treasure got split in two. Some, Cortés took to the coast; the rest was left behind.”
“What about the stuff that was lost along the way? Tossed in Lake Texcoco?”
“I’m not gonna pretend I have all the answers here, Ben. A treasure this size, undiscovered for so long, hell, I’d be a fool to even pretend otherwise. That Cortés returned with some is indisputable fact. Fact that he returned and took more is also pretty likely.”
“This based on a hunch or you got solid evidence?”
“Díaz affirmed that what Cortés brought back the second time would have been news to the King of Spain. Authorities searched his estate when he died – found nothing, not even a sapphire. Before he died, the loot was hidden.”
“You believe it really happened?”
“You ever been to Extremadura, Ben? The terrain is unforgiving. Even today the dehesas and steppes remain unbroken for a hundred miles at a time. Only people who go there are the bird lovers.”
“Be that as it may, I find it hard to believe a legend this good could’ve gone unresearched for so long.”
“Irrational logic. It’s a million times the size of St Lide’s. You didn’t see anyone dig that up in a hurry.”
“Fair enough. What about the rest – the stuff left behind?”
Colts smiled philosophically. “Answers to that and more won’t be found overnight. If you’re gonna have any chance, you’re gonna need all the help you can get. Everything I’ve ever investigated, ever considered, every lead I’ve ever followed can be found in my study. It’s where I keep my research, papers going back to Arthur and his own predecessor. Over five generations of research exist in that room.” He raised himself up against the pillows. “Ben, I want you to go to my home and finish what we started.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Colts.”
“Here.” Colts fished through his bag and presented him with a set of door keys. “Every character’s part in the story must end sometime; when mine does, it’s important another rises to take his rightful place.”
Ben looked down at Colts’s hand; his palm shook, causing the keys to jangle. He placed his hand down on Colts’s and felt the cold shiny metal touch his fingers; the teeth were finely cut, a mixture of the old and the new, as if an old house had been upgraded with modern facilities.
Colts cupped his free hand over Ben’s. “Use my notes, Ben. Use them and find what remains. Find what Cortés hid. Find what he left behind.”
Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You outta your mind? After everything we’ve been through . . .”
“It’s that what makes it even more important. Lot of people been searching for this a long time, Ben. Some not always with the best intentions. Treasure gets found by the unworthy, well, that really can set off a whole load of problems.”
“What are we talking about here? Businessmen? Terrorists? People planning on conquering the world? You’re not seriously still set on convincing me about winged serpents and sun gods, are you?”
“Not exactly. But if you read what I’ve read, you might start to understand a little better.”
Ben rose to his feet and began to walk around the room, stretching his injured leg where possible. “The Duchy of Cornwall now has what’s debatably theirs. Right now, we’re still on sovereign soil. Laws of ownership, I’ll leave to the lawyers. What you’re talking about is a whole different domain. Last time I checked, the Duchy doesn’t extend as far as Mexico.”
“You honestly think my interest lies solely in one group of people? It’s not just the Duke who understands what I do. The world has a problem on its hands, Ben; one I can’t even begin to explain right now. Understand what I understand, things may begin to get a lot clearer.”
“Just what exactly are we talking about here?”
Colts adjusted himself against the pillows. “For a start, that stone Miss Flores took. I do not believe it to be the original Stone of Fire.”
That surprised him. “What do you mean?”
“Díaz describes the original stone as red – the literal translation was colour of blood. What we saw yesterday sure as hell wasn’t red.”
Ben remembered it was purple with other colours also visible. “If it’s not the stone, what is it?”
“Díaz claims Cortés later created four of different colours, along with a fifth, far smaller. Together they acted as markers to something much greater.”
“Like the Devil’s Cup and the other stones?”
“I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet I know what inspired that, don’t you?”
Ben understood the point perfectly. “So with the five together, it shows what Cortés hid?”
“If I understand correctly, what Cortés left behind was definitely hidden somewhere in Spain. One of the markers at least was entrusted to his next of kin. Find the stones, you’ll find what Cortés hid. Find what he hid, you find what he left behind in Mexico.”
Ben’s heart was suddenly racing, a sensation he realised had little to do with his wounds. The scope was incredible. Over ninety per cent of the treasure remained unfound.
A thought struck him. “You think his next of kin still has it?”
“I know for a fact they have some of it.”
Ben looked over to the window, wondering if Juan Cortés would return. For now there was no sign of him. “What are you saying? You want me to steal it?”
Colts’s expression became more sombre. “I think it was Richard the Lionheart who once said that in war one mustn’t be too choosy of one’s bedfellows. Like it you may not, but you stand far more chance if you work together.”
“You mean me and Cortés?”
“Valeria’s possession of the purple stone puts us more at a heavy disadvantage as opposed to putting her at any great advantage. Any chance of her relocating what Hernán Cortés hid lies solely on her successful acquisition of the other four. If Juan already carries some of them . . .”
“Where are the others?”
“Two, Cortés claims to possess in an area known only to him. A third is also in his possession, though for safe keeping he doesn’t keep them together.”
“You trust him?”
“His answers were pl
ausible, if that’s what you mean?”
Ben knew there was little chance of proving anything either way without witnessing the locations first hand. “And the final one?”
Colts lowered his head. “He thinks it’s possible Valeria’s grandmother may possess the final one.”
Ben huffed loudly. “You mean all this time she knew?”
“I remember the very day that girl came to St Mary’s. She was different back then. Far less polished. Spoke dreadful English. Never once saw her smile.”
“You sure it was the same girl? What was she, nineteen?”
“Just because a girl gets older doesn’t mean she gets uglier. In her case, the little miss that arrived turned out absolutely fine.”
“I guess being exposed to the great civilisation of St Agnes had a notable effect on her etiquette.”
“You might be more right than you know. See, she’d come from a small village located near the mountains north of Mérida. You ever seen what a teenage girl looks like out of a small village, Ben?”
“Only in the movies.”
“You’re damn right you haven’t. Now the Isles of Scilly may not be Manhattan, but it sure as hell beats living out in the sticks with Don Quixote. Hell, some of those houses don’t even have reliable tap water.”
“You going somewhere with this?”
“Contrary to popular belief, Ben, the reason Miss Flores came to the Isles of Scilly was not to fulfil any lifelong dreams of waiting tables at the Gibbous Moon. Nor was she looking to stay long-term with her grandmother.”
“You can save your breath, she already gave me the gist. She told me things the night Chris became ill.”
Colts shook his head. “Worst mistake a person can make is to pay too much attention to outer appearances. It’s only when a man loses his perception he ends up getting lost.”
“Books and covers. Same old shit.”
“Maybe, maybe not. See, I don’t know about you, but when that young lady arrived on St Mary’s, not even for a second did I think that one day she’d be throwing a spanner in the works.”
“What about her grandmother? Valeria said she was related to Cortés and Montezuma.”
“Elena? From what I can gather, she inherited a bit from both sides. Mother was Mexican, but moved to Spain to marry the son of a farmer. She had two kids, the eldest a lad named Pedro, who went missing in his early twenties. Elena came to St Mary’s before Valeria was born. Before Valeria came here, she and Elena had actually been estranged.”
Ben nodded. “Pedro? This the one who went searching for gold?”
“She told you about that?”
“She mentioned something about the Nazis searching for something in the war.”
Colts laughed wildly. “Damn, Ben, she’s been doing you up like a kipper with salt and pepper. Heck, Spain wasn’t even involved in the Second World War.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Cortés?”
“Exactly what happened, I can’t say. Even if a rogue group of Nazis did go looking, chances are they were also too late. Whatever happened, Pedro got lost; never returned.”
“He died?”
“Probably. I’m guessing by now, he’d be well over fifty anyhow. Elena’s no fool; she’d understand as well as anyone the importance of the five stones. But Pedro, see, he got reckless, went searching even without all the resources he needed.”
“Nothing was found?”
“Certainly nothing I could ever validate. Elena moved on shortly after, determined to get away. Only, strangely, she chose the Scillies.”
“Coincidence?”
“Well, you tell me.”
Ben took a deep breath and exhaled forcibly. “You think my cousin could still be alive?”
Colts delayed offering an answer. “A few days ago I’d have said she’d be unlikely to murder in cold blood. Yesterday things changed for her.”
“What about her grandmother? The old girl came running at me with a butcher’s knife.”
“Only because you were trespassing. Different story when you pose no immediate threat.”
“You think they have him? At the lighthouse?”
“Only one thing’s for sure now, Ben. If Chris is alive, only one person has him. If he isn’t, well, I think we both know who’s responsible.”
Ben bit down hard on his lower lip, his tired mind going into overdrive. Suddenly the prospect of retrieving the remaining treasure felt different. Even if it was no longer possible he could win, he could still ensure others lost.
He edged towards the bed and looked Colts firmly in the eye.
“Tell me everything you know.”
12
Elena Flores sat alone at the kitchen table, awaiting the return of Valeria. Despite the gloomy darkness of the damp, miserable weather that was evident from the view through the main windows, the room was bathed in a strange purple tint that reflected brightly off the recently varnished surface.
The heirlooms were precious to her, but not just in monetary terms. Throughout her childhood she had dreamed of the day she would get to hold them, experience what her ancestors had. Now that time had come, she felt strangely unprepared, detached almost, as if in a dream. The sensation was strange, warm and exhilarating but also daunting, humbling. Centuries had passed since a member of her family had held them.
She guessed Montezuma himself had been the last.
She remembered experiencing a similar sensation in Spain at a time when her optimism for achievement had been significantly greater. Her son had returned one day from the nearby mountains, convinced of an imminent discovery. In addition to the news, he had carried a strange bracelet, unlike any she had ever seen before. The find was captivating, a potential doorway to new hope.
Then she remembered the months that followed. When hope turned to despondency.
She had learned never again to put her trust in things she couldn’t fully understand.
She recalled the day she first moved to the Isles of Scilly. Life had been much different then. The first Spanish girl to arrive on an island of less than a thousand residents, recently widowed, a full healthy head of shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair complementing her vibrant, slightly tanned skin was like Dorothy entering Oz for the first time. The residents had kept themselves to themselves initially, but it didn’t take long for the attention of the male folk to arrive. She considered marriage twice in the early days before deciding that what she really needed was independence. She bought herself a townhouse in Hugh Town, using the money her husband had left her, and started a new life as a florist. The business thrived, as did her social circle.
Her only regret was being out of the sunlight.
As the years passed, so did the opportunities. As her perfect hair began to turn grey, so too did the expressions of potential suitors. For a time she cursed it, the cruellest trick of time, but as the years passed, she decided it was her younger self that had been cursed. Prettiness was relative and illusory. Even in her sixties the proposals continued, the numbers dwindling until, finally, stopping altogether. Such was life, she reasoned. If a gentle soul like Pedro could be taken from her, snatched in the prime of life, all bets were off. Life didn’t always make sense, and nothing could ever be perfect. Like the move from Spain to the Scillies, it had its ironic metaphors.
What began as gold ended as grey.
Elena studied her reflection in the shiny object as she thought about time gone by. Though her eyes remained the same, a dominant shade of hazel that the people of her village once compared to the surrounding mountains, her skin was drier, her forehead prone to wrinkles. In recent years, her hair had thinned slightly; Valeria claimed not to notice. The length had also changed; what had once hung down to below her chest now stopped just below her ears, though the style remained naturally wavy. When the occasion demanded, she wore large tinted spectacles; unbeknown to most she had entered into the habit before leaving her homeland. In the early days it was just to make out the small print, but these days they
helped with other things. After years of fighting it, she had learned to adapt. The twenty-nine-year-old who once turned heads was gone. She had been replaced. In more recent times, she found herself thinking of her own grandmother, whose guidance had never let her down. She, too, was gone.
Now it was her who had been replaced.
The object sparkled in her hands as its shiny exterior caught the daylight. The texture was smooth, like a precious stone retrieved from the sea; the weight surprisingly heavy. There were three grooves at the centre point, which made it easy to grasp.
Yet like the one she had held before, she feared one mistake would cause it to crash to the floor.
She rotated the stone between her fingers and focused on the core. A plethora of colours shone from within, magnified by a strange semi-translucent layer that only existed around the centre. The patterns moved like zigzags, mysterious, primitive, like a lost language that could only be read by one who understood. She had seen something similar before.
But not exactly the same.
*
The door to the kitchen opened and Valeria appeared. She had dried her hair and moisturised since showering, her excellent skin back at optimal vibrancy. She looked at her grandmother and said, “He’s sleeping,” before taking a seat at the table.
Almost immediately her eyes turned to the Stone of Fire.
Her mother had once told her bedtime stories about the most precious jewel that had ever existed. It was kept in a faraway land, guarded by an army of jaguars and within a cluster of caves, the strongest of which was reinforced with strong pillars and fortified walls. The jaguars had been specially picked by the jewel’s owner because they were the only creature in the world they dared trust. The hidden location was unique: a soft exterior of lush greenery concealed an entrance that was far more imposing; one that could only be conquered with brute strength or subtle manipulation. Inside was a hidden paradise, invisible to the wider world. As a child, she had associated the story with the legends of the fountain of youth.
It wasn’t until she got older she realised the jaguars represented her cuddly toys. And that the location was actually a metaphor for the human heart.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 38
