The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Having discussed the matter in the greatest detail yet with the learned gentleman, for whose advice and opinions I am most greatly indebted, I now believe whatever riches were buried, either on this island, since removed, or scattered among its neighbours, were just some of several, the first of which I may have indeed encountered myself long ago in the land of the explorer’s birth. Of that expedition, which I remember vividly, the very specifics that even then I catalogued in great detail, I now realise to my great irritation lie in a much earlier journal that still resides at my home in the City of Westminster . . .

  Ben slapped his hands down hard against the table, understanding immediately what the passage meant. The earlier journal was almost certainly the same one he had recently taken from his grandmother’s attic – the same one that had been taken by Valeria. Cortés was right, he decided.

  The slimy eel is most cunning.

  He looked at Cortés, inwardly unsure whether Valeria’s theft had been deliberate or merely opportunistic. “If either of us is going to have any chance of finding what we’re looking for, then we’re going to need to locate her. Now you may be content to sit here on your ass, but I’m going out there to find her.”

  As Ben left his seat, Danny entered through the main doors. He carried no cup of coffee.

  “I’ve just received word from the harbour. One of the fishermen there chartered Valeria a large cabin cruiser. She was last seen heading south; claims she was heading for Brittany.”

  17

  Saint-Malo, Brittany

  Chris gazed despondently at the approaching shoreline as the boat drifted gently towards the harbour. With his phone missing, he no longer had any way of telling the exact time, but he knew from the colour of the sky that it was late evening. Several shades of orange burned vibrantly across the horizon, the light of the dying sun broken by thick clusters of white cloud. He felt a breeze on his face, accompanied by spray from the sea; he attributed it more to the speed of the boat than the weather.

  He had never visited France before, but he still recognised some of the sights. An imposing stretch of thick medieval walls guarded a growing metropolis, separating the city’s historic buildings from a glorious sandy beach crowded with semi-naked flesh. Sails of a thousand hues danced on the water as they caught the wind; it reminded him of Rhode Island, only without the luxury yachts. Beyond the walls a lone steeple rose impressively above an otherwise consistent skyline, whereas to the far left a small man-made fort jutted out above a small island that was only accessible at low tide. It reminded him of the prison in Le Comte de Monte-Cristo; how the prisoners of the day would be incarcerated, their cold hands strapped firmly to the walls with iron manacles. He felt his breathing heighten, a sense of intense fear spreading through his body as eerie sights began to trigger unpleasant memories. He took a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind.

  It wasn’t real, he reminded himself.

  Valeria moored the boat in the main harbour while her grandmother was still somewhere below in the living quarters. Chris was thankful he didn’t have to look at her. Every time he did, the nightmare returned.

  Valeria appeared alongside him, carrying her rucksack. “Abuela says we can stay here tonight. There’s a nice hotel not far from here. You will feel better after a rest.”

  He looked up at her and did his pitiful best to smile. He muttered the word, “Okay,” and returned his gaze to the shoreline.

  She rubbed his shoulders and neck with her soothing hand. “You’ve been through so much. The bad food will quickly pass from your system. It will get better soon. I promise.”

  He looked away and nodded, feeling an overwhelming sadness. The news Valeria had given him not twenty minutes earlier refused to sink in. “I just can’t believe he’s really gone.”

  Valeria knelt down alongside him and touched him tenderly. “Your cousin was an incredible person, Chris. Without him, we could never have found the entrance to the mine . . . Also, I almost certainly would be dead.”

  He wiped his eyes, determined no more tears would follow. Life still felt strange. The sickness was yet to go, despite having slept for a long period. His stomach remained upset; he remembered the feeling of the lasagne and the garlic bread, the unbearable pain that followed.

  Yet suddenly that was no longer the worst pain.

  “Chris.”

  He looked up and saw her offer him her hand.

  “Come. It is only a matter of time before our whereabouts is discovered. Why not get an early night? Tomorrow, we will continue to Spain.”

  18

  The boat had set off sometime between noon and 1 p.m. Bill Tolliday had been able to confirm the time from the record in the logbook. Danny had known Bill for years; the man was a regular in the Gibbous Moon and the North Atlantic, often knocking back pints of ale or shots of rum with Peter Kernow after a day out on the water. Though Ben had never met him, he had heard Kernow mention the name.

  Apparently he had been at least partly responsible for the discovery of the Dunster.

  To Ben, Tolliday was a lot like Kernow. His beard was rough and reminded him of Poseidon, while his blue Levis and matching jacket had both seen better days. He had a rough but gentle air about him that was easy to take to, less easy to understand.

  He decided to let Danny do the talking.

  Tolliday hadn’t requested a definitive itinerary from Valeria, a fact that riled Ben.

  “Wouldn’t she be required by law to submit a specific route plan?” he asked Danny on their return. “I remember one of my old buddies back home nearly got gaol time for cocking up on a flight plan.”

  Danny shook his head. “Usually different for hiring a boat. According to Bill, he asked Valeria where she was going, and she said she intended to make her way to Brittany. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Ben suspected it was probably a lie. “He didn’t press her?”

  “In his position, wouldn’t have had any reason to. Mr Nicholl regularly disappears back to England from time to time, checking up on his other businesses. Valeria has been to Brittany with her grandmother before, even showed me some of her pictures. For all Bill knew, Mr Nicholl was just absent on business and one of the regular faces fancied taking advantage of the good weather.”

  “Didn’t he insist on some kind of deposit or down payment?”

  “Bill didn’t go into specifics, but it would be usual practice. He may be a friend to most on the island, but the man’s still out to make a living.”

  “How about the duration of contract?”

  Danny gave Ben a sharp look. “Things on St Mary’s are often done a little differently to what happens back on the mainland. For a man like Bill, who’s spent half his life on the island, other half at sea, he’s not going to spend much time doubting the word of a friend.”

  Ben accepted that was probably the case. “How about a tracker? I’m guessing these things have them ready installed?”

  Danny shrugged. “You’d have to ask Bill.”

  “Somehow I don’t think he’d take kindly to selling out his friend to some guy from across the pond.”

  Danny grinned. “You might just have a point.”

  *

  Cortés had waited for them in the bar, now on his third beer. He had taken up Danny’s offer to re-nourish free of charge and was pleasantly full after a salad and a bowl of mussels.

  “The guy who hired her the boat also watched it set off; sure enough, he charted the route as south-west,” Ben began, taking a seat opposite him. “In theory, she could have been heading back toward St Agnes.”

  Cortés was unimpressed. “Do you honestly believe that she would hire a second boat simply to return home?”

  “No,” Ben replied, “the man admitted first-hand she planned on heading to Brittany. If she is, we could be talking anywhere between Brest and Saint-Malo.”

  “How large was the vessel?”

  “From what I can gather, large enough. Like you said before, her other one isn’t
best suited for the open seas.”

  Cortés pushed the empty bowl towards the centre of the table and wiped his mouth with a serviette. “Even in good weather, the shortest journey is no less than one hundred and fifty nautical miles.” He made a quick calculation in his mind. “At an average speed of thirty knots, it would take up to six hours. Depending on the type of vessel, it could take over a day; depending also, of course, on the exact route and destination.”

  Ben removed his Android from his pocket and brought up Google Maps. With his mobile data and GPS switched on, a bright blue logo danced above Hugh Town.

  “Tolliday said they set off sometime after 12:30 p.m. Even if they needed to travel two hundred miles, they could probably reach France before sundown. Right now, they could be somewhere around here.” He gestured vaguely to the north coast of France.

  Cortés gazed at the screen and shook his head. “Now is not the time for hunches. Nor is it necessary.” He stared back at Ben, his brown eyes strong and focused.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The stone you witnessed back in England, though elegant, was not the mythical stone the Aztecs once revered. It is just a token, a guide. One that, if properly used, will direct its owner to a much greater reward.”

  “Where is that?”

  Cortés shook his head and groaned. “If I knew the answer to every question, I would have found the lost treasure already. However, if I were a gambling man, I would place much of it on her destination being an area close to her home village north-east of Mérida. It is there, somewhere in the mountains, according to tradition, that my ancestor’s men deposited large amounts of gold on their return from Mexico.”

  Ben placed his hand to his recently trimmed beard, the firm bristles scratching against his palm. He remembered Colts had mentioned something similar.

  Thoughts returned to what Colts had said about his predecessor’s study.

  “Well, if Valeria is intent on finding the next part of the treasure, she has little chance of getting to Spain before sunrise.” He rose to his feet. “There’ll be plenty of time to catch her once we’re airborne. In the meantime, we’re gonna need all the help we can get. We need to return to England.”

  “Why?” Danny asked.

  “To keep a promise to a good friend.”

  19

  Cornwall, 8:20 p.m.

  They set off immediately, taking a taxi to the helipad. Unlike the previous trip, the landing point had been pre-designated, the flight plan agreed in advance.

  On this occasion, Ben was relieved Cortés had agreed without hesitation.

  There was no point in heading for Brittany. Even if they correctly guessed Valeria’s exact destination, it was obvious to Ben that finding Chris and his, possible, captors in a town or city of 100,000–200,000 people would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Ben agreed with Cortés that Brittany could be a diversion, but reasoned even a large vessel could only travel so far without requiring extra fuel, which probably ruled out the north coast of Spain. The slimy eel could be anywhere, he thought, shaking his head.

  He was even starting to think like Cortés.

  For the first time since he had awoken, Ben felt as though time was catching up with him. It was Monday according to the display on his phone. They had first arrived in Cornwall early Sunday morning by boat, before completing the journey in Colts’s van. Had it not been for the discovery of the five stones and Colts’s relevant contacts, the estate at Godolphin would have otherwise been unoccupied for the week, its great riches still hidden from the wider world. Even now they remained untouched and unguarded, a secret known only to them and Colts.

  And her.

  Cortés followed Ben’s instructions and headed north-east, back across Cornwall. From the passenger side window, Ben watched as the late evening sun cast a heavenly glow across the north coast. Directly below him, long roads carved their way snake-like through the rolling landscape, a steady stream of traffic building as vehicles headed in and out of the towns and cities.

  Through the reinforced glass, the sea was clearly visible, the gentle tides lapping against long stretches of golden sand. Like the water, the beach was alive with colour, the sunshades of relaxing holidaymakers tracing patterns on the sand as they headed either for the deep blue of the sea or in the direction of a series of quaint buildings that overlooked the coast from the nearby hill. Tourists had dubbed the coastline the finest in England; Colts described it as an artists’ paradise. It was an area where the present met the past, the commercial the unspoilt. Where history had been lived and legends made.

  And where in recent times two famed treasure hunters had orchestrated a seven-decade search for one of the greatest hoards known to man.

  As the beach disappeared into the distance behind them, the landscape became more open. A long stretch of road cut south-east through otherwise unspoiled greenery, leading further inland. After following it for several minutes, Cortés prepared for his descent, aiming beyond a thick area of woodland set amongst countless undisturbed acres of arable farmland.

  Beginning his final approach, the helicopter coming in at a smooth angle over the fields, a series of period buildings appeared, situated in quiet, isolated locations. As the helicopter passed over the woodland, its underside almost touching the tallest of the trees, several more such buildings became visible, together forming a quaint hamlet little changed since Tudor times.

  Cortés touched down on a flat area of lawn, within the hamlet and close to the woodland. Ben unbuckled his seat belt and exited through the side door. Unlike the field Cortés had used overlooking Valeria’s lighthouse, whose uneven surface was moistened by the salty spray sweeping the coast, the grass below him was well maintained and bordered by low brick walls and quaint ornaments that incorporated designs once famed in English high society. Away from the lawn, long manicured hedges outlined the boundary of over two acres of garden that led to an elegant Georgian five-bed mansion with sash windows and a tiled roof with two rounded chimneys that stood out like bookmarks. The stone exterior had a textured finish, covered at intervals by moss and ivy that circled the windows and spread from the house to the garden walls, where the owner had erected trellising.

  Ben looked at the house and smiled.

  Cortés left the cockpit and joined him on the lawn. “Right, I hope at least one of you has the keys?”

  *

  The interior was different to what Ben had expected. Though the closed layout reminded him in some ways of the stately home he had awoken in earlier that day, the finer decorations were curiously appealing.

  Walking across the garden, Ben noticed an apparently innocuous white door cut into an ivy-covered rear wall. Inside, pots and pans hung from the wall of a pantry that adjoined a typical country kitchen constructed of a dark-coloured local stone. The freezer was well stocked with ready meals and red meat, but the fridge was empty apart from a small assortment of dairy products.

  Along the adjoining corridor, the lounge and dining room appeared undisturbed. On opening the curtains, Ben saw two grand rooms furnished with numerous bookcases and some obscure artwork. He took his time studying the walls, dismayed by the morbid subject matter.

  “Ah, man, that’s gonna give me nightmares,” Danny said.

  Ben looked at him and concurred. “Let’s see what’s upstairs.”

  Cortés had moved on ahead of them, the main stairway creaking under the weight of his footsteps. The maroon carpet matched those on the ground floor, its deep shade absorbing the light and adding to the prevailing gloom. Further artwork hung from the walls on both sides, primitive religion a recurring theme. Cortés had stopped to examine one piece in particular: what he initially mistook to be a lion was a winged serpent, its body layered in feathers.

  As Ben caught up with him, Cortés faced him with an intense expression.

  “I think we may have come to the right place.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”


  The stairway ended at a landing, offering the choice of turning left or right. The main stairway continued upwards, confirming Ben’s assumption that the building had three floors.

  A plethora of doorways lined the corridor in both directions; there appeared to be more doors than Ben had seen windows outside. He opened the first.

  Cortés asked, “What is it?”

  Ben answered, “Just a cupboard.”

  The master bedroom was located immediately right of the stairs. The bed was an antique four-poster but without the flamboyant curtains Colts had enjoyed at Godolphin. Light blue walls were bare compared to the downstairs, the furnishings in keeping with the predominantly spartan wider décor.

  A photograph of Colts stood on the mantelpiece of a now-unused fireplace; he was at least thirty years younger and standing alongside an elderly white man with pale-blue eyes, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a distinguished white moustache. With the curtains partially open, the soft orange light shining down against the window illuminated the frame while creating soft shadows on the lawn.

  Ben estimated less than half an hour remained before the sun would set completely.

  The next three bedrooms were all well furnished, their character equally dated. Each possessed their own selection of artwork and photographs, though Ben was still to see anything he recognised. He remembered Colts had spoken of the house once belonging to a fine scholar, his predecessor, who had left it to him in his will; Ben guessed he was the same man with whom Colts had been photographed.

  Colts had changed little.