The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Hello there.” TF raised his hand, pleased but at the same time surprised by the arrival of Alfred Slater. “I didn’t realise there was a second entrance from the sea.”

  Slater dropped anchor, the ancient iron making a loud splash as it entered the water. He boarded the Dunster.

  “I be telling you many times already, sir; Hell’s Bay is not a place to be ventured into by strangers.”

  TF smiled awkwardly. “That’s awfully considerate of you, but there is really no need to fuss. In fact, the cave is incredible. Just look at this wall.” He gestured to the strange wall markings. “I’ll wager nobody has seen these in over four hundred years.”

  Slater remained unmoved. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t be letting you stay here any longer.”

  TF turned slowly away from the wall, somewhat unnerved by the man’s change in tone. The bearded ruffian was now standing at the helm, his deep blue eyes looking sinisterly into his. He noticed for the first time Slater carried something between his thick fingers.

  A revolver.

  “I say . . .”

  “I warned you many times, sir, about poking your nose into o’er people’s business. This time, I’m afraid, you’ve gone too far.”

  TF looked down the barrel of the gun, stunned. On closer inspection, he saw the weapon was primitive, even compared to the other ancient weaponry he had already seen on the island. He dated it to the early 1800s, a captain’s pistol, the type used by Nelson at Trafalgar.

  Fortunately, he knew such weapons weren’t renowned for their accuracy.

  TF felt inside his own coat and swiftly removed a Webley MK IV Revolver, pointing it at the local. “I must warn you, I served with Kitchener in the Sudan. The weapon is elegant. Yours, I fear, would fall apart if only one were to press down on the trigger.”

  Slater looked back with a hard expression, unwilling to show any sign of fear. As TF watched the man’s eyes, he felt a growing certainty that Slater had entered the cave for one solitary purpose.

  Murder.

  “Enough of this nonsense. Lower your weapon and we’ll leave here together. Come now. There’s a good fellow.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll not be leaving here at all, sir; not this time. Even if you were to get out o’ this cave, that still leaves you o’er a hundred mile o’ water to cross. Even in summer, Hell’s Bay is a foe like no other.”

  TF held his composure, recalling his military training and the operational experiences that had followed. The lesson from both was never to let the enemy see you bleed.

  The danger was in blinking first.

  TF raised his shoulders and rolled his neck from side to side. He cocked his gun, satisfied one shot would be sufficient.

  “I warn you now. Shoot me and in a matter of days there will be over one hundred men arriving on this island. They’ve been watching you since before my arrival. His Majesty has never been renowned for tolerating treason.”

  The local held his tongue, on his lips an arrogant smirk that could be mistaken for either confidence or recklessness. For the first time TF sensed hesitation, that if he went for the trigger now, he could escape unscathed. Yet despite the temptation, killing in cold blood was unthinkable. Even down in the darkest depths there was no turning away from the gentleman’s code of honour.

  They stood in silence, watching each other, neither man willing to make the next move. As the cold continued to set in, he saw movement from Slater, his arm straightening, the barrel of the gun moving slightly. Instinct guided his movements. He dived starboard, momentarily protected by the position of four wooden barrels scattered across the bow.

  Sparks flew up off the deck.

  Gunpowder exploded.

  TF turned, arm raised, ready to fire. He saw Slater’s silhouette move furiously across the light, vanishing again almost immediately. He considered firing, but paused, aware that giving away his position could be a grave mistake. The light snuffed out, the sound of shattering glass echoed, fading. A second lantern hit the floor, accompanied by further sparks. New light appeared close to the bow. Smoke was rising, the sounds and smells of burning becoming prevalent. He saw Slater dart across the flames. He fired at him, then again.

  In the darkness, TF heard a groan.

  Then nothing.

  2

  Massachusetts, Present Day

  Ben Maloney closed the hundred-year-old hardback book and gazed at the nearby wall. A black and white photograph had been placed in a frame above the mantelpiece, one of a number taken at a time when such things were rare.

  The man in question was familiar: distinguished, moustachioed, bespectacled, carrying himself in a manner that seemed to epitomise Victorian English sophistication. Even at home, the man had looked like an academic. The thoughtful, poised expression, not quite smiling but never angry, seemed a permanent feature in every photograph he had ever seen of him. Even in later life, little seemed to have changed.

  Whatever truth there had been in the widespread reports of premature greying, the evidence had been successfully concealed.

  As Ben looked deeply into the frame, the late morning light of the warm New England morning seeping in through the nearby windows, he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass. Three days of solid rest had done wonders for his appearance. The purple bags under his eyes had faded after thirty hours of sleep and a generous application of moisturiser. His stubble, though clearly visible in the reflection, was thinner than it had been and felt spikey as he brushed it with his hand. His hair was also shorter than it had been, the work of the local Italian barber well worth the twenty-five-dollar fee. He also looked like an academic, but in a different way. In a different time.

  He looked like a Maloney.

  Replacing the book on the nearby coffee table, he looked sleepily at the hardback covers of the four piled neatly alongside it. Three days back, enjoying the comforts of home, had given him sufficient time to look through them all once, but far from enough to understand their every secret. Memories of Europe were strange; it was as though he were awaking from a dream, the lines between reality and fiction blurred and hazy. The hoard at Godolphin remained untouched; as far as he was aware, its ownership was no longer clear – if it ever had been. He assumed Colts was still working on it.

  The secrets of Cabañas del Castillo and the abandoned mine would take longer to solve.

  He removed one of the gold coins he had taken from the hidden monastery from his pocket and held it up to the light. There was a series of strange designs on both sides, together portraying the hallmarks of a Mesoamerican festival. Its discovery seemed to confirm the treasure had existed, since taken away.

  What had become of it was another matter.

  Going through the pile of books, he examined the covers one by one. TF’s translations of the Leland chronicle and his original diary had both served an invaluable purpose; without them the key locations would never have been found. The same was true of the Isles of Scilly diary, yet after reading it through again, he noticed that it seemed different to the others. It ended suddenly, as though the author had disappeared off the face of the earth. There were pages missing; whether important or not, it was impossible to tell. Thanks to the ones that remained, all of the five replica emeralds had been found; whether TF ever possessed them was unclear. If he had, he must have replaced them, Ben mused; more likely, he was killed before the opportunity arose. Only one thing he felt sure of.

  He never did find the treasure.

  The content of the Aztec book was still a mystery. Though the symbols were familiar, collectively the language made no sense. It was as if someone had used the correct letters but arranged them randomly, like a primitive code. Whoever had written it had possessed no clear grasp of the native language.

  Either that, or it was never intended for outsiders to understand.

  Ben reserved his greatest attention for the one he had only recently put down, the last of the five. The story had started when a my
sterious ship roused the curiosity of a famous man. If the book was correct, the sight of gold inspired his own travels deep into the heart of deepest Mexico. The account was unlike any he had read before. A forgotten story. A hidden chapter of a great man’s life. For Ben, the book was now his greatest clue.

  If the treasure of Montezuma still existed, it would only be discovered by following in the footsteps of Sir Walter Raleigh.

  *

  Ben’s grandmother was in the kitchen, standing over the stove. He loved the way the room was filled with the familiar aroma of warm apple pie. He smiled at her as he entered, watching as she removed something hot from the oven, her trademark apron with a picture of a cauliflower covering her yellow blouse and skirt. Her name was cleverly woven into the design.

  Hannah.

  He took a seat at the kitchen table and immediately tucked into the large ham sandwich on crusty bread that had been made specifically to his taste.

  He placed the books down by the plate.

  “I’ve told you before, Ben. Don’t bring those to the table. TF would spin in his grave if you were to get crumbs on them.”

  Ben grinned, concentrating on chewing. “Well, between you and me, I think he’d be far more impressed that the world he knew is now blessed by sliced bread and microwave ovens.” He ignored her as she placed her hands on her hips. “Besides, according to you, he was even dirtier than Chris is.”

  Hannah’s pose remained unchanged. “Be that as it may, that’s no excuse for you to go misbehaving. Whatever would your mother say?”

  “She’d probably say how long till that apple pie’s ready?”

  “It’ll be ready when it’s ready. Even in this day and age, you can’t very well put something like that in a microwave, can you?”

  *

  Ben returned to the sofa as soon as he finished his sandwich. The room was an open plan lounge/dining room with two leather couches and an expandable brown dining table, all of which predated his birth. He glanced again at the photographs his grandmother kept above the mantelpiece and saw another one of himself and Chris standing beside their respective sisters in Valladolid. Though five years had passed since the photo had been taken, the surroundings were more familiar.

  The sight of the famous cathedral in the background seemed strange after recent days.

  Chris had spent the last two days in hospital. Though he had not suffered a serious injury, Ben was inwardly delighted to be free of his constant moaning about Valeria. Initially his tales of oubliettes and maltreatment had seemed far-fetched, but the hospital tests confirmed otherwise. Juan was right, he now knew. Blood tests confirmed the presence of poison in Chris’s system. According to the doctor, it would pass within another day.

  At least he knew the boy was finally getting some proper rest.

  “TF’s body will be ready for collection in a few days,” Ben said to his grandmother through the open door. “The experts who examined him back in England have completed all the necessary tests. I told them they could keep him for a little longer so long as they send him back in one piece. I hope you’re not mad.”

  Hannah emerged from the kitchen and took a seat at the dining table. “My grandfather was a man of science, Ben; you know that as well as I do. If he were here, I’m sure he would have argued they should keep him indefinitely.”

  “Well, at least that’s one thing off my mind.” He sipped his coffee and took a first bite of his apple pie. After five minutes of cooling, it was no longer in danger of burning his mouth. “From what I can gather from his diary entries, TF returned to the Isles of Scilly a year after becoming intrigued by some story concerning at least one shipwrecked Spanish galleon that sailed off course after bringing back Aztec treasures from Tenochtitlán. Apparently TF disagreed with a far more popular local legend that the ship had gone down during the second failed invasion of England by the Spanish Armada.”

  “Use modern words, Ben. You know I never understood a word of this stuff.”

  Ben laughed. “TF was convinced the Spanish ship had brought stuff back from Mexico that the earlier explorers missed. As I’ve told you already, I saw some of this with my own eyes in England. Going on the diary alone, TF seemed convinced the shipwreck hoard was part of an even bigger treasure – one that could potentially shed light on the origin of the Aztec empire.”

  “If you say so, Ben. You know I never inherited the brains of the family.”

  “If what I can gather is true, TF first travelled to the Isles of Scilly in the late winter of 1904 and returned in the spring of 1905. He must have spent several months planning his trip, because on his return he clearly knew what he was looking for, which is more than I can say for myself.” He looked his grandmother in the eye, a curious expression forming. “What do you know about TF’s final year?”

  Hannah took a further bite of her apple pie and wiped her mouth with a tissue. “Father would have been the one to ask.” She glanced at another framed photograph on the mantelpiece. In it, an elegant man in early-twentieth-century attire was standing alongside a pretty bride. “He spent years trying to follow in TF’s footsteps; nearly died himself on more than one occasion. I think he found it hard living in his father’s shadow.”

  David Francis Maloney, or DF as Ben knew him: TF’s youngest child and only son, a capable scientist in his own right. Early memories of the man still registered in Ben’s mind: a remote and ancient bearded figure smoking some sickly brand of tobacco in the seat beyond where his grandmother now sat. Like everyone in his family, he had heard the stories. He had attempted to follow in his father’s footsteps until being confined to the lab after a nasty episode out diving in the Mediterranean had exposed him to the preliminary symptoms of the bends.

  Though he had survived, his diving career had been over.

  “If the diary is correct, TF only stayed a few days during his first visit to St Mary’s. He returned in March 1905 and disappeared after approximately three and a half weeks. The diary ends abruptly on April 8; apparently TF had enjoyed a good supper the night before and chatted over many things with one of his contemporaries.” Ben’s voice tailed off as he rechecked the final entries. “There are pages taken out, seemingly deliberately. Putting two and two together, TF was probably killed the very next day.”

  His grandmother lowered her head. “I don’t suppose you found any lead on the culprit?”

  “Well, obviously it’s a little late to request a criminal investigation,” Ben said, unsure whether he was joking or not. “Rumour has it, the shot was fired by the same local who TF first met on his arrival. He mentions him in his diary, one Alfred Slater. The boat was discovered in a cave – one of seven – that TF suggests was possibly of intrinsic importance to the island’s history. The fact that the boat was discovered there also indicates that was the location where TF was shot. It’s unclear what happened to the other man.”

  “Well, I’d hope the same thing that happens to most of us, Ben. Though hopefully justice was done to him swiftly.”

  “If these dates tally, then TF was not seen alive again after April 8. His diary confirms he wrote home on the fifth. I don’t suppose there’s any chance the letter survived?” Ben looked questioningly in her direction.

  “Father kept everything TF ever sent. My grandmother and he were very close, particularly for a couple living in that kind of circle at that time. Florence used to write him every day, sometimes more.”

  “Well, if you do still have the letters, I’d really like to see them.”

  *

  Hannah kept everything in the attic. She returned to the lounge ten minutes later with a large handful of correspondence, by which time Ben had finished his apple pie.

  The content disappointed him. Other than confirming TF had been based on St Mary’s and that he was comfortable in the Gibbous Moon, it offered little further insight.

  After recent days spent reading through the diary again in detail, he had hoped for more.

  He glanced through ea
ch letter in turn, concentrating on three in particular. The dates of 22 March, 29 March and 5 April all established they had been written during his stay. The postage marks also confirmed they had all been received in London around three weeks after they were dated.

  All were similar in style and content.

  “Based on what I can see here, the letter on April 5 was the last time TF ever wrote home. If Florence was used to receiving letters about one week apart, then she probably wouldn’t have grown excessively nervous until at least a week after receiving the final letter, which probably arrived around April 26. Therefore it would have been well into May before she might have feared TF was missing.” He looked at his grandmother. “Presumably when he failed to return, some form of inquiry was made?”

  “Did you manage to check any records out there?”

  “Best I could. Though he stayed on St Mary’s, the boat itself turned up on St Lide’s. Not exactly a place renowned for its record keeping.” He sipped his coffee. “I have been told by the locals on St Mary’s, the whole island was abandoned in 1909. I checked the Internet when I returned; the story checks out. I don’t suppose DF ever mentioned anything to you about what happened on the island after TF died?”

  Hannah’s expression appeared uncomfortable and Ben noticed.

  “What is it, Nana?”

  “Oh, Ben, honey. There are many things our family will never know about what happened out there when TF was alive. But the truth is there are things that went on after that time that just shouldn’t be told to children.”

  Ben was confused. “Well, I’m a grown man now. What are you talking about?”