“Chances are it would have been.”
“And, the letters to Foxdog make no reference to the learned gentleman, nor do they include any postage marks. To me, that begs the probability either Pryce delivered the letters personally to Foxdog or . . .”
“Pryce was Foxdog.” Colts raised his eyebrows.
“Think about it. The whole of the Isles of Scilly are the personal property of the Duchy of Cornwall.”
“Except for Hugh Town.”
“Hugh Town was bought by the townspeople in the 1940s. That means when TF was staying there, the whole thing would have been owned by the Duchy.”
“You’re very perceptive. It was partly for that reason the whole thing began in the first place. If Aztec gold, amongst other things, had made its way to royal property, it’s hardly surprising they would have wanted to find it.”
“But maybe the focus on the Gibbous Moon is all wrong. Sure, today a maverick owns it, or at least did before he was shot, but back then things might have been different. You said yourself it was the oldest coaching inn on the island.”
“Oldest, yes. Back in his day there was only one other. The North Atlantic.”
“Which just so happens to connect to the area beneath the Star Castle where the owners of the castle, the Godolphins, once kept one of the replica emeralds.”
Colts looked at Chris; his familiar cockeyed expression returned. He hated the way people liked giving him a history lesson on something they knew nothing about.
“Even if you’re right, what’s the significance? Either way, the man’s dead.”
“Think about it. Marooned Spaniards buried the hoard on St Lide’s; less than a century later, it was found by soldiers in the English Civil War, who had mixed loyalty to the royals. When the royals re-established order in Charles II’s time, the Godolphins had already acquired the hoard and undertaken work on the Star Castle. By the time they left, the hoard had already been transported to England.”
“Which has now been discovered.”
“When TF came to the Scillies, duchy authority over the area was still absolute. The Gibbous Moon, according to its history, was founded in 1521, when duchy control was at its zenith. The Godolphins were only the leaseholders, not proprietors. Therefore all property on the island must have been owned by the Duchy.”
Colts rubbed his beard, nodding. “You may well be right. The Gibbous Moon would have once been duchy property.”
“They all would. TF even refers to a pub on St Lide’s called the Duke of Cornwall.”
“Famed as being the most deplorable drinking hole within a thousand miles. Landlord was one Martin Smethwick. Strange individual. Never one to abide by the rules.”
“Never one to close his establishment on a Sunday either.” Chris remembered TF’s diary entry.
“That’s not all he was capable of; you ever hear some of the stories I have, it’d be enough to make your blood run cold.”
“You’ll have to tell me about them someday. If the establishments were owned by the Duchy, could the landlord have been a plant?”
“A mainlander put in as a front, you mean?” Colts shrugged. “Being honest, I’ve never really considered it to be that important.”
“Sounds to me it could be extremely important. If TF was on the Scillies as part of a secret mission, it stands to reason the choosing of the establishment could have been an important consideration – albeit, he also definitely stayed in the same place on his first visit. If TF was sending regular correspondence back to England, at the very least they would have needed the service to be quick and reputable. If there was an agent, the owner of a well-run permanent establishment would make perfect sense.”
“Fair point. However, since the 1520s, the Gibbous Moon has had several owners, Mr Thomas M. Pryce being one of many.”
“Seems to me that’s another piece of evidence in its favour; most coaching inns have a tendency to pass down through the same family. According to TF, Pryce was a retired lawyer.”
Colts sat back in his chair, contemplating. On paper, it was a convincing argument.
“How can we find out about Pryce?” Chris pressed. “Presumably any records would still exist among the relevant registers?”
“Yes, assuming you can find those registers. Not to mention find out what they are.”
“Any agent in the record of your operation would surely have to leave some trail.”
“Unlikely,” Colts said. “Quick. Silent. Lifeless. That was the reason they were selected in the first place.”
“Even so, they were still employed, weren’t they? I doubt back in 1904 they operated in the same way they do now. Maybe we could be looking for another alias.” Chris looked at him as though he feared he was nearing a dead end. “You must know something of their background.”
“Kid, when I came to the island, the Gibbous Moon had passed into private hands and Project Estelle had been dormant over half a century. Arthur was officially the coordinator, but the early impetus had been lost. The original task had been partially completed. If you ask me, the project all but came to an end the day your ancestor disappeared.”
“Ben seems to think something happened soon afterwards, that the depopulation of the island wasn’t accidental. Could this have actually happened?”
“Could have and almost certainly did. Sadly for the idiots who lived on that island, they couldn’t have picked a worse person to murder than a British scientist and war veteran.”
“What happened? Over forty people don’t simply disappear.”
“They do if you know where to hide them.”
“You found them?”
“No. Went looking though. Can’t say I had much success.”
“If the massacre really took place, inspired by TF’s disappearance, then it stands to reason the person who ordered the killings could have been the same person who passed on the message regarding TF’s disappearance.” Chris looked at Colts; the man’s tired eyes appeared uncharacteristically deep, as though his eyelids were in danger of swelling shut from fatigue. “I take it someone still knows who was responsible?”
Colts took a calculated pause, a slow grin forming. “All this time I underestimated you.”
“Can the diversion. I’m already on your side; so is Ben. If something happened, it left a trail. Now, between you and me, I’m not leaving this place till we find it.”
“Understanding the history of those islands has never been for the faint-hearted. It was one of those things that many once felt was better to leave alone, save getting yourself labelled a nuisance or a fruitcake, or worse still, ruffling some bad feathers. Like the sinking of the Santa Estella, folklore spoke for many years afterwards of a coup being made.”
“When? 1909?”
“Earlier. The modern dates are wrong. An inquiry into TF’s disappearance was made within weeks, each step recorded in detail.”
“Where? Upstairs? I didn’t see anything.”
“You might have done had you been looking in the right place; not that anyone alive was dumb enough to confirm the stories of the murders.”
“For news of TF’s disappearance to have become known to the top brass, word must have got there from someone. Chances are Mr Pryce at least had half a clue what was going on. What do you know? What are the stories?”
Colts sat back in his chair, like a grandfather preparing to impart knowledge to an eager grandson. “You know how many people there were on that island the day your ancestor arrived?”
“Forty. He said so in his diary.”
“Forty-four to be precise. Yet if you check the movements in and around 1909, you find nothing like that many; even check back a couple of years, it makes no difference. When Dr Thomas came to St Lide’s, there were exactly forty-four other souls making their way around. One thing that can’t be denied is that forty-four did not die.”
Chris felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end. “So what are you saying? People survived?”
<
br /> “You know what interests me above all other things in life, Chris? Whenever a story begins to do the rounds, as an historian, one question must always be the first to be asked. Who was the original teller?”
“You saying you know the source?”
“Forty-four people living on an island, connected to over one hundred and forty others by an advanced sailing network, is more than enough people to begin networking. When the remaining islanders got news of TF’s disappearance, it took only the foresight of one young man to turn a myth into history. His name is recorded. He was the son of the tavern owner that was open that fateful Sunday.”
Chris had seen the name written in the diary. “Sam? Sam Smethwick survived? Just him?”
“As I told your cousin the day you disappeared, news of missing stones and missing people didn’t always go unnoticed in such parts. After Dr Thomas disappeared, his murder clearly no great secret to the residents of St Lide’s, Sam knew it was only a matter of time before trouble began. As the brew began to boil, he used his vague Godolphin links to acquire a passage to St Agnes. He stayed there three weeks, along with his sickly mother. Word has it she failed to make it beyond a month, such was the heartache.”
“He witnessed this? How do you know?”
“By today’s standards, Smethwick was still a relatively young man; still only in his sixties when he died of tuberculosis in the early fifties, yet not before he had lived a useful life imparting knowledge. For over fifteen years, he served as light-keeper of the Old Man’s Foot. Kept a diary right up to his final day. In one particular entry, possibly under the influence of whisky, he decided to let rip. Catalogued everything he knew.”
“Go on.”
Colts looked upon Chris with an air of calm superiority. “Young Sam watched on from the coast one night as boats carrying what he described as mainland foes glided through the quiet sea, headed for St Lide’s. He knew, of course, that he needed to get word to his father and warn them of their impending doom. Sam claims he did the only thing he could think of: tend the light. For over three hours he shone it only over St Lide’s. See, in doing so, he nearly dug his own grave. When the soldiers returned, they gave their warnings. Any word of trouble, the islanders would get it.”
Chris swallowed, appalled. “He recorded this?”
“According to Sam, the forty-two left behind met their maker in obscurity. He watched from the window of the Foot through a telescope as large groups were escorted at gunpoint to a rocky stretch on the west side, never to be seen again. He speculated they had probably been shot; to his dying day, he never risked the wrath of the British by returning to the out-of-bounds place.” Colts’s voice broke. “Instead, all he could do was mourn.”
“Who were they?”
“Sam named the ringleader as one Major Weir, a hard-nosed Scot. Weir’s pedigree shows up in other records. Fortunately for the British, nothing concrete has ever come to light.”
“This is incredible. You mean he got away with it?”
“There was nothing to get away with; he was under orders. It wasn’t as if the man had gone rogue.”
“Whatever happened, this is the key – I know it.” Chris felt the excitement buzzing inside him, that the culmination of the dreams he had been fed as a kid were now at last about to be realised. “What happened to Weir?”
Colts lowered his head. “Arthur once told me the incident left no immediate mark on Weir, until his later years when he started to feel the stress of new nightmares. You’re a serviceman. These days they call it post-traumatic stress disorder. Weir died in battle, fighting the Turks. Word has it, he still heard the screams as he passed beyond the great veil.”
“Whatever TF was doing in his final days, it was clearly something others wanted to remain hidden. This is the final link. Whoever instructed Weir to come knew more than any other.” He moved closer, his eyes focused. “Who was it?”
“Weir’s role in proceedings was speculative at best. In years to come, his eldest son followed in similar footsteps. After that he had a grandson who went one further, serving with distinction in almost every war since World War II.”
“Is he still alive?”
Colts nodded.
“In that case, I think we need to pay him a visit. I don’t suppose you know where he lives?”
“Actually I do. He lives in a quiet house once bought by his grandfather after he departed the house he had been stationed in. Once upon a time, it was also an inn known as the Fox and Hound.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “You mean?”
Colts nodded. “The day Major Weir passed away, Foxdog also passed; fortunately he’s not our only reason for having to visit his place of residence.”
Chris took a deep breath, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Colts shuffled his notes of the translations and smiled. “Call your cousin, sonny. I think it’s time we headed back to the Scillies.”
34
Salamanca, 9:45 a.m.
Valeria was sitting near the centre of the Plaza de Anaya, staring at the iconic university building to the west. She remembered several years earlier, her mother had used the city’s university as a means of pressuring her to strive for greater things, emphasising how concentrating on her schoolwork could start her on a journey to prosperity.
Growing up in an isolated hamlet in the heart of the mountains, it was rare for people to excel at school. Her mother had always wanted the best for both of her kids; she recalled that filling her head with dreams of grandeur had been her mother’s favourite way of passing the time. There had been four great universities in the old world, one of which was still located within a three-hour drive of their home. Even in the modern day, a qualification from Salamanca could carry enormous weight. As a young girl growing up in such seclusion, it seemed like one of life’s great ironies: how the doorway to freedom was found not in the great dehesas but the stuffy classrooms of old. Like crossing the dehesas, obtaining a degree from such a place required great knowledge, skill and hard work.
For Valeria, the reality had been nothing more than a pipe dream.
The university was famous for its connections to Cortés. That was another of life’s great ironies: how the man who went on to conquer an empire had been too lazy to complete a law degree; how even the simplest request of discipline could throw him into a pit of frustration. In Valeria’s eyes, it wasn’t just an irony, but an injustice: how the undeserving sometimes had doors opened for them while others struggled on in frustration. She checked her watch, herself growing increasingly impatient.
Soon the buildings of the past would be open to the visitors of the present.
The journey from Medellín had taken just over three hours. On leaving Mérida within moments of their arrival, the second stage had been equally straightforward. Unlike the famous saying that ‘all roads lead to Rome’, in this case only one road led to Salamanca. On joining E-803, north of Mérida, the only instruction a satnav could give was to follow the road.
It had still been dark when they arrived. It was 3 a.m., but it felt like it could have been any time. The students had gone home a week ago, the academic year over. It was the same story in most university towns: when one group of people left, another took their place. Summer had arrived.
The time of the tourist.
She knew from experience that few bars stayed open late on a Tuesday. It was too late for a hotel, too early for breakfast. They finished the journey in a multi-storey car park near the centre.
Sleep was the only sensible option.
Maria returned from buying coffee from a nearby establishment and found Valeria sitting alone on one of the benches. Despite the area’s famed popularity amongst the locals, its elegant pathways still awaited the coming of the crowds. The heart of the plaza was split into four by well-maintained topiary-style hedging that surrounded several tall trees located among identically sized lawns.
Valeria had purposely chosen the bench beneath the tallest of
the trees in order to avoid attracting attention.
Maria sat down alongside her, carrying two takeaway espressos. She recognised some of the sights from photographs, but, unlike her sister, she had never seen them before in real life. A cool breeze took the edge off the early morning temperature as the sun continued to rise into the deep azure sky. Though the scenery was impressive, today it was unappealing.
Just as it was to her sister, Salamanca was a city of lost dreams.
“You’re quite sure this is the place?”
Valeria took the first sip of her coffee, deciding to overlook her sister’s failure to add sugar. “Let me see your phone again.”
Maria handed her the phone, and Valeria scanned the photos of the wall art again. The last time she had done so, she had been on the road, tired, drained, famished. Despite the lack of sleep, the craving for a warm bed, a relaxing shower, she was grateful they were no longer on the road. Maria had done a good job, she decided.
She had captured every detail at least once.
Gazing across the plaza, she felt her attention become drawn to the east. A second plaza was situated across the main road, equally dense in vegetation, close to where they had eaten breakfast. She had seen a large building beyond it, ornate, opulent, clearly Christian. Like the nearby cathedral, she dated it to the Middle Ages. Its exact significance was still unclear.
Only that she had also seen a wall drawing of it in photographs on her sister’s phone.
Valeria rose to her feet. “Come, the building is located over here. It will be open soon.”
35
Although Ben had heard the question clearly, he decided to ignore it. He had already answered it twice on the road and the answer obviously hadn’t changed.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 86
