Somewhere in Spain
On the far side of a distant hill, the three Spaniards got out of their black Renault Mégane and made their way through the undergrowth on foot.
A hundred years is a long time, particularly if you’re a gardener. The array of wild flowers, once so beautifully kept, had become a ragged jungle of death and decay. The entire east side of the hill was overgrown with long grass, particularly around the entrances to the old buildings. Countless dilapidated stone cottages littered the hillside like lookout towers, their jagged white rocks overrun by ivy and moss. There was little glass in the windows. Even the doors had mostly disappeared.
A single pathway led up the side of the hill, ascending at a gentle gradient before reaching the summit. At that point it straightened, continuing in a direct line before reaching a battered lichgate.
The three men followed the path to the other side of the hill, at which point they spread out. Something was there, hidden amongst the brambles and nettles.
And had been for over four hundred years.
9
Ben was standing in the east section of the churchyard, reading the inscription on the nearest grave. He had learned from the diary that TF had discovered three graves, all bearing the name Wilcox.
He was still to find any of them.
He had been looking for something specific, something TF had mentioned as a guide. The diary described it as a memorial stone or monument. The diagram was rough but accompanied by precise descriptions: five burly men carrying a ship, perhaps a Spanish galleon. The monument had allegedly been erected in honour of all those who had lost their lives in the nearby waters, but TF had clearly been sceptical. He had also described it as a ‘strong stone structure, orange or brown, depending on the light’.
Again, Ben was still to find it.
Old Town Church is one of two churches on St Mary’s. It is located in the centre of Old Town, a fifteen-minute walk from Hugh Town and situated atop a hill that offers inspiring views of the south coast. Like most churches in England, what began as a Roman Church in the mid 12th century turned Anglican at the height of the reformation, with building work carried out at various intervals during the following two centuries until it fell into disrepair. Decrepit, forlorn, the charming remains were lovingly restored on the orders of the island’s governor, bringing it back to its former glory.
Though the church had rarely been used in over a century, the graveyard was the largest on the island and remained the principal cemetery for all of the Isles of Scilly. Over the centuries, the lush green field had become the final resting place for all of the important local families, including those of the sailors who had lost their lives since the early Middle Ages.
Chris returned from inside the church, carrying a pamphlet. “There’s a service on at half five,” he said, stopping beside Ben. “You know, according to this, they don’t even have electricity. They have to conduct the entire thing using candles.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Makes you appreciate St Michael’s all the more, doesn’t it?” he said of the local church back home.
Chris folded the pamphlet and placed it inside the right pocket of his jeans. As he did, he noticed the name on the grave in front of him. “Harold Wilson.”
“Used to be Prime Minister of the UK.”
That, Chris did not expect. “Wow.”
Ben moved to one side, passing a row of graves. Despite the aid of the diary and its many diagrams, the stones TF spoke of were nowhere to be found. The cemetery itself was generally well cared for: flowers were starting to bloom, the majority of the graves in a good state of repair, the smell of recently cut grass teased the nostrils.
Ben concentrated on an area close to the perimeter of the graveyard that was slightly worse kept. Seven years as a history lecturer told him it was in areas like these where the poorer, more obscure graves were found. The grass was longer in this part: there was no evidence of regular maintenance, nor any obvious sign it was even consecrated ground. According to the diary, the graves were located on the south side of the churchyard in an area overgrown with vegetation.
Strange, the graves TF spoke of were not there.
Stranger still, what the hell was a Spanish captain doing buried on the island?
Finding nothing of relevance, Ben entered the church. After taking his time to explore the interior, a visually appealing but also fairly typical CofE structure that was in danger of falling into disrepair, he failed to track down the vicar or anyone else who might be able to help. Both the cemetery and the church appeared deserted.
Had the church not been unlocked, he would almost have taken it for being unused.
The two cousins followed the walls of the church to the south side, examining the gravestones as they passed. There were trees everywhere, the majority of which were palm trees that shielded the area from the wider world.
Ben saw something partially hidden amongst the foliage. There was a structure close to the trees, old, grand, clearly a mausoleum. Like many of the type, it had a Palladian appearance, most notably four stone pillars similar to those that supported ancient Greek temples. The door was locked, as expected; he guessed it had been for some time. The structure was about twelve feet high, with thick yellow brick walls and a sloping roof. Stone aside, the main element used in its construction was lead, heightening Ben’s initial suspicion that the people who had been laid to rest inside had been wealthy. A double-headed eagle was etched into the front wall above the door as part of the family coat of arms, accompanied by statues of two knights in armour facing one another. He read the names inscribed on a plaque by the door.
Here lie the remains of the Godolphin and Osborne families.
The names meant nothing to Ben.
As he continued to inspect the architecture of the neoclassical tomb, he became aware of a crack along the right wall, about half a metre in width and at least two in height. The crack widened the further down it went, he estimated almost to the width of his shoulders. The stone was damaged and discoloured at that point, and the base muddy from the recent heavy rain. It was impossible to tell when the cracking had occurred.
Common sense told him it had been during a recent storm.
A small panel had come loose, probably from the roof. Ben bent over to retrieve it.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Stopping mid action, Ben turned around, his eyes on the wall of the church. A man was standing there, black shirt, dog collar, a livid expression.
“You must be the vicar?”
The man walked quickly toward them. “Kindly put that down and go about your business.”
The tile was still in Ben’s hand, swaying from side to side as he walked. “It needs repairing. Must’ve come loose in the earlier storm.”
The man snatched it. “Thank you for your observations. Now please leave it alone.”
Ben was inwardly amazed that the moving of a battered tile could be the cause of so much anger.
He caught up with the man as he walked across the graveyard. “Excuse me,” Ben said, mustering the best smile he could. “Sorry to bother you with silly questions, but who were they? The Godolphins?”
The vicar stopped and turned. “The family were the original leaseholders of the isles,” he said, his tone barely any calmer. “Back before the island was more densely populated.”
Ben loved his use of the words ‘densely populated’. “You mean they lived here alone?”
“Not exactly. However, the island had a much smaller population back in the 1600s. Before the tourism boom, you understand?”
A wry smile. “Do any of them still live here?”
“I’m afraid the last descendent died in the early 1900s. Now, sir, if you please.”
The vicar resumed his walk. He headed across the graveyard toward the entrance to the church and disappeared completely from sight. No sooner had he gone, Ben returned to the other side of the mausoleum, measuring up the size of the cr
ack.
Potentially wide enough for someone to squeeze inside.
He looked at the stone decorations; like those in most places on the island, the majority were sea related, suggesting the families had strong naval traditions. As he slowly walked around the mausoleum, Ben looked closely for anything out of the ordinary. As best he could tell, there was nothing Spanish or Aztec related.
He looked at Chris, resigned.
“Let’s go get something to eat.”
Standing on the other side of the graveyard, the archaeologist watched with a rare sense of intrigue.
The man was no stranger to the mysteries and stories of the island, even the more obscure ones. He’d seen people coming and going from time to time, a casual tourist, an overeager journalist, a student who believed in ghosts and aliens…
But till now he had never seen anyone so observant, particularly for something so seemingly irrelevant.
Shaping the bridge of his hat with his index finger and thumb, he followed the Americans in the direction of the path.
10
7pm, Extremadura, Spain
The Extremadura region of Spain has rarely been regarded as important. According to official statistics, it has a population of over a million, but its remote character and open countryside features give the impression that it could be considerably less.
Mile upon mile of green fields, dotted with isolated farmhouses, stretch virtually uninterrupted all the way to the Portuguese border. Most of the villages and hamlets had grown up as farming communities, characterised by a profusion of white houses with sloping red roofs that provided a colourful reminder and picture of a bygone age. The residents, it appeared, were oblivious to the technological evolution. At night, occasional dim yellow lights could be seen to flicker across the horizon like a series of candles burning on a giant’s table. Over the water, isolated bridges, some ancient some new, stood more like monuments than integral parts of a transport infrastructure. The ancient roads, alive with trade and activity when the market was in town, were a different sight when it was not. Even in the busy periods they were rarely busy and, in the heat of the day, the tarmac surface would reflect sunlight for hours on end, generating enormous heat. At night the effect was one of much greater calm, when the journey for vehicles crossing the bridge would be both cool and lonely.
The region was the epitome of solitude.
Among the small settlements within the wider community, the village of Medellín was both small and forgettable. On its outskirts, the view rarely changed. Flat land surrounded it in every direction: both green and yellow, field and desert. The area was a haven for wildlife. A tourist coming from America or further afield would find more in common with the tale of the roadrunner and the coyote than that of Don Quixote. The area had a residual stillness, as if time existed in a vacuum. From year to year the weather barely changed. Even a passing wind was unusual.
Yet nestled within the flat barren landscape, there was one sight that even the least observant could not miss. Less than five miles from the village, a solitary green hill, flanked by the river and forest, overlooked the village like a mother watching over her children. The lush greenery was like a scene from a Disney film, its shape entirely different from anything else in the region. Unlike the rolling downs of England, this strange natural wonder rose up into the sky like an Aztec pyramid. While the scientists claimed that the development of its features was a natural phenomenon, the locals had always viewed it as having a mystical and portentous quality. In an area that had blessed Spain with so many great warriors and explorers, it was most fitting that the hill would honour the most famous of the lot.
And whose descendants would in time claim it.
At the top of the hill, a large medieval castle sat on the site like a king on a throne, as it had for over four hundred years. An imposing fortress in daylight, concealing a mighty and majestic domain worthy of royals and nobility, at night the skeletal remains took on an altogether more dominating aura. As the light faded, its four grand towers produced a dark silhouette, its epic façade merging with the black horizon. From a certain angle, the perfect rectangle appeared almost two-dimensional, and for a time practically invisible. Yet as the darkness fell, its outline would return, its red walls illuminated by several small lights burning like swarms of fireflies in the air. From across the water, its walls reflected on the river like a waving flag. The castle was as it had always been, impenetrable.
And inhabited.
The roads below the village carried very little traffic; and most of the cars that travelled them did so almost daily. Crossing the more modern of the two bridges that connected the sides of the Rio Guadiana, the black Renault Mégane made its familiar journey in solitude. During the day, the black exterior was easily distinguishable, yet at night all that could be seen were two moving lights. On reaching a junction on Ex-206, the car turned at a right angle before slowly ascending the hill, eventually disappearing within the walls of the castle. Even if the mysterious lights had been seen by any of the locals, their appearance would not have aroused suspicion. Many, unaware of the true modern and mechanical source, put them down to the spirits of the conquistadors protecting their homeland as they had all those years earlier. The villagers had grown up with such folklore.
Even expanded on it.
As the dirtied Mégane parked out of sight, hidden from the village by the castle’s outer curtain wall, its three occupants disembarked and took the familiar route into the inner courtyard. Continuing through a large archway, the leader of the three was the first to witness the familiar sight, lit up like the fires of hell, just as it had been in its heyday. Up a steep stone stairway, two further torches lit up imposing double doors, their frames once oaks from the forest below.
The leader stepped forward, the loud thump of his knocking on the doors echoing in his ears. As the seconds passed, a noise could be heard from inside, followed by a prolonged creak as one of the doors was opened.
From inside appeared the butler of the house, a man of distinguished features, a fine shock of grey hair, his eyes an inquisitive and piercing blue behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked at the men in silence, paying close attention to the large object that they carried.
A nod of the head was the only acknowledgement.
As they entered the corridor, the sight that greeted them was almost identical to that of the courtyard; the electric glow of the modern-day lights replaced by that of fire on wood, creating ominous shadows against the red carpet. As the walk continued, the temperature varied, a radiant heat to freezing cold. Suits of armour, standing like lookout guards, appeared an evil presence in the fiery light, their shadows easily confused with those of the living. If the walls could talk, they would be telling their tale. It was written in the paintwork, the ceiling, but mainly through the fine works of art that occupied the walls of the lengthy corridor.
The hosts of the past continued to watch out over the living.
As the trio reached the end of the corridor, the light became brighter, but the smell far worse. A large table in the centre of the room was illuminated by an almost angelic glow from the flickering flames of numerous ornate candelabra. On the table, molten wax had solidified at the bottom of half-burned candles, some spilling onto the white tablecloth. Beyond the table, a roaring log fire burned brightly in the huge stone fireplace, while above the table two antique chandeliers were also burning, the lights giving off strange shadows shooting in different directions. Like the corridor, priceless artworks lined the walls, the facial features in the portraits both consistent and familiar.
This was the heart of the castle. A fortress that dated back to the 1500s. It had been founded by the village’s most famous son.
After which it was named.
Castillo Cortés.
At the head of the table, the castle’s only occupant sat in prestigious isolation. Like those of the others gathered around the table, his eyes were dark, in his case a deep shade of brown t
hat always appeared alive and alert. With thick lips, partially concealed by a finely trimmed goatee beard, and displaying a thoughtful expression, he bore a marked similarity to the figures on the wall. His dark hair was curly and naturally wavy, partially hiding small ears that were pierced at both lobes. He was the owner of the castle. A Cortés. The latest of a long line.
Perhaps the last.
The man wiped his mouth with a serviette and rose to his feet. He saw the object they carried above their shoulders. Although the stone was simple, it was a shape easily identifiable in any time or place. They were unlike any pallbearers he had seen, but then again the person they carried was deserving of such prestige.
He headed toward the coffin and knelt, feeling the stone with his palms and kissing it tenderly. Slowly he rose to his feet.
The Cortés Enigma Page 9