She sat him down at a large table that had been divided into twelve segments. A portable reading light was located to his right, not needed at this hour.
The woman returned with a large ledger-style book, the content printed but old.
“These are the local county records,” she said, opening it to a random place somewhere around the middle. “This what you were after?”
In truth he had no idea. “I’m much obliged.”
The woman left the room, returning to the counter, leaving Chris on his own in the otherwise deserted building. He left the seat briefly to ensure he was alone, satisfying that nagging feeling that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing no one, he opened the book, a record of summonses on the island, dated the beginning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. He was still unsure what he was looking for, but he knew TF’s disappearance had something to do with the islands’ early history.
And anything about that would surely be found here.
16
12pm
The Queen’s Castle had once been named the King Charles’ Castle. The single tower fortress, situated close to the heavily fortified gun battery that overlooked St Agnes and the sea surrounding Hell’s Bay, had been expanded by the Roundheads when fighting in the Civil War was at its height. For three years the castle remained in Cromwell’s hands before the garrisons at St Lide’s, St Mary’s and Tresco all mutinied and defected to the King. Over the coming years, the sites changed hands again before returning permanently to the Crown on the accession of Charles II, and later falling into ruin.
Officially the castle was under the care and management of English Heritage, but the site was less high profile than most. There were no permanent staff, no volunteers, no tourists visiting on a regular basis. Access to the tower was gained through a large unrestricted archway, admission free of charge. On days of planned tours, the castle would accommodate up to fifteen or twenty people at a time, walking the walls, climbing the stairs of the tower, snapping away with their cameras, but today there were no such visits. An overwhelming feeling of loneliness was intensified by the sound of the gulls, their forlorn cries echoing off the nearby cliffs. Though the noise could be unnerving and distracting, today’s visitors were oblivious to it. Experience and knowledge was on their side.
Instead of walking across the metallic bridge to continue their sightseeing, cameras aimed at the large tower, the surrounding sea, the passing birdlife or the distant isles across the water, the four Spaniards made their way slowly down a set of wooden steps and entered a ruined stone room that had once been a chapel. The last twenty-four hours had provided proof the ancient map was reliable, the clues pointing in the direction of the next important landmark. Though the contents of the room had long been removed, their owners dead, their remains long since decayed in their graves, the passage still existed, lost somewhere behind one of the walls.
The question was which wall?
Pizarro banged against the west wall with his shovel and nodded at Cortés. “It’s this one.”
Cortés was sceptical. “How can you be certain?”
Pizarro did the same thing again, the impact making a dull clanging sound. Almost immediately a couple of bricks came loose, enough to allow partial observation. Pizarro peered first through the gap before moving aside for Cortés, his eyes narrowing beneath his furrowed brow. He adjusted his hat as he retreated.
“Go.”
17
12:30pm
The church of St Lide’s was a depressing sight. Located on a site of approximately three hundred square metres, it was indeed surrounded by a small churchyard and a wall that had seen too many winters and insufficient maintenance.
The door to the church was open, as was the one to the nearby rectory. Ben inspected them both in turn, starting with the church. Four strong walls remained standing, despite the roof showing clear evidence of past trauma. Ten empty, or almost empty, archways punctured the walls at equal intervals where stained-glass windows had once been, while ten rows of wooden pews, suffering badly from wood rot and wet from recent storms, had been left abandoned either side of the main aisle. Walking toward the altar, Ben became aware of a foul and oppressive odour that he immediately put down to prolonged neglect and the exposure to damp. At the front of the church, the altar was still standing, its heavy stone legs at a slightly irregular angle. Inside the nearest archway, the Lady Chapel had been better protected. A large statue of an angel was lying in ruins at the rear of the room, and below it what appeared to be evidence of mortal remains. A short description, written in Latin, confirmed what TF had witnessed.
Here lie the remains of St Lide.
He looked around, exploring the interior. The statue of the angel was clearly 19th century, fierce and masculine in features, as expected of Michael the Archangel.
It was the only statue.
Leaving the Lady Chapel, Ben took a seat on the step before the altar. He took a deep breath, allowing his thoughts to focus on the view in front of him before removing TF’s diary from his pocket.
Two large angels were sited at the head of the Lady Chapel – that was what TF had recorded. Above the choir, located at the back of the church, on a raised platform accessible by a narrow winding staircase, a stained-glass window depicted the story, or legend, of the island’s most famous occupants. From the position where Ben was now seated, TF described seeing a plethora of colours – gold, green, red, orange, and blue – telling a story long since forgotten.
Looking up, a hundred years on, Ben saw only a large void. The choir area had become thickly covered with leaves, exposed to the full force of the gales. The only thing the former window now contained was a large tree branch.
Ben guessed it had probably broken the window.
The rectory, located less than fifty metres from the church, had clearly been as long abandoned. An original wood fireplace filled a large space in the farthest wall, its back and chimney blackened from past use. Unlike the church, much of the furniture and glass was still undamaged, yet in Ben’s opinion the atmosphere seemed heavier and more ominous, as if a vow of silence had been placed upon it. There were signs of former occupancy, but the bare walls and occasional artwork offered little more than a cryptic hint of the island’s past.
With a heavy heart, Ben inspected every room and moved on.
The churchyard was smaller than the one at Old Town. There were no great graves, no ornate statues or grand mausoleums; instead the stonework was small and basic, the shapes almost identical.
Ben walked toward the first slab he saw and was immediately taken aback. The shape was rounded at the top, a thick layer of granite with evidence of former writing. The grave was predominantly red, discoloured by past weathering.
Though he saw no name, he recognised it immediately. Aside from the silt, it was exactly the same as the one he had seen in Kernow’s workshop.
He walked across the graveyard and sat down on the wall. The views were far reaching and took in the surrounding coast. The wind was at its greatest here; further afield, the sea was becoming choppy, the waves gathering to great heights, bringing an echoing crash as they hammered against the rocks.
Ben guessed that Kernow would be getting anxious to return to St Mary’s.
He walked across the graveyard, exploring the west section. Seeing no evidence of what he was looking for, he sat down again on the nearby wall and read from TF’s diary.
Walking that path I had first taken this previous fourteen month, my mind was immediately drawn to the strange group of gravestones that had first aroused such intense suspicion. The great monument, attributed apparently to one Himinez, on the south side of the churchyard was still standing as tall as I had remembered, though the outer coating had suffered from recent storms.
Rising to his feet, Ben walked toward the church, trying to follow TF’s directions. The grass was longer on the south side; dozens of trees of unidentifiable species flanked the churchyard like a small fores
t. The church was in better structural condition on the east side, though the outer appearance was far dirtier. Layers of grime had attached themselves to the stone and archways of the former windows, while dirt and leaves filled the gaps between the walls.
There were more graves in this part, their faces old and weathered. Any inscriptions that had once been legible had now disappeared.
There was no hint of a statue dedicated to past sailors.
He stopped again to look at TF’s diary, trying to make sense of his present surroundings. The descriptions confirmed the existence of graves and a statue on the south side, but the directions were far from specific.
He knew the diary was merely a record for the man himself.
Heading away from the south wall of the church, he passed an area overgrown with bushes. Opposite one of the windows, the trees were more spaced out, a little like a glade in the middle of woodland. There were several slabs in this part, each one severely weathered and broken around the edges. He saw evidence of inscriptions, the name Slater appeared on two and something longer on another, he guessed Parkerson.
Nothing Spanish.
Further in, the graves appeared more broken still, these dating from the 1700s. There was a slight opening in between two trees, followed by another area choked by brambles.
He looked again at the diary, comparing the diagrams to the scene before him. The wall of the church was about the same distance from where TF must have been standing when he made the diagram, suggesting to Ben that the statue should be nearby.
He walked to where he thought it should be. Though there was nothing there, aside from the usual grass and wild shrubbery, he noticed that the ground sank an inch or so deeper than normal, noticeable albeit only as he was looking hard. He crouched down, wondering if he could make out a shape. Although nothing was obvious, he knew the profuse growth of weeds and wild flowers could have changed the area’s appearance.
Instinct told him he was on the right track. Rising to his feet, he walked further into the gap to an area that TF had described as ‘extensive mismanagement’. After taking care to ensure his footing was secure, he headed down a small slope into an area that was far muddier than the rest. There were graves in front of him, similar to the ones he had already seen but slightly smaller.
The next thing he saw left him speechless. The rose colour of the stone was intercepted in the top section by a large engraving. Damage to the top had left the stone incomplete, but he could tell from TF’s diagram it was the very thing he had been looking for.
The double-headed eagle.
He investigated the other gravestones, and found the same was true of the next two. The remainder were broken, the top half of one lying among stinging nettles at the edge of the perimeter where a wooden fence had been placed centuries before.
He leaned over, trying to pick up the stone without being stung. He failed in every way, losing his footing and stinging his arms and taking the impact of the loose stone on the side of his face.
Furious, he got back to his feet and tried to calm himself. Concentrating on the loose tombstone, he felt his heart begin to skip, as if the secrets of the past were coming to light after over a century in darkness. The double-headed eagle was there again, engraved into the stone like a hieroglyph. Common sense told him the symbol could mean anything – a simple figure of authority, perhaps just belonging to a group of several – but the design was different. TF had been right.
The design matched the Hapsburg style.
Placing the stone down, Ben inspected everything in the near vicinity. There were five stones, all displaying similar features, but there was nothing that looked Aztec. Anxiety was coming to the fore, the horrible feeling that he had come so close only to come up short. Scanning the nearby shrubbery, he saw fragments of rock on the ground in the mud, but nothing more solid. He checked the stones a second time.
There were five. And they were here.
There was no sixth.
Taking a deep breath, he walked away to the other side of the churchyard and took a seat again on the wall. He looked for the Wilcox graves as he passed, but wherever they were, their inscriptions were no longer clear. Immediately his thoughts returned to the Spaniards: the mysterious Pizarro and his countrymen. The diary confirmed the six were together, the one with the Aztec symbols lying loose. TF claimed to have moved it briefly, showing it to the vicar, before replacing it in the same place. The next year it was still there, still lying loose.
There was no indication from the diary he had moved it.
Wherever it once was, it was now gone.
Forty-five minutes later Ben was back on the dry dock of St Mary’s, tired and frustrated. He paid Kernow for an extra half hour, not that he needed to. After two days on the island, he figured being generous with a local might bring about some better fortune.
“You still got that tombstone?”
Kernow showed Ben into his garage and found the tombstone on the same table as before. The surface was shinier, the result of hard cleaning work and some kind of high-performance polishing product. The colour was identical to the ones that Ben had recently seen.
He compared the stone that he had taken from St Lide’s to the one that Kernow had found on the boat. Side by side, the similarities were apparent, the stone found aboard the Dunster excessively weathered by comparison. Ben feared recent removal of the dried-on and ingrained silt had been damaging.
But at least he now had proof that it had once existed.
18
4:30pm
Chris left the library at just after four, closing time. He had missed his lunch and gone over four hours without a drink, but he had been so engrossed in the content of the ledger that his increasing hunger had taken a while to register.
The content of the ledger was predominantly a compendium of laws passed, summons – cases proven and unproven – and letters between officials, including some from the King of England. Names reappeared regularly, some more important than others. Whatever the exact personalities of the Godolphin and Osborne governors, they were clearly of paramount importance in the running of the isles.
Finished, Chris returned the ledger to the librarian and read again from the first book – little further help, albeit an easy read. If Ben was correct about TF, the islands harboured a different type of secret: something, he couldn’t help feel, certain people wanted to remain secret. The boy TF had met in the graveyard had suggested it had a connection with Cortés and the treasure from Mexico.
The treasure had never been found. Chris knew that for a fact; he’d tried finding it himself, convinced it was somewhere in the American Deep South. Eventually he lost interest, disillusioned with the endless false leads. Just like the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine, there was nothing concrete – even to describe it as a fairy-tale seemed to understate its fanciful nature. The treasure may have existed, but, wherever it went, it was too well hidden to waste time worrying about.
Ben was in his room, nursing his wounds, when Chris returned. He complained about his injuries as he got dressed while Chris laughed at him in between banging on that he was starving.
The dining room was deserted apart from them. Ben ordered a chicken and chips for himself and a lasagne for Chris, while trying his best to ignore Chris’s attempts to flirt with Valeria.
“You do know she’s out of your league, right?”
Chris grinned, not allowing Ben the satisfaction of seeing his ego deflated. “In LA maybe. This is hardly the boulevard of broken dreams…more like the boulevard of broken nails.”
Ben nearly choked on his beer, laughing.
“Must be difficult, don’t you think?”
“What must?” Ben asked.
“Trying to find a boyfriend on an island with less than seven hundred men, and most of them toothless and smelling of fish.”
“Girl like that could have her pick anywhere.”
Chris looked over his shoulder, watching Valeria carry a tray of empties in
to the kitchen.
“Would you knock it off,” Ben complained, surreptitiously watching her himself. “What happened in the library?”
“Nothing,” Chris replied, sampling his beer, a local ale he was still to decide whether he liked or not. “I was practically the only one there.”
“How about the books?”
“The first one was a history of the island.”
“Anything of interest?”
“Nothing much, just a background. Apparently the Godolphins were from Cornwall. Owned significant land; many became members of Parliament.”
The Cortés Enigma Page 13