“For three days they were missing. The entire village was gravely concerned. The mayor called on people to help with the search. They looked everywhere.” She started to laugh. “When they found them, they were sleeping beneath one of the pews. To keep warm, they had even taken to using some of the old monks’ habits as blankets.”
Ben laughed, not knowing what else to do. “What happened to them?”
“They were fine. Even when she was a little girl, mother was always brilliant at taking care of herself – and others.”
“I bet your grandparents didn’t see it that way.”
“My grandmother was livid, as was my grandfather.” She laughed again. “Then again, how could they stay mad? Seeing their daughter in the habit of a monk?”
He laughed again, this time for longer. “So tell me about your lighthouse?”
“The Old Man’s Foot was the only lighthouse on the Isles of Scilly – at least until the 1920s. The adjoining building had been owned by the governors of the islands. Although I think they never used it.”
Ben was intrigued. He assumed she was talking about the Godolphins.
“What was it for?” he asked. “Was it a house?”
She shook her head. “More a lookout post. Sometimes a hospital. For over three hundred years the isles were in conflict with the Dutch, and sailors of both countries would seek refuge at the lighthouse. Many ships crashed here, more than anywhere else.” She lowered her head. “It’s sad, no? That so many people can die so suddenly.”
Ben bit his lip and cleared his throat. He noticed a change had come over her, a distant look in her eye and a softness in her voice – as if she was speaking of a personal memory. For several seconds he studied her, the movement of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the sound of her breathing.
For that brief time he had almost forgotten the reason for his visit to the island.
“Being honest, I’ve never really thought about it.”
“It must be so difficult,” she said, again playing with her hair, twisting it in a spiral around her index finger. “Being here, in a strange place. Stirring up ghosts of the past.”
He forced a smile. “You know what they say? Nothing ventured…”
She smiled again, this time sombrely. “I had an uncle – Pedro was his name. He heard about a great legend from somewhere in the south of Spain. During the Civil War, apparently some of the soldiers found something buried in the mountains. Stories spread like wildfire of lost gold, possibly brought back from the Crusades. But rumour is a frightful thing.” She looked at Ben, this time with fire in her eyes. “It is a desperate man who searches for treasure. Gold is never worth dying for.”
Ben sipped his whiskey, replaced the glass on a coaster and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at her for several seconds. “You think I’m searching for treasure?”
“There’s no reason to play dumb, Ben. The story of your ancestor is legendary here. Even before he was found, people talked about the voyage of the great Tommy Malone.”
He half-smiled, again taken with how cutely she mispronounced the name. “Perhaps you could fill me in; you seem to know a lot more about him than me.”
She flushed coyly. “Forgive me, Ben. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m actually rather fascinated. What is this legend? What’s your take?”
“I...I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She rose to her feet and headed for the door.
21
9:10pm
“Hey, wait.” Ben grabbed her arm as she prepared to leave the room. “What is it?” he asked, receiving no response. “Just now, what did you mean?”
She looked at him and he at her, her expression one of sudden awkwardness. Ben felt her breath on his cheek, a soft appealing minty scent tainted by recent consumption of a gin and tonic.
“Ben, let me go.”
Reluctantly he released her. “Tell me what you know about the legend? Come on, please. I’d really like to know.”
Valeria left the bar area and headed into the main corridor. Though well lit, the corridor was deserted, its maroon walls reflecting the light of its countless wall lamps, their shades shaped like Victorian lampposts.
Again Ben chased after her. “Why are you being so secretive?” he asked, now standing in front of her, forcing her to a standstill. “What’s your problem?”
Valeria looked away, her attention on the ground.
Ben’s patience was waning. “Tell me, please. What do you know?”
She looked him in the eye, now unsure whether he was genuinely in the dark or simply fishing for information. “People come to the island for one of two reasons. To vacation or to search for the Cortés treasure. You and your ancestor came here not to relax. People should not stick their noses into other people’s business. It’s not wise, nor is it safe.”
Ben rubbed his face, wondering exactly what she meant and just how much she knew. His gut feeling told him there were people on the island who knew a lot more than him, particularly about TF’s attempts to locate the origin of the mysterious graves. “What is it? The Cortés treasure, what is it exactly?”
“How can you not know? You are a professor of history. And you have your ancestor’s stories.”
“My ancestor’s boat was found hidden in a cave, cocooned in a layer of silt. He was found aboard with a musket ball in his skull. I don’t know who killed him or why, but I intend to get to the bottom of it.” He held her softly around the shoulders. “Please, Valeria, help me.”
Valeria’s expression became distant, no longer warm but sceptical. “Some people in this part of the world love a good mystery. Others, no. People who come as tourists go to Tresco or St Mary’s. Usually those who come to St Agnes or St Lide’s only have one thing in mind. That is why they are not welcome.”
Ben folded his arms. “Why? What’s so significant?”
“According to legend, great treasures are buried on the islands.”
“What treasures?” he asked doubtfully. “Cortés? Aztec gold? Diamonds? Rubies? Emeralds?”
“I…I shouldn’t speak of such things. It’s not safe.”
“Now listen here. Less than a week ago I’d never heard of this island. I had no intention whatsoever of visiting this godforsaken place. My great-great-grandfather disappeared; his remains were found. I have no idea why he died, but I’m not gonna leave here till I find out what happened. You hear me?”
Valeria looked away, this time briefly. Despite the anger in Ben’s voice, the hard furrowed brow above his eyes, she no longer believed he was actually looking to hurt her.
He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his fingers across his brow. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Valeria remained quiet. She folded her arms and looked around, her eyes darting from side to side. She considered leaving, heading somewhere where there were people. Instead, she decided to stay.
“Chris told me things the night before you come,” she said, this time more calmly. “He said you had notes. Things passed down from your family.”
Ben was secretly livid. “He told you that?”
She looked away, not answering.
“You know him very well?” Ben pressed.
“A bit like you. Less perhaps.”
Until now the idea that Chris had spoken to her in detail had never occurred to him. Staying in the same hotel, it stood to reason that she would have spoken to him before his arrival.
“You think me and my cousin are simply here to find gold? To loot? Find what my ancestor failed to find? I have no idea what I’m even looking for.”
“According to tradition, a Spanish galleon was wrecked near St Agnes before the great Armada.”
Ben shrugged. “So what? Is that it? I’ve seen the remains myself.”
“No, that’s not it. Although a search party was sent to find the ship, according to the captain who made up the report, the crew was never found. Nor was anythin
g else. Years later, before the Civil War, other things were found near St Lide’s, including gold, mainly in the water.”
“Who was he? The captain?”
“Sir Walter Raleigh.”
Ben folded his arms, intrigued. For the first time, he considered the possibility that TF had acquired the rare biography of Raleigh for a reason.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. After ten days without a shave, the firm bristles he was used to feeling against his hand had become soft and fluffy. The revelations still seemed incredible. Even if the galleon had existed and had carried gold, the tale was little different from the typical treasure stories of that period.
“I don’t understand,” Ben said. “Worldwide, there are millions of treasure stories. What’s so special about this one?”
Valeria hesitated.
“What happened to my great-great-grandfather?”
“I don’t know what happened to your relative,” she replied nervously. “Over the years many people have searched, but the same thing always happens. People get too close, then they disappear. There are many people who live on the island who do not care for outsiders. In public, they claim there is nothing; that the legend is simply for tourists, only to attract publicity. Instead, they want only to find it for themselves.”
“Find what? Gold? Is that it?”
“No.” She looked at him for slightly longer, her attention taken with the unsure, nervous, almost violent look in his eye.
Standing opposite, Ben inhaled deeply and slowly breathed out. “Just tell me everything.”
Ben banged fiercely on Chris’s door before finally getting a response.
“Jeez, you look like hell.”
Chris was white as a sheet. “Thanks.”
Ben entered the room, attempting to ignore the foul smell coming from the en suite. “It was the garlic bread, by the way.”
“No kidding.”
“What did you say to the waitress?”
“When?”
“The night you arrived.”
Chris covered his mouth as if preparing to vomit. “We just talked.”
“Well, it turns out, so did we.” He moved closer. “I think I understand the connection with the Godolphins.”
He showed him the biography of Walter Raleigh that he had in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“According to this, Raleigh was captivated by a Spanish legend. Supposedly he saw a great ship named the Santa Estella one night while sailing in the Bay of Biscay. His fleet shot at it and almost sank it; he even saw gold in the water. Weeks later he found evidence of a wreck in the exact same place the galleon was later found.”
“Walter Raleigh?”
“Exactly. According to the book, Raleigh became obsessed with something called the Stone of Fire. I’d heard of it, but this is the only book that goes into detail. According to this, it was the reason Raleigh made trips to America.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Possibly some kind of relic or idol. The Aztecs believed it had the power to move the sun. The kind of thing ancient astronaut theorists have connected with anything out of the ordinary.”
“You think it’s here?”
Ben bit his lip. “There’s something about the Godolphin coat of arms that’s bothering me. I’m gonna head to the mausoleum again now. You coming?”
Chris returned to the en suite and vomited.
“Fine. I’ll go alone.”
Five minutes later Ben walked out of the front door of the Gibbous Moon, completely rejuvenated.
He moved swiftly along the main road, heading in the opposite direction from the harbour. It was after 10pm and the sun had set, the last glimpse of red light now vanished beyond the distant horizon. Above him the stars were out in full, sparkling intermittently behind moderate cloud. The moon was at its highest point, its phase ironically gibbous. Thinking it over, he had never heard of an inn with that name before.
He assumed it was probably unique.
He hurried along the nearest pathway, heading east. Thanks to Valeria, he now had something worth investigating. Valeria had gone into considerable detail, at least compared to what she had given him earlier. Still it seemed impossible to comprehend – impossible or improbable. In all honesty the story of the shipwreck alone didn’t surprise him; there were countless records of shipwrecks in the Isles of Scilly, particularly prior to the 1800s. Why a Spanish galleon would have been there was a more intriguing question. Should the ship have come from Spain in the first place, he’d have put the most logical reason down to piracy. Only according to Valeria, it wasn’t from Spain, but travelling to Spain.
From Mexico.
If Valeria was right – or at least telling the truth – the ship had come from Mexico and the cargo was not only gold, but perhaps other things.
Ben paused to reflect on what he had learned. Thanks to his meeting with Dr Phillips he was convinced the shipwreck story was credible. A Spanish galleon went down sometime after 1554.
Perhaps there were even two ships.
The part that didn’t make sense was the Cortés theory. He knew that Cortés had died in 1547. Even if Cortés was not involved in the wreck, the story of lost gold could still possibly check out. The Montezuma gold was out there somewhere – that was plausible. Less likely it came to England.
Or St Lide’s.
He followed the road out of Hugh Town and continued toward Old Town. The road wound slightly as it followed the contours of the hills. Despite the recent rain, the gravel beneath his feet was predominantly dry, causing a fine dust to mark his dark trousers.
The road had brought him back to Old Town churchyard, the large mausoleum looming up above a thick growth of brambles like an Egyptian pyramid. At night, its appearance was decrepit and forlorn, the long piercing gap in the wall he guessed still to be repaired.
He took a breath and walked on, heading toward the lichgate. There were lights shining nearby, but as far as he could tell there was no sign of anyone following him. If Valeria’s story was true, the connection with the family went deeper than he’d first thought. No wonder the vicar was so pissed with him, he thought.
TF had been murdered, and Ben was starting to think it might well have been premeditated.
Chris had been on the toilet since Ben left. He felt horrendous, and not just his backside. Pain pounded through his head, throbbing so relentlessly he felt his pulse beating in his temples.
His stomach was in agony.
Won’t someone make it stop?
At just after ten he emerged from the en suite, sweating but praying the worst was over. At the same time he heard a knock at the door.
He guessed Ben.
He opened the door and looked at the figure in front of him.
“Hey.”
22
10:30pm
The graveyard was full of ghosts – that was another legend associated with the place. Ben had heard that one from Kernow and then again from Valeria. He didn’t believe this one; he remembered Kernow had been laughing when he’d said it. Valeria on the whole sounded more serious; then again, she was the type, he mused. Not that he was in a mood to make quick judgements.
The girl may well have done him a great service.
The lichgate was lit up by an old streetlamp, situated alongside a statue of what he guessed was an old sailor. He’d heard a story that there were more sailors buried there than people from other walks of life.
Ben didn’t doubt that for a second.
The gate opened, a prolonged whining creak that he was already used to from the day before. Once inside, he closed the gate, ensuring it was firmly shut. He remembered from first-hand experience how it could bang from side to side when the wind picked up.
Not surprisingly the churchyard was deserted. The light was non-existent, the atmosphere still; a deathly silence filled the air, disturbed only by the occasional gust of wind passing through nearby trees. The birds had disappeared, as for now
had the moon, the intense darkness creating the illusion that a heavy veil had descended. Ben moved slowly along the path. The light from outside the lichgate was more ornamental than useful, and he didn’t dare use a torch just yet.
Without the aid of moonlight, he would have to rely on memory.
The Cortés Enigma Page 15