“You honestly think it could be mining related?”
Ben shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger.”
Colts invited Ben for a different view. “Try here, kiddo.”
Ben walked to where Colts was standing, his view similar to before, but different by a good few degrees. The angle of the hill was different, without question more explicit.
A lifetime specialising in European history gave him an answer before Colts had time to speak.
“I suggest we go take a closer look.”
Watching from the air, the view was far better. Cortés had noticed nothing on the first pass. It was only from further away the hill revealed its true significance.
For Cortés the revelation was magnificent, almost emotional. In his dreams he had been there, standing before the answer: it had been in the deepest caves, the highest mountains, the bluest oceans…
Never had he imagined something quite like this.
It took Pizarro longer to catch on, but when he did, he was also in no doubt.
“It’s beautiful.”
Cortés concurred.
“Set her down. We proceed on foot.”
47
Tregonning Hill was an easy walk, at least in terms of distance. All in all, from the woodland, it was less than five hundred metres to the foot.
Next came the summit.
All of the nearby hills formed part of the estate, managed by the Trust but open to the public. Even when the house was let out, people from all around could walk the ruins, enjoy the scenery, and explore what remained of the old mine.
Ben was relieved that today they had decided against it.
There were footpaths everywhere, dissecting Tregonning and the nearby Godolphin Hill from top to bottom. They followed the main pathway, its rocky surface cutting through the greenery like a sharp knife. Though it was a long way up, the route was straightforward, winding and rising at a gentle angle, even Colts had no problems with the climb.
On reaching the top, they stopped.
“Would you look at that?” Colts said.
Ben and Valeria took in the view. Colts wasn’t kidding. St Michael’s Mount was visible in the distance, the gentle sea lapping against the ancient rock. Further north, St Ives appeared in beautiful isolation, its many fine buildings shrouded in a fine sea mist. In every direction there was beauty, beauty of all ages, the old, the timeless and the new.
Cornwall at its very best.
Ben stood, hands on hips, breathing in the clean country air. Even ten miles inland he could feel the freshness of the sea.
“Well, this is all very nice,” he said, eyeing Colts with a piercing stare. “But it doesn’t really answer any questions.”
Colts was equally annoyed. The view was one of the finest in Cornwall, the focal point of the area.
“Just hold your horses,” he said, his expression for once letting him down. Somewhere, somehow, he was near the entrance to the mine.
The treasure was in the mine, he was certain.
Ben was becoming impatient. “Colts?”
“Ever noticed what the inside of a trumpet looks like, Ben? It’s all hollow like. Makes a great big sound.”
“What?”
“See, I never saw this trumpet.”
“Well, it looked kinda normal. Except for the keys.”
“Except for the keys?”
“It matched the pumping station. The chimney was the main key.”
“See, question is, Ben. Why use a trumpet?”
“Because it was one of the original emeralds Cortés gave to his wife.”
“Uh-huh.” He gestured back toward the pumping station, the red-bricked chimney edging up above the trees. “Question is. What’s underneath?”
Ben understood the point. “We know the mine is underneath. The only thing…”
Finally he had it.
A thousand feet above the ground, the helicopter came in for another pass. The hill was the key. The mine was also the key.
The question was how to get in.
As Busquets changed direction, Cortés noticed something down below. A vehicle was moving, like a car, only smaller.
“Pass me those binoculars again,” he asked of Pizarro, who handed them over. The vehicle had a white roof, four wheels; it made good progress over the fields, something a car would struggle with. He couldn’t see the driver or whoever was seated alongside him.
The woman on the backseat was far easier to view.
Ben’s first port of call was the bedroom. His bag was on top of the dressing room table located by the side of his bed. He rummaged through everything and took out one of the books.
The translations of Leland.
Colts and Valeria were in the drawing room. Valeria had used the opportunity to make coffee.
Ben entered a grand room with pine wood floor, vivid white walls, an opulent settee, an original fireplace, large open windows and several more pieces of art, again mainly portraits, hanging from the wall.
“Here,” Ben said, passing Colts the book. He picked up a coffee, added two sugars and sipped it black.
“What’s this?”
“The answer to your prayers.”
Ben wasn’t wrong. Five minutes later Colts knew everything he needed.
“Who the hell gave you this?”
On this occasion, Ben was in no mood to spill everything. “Does it matter?”
Colts adjusted his hat. “You really had no idea the treasure was here?”
Valeria was starting to find herself worked up. “You two care to explain instead of keeping things to yourself?”
“The book was a family heirloom. It’s over one hundred years old,” Ben said.
“That a fact?” Colts asked.
“Ben?”
He looked at Valeria, showing her the book. “It was owned by TF.”
“What is it?”
“Among his possessions, he had a couple of other books: a biography of Raleigh and this one here that included select translations of a Latin chronicle. They focus on the Great Work Mine. I didn’t know that until I saw it.”
“Clearly he did,” Colts added.
Ben was in truth unsure. “If TF had figured out everything, why was he found in St Lide’s?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Colts said, with almost a sneer.
“Stop it, both of you,” Valeria said, looking at them in turn as though a nanny looking at her children. “Ben, explain yourself.”
Ben folded his arms. “In the 1540s, there was a guy named John Leland. Basically he travelled around England–”
“And the Scillies,” Colts interrupted.
“And the Scillies, making observations of life. Among other things, he visited the mine here. According to TF’s translations, the mine was humongous, even compared to what is written in books or on the Internet. Apparently there was even a second section, one I can’t find reference to anywhere else.”
Valeria was intrigued. “You think if we find this, we find treasure.”
“Your great-great-grandfather would not have included it if he didn’t think it was necessary, Ben,” Colts agreed.
Ben noticed extra emphasis on the ‘he’. “Sadly it still doesn’t say where it is. Or even if it really exists.”
Colts was willing to believe. “You sure there was nothing in that diary? Nothing else? No extra pages? Missing pages? Things you’re just not bright enough to understand.”
Ben decided to let the insult slide. “You’re perfectly welcome to try,” he said, looking again at the diary and shuffling through the pages. After the storms of the previous night the paper was getting tattered, the edges becoming shrivelled and dirty from use. He opened it up toward the end, stopping on the final diagrams.
Colts was waiting for the diary, his hand out ready to receive it. “What now?”
Ben was lost for words. The diagram of the façade of the mansion, two pages from the end, was the penultimate one in the diary. The last one, w
hat he guessed was some kind of statue, perhaps dedicated to a conquistador or someone similar, suddenly triggered a reaction in his mind. The replica emeralds, TF’s diagram of the façade of the house…
“Ben?” Colts was getting impatient.
Ben turned to look at him. “We need to go back outside.”
Within the gardens of the Godolphin Estate was a more private area enjoyed only by the house-sitters. Many of the walls were ruined, their grey stone overgrown with vegetation that intruded through the former windows. Unlike other parts of the house, the walls were older, the architecture more medieval, like that of a ruined abbey or castle. Large doorways separated the gardens from the wider estate, guarding it from intruders like a portcullis.
A gravelled pathway began on the other side of an outer doorway, leading into the wider estate. Like the areas Ben had seen so far, this one was heavily wooded and surrounded by well-maintained lawns and wild flowers, their colours spanning the spectrum.
Ben knew what he was looking for, but he didn’t know where it would be. Holding the photocopied diary in his hands, he showed the picture of the statue to Colts and Valeria.
“If it’s still here, I’m guessing the statue is probably somewhere near the gardens. They wouldn’t have it in the wider estate where anyone could have trespassed.”
Colts couldn’t dispute the logic. “If it’s still there.”
“You never saw anything the first time?”
“No. See, back then, I was looking for serious stuff.”
Ben followed the path, entering another area of thick greenery. He passed a lawn, dubbed one of the ‘ancient squares’, and followed it into a more wild area.
The scenery was picturesque, particularly in the good weather. As the path ended, they came to the woodland, which was accessible, but the ground underfoot was more rugged, wild. There was bark and fallen leaves everywhere, the soil moist from recent rain. For Ben, the atmosphere was becoming heavy, whether a trick of the mind or the geography, he was unsure. Sweat was gathering across his brow; he felt it also on his back, his armpits, even the soles of his feet. The diary was the key, as it had always been, all that was missing was the final clue.
The elusive clue.
“Come over here. I’ve found something.”
The voice was Colts’s. He was somewhere nearby. Ben jogged between the trees, seeing a location overgrown by shrubs. There was something in front of Colts, large, bent over at an angle, clearly made of stone. The nearer he got, the more features Ben could see: arms, body, head, a three-pointed hat, an elegant sword in hand. The man was an Englishman, despite the Spanish features, which was surely itself a clue. Ben recognised the man before he’d even read the inscription.
“Sir Walter Raleigh.”
Colts adjusted his hat. “I reckon that just about goes and solves another mystery now, doesn’t it?”
Valeria had caught them up, wading through wild flowers that were coming all the way up to her waist. She saw the statue up close, confused. “What does it mean?”
That was the question Ben still hadn’t answered. He walked toward it, touched it. The stone was cold, a mixture of both rough and smooth, and all the same colour and material.
The same as the replica emeralds.
“Granite,” Ben said, getting closer, then circling the monument. The entire thing was impressive, back and front. There was more dirt on the back, leaves, water, evidence of damage and mould; Ben dated the statue to about the 1800s.
There was no writing on the statue itself.
As Ben continued around the statue, he noticed a depression, a cut into the earth, not quite a pit but not far off. Beneath the forest floor, hidden by natural debris, there was a solid metal plate, a door, hinged and secured with a padlock.
Colts noticed it immediately. Wasting no time, they set about clearing the area that was visible, and then finding which parts were hidden. Twenty seconds later they had cleared everything. The opening was about two-feet-six square: big enough for a person to squeeze through.
Ben guessed it had once served as a ventilation shaft.
Ben removed his metal cutters from his side bag.
Colts waited until hearing the lock snap before opening it up. He could see a ladder: the first three steps of many that led downward into the gloom. “You got a light?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, removing his torch and shining it on the steps, prompting Valeria to do the same.
“It could be a long way down.”
The Spaniards entered the garden from the side of the property. Getting into the estate, especially when having a helicopter, had been easy. They came down in a field and continued on foot between the briars and thickets, not daring to chance exposure on the path.
On coming near the house, they turned to the right, circling the building and entering the garden. The windows, despite their fine size, offered little in terms of a view of the interior, unless standing close and at a precise angle.
As far as they could see, there was no one at home.
They followed the pathway just as the others had done, which took them through the heart of the garden.
Again there was no sign of activity.
Cortés was adamant there was someone close by. He’d heard sounds, definitely human, possibly talking.
Up ahead he saw where the sound had come from. The American, the black man and Valeria had entered woodland but were now standing not walking. Concealed behind the ruined wall, the glassless window offering perfect sight, Cortés waited. All his life he had been blessed with patience, a virtue that cursed others.
Tonight it could win him what he sought.
As the seconds passed, he noticed movement, not forward, backwards, left or right but apparently downwards.
It left him puzzled.
He gestured to Pizarro. “Come. Silent as the grave.”
Nicholl was in his office when Danny entered. At the Gibbous Moon, a visit from his trusted employee was not unusual.
Today, however, it was a complete surprise.
“Danny?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr Nicholl. Only I had to come. She took it.”
Nicholl looked at Danny, a perplexed expression on his face. In his experience the boy had no tendency to drink.
Must be something else he was still to pick up on.
“You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, lad. Who took what and why?”
“Valeria,” he said resolutely. “They have the five pieces. They took the Devil’s Cup.”
48
The ladder was grounded into solid earth approximately forty feet below the opening. Less than twenty metres away was a staircase, stone, solid, at least a hundred years old.
The staircase continued for exactly 363 steps. Valeria knew because she counted. Placing her slender size five feet safely onto each step was no mean feat. Though easy by size, it was difficult by nature. Everything was pitch black, every last source of light extinguished. Even the torches penetrated no more than a few metres ahead. The cave absorbed the light as opposed to reflecting it; the small things that were lit up offered no unexpected features. They were surrounded by rock and darkness.
And there was only one way out.
As the stairway ended, the ground became flatter, at first smooth and then much rougher. As the seconds passed, the light improved, or at least their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. It was like being in a cavern or, better yet, an enormous trench. Thick granite walls flanked them on either side. Their footsteps echoed, as did other sounds: water dripping, rocks dropping, bats flying, if not bats something else smaller, nocturnal and with wings. Even Colts could feel the tension. His heart was racing, his lungs were tight, sweat poured from his forehead across his brow.
Even in the darkness, one thing was clear.
This was unlike any tin mine he had ever seen.
About five hundred metres in, they noticed something different.
“Is that what I think it is?” Ben aske
d.
On this occasion Colts spared Ben any sarcasm. “Railway tracks – iron,” he agreed, noticing the ancient rails directly below him. There were other items as well, tools, pickaxes, used barrels of gunpowder, broken lanterns. The smell of the powder lingered in the air, like burnt chalk, its fragrance mixed with the natural odour of the granite, and possibly something else.
The Cortés Enigma Page 30