The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Ben leaped forward, crashing his knee into the right leg of his desk. Though the words had failed to register at first, its significance now came at him clear as day. The ship his great-great-grandfather had taken to sea on his final voyage, apparently somewhere in Europe, had been missing since 1905, perhaps even longer.

  He gripped the phone, static, numb. “When . . . wh-where?”

  “Article was dated two days ago. Mom found it less than an hour ago. There was an article on the Internet, written in some local newspaper. It was found near a cave, covered in silt.”

  Ben’s mind was racing, his pulse even faster. For over thirty-two years his family had fed him the stories, things he had never been able to substantiate.

  Or at least never believed he would be able to.

  “Where?” he asked again. “Where was it found?”

  “Just off the Isles of Scilly. Apparently it’s been there for over a hundred years. Are you at a computer?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, swivelling in his chair. He moved the mouse to interrupt the screensaver and typed in the password on his keyboard. Safari was already open, divided into four tabs, content ranging from emails to the Google page.

  He opened a fifth and typed the keywords into Google.

  Immediately his eyes lit up. Stories were coming through on several pages, dated not two days earlier.

  “Oh my God,” he replied, reading. The ship had been found in a small cove, close to a number of caves. Scan reading, he learned it was discovered off the furthest south of all the islands.

  St Lide’s.

  “Ben, there’s something else.”

  Ben scrolled to the bottom of the screen, his eyes focused on the image accompanying the main story.

  He froze, gobsmacked.

  “TF was on the boat.”

  *

  Twenty-four hours later, Ben pulled up outside a quaint four-bed, colonial-style Massachusetts’ mansion with a grey Honda Civic parked on the driveway and a ten-year-old RV inside the open garage. He locked his Ford sports coupe automatically and ran along the driveway. There was new post in the mailbox, which was close to full. He collected it as he passed before wiping away some dirt that had appeared on the box where the owner’s name was written. The name he had known all his life.

  His name.

  Maloney.

  A woman was waiting in the doorway, short, grey-haired, his only living grandmother. “I’ve told you before, Ben. Ring first. That way I know you’re coming.”

  He grinned, quickly kissing her on the cheek. “I can’t stay, Nana. I need your grandfather’s books.”

  “Why, they’re all in the same place.” She looked at him, confused. “Ben, what is it?”

  “They’ve found TF’s boat near England.”

  *

  The attic light wasn’t working, not that that was anything new. A large lamp was resting on the second stair, inside the doorway; judging from the temperature of the glass, it had been used recently.

  Ben switched it on and climbed the stairs, navigating a selection of boxes. He found what he needed by the far wall, surrounded by empty boxes and Christmas decorations. The box he wanted was older, not cardboard but wooden, small and antique. The lid was closed, secured by a bronze latch that his grandmother had always made an effort to keep well oiled.

  He blew on it, causing flecks of dust to dance around in the light like tiny moths. He lifted the lid and removed the contents. There were four items in total, all books, library bound, one printed, the others handwritten.

  His grandmother had appeared behind him, carrying a second lamp. “I told you, Ben. They’re always in the same place.”

  He shuffled the books and placed them inside his rucksack. “You mind if I take these?”

  “Bring them back. They’re priceless.”

  He smiled, kissing her on the cheek as he left. “If I leave now, I can get the flight out of Logan at six.”

  2

  8 p.m., St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, the next day

  The remains of the body had been laid out on the table, awaiting the inevitable tests. A large white sheet covered it, the outlines of the bones easily visible beneath the folds. The surgeon was standing alongside it, dressed in a typical white jacket, a green face mask and rubber gloves.

  The other man was dressed far more casually. Standing at over six feet in height, he had the build of a sportsman, perhaps a basketball player or something equally competitive. His thick sandy-coloured hair was neatly combed but slightly curly, its natural waviness prone to becoming tangled when it got too long. His face, though handsome, revealed signs of a hazardous and eventful past, with the rugged, clean-shaven skin on his right cheek displaying evidence of past scars.

  For Chris Maloney, it was a consequence of a hard and perilous life at sea.

  Chris folded his arms, tucking his cold hands into the folds of his thick black leather jacket, and took a deep breath. The twenty-minute flight from Land’s End to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, had been largely straightforward, at least compared to the one that preceded it. The journey had started on Monday morning, just before 10 a.m. At seven that evening he was boarding a plane, a direct flight from Boston to Heathrow. By the time he had landed, it was morning, the faint glimmer of the rising sun barely visible behind the thick rain clouds that had enveloped the plane for the final hour of the flight. By 10 a.m. British Summer Time he was in London, where he embarked on a train to Penzance.

  It was now 8 p.m. Wednesday, and he was tired.

  But he had made it.

  Soon, his cousin would join him.

  The surgeon removed the white sheet that covered the cadaver and quietly took in the sight. Alongside him, Chris Maloney did the same.

  The skin had almost completely decomposed. According to eyewitness accounts, it had been in far better condition when the body was first discovered five days earlier, but in that short intervening period, it had degenerated considerably through exposure to the air.

  Everything else had disintegrated less recently. The eye sockets were an empty void, as were the ribcage and the pelvic region. A sickly gelatinous liquid was seeping from the area of the skull where the brain had once been.

  Chris looked on uneasily. Although his stomach had been upset since the in-flight meal, he knew it wasn’t a digestive problem that was affecting him. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a dead body, and this one was much as he had expected from the initial reports. The skeleton had been extremely well preserved, particularly the bone structure. The skull was intact, except for a cavity on the left side. The jaw was slightly out of alignment, giving the impression of a grim smile and ironic humour.

  It was the face of a man who had been shot.

  Biting his lip, Chris took a step backwards and began to wander around the room. Though the find itself was unsettling, what hit him most was the smell. It was the reason for the preservation. A strong odour emanated from a coating of moist silt that had formed a cocoon-like covering, conserving both the boat and body.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Cover it up. I’ve seen enough.”

  The surgeon complied, replacing the sheet without argument. Finishing, he removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink.

  “I understand he had some belongings?” Chris asked.

  The surgeon nodded, walking towards a second table located by a recently painted white wall that reflected the overhead lights. He opened the lid of a large cardboard box and removed three items.

  “One compass, Victorian,” the surgeon began, showing it to Chris. After a century buried in silt, it was impossible to open.

  “One pocket watch, also Victorian.”

  Chris accepted it with an outstretched hand and tried to force it open. Though it was no longer ticking, the exterior was in surprisingly good condition; fortunately its owner had kept it deep within a waistcoat pocket. Inside the casing was a small photograph, also well preserved. A fair-haired woman was looki
ng away from the camera, an elegant expression crossing her young face. As a Maloney, Chris was certain he had seen her before, both in photographs and in real life. She was a spitting image of his grandmother.

  The man’s wife.

  His grandmother’s grandmother.

  His great-great-grandmother.

  “One external pocket.” The surgeon gave Chris what looked to be a hundred-year-old shoulder bag. The strap was broken, but the thick leather carrier itself was largely unharmed, its original dark brown colour lightened by a century of being enveloped in silt.

  Chris opened the bag, causing dry debris to fall to the floor, some covering his hands and sleeve. There were objects inside: a bottle of vitamins, alongside one of bicarbonate of soda. What appeared to be a small map or perhaps a piece of paper with a diagram had become crunched into a dry ball, in danger of falling apart. There was also a small broken pair of binoculars, a dented tin of tobacco – still half full – and a small box of what he guessed were once matches, the wooden sticks all smashed to pieces.

  The final object was far easier to distinguish. The casing was also made of leather, approximately a quarter of an inch thick and, unlike the bag, in as good condition now as it had been the day it was made. The casing had served its purpose, covering over one hundred pages of 19th century paper, the majority of which were blank. There was writing on the first page, dated and arranged in the form of a diary. The handwriting was elongated and messy, the words written in English with black ink and, judging by the style, he guessed a hard and, probably, expensive nib.

  Yet it was readable, at least with effort. Skimming through it, he made out at least twenty pages that included writing, all within the date range 12 March to 8 April the same year. 1905.

  He closed the book and smiled at the surgeon.

  “Thank you.”

  3

  12 March, 1905

  The first day of my second trip to the Isles of Scilly was in many ways no different to the first. The ferry voyage from Penzance had taken a gruelling twenty-four hours, the like of which I never again wish to undergo.

  Leaving the harbour on my arrival on St Mary’s, I took a walk south along Garrison Hill and continued to a familiar haunt overlooking the sea. The Gibbous Moon Inn had been a faithful friend to me on my first visit, and I was pleased also to renew my acquaintance with Mr Thomas Pryce, a well-respected, learned gentleman of Eton education who had retired from the law to take a well-earned retirement in calmer waters. As before, our conversation was wide ranging and pleasant, flowing like water from a waterfall, never paused, nor rushed, but fine and free . . .

  Present day

  Valeria Maria Flores had been twenty-one years old when she first heard the legend of St Lide’s. She came to the island that same year, determined to find answers for herself.

  She arrived in the middle of summer; had she not done so, exploration of the caves and crevices would have been impossible. She took a part-time job at the Gibbous Moon in the heart of Hugh Town, St Mary’s, a traditional coaching inn with white walls and original beams, the oldest establishment on the island. When the money ran out, she worked full time washing pots, and then as a waitress. Seven years later, she was still there.

  She never did find the treasure.

  In seven short years Valeria had seen it all. Stories derived from the local legend were always popular topics. Some visitors displayed a casual interest, viewing them as entertaining after-dinner amusement, a perfect way to unwind with a beer or a glass of wine before retiring to their beds. Others were sceptical: to them, there was no treasure. It was just a modern marketing strategy to bring in the tourists.

  But the belief of others was greater. Some arrived fully equipped with the latest technology to aid their search. Others came without the technology, but with a plan. Either way, the result was always the same. People from all walks of life, ranging from those inspired by the adventurous spirit of Livingstone and other great explorers to the just plain stupid, had been coming for centuries; each destined to meet with the same lack of success. The legend had caused more deaths than anything else on the Isles, including the wrecks.

  Some said the treasure was cursed.

  Then there was the one who was different. Doctor Thomas Francis Maloney, FRS, an esoteric archaeologist and scholar well known in Victorian high society.

  The man had first appeared in the winter, which was strange; most came only in summer. A year later he returned in the spring, this time ready for a much longer stay. He came at night, which was even stranger; the others had always arrived in the day. He stayed for three weeks.

  And disappeared halfway through the fourth.

  Even to the nearest detail, Valeria remembered the story well. The man had eaten lunch at just before 1 p.m. on 8 April 1905 and left just before 2. He departed carrying only a light duffel bag, leaving his remaining possessions in his room. Over a week later, he had not returned. The initial conclusion at the Gibbous Moon had remained unchanged for a century. The man was a fraudster and had slipped out without paying.

  That was also the official verdict.

  Until the boat was found.

  Valeria was working in the dining room when the latest guest arrived. Even without an introduction, she immediately knew who he was. Ever since the remains of the famous adventurer had been discovered, the papers had been full of pictures; the most frequent a photographic portrait of the man taken during his heyday.

  Another guest had arrived the night before, apparently a descendant. That lad had been younger – she guessed no more than twenty-eight – whereas this one was slightly older, more mature.

  The first had been clean shaven, whereas this one was more like the man in the portrait. He had something of a beard: stubble if you could call it that. His dress was different too, but then again, styles varied. Unlike the man of a century ago, Dr Livingstone had been replaced by something in between Indiana Jones and Tom Brady. His Levis were dark blue, matching the colour of his T-shirt, presently hidden by a black windproof jacket, essential on such a windy night.

  Like the two men before him, he came in the rain.

  *

  Ben Maloney shook off the excess water from his hair and forehead as he made his way inside the inn. It was after 10 p.m., and the foyer was deserted, the quiet sound of the radio and the ticking of a grandfather clock from the Victorian era the only exceptions.

  He paused for a second to take in the surroundings. Wooden furnishings and a setting that was calm and quaint reminded him of the country inns that dotted the towns and villages of his native New England. A man was standing behind the counter at the other side of the room. Ben approached across a smart yellow carpet that was covered in watery footprints, dropped his case to the floor, and placed his hand baggage on the counter.

  Like the man of a century ago, he travelled light.

  The receptionist’s name was Daniel Anakoto: a well-built, handsome man aged somewhere in his mid-twenties with a large forehead and a strong shock of black hair. Known locally as Danny, the man was famous at the GM, not only for being the most charming, but also the only black. Though born in Ghana, after eighteen years in Cornwall and St Mary’s he had acquired a strong accent that was unmistakably Cornish.

  He smiled from behind the counter. “Good evening, sir,” he said, studying the man’s appearance. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Ben looked back with a stern expression. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

  “Mr Maloney, I presume?”

  “That’s right.”

  Danny turned around and removed a large key with a gold key ring from a selection of hooks. “Your cousin is upstairs; he gave precise instructions that we should inform him of your arrival.”

  “Thanks. I’ll find him when I’ve showered and unpacked.”

  “Of course, sir. Your cousin specifically asked for room seven. Apparently it was the room once frequented by your relation.”

  “Well, how about tha
t,” Ben replied, silently impressed.

  “Unfortunately the room is unavailable for tonight but available from tomorrow if you would like to use it then?”

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  “In the meantime we have another double room available,” he said, offering Ben the key to room seventeen. Despite the advances in technology, the owner refused to compromise the inn’s historical character by changing to the use of swipe cards. “It’s located next door to your cousin. Yes?”

  Ben unzipped his jacket and ran his hands through his long brown locks that were almost pitch black as a result of the rain.

  “Fine,” he replied at last.

  Danny smiled. “Please fill in the form, sir.”

  *

  Standing near the doorway, Valeria watched the newcomer as he started to write. His name, in essence, was irrelevant. She knew from the old stories that the man who disappeared had had children, and later his children had had children.

  She didn’t need to see any ID to know the latest was now standing in front of her.

  *

  “Is it raining hard?” Danny asked as Ben entered his details. “Or has it largely stopped?”

  Ben looked up as he completed the form and tossed the pen across the counter. As he picked up the key, he noticed the name tag on Danny’s chest. “That your real name?”

  Danny grinned. “The only one I have.”

  Ben picked up his bag, smiling faintly. “What floor?”

  “The second floor,” he replied, “the waitress will show you to your room.”

  Ben turned away from the counter, his eyes taking in the features of the lobby. There was someone standing by the doorway to the dining room, a dark silhouette only partially visible in the poor light: slender, sleek, elegant.

  Stunningly attractive.