The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  The western wall, easily identified not only from the point of the compass at which it stands, but also the curious imagery located at its far corner, is unique not only to the island but, besides the imagery of which I have already spoken in its neighbour, unique to the Isles as a whole. Having made this most fortunate breakthrough, I now believe the riddle of Hernán’s treasure and, indeed, the construction of the nearby building, makes complete sense. Due to recent events, I have as yet been unable to ascertain the valuable treasure that remains stored there, but I am in no doubt of both its location and importance. As the great man once correctly pointed out:

  A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.

  Ben breathed out desperately. He looked to one side, sipped his coffee, and placed the book down on the side table.

  The imagery of which he had previously spoken. Having read the diary, Ben guessed he must have been talking of St Lide’s.

  The far corner of the mausoleum was apparently lined with symbols. Ben had not seen them; it was the same area where he had made his entrance.

  As far as he could tell, they no longer existed.

  He picked up the diary again. His instinct told him that TF had seen more than what he had just seen. The outer wall had been intact when the drawing was made; the large gap, which had allowed Ben entry, had not existed.

  Clearly TF believed something of significance had been hidden there.

  Ben got to his feet and left the room, stopping outside Chris’s door. He knocked loudly three times, waiting for a response.

  Hearing none, he tried again.

  Probably sleeping off his Aztec curse, he thought.

  Leaving the corridor, he returned to his room.

  The Third Day

  23

  7:30 a.m.

  Cortés was in the depths of despair. The night had been a disaster, one of the worst in living memory. It was not just a simple failure.

  His entire world had been shattered.

  It was beginning to get light outside. The sun was rising slowly in the eastern sky, the faintest tip of orange making itself visible above the sea. The rain that had previously poured incessantly for almost eight hours had ceased about twenty minutes ago, the remaining cloud now scattered.

  They had spent the night aboard Pizarro’s yacht, an impressive white multimillion-pound model that had recently celebrated five years on the seas. They had anchored back in Tresco, choosing a well-protected and uninteresting area amongst several other vessels moored by holidaymakers. It wasn’t the type of place that attracted attention. As the wind picked up, most of the owners shut up shop, choosing to ride out the storm below decks or in a bed and breakfast ashore.

  Cortés had barely slept. Thanks to the topography of the bay, it was more sheltered than most, but now the Spaniard had other things on his mind. The manuscript Pizarro had found in Valladolid was genuine – that much was now beyond doubt. The map was clearly based on something that had once existed.

  Once existed – but no longer!

  He rolled over in his makeshift bed, pulling the duvet over his head. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it: the excavated pit, the primitive tools, the fact that nothing remained.

  It was every treasure hunter’s worst nightmare. And every Spaniard’s.

  The English had beaten him to it.

  He heard movement behind him, the door sliding open and closed. Someone had entered the cabin; he looked and saw it was Pizarro. The man’s appearance was the same as ever, a white T-shirt, tatty blue jeans, greasy black hair, unshaven. Had he not acknowledged the distant family link between them, the slight facial similarity, he would have simply dismissed him as scruffy.

  “Why do you bother me so early?” Cortés said, turning his back on Pizarro, “I’m in no mood to be disturbed.”

  Pizarro had brought him a coffee. “After all these years at sea, I’d have thought you’d have grown used to the storms, amigo.”

  Cortés was in no mood to answer, but the last thing he wanted was to lose face. He rolled back over, removing the duvet from his naked chest.

  “Did you not see what I saw? The map is redundant.” He jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of blue jeans. Doing up his belt, he looked himself over in the mirror. There were bags under his eyes, but otherwise all was normal. Like Pizarro, his long hair was slightly unkempt, but nothing that a comb wouldn’t fix. He looked at Pizarro, preparing to shout. “The pit was cleaned out, Fernando. You saw what I saw, the English took it years ago. There are no leads as to what became of it.”

  Pizarro smiled before his expression turned more hostile. He slammed something down on the bedside table, the impact causing the coffee to spill. It took Cortés a moment to realise what he had done.

  “Read,” snapped Pizarro.

  Cortés looked back with an angry expression, his eyes never leaving his cousin as he picked up the item. Inspecting it, he saw that it was a local newspaper article that had been printed off the Internet.

  “Read it to me.”

  Pizarro knew the content without having to look at it again.

  “It says that the Englishman who was found the other day had relatives.” He pointed to the accompanying photograph. “Two are now on St Mary’s.”

  Cortés studied it, immediately bored by the content. “And?”

  “Also, I found this.” He showed Cortés a second piece of paper. Also an Internet article.

  Cortés read the article, his eyes particularly drawn to the accompanying photograph.

  “I do not follow.”

  Pizarro pointed. “The English built a second castle in 1590. Notice the shape.”

  Cortés was speechless, understanding immediately. Living his life in the shadow of his great ancestors was in some ways both a curse and privilege; a life of scrutiny, unimaginable expectation, but one that also granted access to rare things. The signs were there in front of him, impossible to refute.

  “Where?”

  “The building still exists; it stands at the highest point on the island.”

  He took the paper from Cortés. “Come on, Juan Pablo. Why waste time?”

  24

  8:15 a.m.

  Ben awoke with a cough and a splutter. His mouth was dry, his nose partially blocked, the feeling worst at the back of his throat. As a former lacrosse player, he was used to waking up with aches and pains, but he didn’t need a physio to tell him his present grogginess was not sports related.

  He looked his body over in the bathroom mirror, his attention mainly on his back. There were scratches everywhere, particularly around his right shoulder, with evidence of dried blood prevalent on both his body and clothes. He could feel pain where his skin had rubbed against the mausoleum’s cracked wall, but he knew the stiffness in his joints was down to walking back to Hugh Town in the pouring rain.

  He prayed it wouldn’t lead to a cold.

  As usual, showering helped. He took a paracetamol and washed it down with a glass of water, hoping it would rid him of any lingering feelings of grogginess. In an ideal world, he knew the best remedy would be ten minutes in the sauna or, better yet, a whirlpool bath.

  Sadly, he knew the Gibbous Moon didn’t cater for that kind of treatment.

  He left his room and headed for Chris’s, knocking on the door. He waited several seconds and tried again, receiving no response.

  *

  Nicholl was in his office, doing the usual things. He looked up to his left, seeing Ben walk in.

  “Mr Maloney, a very good morning to you, sir. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr Nicholl. Have you seen Chris?”

  “That your cousin?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s his name.”

  “Sorry. Why, have you lost him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it might be a little more serious than that. You see, I tried knocking his door twice and tried his cell phone, and both times got nothing. He wasn’t in the dining room either.”


  “Probably just gone for a walk,” Nicholl mused.

  “I’m not so sure. You see I tried knocking on his door late last night and got no reply then either. It’s not like him. And earlier his stomach had been awful bad.”

  Nicholl frowned philosophically. “Valeria told me all about that. I’m ashamed to say the garlic bread was not fit for purpose. I take full responsibility, and I assure you, you’ll be receiving a substantial reduction off your bill to compensate.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be just a minor thing,” Ben said gratefully. “Even so, do you mind if I have a key to his room?”

  “Of course, be my guest,” Nicholl said, rising to his feet.

  They left the office and entered the lobby. Danny was on reception, writing something in the daybook.

  “Danny, when you have a moment, please escort Mr Maloney to his cousin’s room. He hasn’t been seen today; we fear he may be unwell.”

  Danny put down his pen. “Of course, Mr Nicholl.”

  *

  Danny led Ben to Chris’s room, armed with the master key. He inserted it into the lock and opened the door.

  What they saw left them speechless.

  The room had been trashed throughout. The covers had been stripped off the bed, furniture tipped over, everything disorganised. Chris’s suitcase was open, his belongings scattered across the bed. His laptop was open, but the power was off, a loose lead still plugged in at the wall.

  Ben was numb with panic. He looked through everything, trying to find an explanation for the chaos.

  Danny stuttered, “I’ll call the police.”

  Ben remained in the room alone, checking everything: the bed, under it, the bathroom. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing.

  Except for his cousin.

  25

  11:30 a.m.

  Cortés smiled at the woman behind the front desk as he handed over the completed form. He accepted the key and thanked her for her assistance before heading into the dungeon bar.

  The Star Castle was one of the main tourist attractions on St Mary’s. Formerly the largest castle on the Isles of Scilly, the eight-pointed building that once made up the majority of the defensive garrison was now a four-star hotel and a favourite destination for holidaymakers.

  Pizarro was sitting down alongside the two other Spaniards, one a bald man with a goatee, the other equally well built with blond hair. All three were sitting at a table, chatting quietly and sipping beer, when Cortés returned. Pizarro was animated, but that was nothing unusual.

  Despite his faults, he was a master of discretion.

  Cortés pulled up a fourth chair. “Two rooms,” he began. “Top floor.”

  Pizarro looked at him with his usual expression of distaste. “And just how exactly do you propose to pull this off?” he asked, his eyes darting around the bar. The site was incredible. Four hundred years ago the most notorious prisoners of the day would have been incarcerated there. Today, however, the room – with its pine roof and bar, flanked by pale-cyan stone walls, decorated by works of art, memorabilia, antiques, and furnished with comfortable tables and cushioned booths – was an oasis of calm and comfort.

  Pizarro leaned in close to Cortés, tapping his hand against a piece of paper in front of him. “There are people everywhere.”

  Cortés looked across the table at the well-built man with the goatee. “Get me a drink please, Alvarez. Quickly.”

  The man with the goatee sprang to his feet and headed towards the bar.

  “Busquets, you help him.”

  Busquets dithered for a fraction too long, receiving a punch in the thigh from Pizarro.

  Pizarro eyed his cousin. “Look around you. The interior, the lights. Everything is modern.”

  Cortés brushed the fingers of his right hand against his goatee, his eyes focused on the other side of the table. Alvarez returned in record time, carrying a pint of local ale.

  Cortés threw three one-pound coins across the table. “Treat yourself to a game of pool.”

  Alvarez nodded but said nothing, leaving.

  Alone again, Pizarro’s frustrations were getting the better of him. “Now look here.” He grabbed Cortés by the scruff of the neck. “Look around you. Everywhere we go, people. Even if we knew where to look, everywhere we go, people, people, people.”

  Cortés pushed Pizarro’s hand away. “What must it be like to have so little faith?”

  Pizarro lowered his hand as a married couple left the room. He smiled at them as they passed, pretending everything was fine.

  “Listen to me,” Cortés continued when they were gone, “all we have is speculation. For all we know, the treasure has long since been taken.”

  “Then why are we wasting time here?”

  “Again. Always with the fear. The castle here is old; its dungeons and walls are strong. You said it yourself on the boat: the shape matches the description exactly. It is the most logical place.”

  “Can you not see? It’s been turned into a hotel.”

  “Would you prefer to stay on the boat? At least here we have a place to think.”

  Pizarro folded his arms, his attention locked on the corner of the bar. Alvarez and Busquets had disappeared, he prayed to God not to make idiots of themselves.

  Cortés passed Pizarro the room key, quietly hating the idea of sharing a room with his cousin. “Here. I suggest you get some rest. After that, we can regroup. At least we have a place to do research.”

  Pizarro snatched the key and left the table. As he did so, he felt a hand on his arm.

  “Check the rest of the book. It might contain other clues. Hints as to where they might have taken it.”

  26

  Ben felt numb. The sight of the trashed room, the overturned furniture, the disorganised clothes . . . it was all fresh in his mind.

  He still couldn’t believe it. The large double bed, covered with its soft duvet, luxurious coating and extra large pillows that had been so neat and tidy on his arrival, looked as though a cyclone had hit it. There were rips in the linen, marks on the carpet, broken furniture everywhere.

  The evidence indicated it was no typical robbery.

  He walked along the Lower Strand, struggling to stop shaking. He bought a coffee from a café but found it difficult to swallow. He tried Chris on his mobile. It rang, but he received no answer. He tried leaving voicemails, sending texts, ringing again.

  Still no answer.

  Leaving the café, he wandered towards the beach. For the third day in a row, his mind was troubled, and not just because of Chris’s disappearance. Sure enough, staying in room seven was starting to have an affect: the persistent thoughts, the unanswered questions, the fact that he knew TF had been there . . .

  Later murdered.

  But recently a new fear had been growing, stalking him like a shadow. It was what the Spanish girl had said, or to be more precise, what she didn’t say. She and Chris had spoken, yet about what, he was still in the dark. Every now and then he found himself returning to the diary, rereading TF’s words – all cryptic or vague, it might as well have been written in binary. What made him come to these islands? Or more importantly, why did he return? The girl was wrong: this was no simple quest for treasure: he knew the man; he wasn’t the type to embark on foolish fantasies.

  Questions about the murder remained unanswered.

  Deep in thought, Ben walked the main roads, heading back to the Gibbous Moon. Thanks to recent events, he had his wits fully about him. There were people out, but not in large numbers, a typical day in Hugh Town. Despite the pleasant exterior, the welcoming shops, the sea trade, the restaurants that claimed to welcome visitors, he now feared it wasn’t a place for outsiders. Someone, somewhere, in some part of the island had been responsible for Chris’s disappearance, perhaps other things as well.

  And whatever they knew, they had every intention of keeping it a secret.

  Ben shook his head as he walked, trying to think of other things. No sooner had he stopped thi
nking about Chris, his thoughts turned to the past, most notably the 16th century sailor known to the world as Hernán Cortés.

  The Montezuma Treasure had never been found – he had established that many times already. According to Valeria, the ship had come to St Lide’s. A wreck had been found, allegedly from 1581. As a history lecturer, he knew it was too late for Cortés himself, but not too late for the Spaniards.

  If she was correct, someone else had brought the treasure back from Mexico.

  He looked at his watch, seeing it was after 11 a.m.

  The police officer would be visiting anytime.

  *

  Valeria was standing behind the main desk when the front door opened. Despite the inn being half full, eleven of the twenty rooms recorded as being occupied, the opening of the door was the first movement she had seen in the lobby since Ben left. She looked up from her newspaper as a man entered: approximately six feet in height, well built, bearded and aged somewhere in his mid-fifties.

  She smiled at the newcomer. “Hello, Sergeant Hammill,” she said. In seven years on the island, this was the first time she had ever seen a police officer in uniform.

  The police officer walked towards the counter, placing his hands against the side. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, putting on the most charming smile he could and ignoring her mispronunciation of his name. “How are you this fine morning?”

  Valeria smiled warmly. “Officer Bill, I am very well, but I’m afraid Mr Malone is still not back from his earlier outing.”

  The police officer removed his hat and ran his fingers through his long grey hair. After more than thirty years as a member of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary, one of only two full-time officers on St Mary’s, he had learned that the Scillies’ renowned reputation for lawlessness was very much a thing of the past.