The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “I don’t suppose you know where he went?” he asked.

  At that moment, the door opened for a second time, followed by the return of Ben. He saw the police officer in front of him.

  “Mr Maloney?” the officer asked, immediately recognising the American. Even though they had never met in person, the resemblance to the man in the recent newspaper photographs was clear.

  “You must be Officer Hammock?”

  A wry smile. “Hammitt. It’s a Cornish name.”

  “Sorry to cause offence.” They shook hands.

  “None taken, I can assure you,” Hammitt replied, before returning his attention to Valeria, in truth sorry his brief interaction with the attractive Spaniard was about to end.

  “I don’t suppose you have somewhere private we can go?”

  *

  Valeria took them to a small sitting room located off the corridor near the bar. At one time the room had been the heart of the coaching inn. These days, it was just used for private functions and special occasions.

  Valeria led them inside and invited the two men to sit down in identical armchairs located either side of a large coffee table adjacent to an original log fire, which was already lit. Like most rooms in the inn, original artwork covered the main walls, whose cream surfaces were in need of redecoration.

  “I’ll bring you both some coffee.”

  Hammitt watched her leave the room before turning his attention to Ben. He added another log to the fire and jabbed it with the poker before slowly lowering himself into the chair.

  “Certainly in need of it today,” he said, smoothing his hair that had gone flat beneath his hat.

  “Worse before it gets better,” Ben replied.

  Valeria returned immediately, carrying a tray of refreshments. She poured coffee into two cups and smiled at Ben as she departed.

  Hammitt added milk to his coffee, stirred it and took the first sip.

  “Now then,” he said, placing the cup on a coaster and removing a small notepad and a pencil. “Let’s just see I’ve got this correct:

  “Your name is Benjamin Maloney of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. You’re thirty-two years old and currently reside in Hanover, New Hampshire?” he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a teacher?”

  “As a matter of fact, I lecture in European History at the University of Dartmouth.”

  “I guess that takes care of my next question,” Hammitt replied, sipping from his coffee. “And how about your cousin?”

  The question is, where to start. “Chris is between jobs right now. Though, like me, he studied at college. He trained for the navy at Annapolis and served for five years before leaving on medical grounds . . .”

  “What exactly?”

  “He was injured in combat. Ever since, my cousin, well . . . let’s just say he struggles sometimes with distance perception. Things can look closer or further away than they actually are.”

  “Which you need in the navy, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  Hammitt decided to move on. “And what now?”

  “Well, like I say, Chris has done different jobs, but, like me, his passion is history. He’s dabbled with freelance journalism – has written dozens of articles on the Spanish colonisation of America.”

  Hammitt leaned his chin against his fist. “What brought you both to St Mary’s?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware of the discovery of my great-great-grandfather’s boat off St Lide’s a week ago.”

  A half smile. “So that’s who I’ve been reading about in the papers. What brought him to the Scillies?”

  “Apparently some years back our ancestors emigrated to the US from England and Ireland. At least one is said to have died around Tresco,” he said. “My great-great-grandfather believed he was buried somewhere on one of these islands. It was one of his great ambitions to trace the family’s history back as far as he could.” He looked at the police officer. “What?”

  Hammitt smiled. “What brought him to St Lide’s?”

  “From what I can gather, my ancestor came across a story, something about a naval disaster.”

  “Ah, 1707,” the police officer said, shaking his head. “Not exactly our finest of moments.”

  Ben continued. “Apparently one of our ancestors, perhaps more, was killed in the wreck. TF was on his way to Spain and originally only stayed a few days. Came back a year later for a few weeks.”

  Hammitt was confused. “And how long have you and your cousin been on the island?”

  “Three days. Chris a day longer.”

  “I see.” Hammitt crossed his legs. “You prepared for a long stay?”

  “Being honest, we hadn’t really decided.”

  Hammitt nodded, continuing to make notes. “Did he succeed, by the way? Your ancestor?”

  “Succeed?”

  “Finding his ancestor? Three weeks seems something of a long stay for a guy who only intended to stay a few days.”

  “Apparently he did.”

  “And your name’s Maloney?”

  “What about it?”

  The police officer smiled. “I’ve been a detective on this beat for over thirty years. Never once have I come across a Maloney. Surname, at least.”

  “Like I say, he was Irish. And originally we were called Wilcox.”

  “Wilcox?”

  “Yes.”

  Hammitt nodded, though Ben was sure the whole thing was of no relevance.

  “What exactly have the two of you been doing since your arrival?”

  Ben went into partial detail of their activities, concentrating on his time with Dr Phillips. He avoided talk of the mausoleum and St Lide’s.

  The police officer nodded, playing with his pen between his fingers. “And you hadn’t decided how long you were planning on staying?”

  “No.”

  *

  While the American tourist and the English police officer continued their talk, the intruder inserted the key into the door of the American’s room and closed it on entering.

  Nothing was particularly hidden. There were books on the side, five in total, all old and showing the signs of their age.

  The intruder didn’t know what four of them were meant for.

  After scanning the covers of the first two, the intruder looked more closely at the third book, the diary. It was old, but extremely useful.

  Perhaps priceless.

  Moments later, the intruder entered Nicholl’s deserted office and lifted up the flap on the photocopier.

  With any luck, the job would take under five minutes.

  *

  “Let me see if I’m following this correctly,” Hammitt said at last. “Your great-great-grandfather, one Thomas Francis Maloney, a highly respected professor of history from Cambridge, came here on a pre-planned holiday while on his way to Spain. On finding his way to St Lide’s, he came across evidence of family buried there. A year later he returned, now for longer . . .” He looked at Ben. “Any idea why he decided to stay?”

  “No,” Ben lied.

  “Any idea what he was doing on the boat?”

  “With all due respect, Officer Hammitt, what in God’s name does any of this have to do with my cousin? Now, if someone wants to solve the mystery of what happened to my great-great-grandfather, I’m all for it, but right now, I’d really appreciate it if you could focus your attention on what happened to Chris.”

  Hammitt sipped again from his coffee, his eyes never leaving the tourist. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he replaced the cup on the table. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Yesterday evening during dinner. Again just after.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “He was ill. He disappeared . . . his garlic bread was long past its use by – ask the owner.”

  Hammitt nodded, sucking on his pencil. “You didn’t check on him afterwards?”

  “I did to start o
ff with. Then I finished my dinner, had a few drinks . . .”

  “Alone?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, the waitress accompanied me.”

  Hammitt nodded, again his focus cold. “Then what?”

  “Nothing really. She went home. I went for a walk.”

  “I see,” Hammitt said, adjusting his position in his seat. “I understand nothing was taken. From his room. Nothing was stolen.”

  “Not as far as I can see.”

  “Well, before we go any further, I’d best be checking your cousin’s room. You mind if I check yours too?”

  Ben shook his head. “No. Be my guest.”

  *

  Ben unlocked the door of his room and watched from the doorway as the detective carried out his inspection. The bed had been freshly made, the linen changed, a new mint left on the pillow.

  “Mint,” he said, picking it up and putting it down again. “Yum.”

  “Be my guest. I’ve had two.”

  Hammitt laughed. “Perhaps some other time,” he said, looking around, his attention focusing on the side table. “You sure like your books.”

  Ben folded his arms. “Yeah.”

  “Fun way to spend a holiday?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hammitt decided to move on. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mr Maloney, that any detail, no matter how trivial, could be of the greatest importance.” He watched for any sign of acknowledgement. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  Ben looked at the police officer, concentrating on his eyes. After holding his gaze for several seconds, he broke eye contact and looked at the wall. The nearby night storage heater was turned on, throwing out enough heat to make the curtains move.

  “No.”

  “Where was your cousin?”

  Ben led Hammitt to Chris’s room; the door was locked.

  They returned to the front desk, finding Valeria.

  “You mind opening Chris’s room?”

  “Of course.”

  *

  The room was empty, apart from the furniture. According to Valeria, nothing had been moved. Chris had arrived carrying a light brown suitcase and hand baggage. The case was still lying open in the corner of the room; some of his clothes were drying on the radiator or on the clotheshorse by the en suite door, whereas others were scattered everywhere. The hand baggage was still there; Ben remembered for a fact he had carried nothing when he came down to dinner. There were no signs suggesting an intention not to return: toiletries, books, pamphlets picked up from the lobby all indicated the room was occupied.

  Hammitt was troubled. “I think the best thing I can do is dust for prints.”

  *

  Hammitt was done within ten minutes. He adjusted his hat and offered Ben his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Maloney. I’ll make further enquiries and keep you up to date with any developments. Please let me know if you recall anything further that may help with our enquiries.”

  27

  12:45 p.m.

  Nicholl was in the office when Valeria entered. Looking up from his papers, he saw not a young waitress in her late twenties, model complexion, deep brown eyes, hair wavy like a Greek goddess, but a timid expression, puffed-up cheeks and a warm woolly coat.

  He looked at her, concerned, “My dear, you look awful.”

  She smiled weakly. “Forgive me, Mr Nicholl. I feel so poorly.”

  He responded with a kindly, sympathetic smile. Over seven years as her employer, he had come to think of her almost as a daughter.

  He remembered the day they had met; back then she was just a customer looking to dine at the best inn in town. His thoughts at that time had been very different; the prettiest thing the island had seen since the baby seal, You’re damn right that was interesting. He knew some people might have questioned him – he was old enough to be her father and then some – but who were they to judge? When he gave her a job the same thoughts had entered his mind; she had no experience waiting tables, even her English left a lot to be desired. For the first month the feelings resurfaced, but these days they were very protective. He treated her well, not that he treated his other staff badly, and after two months at the GM he had developed something of a paternal bond for her. She still had her grandmother, but she wasn’t always right in the head, bless her. In times of crisis, she came to him: that was the one thing he did ask of her.

  And that was the one thing she needed of him.

  Nicholl rose slowly from his seat. “Sit down,” he insisted, guiding Valeria into the chair. He placed his palm on her forehead. “Well, your temperature seems normal. When exactly did this come on?”

  “Just this last hour,” she said, breathing slightly deeper than usual. “I was upstairs and felt dizzy. I’m sure it is nothing.”

  He smiled at her and placed his hand over hers. Over seven years his employee, this was the first time he had known her to be unwell.

  “I want you to go home and get some rest,” he said. “You’ve been overdoing things, Vally. I’ve told you before; health always comes first.”

  She smiled back, this time with much more energy. He always called her Vally. In the early days she put it down to him not being able to remember her actual name, but now it had become his pet name for her.

  “Are you okay with the boat?”

  She rose to her feet and nodded. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “I’ll be fine by the morning.”

  *

  Valeria was home within twenty-five minutes, thanks to Nicholl, with the rest of the day off. She was scheduled to have the evening off anyway, so losing four hours was hardly the end of the world.

  Judging by the lack of visitors, she knew it wouldn’t make a huge difference to her boss.

  She re-entered her house through the kitchen door and headed straight for the cellar. Though the room had been fully refurbished, fitted out with modern furniture, laminate flooring and painted white in a style visually reminiscent of a luxury cabin, it still retained a slight odour of old brickwork that betrayed its age and historical origin. The original red brick wall remained behind the new layer of white paint, the smell of decay particularly strong in one corner. The original plan had been to convert it into a bedroom, but these days Valeria used it mainly for laundry and storage. She knew they would never have enough visitors to make an extra bedroom worthwhile; even if they needed three, the upstairs rooms served that purpose.

  A large boiler was located at the far end of the room along with redundant furniture from the kitchen, including a broken washing machine that Valeria once joked predated the lighthouse. Her grandmother never changed anything; she knew the same was true of most of her family. What was good enough then remained so now.

  Eventually, though, Valeria won the argument about refitting the kitchen, which now looked immaculate.

  She walked towards a doorway at the far end. The knob was brass, the frame oak – like those at the Gibbous Moon it reminded her of the kind that led to a wine cellar of a fine manor house.

  She removed a key from a pocket in her jeans, opened the door and entered. She was now beneath the lighthouse in what had once been the maintenance room. In the past, a long wall had existed, partitioning the two buildings, but that had changed during recent developments. In the early days the lighthouse had become her retreat – her getaway. There was no view more romantic on the island; there was no symbol more romantic than a lighthouse.

  Her grandmother aside, she refused to reveal to anyone anything of the building’s true significance.

  Unlike the recently renovated cellar, the former maintenance room was derelict and bare, lined with the original red brick wall, and carrying the same obnoxious smell of abandonment and age. A single light bulb dangled from the socket above, the dim glow of the forty-watt bulb barely making an impression on the darkness.

  She had seen the room several times before but not like this. It was her frame of mind that was different; a new sense of perspectiv
e, of possibility and perhaps of awe. Never judge things by their appearances – that was what her grandmother had always told her. It was a difficult thing to accept – particularly in a world where people did nothing but. As a desirable hot-blooded Spanish woman, she had become used to it, accepted it as normal even. Never before had she considered the idea that such important things could be hidden within such unassuming places, the valuable mistaken for being worthless, something shining possessing false value. She remembered a line from Shakespeare, words that seemed appropriate.

  All that glisters is not gold.

  She continued towards the far end of the room and stopped before the final wall. Unlike the other three, this one was not red but grey, not brick but stone. Once upon a time she guessed it had probably been painted white.

  She felt it with her hands. Unlike the other three, the surface was smooth.

  She removed the recently photocopied papers from her pocket and began to read.

  28

  An hour later, Ben was lying on top of the covers of his bed, still struggling to gather his thoughts. The only thing missing from Chris’s room was Chris himself. Valeria was right to be cautious.

  Question was: what else did she know?

  Any doubts he had had about the story Valeria told him the night before had been partially dispelled after his trip to the mausoleum, but even though he had seen the interior first-hand he was still struggling to understand what it all meant. In many ways, he felt worse because of it. The clues on the wall appeared cryptic, just like the notes left behind by TF.

  Ben knew they wouldn’t have been recorded in the diary if they weren’t relevant.

  The book Dr Phillips had given him was interesting rather than useful. Chapter Eight began with the author introducing the legends of the islands before spending ten pages recounting Cortés’s life story. It focused on the telling of the Noche Triste – or as it was translated into English, The Night of Sorrows. The Night of Sorrows, he thought.