The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  The last thing he expected was Colts standing in the corner, brandishing a gun.

  “You?” Valeria said, not knowing how else to react. The man was a regular at the GM, so much so that Nicholl had actually allocated him his own room. In truth, Valeria still knew nothing of his background.

  Colts smiled at Valeria and tipped his hat like a gentleman. “My, my, my, what have we been rolling in this evening?”

  Valeria was confused, whereas Ben had figured out the reason for the smile. He looked at Valeria’s cheek and pointed. “You have a little . . .”

  She looked back at Ben, removed a small mirror from her handbag and saw her face was covered in dirt.

  “Here.” Ben licked his finger and walked towards her. He received a slap for his trouble, and Valeria finished the job herself.

  “My, my,” Colts repeated, “sure is a terrible evening out there. Question is, what has brought two such fine people as yourselves to a place like this?”

  “You were right about the markers, Colts.” He looked at the man he believed was an archaeologist and then at Valeria. “The Spaniards have Chris.”

  Colts failed to hide a grin. “I did warn you.”

  “They came. They took the trumpet.”

  “Trumpet?”

  “The first marker stone.”

  “Ben.” Valeria poked him in the midriff. “Why do you talk?”

  “Mr Colts works for the Duke of Cornwall. He’s been assigned to find the treasure for its rightful owner.”

  Valeria’s expression had noticeably soured. “You bastard. All this time, you were lying to me.”

  “Montezuma’s dead. So is Cortés. When the treasure is found, the money can be shared. The treasure belongs in a museum.”

  Ben turned away, concentrating on Colts. “They have Chris.”

  Colts remained vigilant, gun at the ready. “You’re quite certain?”

  “They came down on us after you dropped me off. They took the diary.”

  “Diary?” Colts adjusted his hat. “I don’t remember you mentioning any diary, Ben.”

  “I showed it to you earlier when I showed you the coat of arms. Besides, the diary belonged to my ancestor. It’s a family heirloom. Personal property.”

  “You think it contains clues?”

  Ben hesitated. “I didn’t know you. I still don’t.”

  “Well, why don’t I make it nice and clear for you, Ben. It’s not me, as such, you need to answer to, but my employer.”

  “We’ve seen four of the stones. Together they spell out a name. They took the trumpet, but we saw what it said.”

  A strange silence ensued, the atmosphere affected by the occasional sound of heat expanding wood and metal, usually a dull clunk or snapping sound, enough to make the hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stand on end. He was becoming apprehensive, Valeria worse still.

  Colts was clearly in no mood to compromise. “Well, come on then, Ben. Let’s hear it.”

  “Ben.” Valeria was worried. She had taken to standing behind Ben, even cuddling up against him.

  “It’s hard to make out for sure. Three of them seem to spell out the name Godolphin.”

  “Godolphin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Very good, Ben. What else?”

  “I don’t know. It just has the letters OSS.”

  “That the stone, right there?”

  “Ben,” Valeria said, increasingly nervous.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, approaching Colts. He lifted the base, allowing him to read the letters.

  “That’s mighty pretty there, Ben. And I must say, you’ve done some sterling work – both of you have. It’s been missing for a long time – all of them have. And in the space of one night you go and find them.”

  Ben’s heart was beating a mile a minute. Being underground for so long had caused problems with his breathing, but he knew it was not the stale air alone that was making him feel the way he did. Chris had been missing all day. He still had no idea where he was or whether it really was the Spaniards who had taken him. There were no clues, no leads; as far as he was aware, Hammitt wasn’t even working on it.

  The only solution lay with solving the riddle.

  “What does it mean?” Ben asked Colts, struggling to keep his composure. “You don’t seem too surprised.”

  Colts raised an eyebrow and smiled, that same smile, like the cat that had the cream. “Maybe if you ever stay here as long as I have, Ben, you’ll get to see things others don’t. Tell me, what were those other letters again?”

  “Other letters?”

  “Yes, Ben. The ones you thought spelled out Godolphin.”

  “The first was HIN. Then another was OLP. Finally GOD. Then this one.”

  Colts nodded. “That sure is mighty fine logic, Ben. He might even have a point,” he said to Valeria, who was in no mood to respond.

  “We need to find the other piece; that will tell us where we need to go,” Ben said.

  Colts removed his pipe from his jacket and filled it up with tobacco. Ben was exasperated.

  “Colts, for goodness’ sake.” He slapped the pipe from the man’s mouth, causing it to crash down on to the floor, spilling tobacco everywhere. “I’m not playing games. My cousin is missing because of this. Tell me now. Where is the fifth?”

  Colts picked up his pipe and most of the tobacco. “What are the ones you said you have found?”

  “A rose, a fish, a bell and a trumpet. They took the trumpet. I understand the last one is a cup.”

  Colts finally lit his pipe, blowing rings of smoke upward to the ceiling. “You think you’re pretty good at seeing things, Ben? I mean, you’re not the kind of person who would see something directly in front of you only to fail to see the significance, are you?”

  Ben could tell a rebuke was imminent. “What?”

  Colts laughed, practically a snigger. “I suggest you follow me.”

  *

  Of all places, Colts led them back to the Gibbous Moon. Danny was behind the reception desk, finishing on the phone.

  “Hi there, Danny,” Colts said, beaming his brightest smile. “Some storm, huh?”

  “Between you and me, Mr Colts, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  “How about that?” Colts said, looking at Ben and Valeria. “Such a man of the world.”

  Danny watched as Colts walked through the doorway and into the bar area. The tables were clean, coasters plentiful, visitors, not for the first time, notable for their absence. Colts led the way across the red carpet and stopped in front of a large wall cabinet, the centrepiece of the room.

  Immediately Valeria understood what was going on. “Oh my.”

  “By my accounts, the Gibbous Moon became famous for two reasons,” Colts said; his trademark grin returned. “Besides being the worst drinking establishment on this whole goddamn island.”

  Ben was not amused. “What are the other two?”

  “One, it’s the oldest inn on the island. Perhaps oldest of all on the Scillies.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  Colts nodded at the artefact located behind the glass. “People round here have never been quick to get too close to this. They say misfortune and death surround those who touch the Devil’s Cup.”

  Valeria wetted her lips, her eyes focused on the white cup-shaped stone that lay before her. She had seen it every day for seven years, even cleaned the area around it.

  Never had she connected it with the five emeralds.

  Ben folded his arms, remembering the object from when Nicholl had shown it to him the day after his arrival. “What is it?” Ben asked, ever sceptical.

  “Tradition has it the cup was moulded by Lucifer himself. Used to like tormenting people, particularly Scillonians. One night, he gave this as a reward to a former owner . . .”

  “Let me guess. He beat him at cards?”

  Colts laughed. “Actually, drinking. Not many people can outdrink the devil. They say anyone who picks it up will be m
et with grave misfortune. Death within seventy-two hours.”

  “You ever touched it?”

  Colts adjusted his hat. “Well, that would be telling now, wouldn’t it?”

  Ben looked at Valeria. “You?”

  Valeria was as white as a sheet. To Ben, there were no prizes for guessing who was the most superstitious of the three.

  Ben bit his lip, eyeing the cup from a distance. Conventional logic told him he should leave it alone; after all, it was someone else’s property.

  He tried to open the cabinet. “You got a key?”

  Valeria was on the verge of hyperventilating. “Ben?”

  “Come on. Give me the key to the cabinet. Come on.”

  Valeria removed the keys from her pocket and shuffled for the right one, nearly dropping them. Ben took them and inserted the correct one into the lock. The glass door on the right opened, allowing Ben access. There were several items on a single shelf: the alleged former property of TF; a small miniature portrait, said to be of the former owner who outdrank the devil; and, finally, the cup.

  Ben wriggled his fingers and touched it, tentatively at first before carefully picking it up. Its texture was identical to the other five: it was white, weighed about 9kg and was easy to hold. The shape was identical to the cup in the stained-glass window: long and thin, like a simple drinking cup from the Middle Ages.

  He turned it over, inspecting the base. Like the others, there was writing, not three letters but two.

  “Well, Captain? What’s it say?”

  Ben double-checked it and passed it to Colts.

  “CR,” Colts said, adjusting his hat. “Any bright ideas?”

  Ben shook his head. “No, not really.”

  Colts studied the letters and looked back at Ben with a dry expression. No doubt about it. It said CR.

  “Nothing springs to mind?” Colts asked.

  “I’m still pretty sure the earlier stuff said Godolphin.”

  Colts took a seat at the nearest table, put the cup down and removed his hat, revealing a receding hairline flanked by fuzzy black hair with hints of grey. This was the first time Ben had seen him bareheaded. It seemed to change the man’s complexion, adding at least five years to his appearance. His hat had made him seem taller.

  Somehow, the hat made Ben take him more seriously.

  “Give me everything. In order.”

  Ben started with the trumpet. “HIN. OLP. GOD. OSS. CR.”

  Colts considered the message, for now struggling to make sense of it.

  Ben looked at Colts and Valeria in turn. “You’re sure they spell out the name of a place?”

  “Yes,” Valeria said.

  In truth, Ben didn’t doubt it. He took the other three stones from Valeria and spread them out across the table. Looking at them in order helped, although the absence of the trumpet made things more difficult.

  “Godolphin,” Ben said, convinced by the bell, fish and missing trumpet. As he pushed the cup next to the rose, he noticed something. The CR on the cup was right of centre, indicating a space.

  “Godolphin Cross,” Ben said.

  Colts looked up. “Pardon me?”

  Ben noticed a change in Colts’s expression. It was as if he had hit a nail on its head. “I said—”

  “No.” Colts waved his finger and rose to his feet. “You said Godolphin Cross. Who told you about Godolphin Cross?”

  “Nobody. It’s what it says.”

  Ben stepped to one side as Colts moved alongside him and looked the stones over, one by one. Even with the absence of the trumpet, the logic behind the order of the letters was undeniable.

  And obviously correct.

  “You sure you didn’t know about this before?”

  Ben was confused. “No. Why . . . Colts?”

  Colts had moved away from the table, heading for the doorway. Fortunately there was no one about; the wind and rain battering against the windows was the only sound, their voices aside.

  “You telling me you’d never heard of the place before tonight?”

  Ben was nearly speechless. “You mean it exists?”

  “Oh, it exists all right.” He turned to Valeria. “And you?”

  She hesitated, eventually finding the nerve to muster a response. “No, never.”

  “Godolphin Cross was the family estate of the Godolphin family. The chief seat of all the famous governors.”

  “The chief seat. Where is it?”

  Colts raised his eyebrows. “England.”

  *

  Standing by the doorway, Danny was a bundle of nerves. He saw the American, his friend and the archaeologist steal the Devil’s Cup from the cabinet, and place it carefully in Valeria’s handbag along with three other objects.

  In truth he didn’t know what worried him most. The fact that they were taking the Devil’s Cup or simply touching it.

  He returned to the desk, looking as if he was working. He saw Colts smile at him as he left, holding up a parting hand.

  “Best of evenings to you, friend. Don’t you be working too hard.”

  There was no danger of that. “You can’t possibly be heading out again in this?”

  “Ben here is mighty anxious Miss Flores be escorted safely back to her boat. And like you say, friend, seen much worse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Danny mustered.

  “Be seeing you real soon, Danny boy.”

  Danny waited until they had departed through the main door. The street was engulfed by the storm, the howling of the wind practically deafening. As the door closed, the sound of the wind became muffled, overpowered by that of the rain hammering down against the glass, and running down the slope into the sea or gutters.

  Danny tried to compose himself. He waited until they had left before picking up the phone. It rang five times, six, seven.

  Voicemail.

  He knew he daren’t leave his post, but he was faced with a situation that was almost unheard of.

  Mustering all the strength he could, he put on his jacket and followed the three thieves into the teeth of the storm.

  The Fourth Day

  44

  Cornwall, England

  Dawn came early, or maybe sunset was just really late. Ben had lost track of time. There was light on the horizon, a distant glimmer surrounded by haze. He could see it, just shining there, somewhere above the sea. As his eyes adjusted, he saw red, not just orange. There was a saying in these parts: red sky at morning is a sailor’s warning. He had never known whether to take such things, such prophesies, as anything more than superstition. Just like touching the Devil’s Cup, it all seemed highly romanticised. Yet warning bells were ringing in his mind, just as they had been since the moment he learned Chris had gone missing.

  Then he remembered.

  He was still missing.

  The boat reached land at around 5 a.m. According to Colts, they had made good time. The boat was a cabin cruiser. Ben had been on it twice now, firstly with Colts to St Lide’s.

  It seemed like a long time ago.

  The journey took over five hours, all of which was in the dark. The storm that had battered the Isles of Scilly since late afternoon had followed them like a metal rod attracts lightning. Huge waves crashed against the boat, flooding the deck and pounding the vessel from side to side. Ben had never been prone to seasickness, but these conditions were extreme. They ate immediately, the food cooked by Colts in the galley, and Ben brought it up within minutes; Valeria even sooner.

  Even Colts admitted the storm was a bad one.

  The journey ended at the town of Penzance, located on the coast east of Land’s End. After departing the boat while it was still dark, Ben and Valeria followed Colts through the quiet streets; the occasional light from a window, a clubber returning home, a teenager from a party, the rare companions to the numerous streetlights whose light created a homely glow above the drenched pavement. After following Colts to a dimly lit multi-storey car park, they got into a five-year-old Ford Transit and journeyed t
hrough the empty streets.

  Thirty-five minutes later they reached their destination.

  *

  The village of Godolphin Cross was in the south-west of Cornwall. Ten miles east of Penzance and eighteen from St Just, it was in an upland area, the plateau of the nearby countryside. Its position was locally celebrated; as the name suggested, it was a point where the parish met a crossroads. Passing the pub on the corner of the crossroads, weary travellers would be faced with four choices: to follow the path west would bring them to Penzance, north to St Ives Bay, south to The Lizard and the surrounding coastline. Then there were those who headed east, and inland.

  The path that led out of Cornwall.

  Godolphin Cross was a large village compared to most. Lying midway between the towns of Hayle and Helston, it had a medical centre, a redundant church, several houses and a primary school that had fared well in its last Ofsted inspection. The Godolphin Cross pub was located at the crossroads, overlooking the roads like a watchtower, its thick granite façade and large windows monitoring all four points of the compass.

  While the village itself was little more than a reference point, less than a mile from the crossroads stood a more prominent feature. Hidden behind ancient woodland, and nestling within the steep inclines of the surrounding hillside, a supposedly cursed former dwelling served as a reminder of past glories. Once upon a time the 550-acre estate had been famed as one of the finest in Cornwall. A Tudor mansion still occupied the site where once an even larger house had stood. Elizabethan stables adjoined the house on one side, beside well-maintained gardens that hosted wild and exotic flowers, many of which were in bloom. The years may have passed, but the sights, people said, never changed. Even after the rise of Cromwell, the family prospered, before an eventual decline in their fortunes in the 1800s. As the family’s wealth reduced, the house became progressively more uncared for and eventually redundant. Cold. Forgotten. Dilapidated.

  Ten years earlier, the sight that would have met the three travellers would have been one completely different. A decade under the care of the National Trust had seen the former shell slowly return to public life. On spring and summer days, couples and tourists would walk the corridors, explore the rooms and gardens, and eat cake in the tea room, enjoying a personal journey into the lives of those of long ago.