The conservation project would remain ongoing.
Unlike the civilised features of St Agnes, the former settlements on St Lide’s had become ruined and derelict. The church had been seriously neglected – the roof was leaking badly, the stonework crumbling – and many of the gravestones outside were storm damaged and decaying.
Yet even within the dilapidated shell there remained some evidence of former splendour.
The most impressive things to survive had been the stained-glass windows; Elena had never forgotten the incredible feeling of seeing the depiction of the mighty Spanish galleon for the first time, the seven people of legend, the woman with the long wavy hair. Over the ensuing weeks, she had visited it regularly, usually with a camera or an easel. As work on the lighthouse began to take shape, returning to the church became unnecessary.
Along with the other artefacts, the window was moved to a new home.
Sitting alone, staring at the window and enjoying the effect of the sunlight passing through the glass, causing a multitude of colours to shine against the walls, she began to focus on the wider collection of objects that covered the nearby oak table. A small chest stood out from the majority, its corroded bronze appearance reminding her of what her granddaughter had recently discovered below the lighthouse. She walked to the table and opened it, familiarising herself with the content. Unlike the other legends of her homeland, this one had been easy to substantiate.
Just like the window, it was the only proof she needed that at least one of the old legends was true.
6
Valeria realised there was only one practical way of leaving the mine. Unfortunately it involved a mile walk, a 363-step stairway and, finally, climbing a wooden ladder.
All of which she would have to do in the dark.
The route from the Raleigh statue to the hidden hoard had proved surprisingly straightforward. The railway tracks began close to the stone stairway and ran through the heart of the mine, their features easily visible in the torchlight. Beyond the previously locked doorway, the concealed mine remained illuminated by the collective glow of the lake of coins, revealing a well-defined layout that had clearly been created during the estate’s heyday. Playing safe, she kept to the tracks, focusing on her feet as the Victorian ironwork wound erratically through a busy area of rock that had once been opened using gunpowder.
The light faded as she passed beyond the doorway, the angelic glow of the Aztec hoard becoming hidden by the curvature of the pathway. With the darkness growing, she noticed her hearing had become increasingly acute; the familiar, yet unseen, sound of water was amplified by the acoustics of the location. Taking a deep breath, she passed the door, realisation dawning that her survival depended solely on the actions she was about to take. She waited until the light was gone before switching on her torch, concerned that the batteries could give up without warning. According to Ben, they were new, but she knew nothing about their longevity. Thinking about him was suddenly uncomfortable, the thought of him lying there, destined to die.
Going back was no longer an option.
The stairway began close to where the tracks ended. There was light entering from somewhere higher up, allowing her a distant view of the ancient shaft. She cursed herself as she focused on the source of the light.
In hindsight, they had left Cortés an easy trail to follow.
She ascended the stairway one step at a time and stopped in front of the ladder. The structure was rickety; she remembered a few hours earlier how descending something so old in poor light had scared the life out of her. Colts and Ben had insisted on going first; she had waited till they touched ground before starting down. Ben’s concern had been genuine; she could tell by the tone of his voice he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.
Again, she tried to dismiss the thought from her mind.
Composing herself, she placed her left foot on the bottom step and took her time moving upwards. Above her, the light was becoming steadily brighter, the soft glimpse of daylight revealing each rung clearly. She noticed for the first time that parts of the outer structure had been repaired using rope, further testing her nerves. Instinct told her to stop, freeze, but she forced herself to continue. Focusing solely on the light, taking confidence that the end was near, she counted down the steps in her mind.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Five.
She felt fresh air on her forehead as she emerged through the gap, a light breeze moving softly through her hair. Sunlight shone brightly from above, the warm rays obscured by the foliage of surrounding trees. The first thing she noticed was how far the sun had moved, now past its highest point and descending slowly into the western sky. Her watch confirmed it was after 2 p.m.
She had been in the mine for over three hours.
The ladder ended prematurely; she remembered from earlier there had been a gap. The area surrounding the statue was dense in undergrowth that partially covered at least half a dozen sheets of metal that had once been connected to the shaft. She grabbed the nearest with her sore hands, grateful to discover it was attached to something solid. Pulling hard, she felt her body rise slowly, inching herself ever closer to safety. She forced herself to continue despite the hard material grinding against her front. As the seconds passed, she felt it come into contact with her midriff, finally her legs. Taking a deep breath, she rolled on to her back.
Then successfully emerged from the void.
*
The house was empty, not that Valeria had expected anything else. Colts and Ben had both been shot; it was unlikely anybody from the estate would intrude on a tenant while the property was officially in use.
She entered through the same door as before and found herself back in the kitchen. The house felt lonely without them: cold, quiet, almost haunting. Despite the dominating smell of home-baked bread seemingly deeply entrenched into the fabric, food was the last thing on her mind. She flicked the switch for the kettle as she passed it and headed straight for the sink. She filled a glass with tap water as she waited, downed it, refilled it and drank again until her throat was no longer parched.
From the varied selection of coffees and teas in the cupboards, she quickly chose the first brand of coffee that came to hand and made it black with two sugars. She sampled it gratefully; after several hours in the mine, it felt like her first in years.
As she savoured the taste, she caught a glimpse of her reflection on the nearby work surface. Her face was brown and dusty; she placed her hand to her cheek and realised she had been bleeding. Concerned, she left the kitchen and headed for the nearby hall, where a grand antique mirror hung elegantly against the original walls.
It took her a moment to process the sight in front of her. Though the outline of the body was familiar, the features were like those of a stranger. Her face was a mess, her hair dishevelled, like a hermit who had been wandering the wilderness. Two small cuts had appeared above her left eyebrow and another to the left of her nose, the dried blood mixed with dirt. All of her clothes were ruined.
Even if they were washable, the thought of wearing them again disgusted her.
*
The shower was located just off her allotted bedroom, a relatively modern en suite that reminded her of the one in her own home. The cupboards contained a selection of cosmetics; there had not been time to pack any of her own. She felt better than she had done, at least physically. Her hair felt clean, her face vibrant, her skin free from dust. A rare feeling of strength ran through her, bringing with it fresh hope.
She had made it out alive.
No longer empty-handed.
She had left the mine with her rucksack full, the space taken by the Stone of Fire, Montezuma’s feathered headdress, and a number of gold coins. She saw from the condition of the bag it was already in danger of becoming torn.
She realised she would need something more substantial to take them home.
She found a carryall in Colts’s bedroo
m, filled with his clothes and belongings. Further along the corridor, Ben’s rucksack had been left unzipped on a chair, his books scattered across the desk. She considered taking the bag, but decided against it. She scanned the contents of each book in turn, remembering Ben had spoken about them.
She took them and left his room.
She found several carryalls and suitcases in a cupboard off the hall. From a varied selection, she chose a black rucksack with an arm extension and wheels; it supported the necessary weight and was the perfect choice for hand baggage. She packed the coins first, the books second. The headdress and stone she kept in her own rucksack.
Even if Cortés and Pizarro could no longer kill her, she knew her grandmother would if she damaged them.
As the clock struck three, she departed the house through the rear entrance of the estate and drove steadily along the winding driveway in Colts’s van.
The Fifth Day
7
Ben awoke slowly from a deep sleep and saw daylight. The curtains to his right were open, allowing sunlight to flood into the room, casting a warm glow on the walls. He could tell from the nature of the light it was still early morning, the fiery yellow source rising above the nearby hills.
He blinked and squinted at his surroundings, the brightness causing a dull pain at the back of his eyes. As he tried to move his arms, he felt a different pain, numbness accompanied by a soft feeling of pins and needles. He realised he had been lying on his right side, his weight on his right arm and shoulder. As he felt himself coming to, he became aware that his left leg was now less painful. Then he felt another sensation.
Someone was leaning over the side of the bed.
He struck out instinctively.
“Just relax. We’re nearly there.”
He recognised Danny’s voice before his features came slowly into focus. He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, the words sticking in his throat. As his mind slowly regained control of his thoughts, he realised he was cold on his left side, his leg itching.
His left leg was outside the duvet, the wound visible.
Danny was standing beside the bed, leaning over a wooden chair. A bowl of water had been placed on the bedside table, a selection of tools spread out evenly alongside it. The nearby carpet was covered in bloody towels, reminding him of a butcher’s meat market, while a pile of clean ones had been arranged neatly on the side of the bed. A large bottle of brandy was open and half empty; Danny poured some on to a flannel and wiped the area around the wound.
Suddenly Ben felt as though his leg was on fire.
“Just relax. Stay nice and calm. The worst part’s already over.”
Despite the pain, a strong stinging sensation comparable to being bathed in acid, Ben realised the feeling was less intense than it had been down in the mine. The bleeding had also stopped, the wound unquestionably cleaner. There was evidence of stitching: a needle and thread on the side of the bed, alongside a small saucepan. He noticed a small metallic pellet inside it, pooled in blood.
Ben couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Who taught you to remove a bullet?”
Danny grinned as he completed stitching up the wound. “You always ask this many questions?”
“Only when I don’t know the answers.”
Danny’s grin widened. “You need to rest.”
“I need to get the hell out of here.”
Danny dipped the flannel in fresh water and cleaned the area around the stitches. “It’s not perfect,” he said, concentrating on his task. “But it’ll do. Fortunately for you it was only a flesh wound. Nevertheless, I couldn’t take the chance of waiting.”
Ben didn’t have a ready response. The strange pattern of events that had unfolded since discovering that Chris was missing still haunted him like a bad dream. He remembered taking a boat with Colts and Valeria to England, followed by a short drive through the countryside. It had ended with Colts leading them up the driveway of a large house where they were met by a short-tempered woman who seemed not overly accustomed to Colts’s humour. He remembered walking across the grounds – seeing hallmarks of a bygone time. There was something about the place that just cried out mystery, that the secrets of the past remained untouched.
Then he remembered the entrance to the mine, the ladder, the garden, the statue of Sir Walter Raleigh.
Then he recalled what happened next.
His body was shaking. “What happened? Where is everyone?”
“Relax,” Danny said. “You’ve had a rough ordeal. Here, have a drink.”
A pint-sized glass of water rested on a coaster on the bedside table. Ben pulled himself up against the soft pillows and drank until his throat was no longer dry.
“I’ll get you some more.”
“Forget about it.” Ben poured the remainder over his face and grabbed a clean towel. With his face refreshed, his weary eyes made out his surroundings. The light of the rising sun cast long shadows against dark-cyan walls that decorated the room on all four sides. A large mirror hung above the original fireplace, one of many furnishings that Ben dated to the 1800s. He recognised things, but not well. The room was familiar, but hazy; he knew he had seen it before, perhaps only for a short time. The main door was ajar, the gap offering a restricted view of the landing. There were clothes laid out on the chair by the desk and a large rucksack on the floor. Finally the penny dropped.
They were back at Godolphin House.
He looked at Danny, alert. “Where is everyone? What the hell happened?”
Danny filled him in on everything whilst continuing to clean the wound. He began by recounting his tailing of Ben, Colts and Valeria to the harbour, watching Colts’s cabin cruiser sail away, hounded by the escalating storm. He had caught the first available flight to Penzance from St Mary’s and hired a car to see Nicholl at Godolphin Cross.
His arrival at the pub had been unexpected.
Ben struggled to process his thoughts. Nicholl owned the pub; he knew from his conversations with the man that Nicholl owned several in the area, past and present, but they had never discussed specific locations. Before meeting Colts, he had never heard of Godolphin Cross. The pub was the sole drinking establishment in the village, if not for miles. Not that it mattered, he figured. If he owned the pub, he owned the land.
Including the mine.
He tried to think, make sense of things, but escaping recent memories was suddenly difficult. A plethora of visions filled his mind, scenes playing out as if in a movie theatre. The Spaniards had come from nowhere. They had entered the mine as if by magic; Danny speculated they had probably followed them in. The opening of the wall had been more by force than guile; the Spaniards had been armed, their weapons sophisticated.
It seemed highly improbable they would have allowed anyone to leave the mine alive.
The Spaniards had all been shot. Ben remembered the gruesome sight of Pizarro hitting the floor, his lifeless eyes gazing upwards into the great void. Next came the pawns, Alvarez and Busquets, followed finally by the great leader, the man destined to follow in his ancestor’s footsteps. Ben recalled hearing the fourth shot and catching Cortés as he slumped forward, felled by a bullet that hit him somewhere around his stomach. In his mind, he was able to picture the moment when the Spaniard’s eyes closed, how he lowered his muscular body to the ground. In that second he felt as though the world was closing in on him, as if he were destined to finally lose the unwinnable battle.
The bullet with his name on it had entered his upper thigh. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint the shooter at the time.
He couldn’t believe Nicholl had been capable of multiple murders.
But that wasn’t the greatest shock. That had come soon afterwards. Nicholl himself was dead, shot first in the back and then the chest. The weapon had been a classic Smith & Wesson owned by a man named Colts.
Only it hadn’t been Colts who’d pulled the trigger.
Ben was shaking again. “What time is it?”
“Eight twen
ty-five.”
“I’ve been here a day?”
“Less than that. You need to rest.”
“I need to find my cousin.”
“Try to stand if you want. You probably won’t make it past the toilet.”
Ben attempted to leave the bed but immediately stopped, realising Danny was right. Though the stitching was complete, he realised that putting excess weight on the wound before it was further healed would be a mistake he would almost certainly live to regret.
Nevertheless, old fears still resurfaced. Thoughts of Chris, the room, the interview with Hammitt – was that tool of a copper even working on the case? Had he been right all along? Had Chris been abducted by the Spaniards, captured, even killed? He prayed not.
With the Spaniards dead, he knew so too was the possibility of obtaining answers.
Why the hell had Cortés lied about taking him?
He looked at Danny, panicked. “We can’t just stay here.”
“Ben, listen to me. Valeria’s gone. She took something from the statue.”
The statue, he remembered now: the vulgar metallic thing that had apparently been erected in memory of Montezuma. It looked genuine, but his gut feeling told him it was more likely a copy erected more recently – probably at around the same time as the Raleigh statue. Cortés spoke of the stone being 1,000 carat – a jewel of mythical importance.
He still didn’t buy it.
“What happened? Where is she?”
Danny wished he knew. “I saw her leave in the same direction you entered; she seemed calm, all things considered. Last I saw, she was following the train tracks.”
The tracks. Another memory returned. “That means she’d have to climb up the way we came down. There was a ladder.”
“She came to Colts. He gave her his gun. His van’s missing.”
Colts! He had forgotten all about him. He grabbed Danny softly by the collar.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 34