“I doubt it.”
“You ever heard of them?”
“Not until I met Colts.”
“Did he make it?” Chris asked, slightly concerned. “She said he was dead.”
“No, he’s still alive.” Ben nodded, his mind wandering. Several days had passed since they had left the Godolphin Estate. The man had disappeared from his thoughts, if not the earth itself. “At least, he was the last time I saw him.”
Chris nodded, downing a heavy swig of beer. “Did anyone actually die down there?”
Ben smiled philosophically. “There’s a flight leaving tomorrow morning from Madrid to Boston. I think we can make it if we leave this evening.” He turned to face Danny. “You gonna be okay getting back to St Mary’s?”
Danny smiled, the gesture causing the complexion of his face to change. “You know, the guests are probably wondering just who’s running that place.”
Ben laughed and paused before sipping his beer. “Thank you. For everything.”
*
The room reminded Ben of a nursery from the 1950s. The inconsistent pattern of orange and blue paint was well in need of a new coating, preferably with better colours. A large double bed dominated the red-tiled floor and squeaked the moment he tried lying on it. A small sink and accompanying fixtures and fittings filled most of the remaining space in the room’s L-shaped layout, including a relatively modern microwave oven and a small fridge where guests could prepare their own snacks. The toilet had seen better days, but water from the taps flowed freely, both hot and cold.
The only thing Ben approved of more was the view from the balcony.
Chris passed out again on the bed; Ben grinned as he listened to him snoring from the nearby rocking chair. The lad had been through so much, he realised. The slimy eel had lied to him, but he reasoned that was probably the extent of her crimes. He sensed he was never in danger. He thought of her, the way she looked, acted, talked, smelled.
Cortés was starting to have an effect on him.
He made himself comfortable in the chair and began browsing TF’s Spanish diary entries again. His ancestor’s descriptions matched what he had now seen with his own eyes. He described a bridge across an underground river, leading into a grand chamber like something from the New World. There was gold on the floor and other precious metals; he mentioned in a footnote that they later made their way to the British Museum in London. The chamber had been visited – he avoided using the term looted. He spoke of men from France in blue and white, who came and went in the space of one night.
Ben assumed the story had become part of local folklore.
TF had seen the temple and described it in detail, everything from the colour of the walls to the feel of the texture.
Ben raised an eyebrow on reading TF’s account of the torching system.
Having examined the two great chambers, the appearances of which I have already recorded in great detail, for a second time in successive days, I noticed things that, due either to initial sloppiness or my being so greatly awed by the occasion, I had failed to take in properly on my previous visit. The largest of the great chambers, easily identifiable because of the great stairway that connects it to the final chamber, was again lit up like the fires of hell; I cannot deny, having spent so much of my early years engrossed by the life of our Blessed Saviour, I was somewhat afraid that our next location would be no other than a direct passage into damnation.
After spending some time studying the artwork, I understood for the first time the genuine possibility that a great many things had once been kept there, since taken away. The appearance of soldiers’ uniforms, instantly recognisable as having belonged to the armies of the former dictator, told a clear story. That though the location remains a secret from many, it is certainly not so to all . . .
Ben scratched his head as he tried to make sense of everything. Whatever riches had once existed there had since been taken away, their new location a mystery. Scanning the following pages, he learned that on vacating the chamber, the party sealed the previously open doors and left the mountain, and eventually the village. The road took them south, then east and south again, a specific path through the wilderness. Passing the town of Guadalupe, the route became more rugged, the roads less well trodden. On reaching the town of Castuera, Ben noticed a distinct change in the way TF told the story, as if he were embarking on a preordained epilogue.
*
Ben knocked frantically against the door. When it opened, he saw Eduardo smiling timidly at him, his appearance one of a lazy student doing nothing.
Cortés was standing by the window, gazing thoughtlessly across the wilderness. He glanced at Ben and raised his head in acknowledgement.
“How is your cousin?”
“Sleeping again.” Ben looked around the room. Unlike his own, its walls reflected the light of the sun strongly, casting a warm glow on the wooden furniture.
Ben offered him the book. “Take a look at this.”
Cortés remained unmoved, eventually accepting. He glanced at the diary and shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have never been much good at reading English handwriting.”
“Whatever was there was taken here.” Ben retrieved a guidebook from his pocket and pointed to a specific place on the map. “My ancestor saw everything and made specific notes – notes he later looked back on after visiting the Scillies.”
Cortés looked at him sceptically. “And?”
“After leaving here, their path took them to Guadalupe, then further south, eventually reaching some place called Castuera. Close to the town, there was an old mine. Something was buried in there – something TF saw. Whatever once existed beneath the castle never left the country. For all we know, it could still be there.”
Cortés watched Ben with a neutral expression, his eyes returning to the book. Finally he shook his head. “The old mine of which you speak was excavated long ago. Anything that once lay there will since have been taken away. Sadly, this is not good news.”
“Surely it’s worth checking for sure?”
“Go if you must, but do not travel in hope. The mine is now the home only of wild birds. Whatever was hidden there will be there no longer.”
*
Ben wasn’t in a mood to wait. He found Chris awake on the bed and told him they were leaving.
“I thought you said we were staying here till this evening?”
Ben glanced out of the window across the balcony. The hire car arranged by Danny was in the car park as promised, its shiny blue exterior reflecting the sun like a calm sea.
“There’s been a change of plan.”
*
Cortés watched from the window as Chris got into the passenger seat. It was a good model, he thought, more than sufficient for the journey they intended to make.
Not that it would do them much good.
Ben emerged from the front of the guesthouse and put their cases in the boot of the car. Juan saw him look up at the balcony; for several seconds, they held each other’s gaze. Cortés saw Ben smile and nod his head; he responded by raising his hand.
He watched quietly as the car reversed out of its parking space and disappeared out of the hamlet.
Eduardo was standing by the sink, arms folded. “You didn’t tell him.”
Juan turned, studying him as if appraising a recently fixed piece of machinery, anticipating flaws. He gazed at him quietly for several seconds before returning his attention to the window.
“There are some things that one should not mention.”
Eduardo looked back with a blank expression, confused by what he meant. He considered asking, but decided it was a pointless exercise. A wise man once said, “A leopard cannot change its spots; it can only hide behind a tree to conceal them.” Experience told him his uncle was like a leopard. He had learned long ago that the best way to deal with such people was with patience. Accept who they were and be thankful that, in some ways, it made them stronger.
Forgetting about it,
he lay down on the bed and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
Epilogue
South of Guadalupe, 5 p.m.
Close to the point where the Ex-104 met the Ex-103, there was a small road called Calle del Motor. Ben followed the directions of the satnav and took it, heading north of the mountain.
After thirteen miles they came to a minor road located somewhere between Cabeza and the Zújar reservoir. Dry, vast steppes dominated the landscape, a dense yellow hue as far as the eye could see. Amidst the loneliness, a raucous chorus from groups of wild birds perching on pillars and posts gave the area a somewhat ominous and violently portentous air.
Signs of civilisation had been few and far between since leaving Castuera, reminding Ben they were a long way from Massachusetts. Whilst their time in the Isles of Scilly had been like living in a goldfish bowl, the Extremaduran wilderness was more akin to being cut adrift in the ocean. Looking out at the expansive scenery, other cars now an extremely rare sight, felt like being back in time, any time.
For all Ben could tell, they might just have entered a time warp.
The abandoned mine of La Serena was located a further six miles on, a lonely ruin among the steppes. He recognised it from a photograph he had seen on the Internet, a collection of stone ruins set against the background of an ominous-looking sand pile. In the distance, there were fields cultivated by heavy machinery. Evidence, at least, of civilisation.
They left the car and made their way slowly towards the ruins. The first thing Ben noticed was how quiet it was, as though they had entered a graveyard after normal visiting times. The ruins reminded him of those at Godolphin. One of the buildings was depleted down to its foundations, whereas a second was reminiscent of a dilapidated farmhouse, its walls the only thing standing. The atmosphere was unique, wild but magical.
TF had referred to it as like being in the American Wild West.
With the city lights far behind us, the lonely trail again awaited, like a path to a secret garden. Having said our goodbyes to our generous hosts, we continued south, the horizon a distant promise beyond the many great hills that framed our passage. Walking the great grasslands, I must say even following our experiences in the curious hamlet, was a most unnerving experience. While the weather, I cannot deny, makes a pleasant change from that of our homeland, and its gift I am sure in future I will long remember because of the great stillness we have been fortunate to experience, its loneliness is like none other I have yet to encounter.
After continuing a great distance, our directions I must confess greatly inspired by a bizarre tale told by our hosts about the fate of those missing soldiers, we found ourselves in a place that I can only describe as like being transported to the Wild West of America. Among the vast empty fields we discovered an abandoned mine, its significance, as we were soon to discover, of potentially intriguing relevance. The mine itself was readily identifiable from the character of the buildings, though any sign of civilisation had since departed. The years, it seemed, had passed unkindly, the stones of the buildings cracked. A curious message had been inscribed on one of them, its meaning I’m still to fully understand. As the famous philosopher of the land of the Moors once said,
The moving finger had written, and having writ moved on.
The message was in Spanish on the side of the pumping house; Ben attributed its survival to the dry conditions.
The passage underground began inside the pumping house. A flock of kestrels and jackdaws looked down at them from the west wall as they entered, their calls echoing eerily in the silence.
The entrance hadn’t been used in decades. TF had dated its closure to at least a decade prior to his own arrival. There was little information on the Internet; even if TF’s calculations were incorrect, it was clear to Ben it hadn’t been used for many years.
He switched on his torch and entered the tunnel, again regretting the absence of a hard hat. Wearing his sturdy hiking boots to tread the dry ground, he found himself suddenly wanting for grip, his arms instinctively reaching out to grab the walls for support. He could feel the hard surface on his hands on both sides, confirming the tunnel only supported movement in single file.
Dangerous, he figured, if a mass exodus should have been required in the distant past.
He ducked and veered from left to right, keeping his pace deliberately slow. He sensed the path was sloping downwards, the air getting thinner, as though entering a vacuum.
He felt movement behind him.
“Careful.” He turned and caught Chris in the nick of time, his face a ghostly pale colour in the torchlight. Underfoot, the path was littered with debris, reminding him of what he had witnessed in Cornwall.
The only things missing were the rail tracks.
“Sorry.”
Ben released him and composed himself, watching the walls as he resumed the walk. What he saw matched what he had read in the diary: the walls were craggy, cluttered, the air stale and dusty. If TF was correct, it would continue for over ten minutes, leading to something more impressive.
The tunnel ended and opened out into a grand natural cavern. It smelt of damp and decay, whereas the outside weather had been dry and cloudless. TF had described it as a place of mourning; where once upon a time miners had struck the walls with pickaxes, the cave busy with the sounds of work, now there was only silence. Scattered throughout, Ben saw evidence of past purpose, primitive tools and rotting rope, barrels left to disintegrate and turn to dust.
Whoever had worked there had long since moved on.
But there was one thing TF mentioned that didn’t add up. The diary had referred to areas being boarded up, apparently concealing something. He remembered a similar situation beneath the castle at St Lide’s, evidence of a past excavation long since abandoned.
According to TF, evidence of boarding was everywhere, wooden struts at equal intervals along the sides, propping up the walls in case of sudden collapse. In some places, he had recorded that greater measures had been taken, iron girders stretched out into the deepest recesses, their solid ends attached to the rock like glue. He described, too, evidence of clothing, blue and white coloured tunics – possibly those of soldiers from the Napoleonic era.
But above all, TF had described something even more intriguing.
Precious metals glowing from behind every gap.
A century later, Ben saw only empty spaces and broken wood.
He rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his chin; the hairs felt slightly fluffy again after several days without a trim. He opened the diary to the page that described their current location and read it under the torchlight. There was no reference to the gold being taken, nor of any follow-up visit.
The passage merely ended abruptly.
Cabañas del Castillo, 5 p.m.
Cortés removed his rucksack from his shoulder and stared at the blocked passageway. The door itself was smooth; the black outline of his silhouette cast an ominous shadow against the exterior as it reflected the torchlight. He felt the grooves with his hand and unzipped the rucksack, taking out the first of the stones.
He already knew the correct order. The inscriptions in the grooves matched those on the stones; it was simply a matter of following the instructions.
He started with the stone Valeria had taken from the vault; it slid in easily. Next came the one he had never seen before; the old woman had stolen it before he was born. The last he had seen more recently: Catalina’s legacy to Cornwall. He pushed it in gently, smiling as it slid into position. All four glowed together like a quartet of stars burning in the night sky.
With the door open, he hurried along the passageway, not stopping until he climbed the stairway to the chamber with the torches. Even after twenty-four hours, the chamber was still illuminated, the fiery light still burning as though blessed with unlimited fuel.
He ignored the temptation to visit the makeshift grave of the old woman.
He stopped before the final closed doorway, his vision on the sm
all diamond-shaped groove in the centre.
The outline confirmed a fifth stone was needed to access the final chamber.
He took a deep breath and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the item he had retrieved from the bank in Madrid. He unfastened the chain from around his neck and removed the diamond from within. He felt himself tremble with tense anticipation. Sweat dropped from his forehead; his chest felt tight.
He pushed the stone into place. Took a deep breath.
And waited.
The doorway began to shake, sounds getting louder. It reminded him of his first trip to his grandfather’s salt mine, the wheels of machinery turning in unison. He held the chain in his hand as the stone came loose, like a modern touch key pressed against an electronic lock.
The doors opened.
The sound of falling water returned, the sights much brighter. The ground beneath his feet was smooth and firm. An elegant fountain occupied the heart of the room, its shiny surface reflecting greenery of Edenic comparison that flanked it on all sides. The air was fresh, despite being underground; he savoured the feeling of clean oxygen in his lungs.
He marched towards the fountain, dipping his hand into the water to wash away the dirt from his hands and face. As his eyes adjusted to the strange sights, he noticed the light, though strong, was different than before. Something was shining nearby, a lush shade of green.
It came from the far side of the room, an area that was naturally darker than the rest. The light glowed like a torch, though the colour was wrong. Edging ever closer, he saw an outline clearly made of stone. The statue was instantly recognisable, every aspect perfect from the wild eyes to the magnificent Spanish beard.
Cortés fell instantly to his knees, his soul overcome with joy. He uttered a prayer of thanks for the moment, to his ancestors, his family.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 63