She let out a deep sigh. “TF always was an important man, Ben; and not just in the eyes of those who knew him well. His father had been an important scientist in the Royal Society. For three generations the family taught at Cambridge. They were famed in the right circles right up until after Queen Victoria died. They even acted as scientists for the royal family.”
Ben nodded, surprised but not shocked. Even in his own career, being asked to act as an advisor on matters of importance was hardly rare. “TF acted as an advisor to the queen?”
“When David Livingstone died, TF’s life took on a far more structured path compared to his earlier years. In the late 1870s he enrolled for a time as a captain in the British forces. You know he served with Kitchener in the Sudan?”
Ben smiled, already aware. Every time he saw the famous picture of Kitchener with the ‘Your Country Needs You’ slogan, he always imagined it was TF standing in his stead. “I thought that only lasted ten years or less.”
“When TF returned from the Isles of Scilly the first time, he passed on a report to the curator of the British Museum regarding what he saw there. Convinced he was on to something, the conversation was taken to a new level.” She huffed. “TF didn’t return there because he wanted to. He did it because he was asked to by top authority.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. At no point in the diary had that been mentioned. “Surely if that were true, his disappearance would have raised a few more eyebrows.”
“Ben, it’s important you promise not to tell anybody about this. You see, the island you spoke of wasn’t abandoned as a result of any subsidence. Its population was wiped out under orders from the British government.”
3
Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was as if a dense fog had suddenly descended, clouding his brain. He remembered speaking to Kernow about the island’s desertion whilst visiting Hell’s Bay, and later checking the facts online. The story had seemed straightforward: St Lide’s had been abandoned in 1909, its forty-four permanent residents taking up new lodgings on the nearby islands, mostly St Mary’s and St Agnes.
The original buildings had been left to crumble.
Things that could be salvaged had been taken to St Agnes.
Ben rubbed his fingers across his brow and looked curiously at his grandmother. Her body language had tightened; he sensed there were certain matters she was unwilling to talk about.
“I don’t understand. I spoke to one of the fishermen on St Mary’s. He told me subsidence had been a constant problem throughout its history. I even saw the island myself. The area to the south, in particular, was plagued by erosion.”
“Even as a soldier, Father was never given all the details. When TF disappeared, Father was only twenty. He had already served two years in the Royal Engineers and that continued throughout World War One. When TF disappeared, on such a secretive mission, it was only inevitable inquiries would be made.”
“I still don’t understand,” Ben said as he began to focus on Colts and his affiliation with the Duke of Cornwall. Had TF in some way been involved in something similar? “What exactly did they conclude?”
“Who?”
“Whoever was in charge?”
“Well, of course, the findings were never made public; even among the military, it’s unlikely something like that would leave a tangible record.”
“But how could it not?” Ben asked, inwardly concerned she was probably right. “If the British Army had been responsible for the deaths of the entire population of the island, it would surely have required one of the greatest cover-ups in military history.”
“Back in the early 1900s, parts of the Isles of Scilly were apparently still anti-authority when it came to law-making; not at all like the peaceful places that you saw recently or that your grandfather and I found when we visited in the late ’70s.”
“I never knew you went there.”
“It’s not for the reasons you think, Ben.” She stared across at him. “I never cared for disturbing the ghosts of the past. Back in the 1700s, apparently the residents were notorious for shipwrecking. By the time TF arrived, the Isles had become more sophisticated, but there was one particular island that was still viewed as aloof by the main residents.”
Ben knew he didn’t need confirmation which. The stories TF had recorded in his diary: the people, their ways, the tavern that was open on a Sunday, was evidence enough he had dealt with something unusual. “One person goes missing. Forty or more get killed. Things like this don’t just happen without leaving some kind of trail.”
“Father once told me that news of TF’s disappearance didn’t come through the usual channels. Technically TF wasn’t military at the time, and there was no way the British military would have allowed word of his voyage the second time to be made official. While TF was writing to Florence, he was also required to keep in touch with his employers. When he failed to make contact, Father was informed of his disappearance.”
“Who was TF working with? You must have some names.”
“Heavens, Ben. Even if I did, it’s far too late to ask any questions. Father himself was never involved in the official investigation, although he did travel there alone. By the time he arrived, St Lide’s was already a ghost town.”
“When was this?”
“Must have been no later than August that same year.”
“From what TF mentions in his diary, St Lide’s was a thriving, albeit small settlement, in February 1904. By the time he returns, little has changed. If forty plus people were murdered, it stands to reason at least one or two might have survived. The lighthouse keeper at St Agnes for a start was mentioned as still being alive in the 1940s and his story checks out.”
“I wasn’t an eyewitness, Ben; I can only go on what Father told me. If survivors made it out before the others were done away with, it seems fortunate they weren’t caught.”
Ben smiled philosophically. Although it was obvious the subject matter was upsetting to her, he couldn’t let it go. “Let’s be realistic here. TF was killed, yes. I saw his boat. Chris saw his body and brought home the musket ball. But even though that was clearly the case, getting rid of an entire island’s population is bound to be noticed. Did DF say how they went about it?”
Hannah hesitated, clearly upset.
Ben left his seat and moved close to her. “This isn’t like the death camps. One pissed off general doesn’t just show up and lead everyone into a cave somewhere. Nor, I doubt, did any detachment of the Royal Marines show up and line up everyone against a wall. Even out close to the Atlantic, it would still have been a great risk to throw bodies into the sea. Even back in 1905, just one showing up on the beaches of England could have been enough for the military to have a shitstorm on its hands.”
“I don’t have any more answers, Ben. I’m only telling you this because Father told me. Can we please talk about something different? You should be getting your rest. Not talking about such depressing things.”
Ben smiled, remembering where he was. The home of his only living grandparent. His ancestral home.
The place of his happiest childhood memories.
“If TF disappeared on an official mission to locate the missing Montezuma Treasure and was killed because of it, chances are their deaths were connected to this. Over there I met a man who claimed to represent the Duke of Cornwall. If what you say here is even remotely true, even now there must still be a connection.” He rose to his feet.
“Ben, where are you going?”
“I’m going to visit Chris in hospital. After that I need to get back to Hanover. Maybe then I can shed some light on what TF was really on to.”
4
Extremadura, Spain
The village of Roturas had not changed much in seven years. The houses were a hotchpotch of the old and the new; traditional square windows and white walls, overlooking the road like ancient monuments, seemed at odds with newer holiday-style two-storeys. The surface of the main road was thin and plagued b
y cracks, its width varying as it meandered between nearby houses. The villagers had a tendency to keep to themselves, particularly on the warmer days.
Most of the houses had cars parked outside them.
From outside, the red brickwork that lined the side walls of the old family home appeared in stark contrast to the glistening whiteness of the front wall that reflected the early afternoon sun. Swathes of unkempt greenery clung to the wall around the first-floor balcony, some trapped amongst the paintwork.
Unlike those belonging to the neighbours, every window was closed.
The last time Valeria had visited the house she had grown up in, her grandmother’s sister had been preparing to expand the kitchen and replace the plumbing and electrics. On inspecting the ground floor, the cleanliness of the work surfaces and cabinets confirmed that the kitchen had been updated since her previous visit, while a large electric cooker in the far corner looked good when compared to the condition of the walls.
She found a jar of coffee in one of the cupboards, boiled the kettle and made it black with a sweetener in each. She hated the taste, but knew it was the best they were likely to get. The fridge-freezer was connected at the mains but empty.
Maria was sitting at the kitchen table, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Trails of dry mascara stained both of her cheeks.
“We cannot stay here for long,” Valeria began. “There is only enough food for one meal. And even that probably won’t be pleasant.”
She took a seat opposite and pushed Maria’s mug in front of her. Again Maria offered no sign of acknowledgement.
“It will not be long before Juan comes searching for us. For all we know, he is still there, by the mountain.”
Maria’s eyes watered. “I cannot bear the thought of her still there with him.”
Valeria took a deep breath and stared at her sister, catching a glimpse of her own reflection in her eyes. After nearly a week back in Spain, her skin had acquired an appealing bronze suntan, yet under the circumstances their faces both appeared peculiarly pale.
“There was more to the monastery than merely the fires. The final door was shut. The design was identical to the one in England. Only with the correct stone could it be opened,” Valeria said. “Whatever lies behind the door was clearly what he came for. It is only a matter of time before he discovers the final stone. We must act quickly. Time is of the essence.”
Maria was appalled. “You want to return?”
“I would rather die than see the final treasure fall into his hands.”
“Are you mad?” Maria retorted. “You said it yourself: whatever lies behind the door is what he came for. For all you know, he already has the stone, and whatever is inside will already be gone. Even if he hasn’t, you still have no idea where to find it.”
“What do you suggest? We sit? Wait for him to come to us? No.” She shook her head, her eyes reflecting the incoming light with the fiery glow of molten lava spewing from an active volcano. “I cannot. I refuse to surrender this to him.”
Maria stared back strongly. “Even now, all you talk of is treasure. Are you blind? Can you not hear? If it hadn’t been for the Aztec gold, Abuela would still be alive.”
“Abuela is dead!” Valeria punched the table, causing coffee to spill from both mugs. Sitting in silence, she closed her eyes, trying to combat the ever-growing feeling of fear that had recently settled inside her. Even now she could feel the heat of the flames, the smoke infiltrating her nostrils, catarrh pooling at the back of her throat. She could hear sounds, Juan’s voice, her grandmother’s, desperate shouts echoing off the walls. Worst of all the gunshot was still ringing. She had seen death.
But survived.
She gazed deeply into Maria’s eyes. “What do you suggest? We stop? Forget?” Again she shook her head. “I cannot allow it that he should win. That Abuela sacrificed herself for nothing.”
She moved to the next seat, adjacent Maria, and held her cheeks firmly, feeling her sister’s tears as they fell from her eyes. “Abuela told me recently that something greater still lies buried beyond the sea. That the collection of the stones only serves as a guide to what was brought back. Cortés knows this. The discovery of what was brought back is inconsequential to him. The gold serves only as a taste of what truly exists. Only when the path becomes clear will he be content.”
Maria wiped her eyes and pushed the coffee mug away. “I hate all of this. I was happy in Mérida. I had a new life. A new start. I asked for none of this.”
Valeria smiled softly as she wiped away the spilled coffee with a tea cloth. “You must do what is best for you. After the funeral, I will return to the mountain. Do not stay here too long. Nor return to Mérida immediately.”
“Juan will not hurt me. He only hurts those who get in his way.”
“Suit yourself. We will stay here tonight. Tomorrow I will start what needs to be finished.”
5
Hanover, New Hampshire
Ben hadn’t been to Dartmouth for over two weeks. In some ways it felt like a lot longer. He had missed the way the American elms swayed softly in the summer breeze as the sun shone down on the elegant buildings of the campus.
He parked in his usual spot before walking briskly in the direction of the Baker-Berry Library, stopping frequently to look around. He remembered on his first visit being hugely impressed by the unique fresco of The Epic of American Civilisation and the iconic architecture of the tower inspired by Independence Hall in Philadelphia. Fourteen years on, walking the likes of Tuck Mall and Webster Avenue felt like strolling through his own garden.
He sat alone in his office in Carson Hall, gazing out across the campus. It was quiet without the students. With the semester officially over and the summer break two weeks in, the place was no longer in full swing. There were no groups of students heading in and out of dorms or in and out of the library, no revved up football fans ambling across East Wheelock Street for a game at Memorial Field. A quiet wind blew gently across the green, scattering isolated leaves and litter along its many pathways. The only thing missing was the change of colour of the leaves that characterised a New England fall.
It was a shame the students would return to ruin things!
He opened his rucksack and removed the biography of Raleigh and the Aztec codex, deciding to concentrate on the codex. He logged into the university’s library database on his iMac and entered a search query, hoping that amongst its two million volumes he would find something of relevance.
Moments later he heard a knock at the open door. Soft. Polite. A woman appeared, blonde-haired, her smile radiating warmth.
“I thought I heard you come in.” She paused, slightly diffidently, in the doorway, as though hoping for an invitation to step inside. “I didn’t know you were back from England.”
Ben looked at her, taking in her familiar features. Her pretty face, made up with thin black eyeliner and red lipstick, appeared sharp but modest and added an extra dimension to a friendly expression that somehow seemed unsure of itself. Her bright green eyes were deeply engaging, yet added to the insecurity, as though they perpetually sought the answer to a question that could never be answered. As usual, she wore a light three-piece suit, despite the informality of the day, that complemented her slim physique. Ben knew her age to be thirty-three, but she could have passed for a few years younger. Her warm, open smile was a little out of keeping for her official status though less so for her unofficial position. Officially, she was his head of department.
Unofficially, his date of six months.
Her name was Juliet Waters.
“I thought you were probably going to stay away a little longer. I had a lovely conversation with your nana. She said you had decided to stay in England another week.”
A lovely conversation with Nana, bless her. Ben smiled wryly. If it were up to TF’s granddaughter, you’d be wearing the damn ring by now.
“Well, you know what they say, Jules. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He put o
n his most charming grin and silently admired her features. Even though she looked like an academic, it was tough thinking of her as his boss. “Tell you the truth, I kinda got sidetracked.”
“I’ll say. Nana told me all about the boat.” She finally passed beyond the doorway and walked over to his desk. Her hair had changed since their last meeting, the subtle signs of split ends touched up and complemented by vibrant maroon fingernails, the five on her right hand coming into close contact with a slick pair of dark-framed reading glasses. “I really don’t know what to say. It must have been incredible.”
He looked at her, his grin widening. “I like your hair.”
She folded her arms. “What happened?”
“Well, nothing happened, not really. The boat was cocooned in several layers of silt and stank worse than Captain Birdseye after a Chinese.” He placed the Aztec book down on the desk, his attention now firmly on Juliet. “There’s always been a belief in my family that TF went missing somewhere off the coast of England, researching some kind of wreck, possibly involving something left over from the Spanish conquest of the Americas. Turns out he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”
She saw his book. “What’s that you got here?”
“I’m not sure exactly.” He offered it to her. “It’s been in Nana’s attic since before she was born. Apparently TF once owned it.”
Juliet took the book and put on her glasses, placing them about midway up on her nose. She studied the cover for several seconds before opening it.
“Well, it’s handwritten. Paper. Clearly ink. Much too modern to be authentic.”
“Exactly.” As a colleague, Ben knew her opinion would be useful. “As Nana no doubt has already told you, my ancestor was something of a renowned scholar. He specialised in Medieval European history at Cambridge back in the 1880s and ’90s. Spoke half a dozen languages, including most of the Mesoamericans. In his own way he was the reason I got into this kinda stuff.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 66