“The what?”
“What Colts said; something about geographers?”
“From the little poor man’s house of the rising sun, to where the geographers gave counsel poor. Sun as in that big yellow thing, not you have a son.” She gazed playfully at his semi-naked body.
Cute, he thought. “Has anybody actually checked New Orleans?”
“Did Columbus visit there?”
“Maybe in Mardi Gras.” The more he thought about it, the stranger the quote sounded.
Maybe a shower would wake him up.
*
They went for breakfast at the same place that they had eaten at the previous evening. Ben ordered orange juice and coffee as well as a Spanish omelette. He mused the fresh air would help him think.
The shower had been useless.
Ben waited for Juliet to stop smiling at the softly spoken waiter as he took their order in broken English before changing the subject.
“The little poor man’s house of the rising sun,” he said, shaking his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“A lot of my friends are poor with little houses. I never realised you were such a snob.”
Ben smiled wryly, pleased at the waiter’s immediate return, carrying their orange juices. He drank it immediately and asked for a refill, hoping the much-needed vitamin C intake would give him the energy he needed.
“Columbus must have known millions of poor men in his life. Sailors, for a start, were notoriously poor. He himself had become widowed as a poor man. Perhaps we should take a second look at his house.”
Juliet sipped her orange juice far more slowly, determined to make it last. “Do you honestly think a man like Hernán Cortés would have been stupid enough to bury something so precious so close to something else so precious?” She shook her head, distracted by the second return of the waiter carrying two coffees and Ben’s second glass of orange juice.
Ben thanked the young man before answering, “Maybe that was all part of the master plan. No one would suspect it. Plus it would be convenient.”
“Convenient would be not hiding them in the first place. Besides, it wouldn’t fit his style. He loved travelling.”
“And hated arriving.” Ben remembered the quote Juan had mentioned during his last trip to Valladolid. “The little poor man’s house. Maybe he had another house.”
“It isn’t Columbus.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can.”
“How?”
Juliet stared back at him, satisfied. “The other translations refer to the admiral. If it was Columbus, it would say, the admiral’s little house.”
Ben added sugar to his coffee and took it black, blowing gently on the excessively hot liquid. “For all you know it could be a deliberate ruse. Though you might have a point. I guess we’re back to square one.”
“What other references does it include?”
Ben tried to remember. “East of the street where the lawyers read, the stone of knowledge now rests. For not for want of a deceiver’s words, to take it within his chest. From the little poor man’s house of the rising sun, to where the geographers gave counsel poor. Beneath the stairs where the watchdogs stare, it lies beyond the door.”
“The deceiver? Maybe someone tried to steal it.”
“Makes sense. Who?”
“Goodness knows. There was nothing more?”
Ben shrugged. “I have no idea; I’m going on whatever Colts is feeding me.”
Colts, she thought, remembering the bizarrely dressed maverick who apparently worked for the Duke of Cornwall. “Columbus was excessively religious. A really devout Catholic. He would have known many poor men through the Church. Especially laity.”
“True enough. Though that hardly narrows it down.”
“When he came back on the scene after becoming a widower, he was taken in by a Franciscan friary.”
Ben raised an eyebrow, his thoughts stirring. “Palos. Almost every Spaniard alive could tell you the story of the dishevelled legend in the making.” He looked at Juliet, intrigued but still sceptical. “You might have a point. A Franciscan friar could be a poor man.”
“True. Though most were exceedingly rich.”
“Collectively. Individually they were poor.” A series of thoughts began to eat away at him, facts he had not considered since grad school. “St Francis of Assisi modelled himself as the archetypal poor man. Columbus held the Franciscans in high esteem. He could have had many dealings with them.”
“Also true; however, aren’t we forgetting something? Franciscans lived in monasteries. Hardly little houses.”
The latest reappearance of the waiter temporarily halted the conversation. Ben waited until he disappeared back inside before tucking into his omelette and continuing.
“Maybe this house was little. The home of a priest. A friary. A small hospital.”
“Or maybe we’re reading this wrong,” Juliet said. “Francis of Assisi’s nickname was the little poor man. Maybe it’s not the house that’s small at all.”
Ben nodded, a smile forming. “Also, in Dante’s Inferno, he compared St Francis to the rising sun.”
“So we’re looking for something with a Franciscan connection. It could still mean anything.”
Ben looked around, glancing across the square. People were walking briskly in all directions, taking the early morning air, some heading south to Calle Santiago, passing the theatre. Examining the size of the buildings on the south side, he reasoned the original convent would have been huge.
He added pepper to his omelette and tasted it.
A sudden thought hit him.
“They’re all monasteries.”
Juliet gazed back, fork in mouth. “What are?”
“The area below the castle at Cabañas del Castillo had once been a monastery. The convent over there had been too.”
“What about Seville?”
Ben bit his lip, frustrated. The cathedral had not been a monastery.
“What order was the one at Cabañas?”
“I’m not sure; it had a long history with military orders. Juan told me Hernán Cortés actually founded one. Something about an Order of the Virgin.”
“That’s the connection. Religious houses of different purposes.”
Ben realised she might be on to something. “The little poor man’s house. It has to be the Franciscans.”
“What was the whole quote again?”
“East of the street where the lawyers read, the stone of knowledge now rests. For not for want of a deceiver’s words, to take it within his chest. From the little poor man’s house of the rising sun, to where the geographers gave counsel poor. Beneath the stairs where the watchdogs stare, it lies beyond the door.”
“Counsel or council?”
Ben delayed, suddenly unsure. “Counsel.” He looked at her, his eyes suddenly bright. “Columbus petitioned for seven years before finally receiving permission to voyage to the New World.”
“Exactly. His case was heard by a council of geographers at the University of Salamanca.”
“Salamanca!” Ben couldn’t believe he had missed it. “Wait, the university was large. It’s not a poor man’s house.”
“Where exactly was his case heard? Maybe there was a specific building?”
A flurry of thoughts began to unleash themselves in Ben’s mind. The council had sat for several weeks in the city.
“The councillors didn’t belong strictly to the university.”
She realised he was right. “Hang on. The university wasn’t the location. It was the Franciscan monastery.”
Ben’s eyes sparkled with emotion. Suddenly he was elated.
Then deflated.
“Wait. The monastery of St Esteban wasn’t Franciscan. It was Dominican.”
Juliet’s excitement had grown. “Dominicans. That still fits. Beneath the stairs where the watchdogs stare.”
Ben was practically jumping for joy. “The Dominicans. The Watchdo
gs of God.”
*
Colts was still in bed at 7:10 a.m. He heard his mobile phone ringing on his bedside table.
Inevitably it was Ben.
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Colts, I need you to confirm the full translation for the final clue.”
“You need what?”
“The original Spanish. The bit for the final clue?”
Colts was unimpressed. “For crying out loud, I’ve been up all night working on this thing. It’s a little early in the morning for this, Ben.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up, but we’re kinda in a hurry here. The tomb at Valladolid had already been visited. Cortés could be on the move. We need to find it now.”
Now awake, Colts hurried out of bed and rushed along the corridor into his study. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and interrupted the screensaver on his laptop.
A PDF of the original Spanish deciphered text remained open, his notepad alongside it.
“What do you need exactly?”
“The final part of the third clue. The one about the rising sun.”
Colts scrolled through his notes and found what he needed. He recited it over the phone to Ben.
“East of the street where the lawyers read, the stone of knowledge now rests. For not for want of a deceiver’s words, to take it within his chest. From the little poor man’s house of the rising sun, to where the geographers gave counsel poor. Beneath the stairs where the watchdogs stare, it lies beyond the door.”
“Anything after that?”
Colts continued, “In myths, and loves, and muses strums, the wise forever dwell. Their words and rhymes, and wonderful lines guard the mystery under the well.” He paused. “You know what that means?”
“Not exactly, only that it must be in Salamanca.”
“Salamanca? Why?”
“The important clue was watchdogs and counsel. Watchdogs of God. The third piece will lie somewhere in the Convento de San Esteban. The Dominican monastery where the geographers gave Columbus poor counsel.”
“Son of a bitch. Where are you now?”
“Heading back to the airport. This time to hire us a car.”
33
Chris double-checked the final line of the latest document and compared it to the previous one. A pattern was emerging, albeit a vague one.
Colts was correct about one thing. The wealth of papers in the antique filing cabinet, ignored for decades, had been obscure in content, written as though a private conversation had taken place between people in possession of rare knowledge. Words reappeared, largely unspecific.
As usual for that time, the names of the contributors generally consisted of initials or nicknames.
Making sense of everything was impossible. Though the copied, typewritten transcripts were easy on the eye, it clearly hadn’t been intended that outsiders should understand the content. If Colts was right, the purpose of Project Estelle – carried out by academics, soldiers, politicians, royalty and public school old boys – was to operate in secrecy.
With the sole object of discovering what Catalina Cortés had hidden.
Chris shuffled the papers together, resigned to the probability that if anyone was capable of understanding them, it probably wasn’t him. Nevertheless, he had made some progress. Names also reappeared, TF one of them. Six letters directly concerned him: all written by TF to either General Levin or a second man referred to solely as Foxdog. Chris scratched his head, knowing he was dealing with a military-style alias.
Looking through the latest letter, something caught his eye. He remembered seeing a reference in TF’s diary to the custodian of the Gibbous Moon: a Mr Pryce. TF had suggested in his first visit that he had spoken to him regularly, picking his brain on local geography and history. The diary had contained no reference to a specific agent or provided evidence he was writing any letters, except for a few to his wife.
His habit had been to do so at least weekly.
Specific mention of the name Pryce had occurred only once in the diary. At other times, there was reference to a ‘learned gentleman’, otherwise unnamed. Slowly a light bulb was beginning to flicker in Chris’s mind. In his first diary entry after returning to the Isles in 1905, TF had described the owner of the Gibbous Moon in good detail. Prior to his retirement, the man had been a lawyer, but at the time of TF’s visit he had been ‘enjoying more relaxing days in calmer waters’. Chris raised an eyebrow.
Owning a coaching inn was hardly a relaxing retirement.
The name Pryce had not appeared so far in any of TF’s letters back to the mainland, despite including the names of several other locals, Slater the most frequent. In the letters, TF’s reports were more structured than his diary entries. The letters suggested he had been ordered to keep tabs on people.
Even spy on them.
Ben had been convinced the learned gentleman was probably a cover for TF’s agent on the island; only by discovering his identity was the trail likely to become obvious. Now Chris had a new theory.
Not for the first time, the key to the mystery involved an owner of the Gibbous Moon.
*
Colts rubbed his tired eyes and yawned. In recent days he had often yearned to recover the strong, energetic body of his youth; the well-toned muscular physique, coupled with strong endurance, would have come in handy dealing with the physical challenges of the mine. During his youth, he had enjoyed local renown as a trusted mid-distance runner and athlete, his talents extending to pole vaulting and the high jump. Injuries had been overcome easily, though till now he had never needed to deal with a bullet wound. The possibility of not wearing a hat would never have gone down well either.
Though at least back then, he still had a full head of hair.
He made himself a coffee and returned to the translations, refreshing his memory of what he had learned. Successful deciphering of the Cortés codex had been achieved with remarkable ease. Eventually, it would have been possible without the custom software, though he doubted it would have taken less than a month.
There were twenty pages in total, the first eighteen largely straightforward. The final two, on the other hand, were different. Rather than being instantly converted into Spanish like the earlier pages, the software had produced only gobbledygook. A translation would take a miracle.
Or so he had thought.
He heard footsteps on the landing, approaching the door. A light knock followed, the door opening before he had a chance to respond. Chris appeared in the doorway, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before and smelling like a man who had not washed in a day. His facial hair was thicker, his eyes drawn; it was obvious the jet lag was beginning to catch up with him. It hadn’t been their intention to stay overnight.
Just like Ben and Juliet in Spain, the new plan was to deal with things as they went along.
Chris carried two pieces of paper.
“I take it you found what you were looking for?” Colts asked, certain in his own mind that Chris had no chance of figuring it all out.
“I found six letters written by TF, all addressed either to Levin or someone called Foxdog – I’m hoping that’s an alias.”
“For all you know, Levin was also an alias. Either that or he wasn’t important enough to have one of his own.”
Chris viewed the comment as strange. “Whoever Levin was, he clearly wasn’t TF’s agent. The postal marks confirm the letters to him were mailed from St Mary’s. All reached London.”
“Well, that figures. London would have been the only city trusted for their activity not to attract attention.”
“For some reason, there doesn’t appear to be an office stamp from anywhere on St Mary’s. Was the Gibbous Moon a postal office back then?”
“Not exactly, but at the time that wouldn’t have been uncommon. Most of the Gibbous Moon’s customers would have been merchant navy, especially at the time your ancestor was there. Back in the 1600s, it was used by merchants and sailors hoping to
make a quick buck trading or robbing the Dutch.”
“Take a look at this.” Chris removed TF’s diary from his pocket. He opened it to the first entry and showed it to Colts.
Colts squinted, again ruing his need for reading glasses. “It might save time if I didn’t have to guess.”
Chris compared it to the letters. “In this letter here, TF writes to Levin about the activities of the islanders, especially those on St Lide’s. Among his writings, he refers to his conversations and writings to the learned gentleman. Ben thinks this was his agent who delivered the letters.”
“Did you find anything specific in those letters?”
“Nothing I could easily understand; they were clearly dealing with a topic everyone was already familiar with and didn’t elaborate on definitions. For an outsider reading it, it might as well have been written in code.”
“I did warn you. If news of this had gotten out at the time, it could have caused major problems. In many ways, nothing has changed.”
“Well, I did find one thing of interest. In his diary, TF also refers to a learned gentleman, but he never names him.”
“In my book, that makes him a sensible man. He was clearly prepared for any eventuality.”
“Well, on his return to St Mary’s, he talks about the custodian of the Gibbous Moon. He calls him Mr Pryce, specifically Mr Thomas Pryce. Curiously, Pryce isn’t mentioned again, despite TF’s insistence on his first entry he found him good to speak to and did so regularly.”
“So what? Probably had nothing better to do.”
“Maybe, but see what is curious is that, in his first entry, he refers to Pryce as a learned gentleman.”
Colts glanced at the first page of the diary, deciding against reading everything. Chris was right, unsurprisingly. TF had said that.
“So what?”
“Throughout the diary, TF refers to conversations with the learned gentleman, but he never says what they talked about. He uses phrases like, after another useful chat with the learned gentleman, I did this or I did that. In the letters here to Levin, TF mentions the learned gentleman; furthermore, he ends each letter making for possible apologies, just in case the learned gentleman is unable to deliver his messages. Pryce is the only person TF referred to as a learned gentleman in the diary. You said yourself, the Gibbous Moon could have been used for transporting messages.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 85