Chris continued, “Before he died, I understand my ancestor was conscripted to front this Project Estelle in order to uncover the mystery of St Lide’s after the discovery of unique graves in the churchyard, coupled with the unruly behaviour of some of the islanders. During his stay on St Mary’s, he regularly sent reports back home to England through this Mr Pryce.” Chris raised his head, his eye contact unfailing. “As far as I can establish, this man didn’t actually exist, but was, in fact, a cover for your grandfather. Also known as Foxdog.”
The old man remained quiet; his rigid stare turned to Colts. Slowly he rose to his feet and began pacing. “You know it’s been a long time since I was last on the mainland. Tell you the truth, I never really cared for it. At least here the air is clean, as are the people. Every year, some silly tourist has to come along and spoil things. Usually from across the pond.” He eyed Chris feverishly. “I understand you’re a journalist. What’s the real meaning of this, aye? You think you can just swing by here without an appointment and extract a few loose words from an eccentric old man?”
Chris gripped the arms of the chair. “For what it’s worth, Colonel, it was never my intention to become involved in any of this. About two weeks ago I was kidnapped by Spanish mercenaries intent on discovering the truth for themselves. Thanks to Mr Colts, I’ve now seen the lost hoard. I’ve seen people fight for it. People have died. All in cold blood. I was nearly killed.” He leaned forward. “We know about the massacre.”
Colts raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner; Weir was rather more reserved. “Of course, I should have known. The Duke isn’t even aware you are here, is he? The Duke is an honourable man, who only operates through appointments.”
Colts took over. “Colonel, when Arthur took me under his wing, he educated me in every aspect of every myth and legend going back to the dawn of time. Project Estelle, in its early days, failed because people who were paid to keep a secret turned out to be incapable of keeping their mouths shut. I know Foxdog was Pryce; I’ve seen the files – as far as I’m aware only two exist. Think hard, Colonel. What else can you remember, aside from the partridge?”
Weir’s eyes appeared to have become more sunken. Inwardly he was furious. “How dare you? You come here, taking advantage of my good nature, knowing I am an ailing old man incapable of standing up for myself. You think you can get away with this? You think you can come here and make idle threats . . .”
“Nobody is making threats here, Colonel,” Colts interjected. “Nor is there any need for them. Our only interest is in completing the job your grandfather began.”
“We have a theory which, if proved, could end this quest in days. Hours even,” Chris said. “But only with your help.”
Weir remained sceptical. “Really? And what is this theory?”
“That your grandfather was posted to St Mary’s for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on troublesome locals whilst making sure my ancestor’s correspondence made it back to England. And when TF died, murdered by a suspicious local on St Lide’s, he was commanded to come back,” Chris began, quietly confident he had figured everything out. “Only when he did, either through his own overzealousness or at the command of others, he wiped out the entire population.”
Weir’s faced reddened with anger. “Very clever theory, almost impressive,” he retorted. “Except for one thing. This wasn’t 2005; it was 1905. The Isles of Scilly was not in a position to relay messages back to London at speed. It would have taken weeks for such orders to have come through.”
“Weeks he may have had. Whether he had orders or not, sadly we can’t prove anything. When my ancestor’s body was discovered, we also found this.” Chris removed TF’s diary from his pocket. “It mentions everything, including specifically naming Mr Pryce as innkeeper of the Gibbous Moon. The pair communicated regularly, almost daily. Your grandfather was the person pulling the strings.”
Colts detected a change in Weir’s demeanour. His position had weakened. “Records from the time confirm Pryce was innkeeper for six years, leaving over three years before the official desertion of St Lide’s but within weeks of the massacre.”
“That really is quite some theory,” he said, showing almost no interest in the diary. “But you’re clearly muddled by facts. My grandfather had retired by then. Check the records for yourself. He lived on his own, back on the mainland. Mater had passed away, poor devil. Of course, she knew what she was in for. Thomas had fought for Kitchener.”
“So did Corporal Jones!” Colts said flippantly. “Only there’s more. Something not mentioned here. Maloney wrote a letter to General Levin right before he died, confirming he had removed several pages from the diary and passed them off to Foxdog. He claimed the pieces were imperative – that only together could the location of the hoard be uncovered. Question we really need to ask is, what happened to those pages?”
Chris was confused. Weir even more so. “I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Colts rose to his feet, fumbling in his trouser pocket. He removed two sheets of paper, unfolding them. Unlike the ones earlier that day, Chris had never seen these before.
“Perhaps this might refresh your memory.” He handed them to Weir.
The Scot, his ego clearly shaken, reluctantly took the papers and began reading the first page, shaking his head. “It’s no good. I can’t read a thing these days without my damn reading glasses.”
“Trust me, it won’t make for any prettier reading.”
Weir shuffled to the nearest table, removed a pair of thick bifocals from a leather case and returned to his seat, reading the content with a furious expression. As Weir read, Chris couldn’t shake the feeling the content was having a negative effect on him, as though he were rediscovering a long-buried truth. Once finished, he dropped the papers and looked at Colts.
“Now, sir, do you finally understand?” Colts asked.
Swallowing hard, Weir rang his little bell. Heralding the maid.
“Izzy, perhaps we might take that tea after all. And bring us something to put down this fine scotch.”
41
For the attention of his honourable sir, General Levin,
Sir, for having been forced these recent days to delay my correspondence, I can only apologise. Events on the islands, of which I have been requested to report back to you and, up to now, have done so with the utmost regularity, I am sorry to say have taken a most tragic turn. My general being as viewed among the locals, for so long a subject of only warmth and friendliness, has recently become greatly soured, especially amongst those on the southernmost island, who, up to this point, had been amongst the most hospitable to my requests and visits. Have I failed? I fear so. Albeit, I can assure you, with no lack of caution on my part.
The discovery of new things, which during recent days I am at least pleased to report has been achieved in great measure, I now believe to be of the greatest significance and unquestionably the cause of recent mistrusts; until recent days, my reasons for being here, so long considered an extended holiday looking for historic wrecks, had never been questioned. Though my position is now in great peril, ours is not hopeless. It is with the deepest regret I must announce it is time for me to request to leave these waters and be replaced by a more fitting gentleman whose face is unknown to the locals. My counsel, I believe, will stand him in good stead, especially as none others whom I have met on that island, and I count many in number, are yet aware of every facet of our business.
The key facts of the matter that I have catalogued with great care throughout, I have recently passed on to the learned Foxdog, who has been of great assistance to me throughout my stay. It is through him I send this correspondence, as I have every other. In addition to this letter, I include other correspondence (I count eleven pages), the content of which I treasure more than a thousand others of similar weight. Used well, it has the ability to answer many questions. But only in the right hands. Hands I herefore entrust with gre
atest care.
Your most humble and obedient servant always,
TF Maloney
Weir read the last line of the document for the umpteenth time and set it down on the table. His hand now free, he stretched for the glass he had previously filled with Colts’s scotch and sipped it down.
Finished, he refilled the glass.
Sitting opposite, Colts concentrated on his eyes. His face seemed suddenly disturbed, as if weighed down by a heavy sadness.
“At no point in the letter is any connection or accusation made against my family,” the colonel said at last. “For a moment you had me worried. I actually thought you had come here just to blackmail me.”
“Nobody is here to do that, Colonel,” Colts said, his tone matter-of-fact. “However, you should indeed be worried. Just as we are. Any remaining questions over the identity of the man should be found in the missing diary pages as well as the files that exist back in my study. Many of them, I presume, you have already read.”
Weir glanced at the letter again, now discarding it. “You presume a lot, sir. Especially for a scholar.”
“Well, why don’t we start from the beginning?” Colts said, sitting up. “Clearly Dr Maloney’s disappearance became known to his agent on the island, and news was passed back to England. Who exactly gave the orders for the massacre?”
Weir took an exhausted breath. “The massacre, as you call it, is not what you think. Reports came to St Mary’s that Dr Maloney had got himself into a spot of bother. It was only natural the claim was investigated.”
“Who by? Your grandfather?”
“Subsequent to his appointment, my family were the most respected people on the island, excluding, of course, the governor. It had been many years since the Isles had maintained a professional garrison. And it would have taken days if not weeks for troops to arrive from the mainland.”
“He led a body of men?” Chris asked. “Who?”
“Locals. Made up from all the islands.”
“They were army?”
“More like a militia. Posse comitatus, I believe was the correct term. It was all very medieval. What you must understand, sir, is that the islanders at that time were very set in their ways. The people were used to fishing, but many also knew how to fight. Should a wreck run aground or a Dutch fleet open fire, it was essential one knew how to defend oneself.”
“What happened on St Lide’s?”
“From what I could gather from my father years later, the problems began one evening when Dr Maloney failed to return to his lodgings. When he was still missing the following day, it was feared that he might have met with an accident. When my grandfather came to the cursed island, he found himself also wanting for his life. He was lucky, I might add, to escape with it.”
“So no one found the body?” Colts took over.
“Not to my knowledge; and if they did, certainly no one admitted to it. Nevertheless, quite quickly it became widely believed that he might have been murdered. The key question that remained was, who was responsible?”
“Surely that would have been a legal matter. Your grandfather as well as any should have known that.”
Weir stared angrily at Colts, gripping his whisky glass. “A man who has lived here as long as you, sir, should be more aware than most of the great problems one can encounter when dealing with people on the matter. Those of the cursed island were a raw and rowdy bunch, not likely to respect the laws of the governor. To extradite someone for murder or thievery was like trying to extradite a terrorist from Iran to America. Only with cooperation could it be achieved.”
“Extradite? You make it sound like a different country,” Chris interjected.
“That was precisely the way many viewed it.” The colonel removed his glasses and sipped his whisky neat. “In the weeks that followed, I can quite assure you no great feeling of loss was felt from any of their neighbours.”
“Weeks. Surely the massacre came much later?” Chris said.
“Unless someone was talking cock and bull,” Colts added. “Tell me, Colonel, who exactly was under threat for what here? When news of Dr Thomas’s disappearance became known, was there ever any real attempt to pin the blame on any one individual? I mean, you said it yourself, such things needed cooperation. Were the people of St Lide’s really being that awful, or did somebody just want an excuse to start a war?”
Weir was clearly offended. “My family were never like that. My grandfather was an honourable man. How dare you make such a suggestion?”
“I’m not suggesting for a second he was the ringleader or anything of the kind. I know there may have been many, even as far away as Bryher or Tresco, who were unhappy with the behaviour of unruly islanders. Yet it still begs the question. Who fired the first bullet? Who gave the original orders?”
Weir sat peculiarly still, as if suffering from shock. “The murder of Dr Maloney had the potential to cause an uprising, not just on St Lide’s. Once they discovered the man they had welcomed was in league with British agents intent on depriving them of any possible riches, the locals snapped. They blamed the governor more than anyone. If something hadn’t been done, an uprising could have killed hundreds more.”
“So they were slaughtered to stop a war?” Colts asked.
“I’m unaware of the intentions of the top brass. Only that shotgun shells and other traces of ammunition were found all over the island.”
“When was this?”
“September the same year. Three magistrates were sent to conduct an inquiry.”
“I don’t remember reading this in any official report.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, would you? Anything incriminating was omitted.”
“So there was a conspiracy?”
“Shells were found, but of the exact quantity and type of weapon, I have no idea. The party was sent to deal with rumours of discontent. So in answer to your previous question, the first bullet could have come from either side.”
Colts rubbed his beard and smiled at Chris. “Tell me something, Colonel,” he began, sipping his tea. “What happened to the bodies?”
The comment clearly left a sour note. “I told you before, there was no massacre. The massacre story was only invented later to deflect from the true story of what really happened. The militia was strong, but not large in number. It wasn’t as if the British simply came in and mowed everyone down with a single Lewis gun.”
Colts sipped again from his teacup and replaced it on a coaster. “I fail to see how that would be an improvement.”
“It was all a question of diplomacy. The purpose of the militia was to enforce order, but in the chaos that followed, things got out of hand. As the weeks passed, and with residents of the surrounding islands coming to terms with an entire island’s population suddenly disappearing, it was only a matter of time before questions were asked. A civil war between the islanders would have been unthinkable. At least with the story of British mass murder, it offered an incentive for the other islands to unite. And a sense of justice.”
Chris frowned on hearing the word justice. “What happened to the bodies?”
“As far as I’m aware, most have never been found.”
“I take it some were?”
“They weren’t all bunged in the same pit, if that’s what you mean?” he said, sorrow filling his voice. “People were killed on both sides of the hills; the non-residents were returned home and given proper burials.”
“Can they be found?”
“Yes, and the dates are correct, before you get any more ideas. However, don’t expect their gallantry to have been mentioned in dispatches.”
“What about the others?”
“The final stand-off was brutal; the curtain came down close to New Town. As a precaution, the women and children were ushered inland.”
“Where?”
“A cave somewhere; who knows where? Apparently they blockaded themselves in to ensure the intruders never gained access.”
Chris raised an
eyebrow, intrigued. “What happened to my ancestor’s missing diary pages? Judging by the letter, they were given to your grandfather.”
“You’ve seen the document yourself. The instructions were to return them to England.”
“Did they make it? See, I never saw anything among the files in Cornwall.”
“Oh, there was nothing there,” Colts agreed, his gaze reserved solely for Weir. “I take it somebody still has them?”
“They weren’t burned, if that’s what you mean? Nor were your ancestor’s results widely broadcast.” His expression turned increasingly cold. “Of course, it all makes sense to me now. The reason you’re here. Just a young boy. Active imagination. You think everything’s still a game. That you’re just some actor, hunting buried treasure. Well, let me tell you” – the colonel delayed to let out a deep, chesty cough – “there is no such thing. The things found by your relative may have greatly exceeded what many mainstream scholars might have considered credible, but take it from one who knows. One who has seen. The contents are not to be taken lightly.”
“Sir, I understand your concerns, but trust me, I didn’t get this scar on my face from an overactive imagination.” Chris smiled weakly, pointing to the redness on his cheek. “I was lucky to survive. These last two weeks alone I’ve encountered misfortune I never believed could be possible; I’ll spare boring you with the details. Right now, it isn’t just the good ol’ Duke of Cornwall who is searching for these things. That makes my task – our task – all the more imperative.” He sat back in his chair, raised his whisky to his lips but refrained from drinking it. “I implore you, Colonel. If you are to trust anybody, trust those who are on your side.”
Colts leaned forward, detecting a shift in the man’s thinking patterns. “I appreciate it may seem strange, seeing a young man, American, his pop career coming to an end, coming at you and claiming to be who he is. Maybe it was the same with me once upon a time. Perhaps it still is. But remember, Colonel, the quest for Aztec gold was never restricted to the British alone. There are others still out there seeking what we seek.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 91