The Cortés Enigma (26 page)

35

There was no communication about the recently destroyed wall, no danger signs, no written warnings and no reason to believe there was any critical damage to the structure. It was as if a new doorway had been created.

Or an old one found.

Deciding against waiting for Colts, Ben stepped over the pile of rubble and stopped to see what lay beyond.

The light was fading, but it was still to go completely: it was as if a shadow had fallen across the castle, shielding it from the setting sun. Further on, it became darker still, forcing him to remove his torch.

There were walls on both sides, stone, grey, clearly the same material that was used to build the castle. After about twenty metres, they disappeared, replaced by several wooden boards that had been purposely erected both on either side and below. It was like walking on a boardwalk, the sound of his footsteps a dull thud echoing softly throughout. The smell had also changed, a strange combination of gunpowder and tin. His gut feeling told him he was heading in the right direction.

Any mining operation that had existed in the past had clearly not done so for a long time.

Less than five minutes later he found it. A large gaping pit, almost a perfect square, dug down into the earth at least twenty-five metres. The shaft was supported on every side with wooden boards having been placed at five-metre intervals. An ancient rope dangled midway down the pit, attached to a rusty bucket. There were tools everywhere, pickaxes, hammers, hacksaws…

Ben placed his hand to his cheek and ran his fingers through his hair. He cursed what he saw, but not for the reasons he expected.

Whoever made the hole in the wall had not found what they hoped for.

Colts was standing behind him, arms folded, hat askew.

“You?”

Colts shook his head. “Nope. Like yourself, I’d say I arrived over three hundred years too late.”

On the other side of the pit, the passage continued, moving from left to right, now almost in total darkness. The area was wide enough to walk, but its condition looked severely unsafe.

“What happened?”

“After the old fort was upgraded into a gun battery and surrounding castle, it fell from the king’s side to Cromwell. Local legend later suggests that the Roundheads, whilst strengthening the foundations, came across the abandoned shaft and the treasure buried some thirty metres deep inside. No one ever says whether they knew what it was they were digging.”

“But what could they do about it? Even if they already knew, it’s pretty hard to smuggle out treasure in the middle of a civil war,” Ben said, rubbing his stubble. “What happened then?”

Colts pointed his finger at Ben. “The leader of the company was a man named Admiral Blake.”

“The Admiral Blake?”

“The very same. Apparently Blake witnessed the find himself and passed on word to the governor – as far as I’m aware, the record didn’t survive.”

“If it didn’t survive, how do you know it was genuine?”

“The record was seen by another man, an author who wrote about the tale in the early 1800s.”

Ben guessed he was talking about the book Dr Phillips had lent him; he was still to read the whole thing. “What did it say?”

“Pretty much what you would expect. The treasure was re-hidden, but it seems pretty clear to me no one who stumbled upon something so priceless would be foolish enough to leave it. If the gold was buried in the mines, chances are it will be found again, eventually.”

Ben folded his arms. “So what happened?”

“Well, if I were a historian, I’d say one of two things. If all went by the book, the find was reported to Cromwell. Only problem was the garrison defected before the war was over. After that, the property belonged to the king.”

“The treasure was found by Charles I?”

“If all went according to the book. But between you and me, I have my doubts. The entire company consisted of about fifteen men, including Admiral Blake. Let’s just say a few die, maybe five at the most. Still leaves ten people who know about it.”

“You think Blake was involved in this? I personally find it hard to believe the father of the Royal Navy would have disobeyed his orders. He had so much to lose.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, shortly after the war ended, work began on revamping the Star Castle back on St Mary’s. Between the years 1660 and 1700, a local historian and translator recorded much of the work that was going on.”

“Let me guess? He witnessed the treasure being excavated and reburied.”

Colts laughed. “Not quite. But he did mention a large quantity of what he described as boxes being removed from the old castle and deposited in the new one.”

“It mentions nothing specific? For all you know it could be something different.”

“Unlikely. On this occasion, there is another source of the legend, one that does have a more tangible record.”

“All right. Let’s hear it.”

“In the 1800s, when the Osborne family allowed the lease to pass to the Dorrien-Smiths, one of the surviving kin of the original family went looking for it.”

“Wait,” Ben interrupted, raising his hand. “Original family?”

Colts smiled, always the same smile. “Amazing how similar the names are in the graveyards round here, isn’t it? Particularly on St Lide’s.”

Yet again memories of TF’s diary came pouring back. “Slater?”

Colts nodded. “Mighty fine name, mighty fine knowledge.”

“Who were they?”

“You say you’re an intelligent man, Ben. What does the name Slater mean?”

Ben was confused. “Slater, why, a person involved in slate.”

“Exactly, Ben. Now if you were to be in Spain, what would the same name be?”

Ben racked his brain for a translation.

Then it hit him.

“Pizarro.”

Colts laughed. “Tradition had it when the shipwreck occurred, the survivors took refuge on St Lide’s, which at the time was abandoned. Only, a few days later, boats came across from St Agnes. See, back then, the isles only had one lighthouse.”

“The Foot?”

“Yes, indeedy. See, after the locals arrived, seems instead of shooing them away, they took real kindly to the Spaniards. It didn’t do to make life difficult for folk at a time like that.”

“What do you mean? What was so special about the timing?”

“St Agnes had recently been badly depopulated. The five main families had been depleted, drowned in a fierce storm,” he said, his eyes wandering in every direction as he listened to the sound of wind battering the castle. “You know, they’ve always said in these parts, people shouldn’t get the men of St Agnes and St Lide’s too excited. Times like that, the old Moor comes out to shine.”

Ben took a deep breath, trying to stay patient. “What happened to the survivors – the originals?”

Colts shrugged. “No one knows, not for sure. If you believe the folk tales, the families intermingled. Married.”

“Catalina married a local?”

“Among others. I’m guessing there were some mighty fine women on the island.”

“What about their descendants?”

“By the early 1900s the Slaters had nearly died out. Tradition has it, only one remained. Only this man was no soldier. He was a sexton.”

“A sexton?”

“That’s right,” Colts confirmed. “Guy by the name of Alfred.”

Ben recognised the name from reading TF’s diary. “The others died out?”

“As far as I’m aware, they had. See it was an Alfred Slater, history recalls, who first met your great-great-grandfather in the churchyard of St Lide’s. Rumour has it, he was even responsible for his murder.”

Ben felt a sudden surge of adrenalin, as if an unknown entity had possessed him. “How do you know?”

“Supposedly, when old Alfie got wind of Tommy’s true intentions, he took a keen interest in the man. Helped him out. Showed him places your ancestor wouldn’t have known without the help of local knowledge.”

“There must be evidence?”

“Evidence, as you call it, can mean many things, particularly in parts of the world where the art of keeping records is not confined to libraries or boardrooms. The people of St Agnes and St Lide’s were a close-knit group, among them, story goes, was a boy named Samuel Smethick. He was the son of the local tavern keeper and a lad of Godolphin pedigree on his mother’s side. Not strong enough, you understand, to offer a realistic claim to the inheritance of the isles.”

Ben was interested. “What happened?”

“Sam became a lighthouse keeper, kept that light right up to the end of World War Two. Sam’s last will and testament included a diary. He claimed, through much sadness, to have failed as a young man to save the life of a great man who had been hunting wrecks off Hell’s Bay.”

“A great man? He wasn’t named?”

“Sadly, no. Then again, at that time people would have been unaccustomed to addressing social betters as equals.”

Ben realised he had a point.

“Some say he found something buried in the lighthouse as the great man had told him.”

Ben placed his hand to his face, dumbstruck. Memories of the diary came flooding back. “Could he?”

“When the Civil War was over and the then governor, Sir Francis Godolphin, decided to move operations to the Star Castle, work was carried out pretty quickly. The walls are strong and include large dungeons, the kind that could quite easily hide something for a few hundred years.”

“You think something is still buried there?”

“Problem was, Osbornes and Godolphins were related by marriage, not blood. The chain was broken: brother replaced by brother-in-law; one family replaced the other. It wasn’t as if the secret was being passed from father to son. After 1760, the Godolphins lost prestige. The lease of the island was lost to another. There was no guarantee the chain would continue. But even if it did, by 1830 the Osbornes had also died out. Least the direct line.”

Ben leaned forward, his hands almost touching Colts. For the first time he felt as if the story had a climax, as if the riddle was at last coming to an end.

“Go on.”

“Smethick wrote a diary, as they all did, more a log than anything. Apparently the Godolphins left behind markers that together offered some clue as to what the treasure really was and where it was hidden. According to Smethick’s diary, one of these was apparently hidden in the basement of the old lighthouse. Of course, these days, it’s on private property. And redeveloped.”

Ben punched the wall, furious. “The Spanish girl.”

Colts grinned. “Rumour has it, people keep taking quite a shine to her. Mighty pretty, that girl.”

36

6pm

They left the castle the same way, hurrying across the island to return to the boat. Dark cloud had gathered across the western sky, moving slowly toward the island. The wind was getting stronger, accompanied by a rumble of thunder in the distance. The sea was becoming choppy, particularly around the area of St Mary’s Sound, that treacherous stretch of water between St Agnes and St Mary’s that had allegedly once brought down the Spanish galleon. Below the castle, the sea pounded against the rocks, waves splashing up over ten metres high. As they hit the heights, rocks fell below, rolling along the cliff and into the sea. It was a sight that had been frequent throughout history. Because of that, the lagoon was now a cove. As they approached the boat, Ben felt the wind strengthen further, sending a penetrating chill through his body.

The worst was still to come
, as Kernow would say.

Twenty minutes later Colts pulled up on the island of St Agnes, the fifth largest of all the isles. Ben was still to visit or see it up close, but there was one feature that even he couldn’t fail to recognise. It was over eighty feet in height, painted white, and had an iconic appearance.

The Old Man’s Foot. Restored from a dilapidated state.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” Colts asked.

Ben wrapped his jacket collar around his mouth, trying to protect himself from the cold. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

“You’d better.”

Colts saluted half-heartedly as he shifted the boat into reverse and did a three-point turn on the water. He jammed the lever into gear and began to sail forward, the bow tracing a regular pattern through the water as the craft accelerated toward St Mary’s.

Ben was like a ferret on acid. Following the path that connected the small jetty to the one that led to the lighthouse, he glanced one last time over his shoulder at the departing boat.

The Duke of Cornwall, he thought to himself glibly.

The Old Man’s Foot was less than a quarter of a mile away, located on a hill. It was just after 6pm; even in the last twenty minutes the sky had darkened considerably. Clouds dominated the western sky, thick and menacing. Though it was still not raining, the wind was now unbearable. The pathway was isolated and without any supporting rail to hold onto.

Walking took all of his available energy.

Ben came to within two hundred metres of the main entrance and stopped on reaching a wooden fence. A large white house adjoined the lighthouse, 18th century and recently renovated. There were no lights on, nor any other obvious sign of life. A large flag blew fiercely in front of the main door from a solitary pole. Some of the windows were boarded up, particularly on the top floor.

Renovation was clearly ongoing.

He continued along the pathway, trying to ignore the ceaseless sound of the howling wind rattling against nearby scaffolding. The noise was tuneless, piercing and annoying.

At the end of the path he saw a sturdy white door, surrounded by a thick stone archway. He sprinted toward it.