The Cortés Enigma (33 page)

Standing by the doorway, Danny was a bundle of nerves. He saw the American, his friend and the archaeologist steal the Devil’s Cup from the cabinet, and place it carefully in Valeria’s handbag along with three other objects.

In truth he didn’t know what worried him most. The fact that they were taking the Devil’s Cup or simply touching it.

He returned to the desk, looking as if he was working. He saw Colts smile at him as he left, holding up a parting hand.

“Best of evenings to you, friend. Don’t you be working too hard.”

There was no danger of that. “You can’t possibly be heading out again in this?”

“Ben here is mighty anxious Miss Flores be escorted safely back to her boat. And like you say, friend, seen much worse.”

“Yes, sir,” Danny mustered.

“Be seeing you real soon, Danny boy.”

Danny waited until they had departed through the main door. The street was engulfed by the storm, the howling of the wind practically deafening. As the door closed, the sound of the wind became muffled, overpowered by that of the rain hammering down against the glass, and running down the slope into the sea or gutters.

Danny tried to compose himself. He waited until they had left before picking up the phone. It rang five times, six, seven.

Voicemail.

He daren’t leave his post, but he was faced with a situation that was almost unheard of.

Mustering all the strength he could, he put on his jacket and followed the three thieves into the teeth of the storm.

The Fourth Day

44

Cornwall, England

Dawn came early, or maybe sunset was just really late. Ben had lost track of time. There was light on the horizon, a distant glimmer surrounded by haze. He could see it, just shining there, somewhere above the sea. As his eyes adjusted, he saw red, not just orange. There was a saying in these parts: red sky at morning is a sailor’s warning. He’d never known whether to take such things, such prophesies, as anything more than superstition. Just like touching the Devil’s Cup, it all seemed highly romanticised. Yet warning bells were ringing in his mind, just as they had been since the moment he learned Chris had gone missing.

Then he remembered.

He was still missing.

The boat reached land at just after 5am. According to Colts, they had made good time. The boat was a cabin cruiser. Ben had been on it twice now, firstly with Colts to St Lide’s.

It seemed like a long time ago.

The journey took over five hours, all of which was in the dark. The storm that had battered the Isles of Scilly since late afternoon had followed them like a metal rod attracts lightning. Huge waves crashed against the ship, flooding the deck and pounding the vessel from side to side. Ben had never been prone to seasickness, but these conditions were extreme. They ate immediately, cooked by Colts in the galley, and Ben brought it up within minutes. Valeria even sooner.

Even Colts admitted the storm was a bad one.

The journey ended at the town of St Just, located on the coast near Land’s End. After departing the boat while it was still dark, Ben and Valeria followed Colts through the quiet streets, the occasional light from a window, a clubber returning home, a teenager from a party, the rare companions to the numerous streetlights whose light created a homely glow above the drenched pavement. After following Colts to a dimly lit multi-storey car park, they got into a five-year-old Ford Transit and journeyed through the empty streets.

Thirty-five minutes later they reached their destination.

The village of Godolphin Cross lies in the south-west of Cornwall. Ten miles east of Penzance and eighteen from St Just, it sits in an upland area, the plateau of the nearby countryside. Its position was locally celebrated; as the name suggests, it was a point where the parish met a crossroads. Passing the pub on the corner of the crossroads, weary travellers would be faced with four choices: to follow the path west would bring them to Penzance, north to St Ives or maybe south to The Lizard and the surrounding coastline. Then there were those who headed east, and inland.

The path that leads out of Cornwall.

Godolphin Cross was a large village compared to most. Lying midway between the towns of Hayle and Helston, it had a medical centre, a redundant church, several houses and a primary school that had recently passed its last Ofsted inspection. The Godolphin Cross pub was located at the crossroads, overlooking the roads like a watchtower, its thick granite façade and large windows monitoring all four points of the compass.

While the village itself was little more than a reference point, less than a mile from the crossroads stood a more prominent feature. Hidden behind ancient woodland, and nestling within the steep inclines of the surrounding hillside, a supposedly cursed former dwelling served as a reminder of past glories. Once upon a time the 550-acre estate had been famed as one of the finest in Cornwall. A Tudor house still occupied the site where once an even larger house had stood. Elizabethan stables adjoined the house on one side, beside well-maintained gardens that hosted wild and exotic flowers, the first of which were at last starting to bloom. The years may have passed, but the sights, they say, never changed. Even after the fall of the monarchy, the family prospered, before an eventual decline in their fortunes in the 1800s. As the family’s wealth reduced, the house became progressively more uncared for and eventually redundant. Cold. Forgotten. Dilapidated.

Ten years earlier, the sight that would have met the three travellers would have been one completely different. A decade under the care of the National Trust had seen the former shell slowly return to public life. On spring and summer days, couples and tourists would walk the corridors, explore the rooms and gardens, and eat cake in the tea room, enjoying a personal journey into the lives of those of long ago.

But the past was the past. Though parts of the house had been modernised, still the history lingered, like a continuous echo trapped in a cave. Memory of past inhabitants was everywhere: its large portraits, wooden furniture, beds slept in by those long since departed. This was the true history of the estate, a property owned by one family. They were the family who possessed not only the property but the history itself.

Locally it was known simply as the Godolphin Estate.

Its importance was self-explanatory.

Colts drove north on reaching the crossroads and followed the deserted road for three-quarters of a mile. The Satnav suggested a left turn, an innocuous unclassified side road heading into acre upon acre of heavy woodland. Colts turned and followed it, the purpose of the road soon becoming obvious.

They were heading along the driveway leading to the main house.

What Ben saw left him speechless. Thick ancient woodland restricted the view on either side before a 16th century mansion appeared out of nowhere. Well-manicured lawns flanked the building both front and side: the first an immaculate circle decorated by a small stone ornament, the central feature of the grass before the grand façade, while behind the house the grounds continued seemingly indefinitely.

The front of the house was unlike anything Ben had ever seen in real life. Eleven single, quartered windows faced out from the front of the building at equal intervals, the dark glass giving nothing away of the inside. Unlike most houses of its type, the centre of the second storey, an imposing thick block of grey granite, overhung the lower by at least five metres and was supported by six large pillars. Two windows on either side of the pillars matched those of the upper storey in both size and appearance. A gently sloping roof was at the centre between two minor triangles that crowned matching towers on both sides.

Ben looked at it, speechless. Though this was his first visit, he had seen the façade, and recently.

In the later pages of TF’s diary.

Colts slowed the van on reaching the main lawn, where he was met by a serious-looking woman, plump body, dyed red hair and aged somewhere in her early sixties. Colts wound down the window.

“Mr Colts?”

Colts smiled. “Good morning. Thank you so much for agreeing to this at such short notice.”

The woman’s expression didn’t warm as she handed over the keys. “When you’ve unpacked, perhaps you would be so kind as to come to the main office. We have some forms for you to sign.”

“Much obliged.”

Colts parked around the right side of the property and immediately stretched on getting out from the driver’s seat. “Feels mighty good to stretch one’s legs.”

Ben was still at a loss to comprehend what had just happened. While the scenery was delightful, a luxurious estate in the middle of a forest, he still had no idea what they were doing. “Where the hell are we?”

“Godolphin Cross,” Colts replied, smoking his pipe for the first time in thirty minutes. “Or, to be more precise, as this place is known, Godolphin.”

Ben folded his arms as he looked at Valeria. Despite the long journey in the back of the van, on top of a night of broken sleep sailing in a storm, her appearance was still incredible.

“Care to elaborate?” Ben asked.

“The Duke of Leeds sold the property in 1929. However, before that time they owned the estate here. You understand what I’m saying, Ben? They were the real bigwigs in the community.”

“What happened after 1929?”

“Nothing happened. Not of relevance. For a while it was taken over by a family called the Schofields. In 2007, this old place was taken on by the National Trust.”

“You mean it’s open to the public?”

“Not today. You see, it just so happens three weeks out of every four, this old house is used as a holiday let.”

“So that’s why that kind old lady gave you her keys,” Valeria said.

That hadn’t struck Ben until now. “You mean you leased it?”

Colts removed his bag from the back of the van, extended the strap and pulled. He laughed, knowing from Ben’s reaction that, not for the first time, he was having an effect.

“Come on. Let’s check this place out.”

45

The house was very habitable; judging by its condition, it had been lived in recently. It was different to what Ben had expected. All of the bedrooms had modern features, some mixed with traditional. He took a room with dark cyan walls, a modern double bed with an antique mirror hanging above the original fireplace and a circular portrait of a past resident directly above the bed. Valeria had also been spoilt, occupying a room immaculately painted in sky blue with an original four-poster bed resting on an oak floor and illuminated by chandeliers. Further along, Colts also plumped for a room with a four-poster bed, the original oak frame standing on a maroon rug. Set into the white walls, hung with portraits of the former governors, was a grand fireplace.

Colts had chosen the finest of the rooms.

The kitchen was also modern. Cutlery hung from a sky-blue-coloured cabinet, a rare original feature, while the original range fire had been filled with an AGA cooker situated near a four-seater table and work surface. As promised by the owner, the cupboards were stocked with food of all kinds, while meat, dairy and many other products lined every rack of a near full fridge; a wide selection of cheeses took up much of the space in the pantry, and vegetables hung from shelves or occupied wooden cabinets. A smell of freshness pervaded the kitchen that Valeria immediately took to.

Valeria and Ben were in the dining room when Colts returned from filling in forms. As in most stately homes, an ornate dining table was the centrepiece of the room, this one surrounded by eight wooden chairs including two, one at either end, that were large and throne-like. Within the main wall was an impressive original fireplace flanked by oak panelling that had been freshly varnished.

“I always liked it here,” Colts said, admiring the room as he returned. “Reminds me of the one I used to work in.”

Ben and Valeria were sitting at the table. “Now that you’re finished filling in forms, you mind telling us what you’ve got planned?”

“Planned? Ben, you were the one who figured it out.”

True enough. “Okay. Let me rephrase…”

“The village of Godolphin Cross was never meant to be anything more than a crossover,” Colts explained, “but, during the time these things were made,” he picked up one of the replica emeralds, “there was even less here. Back then, this was owned by the same family. Now, maybe you’ll disagree, but it strikes me there’s only one such place the stones could be referring to.”

Ben exhaled, tired, frustrated. Obviously enough, the family estate of the former governors was the sensible place to begin looking.

“I take it you’ve been here before?” Ben replied.

“Been here, lived here, searched here.” He took a seat opposite Ben and adjacent Valeria, removed his hat and sighed. “What you must understand, Ben, the Duchy of Cornwall has been looking for this for a long time. I, Ben, have been looking for this a long time.” He looked at Ben, detecting a hint of surprise. “You think I hadn’t already considered this place?”

“Actually, I never considered that…you find anything?”

Colts was prepared for further sarcasm. “You think I’d be wasting my time babysitting you two screw-ups if I’d found what it was I was looking for?” He pointed his finger at Ben, clearly in no mood for mishaps. “I suggest we make use of the time. We only have a few days.”

“You have a better suggestion?”

“You two take a look around. In the meantime, I’d rather like to read that photocopy of Mr Thomas’s diary.”

Ben removed the photocopied diary from his side bag; during the storm, the paper had become wet. Colts took it, disgruntled, and began shaking water away.

Ben got to his feet and examined the room, particularly the paintings. Among others was a large painting of a fine stallion, apparently named ‘Godolphin Arabian’, once owned and bred by the second earl.

Ben and Valeria moved into the entrance hall, where a fine original 16th century chimney was the crowning glory. Like the other rooms, the walls were lavishly adorned with paintings, mostly portraits.

“Who are these people?” Valeria asked, following Ben.

“My old band mates,” Colts said, paying no attention to the no-smoking policy that was supposedly in force. “You two ever do anything sensible?”

“Hey, neither of us asked to be part of this,” Ben barked, waving his finger in Colts’s face. “I never came here for any treasure.”

Colts laughed, almost heckled. “Professor Maloney, you may find it fun trying to kid yourself, but this ‘I didn’t come here for treasure’ bullplop, it doesn’t work on the rest of us. You came here for the exact same reason we all do. Human greed. Passion. Excitement. Now you might like to fool yourself with your stupid use of English. But deep down inside you came here for the same reason–”

“I came to find my ancestor. And now my cousin.”

“And what did he come here for?” Colts raised his eyebrows, his caramel eyes centred on Ben. “It runs in your blood. Just like it does for everyone else. History repeats itself.”

Ben straightened his back and gave Colts a piercing stare. “Check the diary all you want. There’s nothing there. I’ve read everything already.”

Again Ben left the dining room and headed for the entrance hall. He found Valeria standing by one of the walls, studying a painting, subject and artist unknown.

Ben looked at it. “What is that?”

Colts looked over his shoulder. “That’s what they call Tregonning Hill.”

The name meant nothing. “Tre–”

Colts joined them in the entrance hall. “Tregonning Hill is just out over there.” He pointed through the nearest window. Several trees in the area outside the window cast long shadows across much of the floor, protecting the room from the glare of the sun. In the distance, Ben and Valeria could see a large hill, its grass a rich and vibrant green. “The place offers some of the best views in Cornwall.”

“Of what?” Ben asked flippantly.

“Everything: St Ives to the north, coast of St Michael’s Mount to the west, some say on a clear day you can even see St Mary’s. Though that would depend on who you talk to.”

Ben laughed. “That would be pretty impressive. Seeing as it’s over sixty miles away.”

Colts pointed again to the painting. “Back when the estate was in its prime, many people in the area found work in one of the tin mines. We have the Great Work Mine to the south near the hill, West Godolphin Mine to the east,” he joked ironically, “and then just plain Godolphin to the north.” He looked at Ben, cockeyed. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know what a mine is?”

Ben fought the urge to retaliate. “What happened to them?”

“Closed down in the early 1800s. Prior to that, they must’ve got more tin out of the ground than the Eskimos did ice. That’s how the family made their money.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t they used to mine tin at St Lide’s?”

“Tried. Tried on all of them. Unlike here, there was nothing there.” He returned to the dining room, about to sit down. Directly in front of him the four replica emeralds were placed in order, the absence of the trumpet particularly noticeable.

“Would you look at that?”

Ben detected a change in Colts’s voice. “Pardon me?”

Colts was too shocked to respond as he stared, dazed, at the four stones in front of him.

Valeria stepped forward, followed by Ben. Neither of them were clear what Colts was looking at.

“Colts?” Ben said.

“Look.” He pointed at the stones, his finger trembling with excitement. “Look, dammit, can you not see what’s directly in front of you?”

Ben leaned in for a closer look. He focused on the individual features, the rim of the bell, the eyes of the fish, the petals of the rose.

He saw nothing other than what he had seen already. His head shaking, he moved away, heading toward the window. The nearby Godolphin Hill towered above them, its elegant shape baffling.

In its own way, it looked like a small Aztec pyramid.

Ben turned and looked at Colts; his attention returned to the four objects. What wasn’t clear before, when they stood apart, was suddenly as clear as day, though he would never have noticed had he not come to Godolphin himself.

“Here?”

Colts looked at Ben and smiled, only this time something had changed. It was genuine. Pleased. Unforced. Colts fished through his outer pockets, removed a guide map, and spread it out across the table.

For the first time things made sense to Ben. The shapes of the individual objects when standing alone illustrated only the exact features of the items they were meant to represent. Yet when they stood together, the effect was different. The bell alone appeared much smoother, its outline showing evidence of contours, like the lines of a hill. The cup was greater, like a hole in the landscape, surrounded on every side by ridges. The rose was a dense forest, lined by hills, shaped by the neck and back of the fish. There was something missing, something he could now see. The trumpet, when viewed from above, perfectly illustrated the features of the nearby tin mine, its flat surface interrupted by three large outlines that looked like houses or chimneys.

Just as together the five formed the name of the location, on the top they showed the physical features, a precise map known only to those who knew where they were going.

“Put your jacket on, boy. We’re going mining.”