The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 2

  “In sight o’ Big Ben,” the gravedigger mumbled, jabbing his shovel at a large block of ice that had attached itself to the nearby dirt. “Now there’s a sight I never did see. You be a long way from home, sir.”

  “I assure you, I’ve been a lot further.” The visitor smiled kindly and glanced towards the church. “Is this the only church on the island?”

  “That it is, sir. Unless you be counting the chapel. That be Methodist, you understand?”

  “Then I take it this must be St Lide’s?”

  “Aye, sir. If you be looking to pay your respects, his holy body is buried inside. You’ll be finding it at the back o’ the Lady Chapel.”

  “I take it you know the church well?” the visitor asked, guessing from the other man’s local accent and general appearance – bearded, early seventies, baldness evident despite the presence of a hat – that the answer would almost certainly be yes.

  “As well as any other,” the gravedigger replied.

  “Ah, excellent. In that case, I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for one of my long-lost relatives – an ancestor, in fact. I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across anybody in this cemetery by the name of Wilcox?”

  The gravedigger considered the question and shook his head. “No, sir. In all my years on St Lide’s, I’ve never heard mention of no Wilcox. Matter o’ fact, I don’t recall anyone o’ that name ever living on the island.”

  “Actually, he was Irish – a sailor. He died in the 1700s. The naval disaster.”

  “Ah, the disaster. 22 October 1707. Worst in naval history. Four ships capsized that night, o’er a thousand dead.” The gravedigger shook his head and looked the Londoner in the eye. “Folks in these parts say one o’ Admiral Shovell’s men tried to warn him o’ impending disaster. Instead o’ listening, the admiral had him hanged for inciting disorder. It don’t always pay to tell the truth.”

  The visitor frowned. “You clearly know your local history.”

  “If finding your ancestor is what you came here to do, I suggest you head on inside and speak with the vicar. If anyone knows Wilcox, chances are it’ll be Reverend Williams.”

  The visitor reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a fine, solid gold Victorian pocket watch attached to his inner garments by a strong chain. “It’s 13:02. Is he usually in church at this time?”

  “Service is over already. More likely he’ll be in the rectory.” The gravedigger pointed to a large house on the other side of the pathway, its grand exterior partially hidden by a long line of old oak trees. Through the trees the visitor could see that it was a two-storey, run-down building, its once fine Georgian façade badly defaced through years of neglect and exposure to adverse weather.

  He placed his right hand deep into his thick woolly pocket and removed a sixpence. “Here’s something for your wife and family.”

  The gravedigger caught the coin. “A thousand thanks.” He nodded, tipped his hat and returned to digging the grave.

  *

  The Church of St Lide was an imposing building, not quite quaint but not ruined either. Its white stone exterior had seen better days, while repairs to the chancel and the bell tower had remained ongoing for the past decade. He could tell from the façade that the architecture had initially been Romanesque with later additions and repairs carried out over the last century.

  The church was open. The large wooden door creaked before closing under the power of its own weight, stopping when the bolt hit the latch.

  Taking his time, the visitor looked around. The interior was spacious and airy, the whiteness of the walls reflecting the sunlight as it entered through the stained-glass windows on both sides. He recognised stories such as Moses and the Ten Commandments and the Sermon on the Mount, their characters well defined and alive with colour. A beautiful Victorian font was located at the rear left of the main aisle, surrounded by stacks of extra chairs and hymnals in a bookcase. There were plaques on the walls, mainly recent, put up in remembrance of locals whose service to the community was worthy of memory. Either side of the main aisle, ten wooden pews were spaced at regular intervals, while at the front of the church, an ornate chamfered archway led somewhere off the altar.

  Passing the altar, he proceeded through the archway and entered the Lady Chapel, a quiet room with white walls and modest in decoration – he guessed it originally dated to the 14th century. At the far end, a second smaller altar was flanked by two stone statues of what appeared to be angels and decorated with several small bouquets of local flowers. A third, less imposing, statue was located close to the rear of the chapel, below a solitary stained-glass window depicting a man dressed in a green robe, standing in a small wooden boat. Alongside the statue was a monument, apparently a grave or a shrine. He couldn’t make out the name on the monument, but the window read:

  St Lide. Founder of the island

  544–601AD

  He heard what sounded like a door closing, followed by the echo of footsteps, possibly walking towards him. Moments later, a man appeared in the archway: fifties, balding grey hair, dressed all in black with a dog collar around his neck.

  “Ah, Reverend Williams, I presume?”

  “Ah, you must be the fellow Alfred was just telling me about.”

  “Yes. This really is a most charming little church. I had not realised that any existed as far south-west as here.”

  “The most southern Anglican church in the British Isles,” the vicar replied. “It’s because of the geography we’ve managed to survive for so long. The reformation was really much more peaceful on St Lide’s.”

  In truth, that thought had never occurred to him. “My name is Maloney,” the Londoner began, “my family played rather a small part in the history of the island. Back in the sailing days.”

  The vicar smiled. “They still exist, you know.”

  Maloney returned his smile. “I was looking for one of my ancestors – an Irishman. He died in the naval disaster of 1707, and I understand from the sexton at St Mary’s he might have been buried here. Chap by the name of Wilcox.”

  The vicar nodded. “Yes, I recognise the name. I think I can show you.”

  *

  The grave of Martin Wilcox was located on the south side of the churchyard, in between two men named Slater. Five graves away was another Wilcox.

  Stephen Wilcox.

  Maloney guessed he was also a relation.

  The slab was badly weathered. Like many in the churchyard, it was dirtied by the presence of thick layers of ice, the most recent of which was slowly melting, causing water to run down the stone. It was after 1:30, and the sun was just past its highest point, its diffused rays breaking through the cloud. Despite the sunlight, it was still cold; sharp gusts of wind penetrated through to his bones, infrequent but painful. Again he shivered, his teeth chattering, the end of his nose raw.

  Every time he breathed, he saw his breath before his face.

  Maloney heard a noise to his right, the sound of a trowel on stone. The gravedigger had worked his way round from the west side of the churchyard and was presently performing repairs on a large monument. Its appearance was strange, unlike anything Maloney had ever seen.

  It looked like something from southern Spain.

  “I say, what on earth do we have here?”

  Alfred looked over his shoulder. “I hope you had no problem finding your relative, sir.”

  “Better. I also found his cousin.”

  Alfred paused, resting against the monument. “Well, isn’t that something?” He placed his tool on the ground, removed a hip flask from his pocket and swigged down whatever liquid was inside. Maloney watched him, silently appalled.

  In his experience, such things were banned on a Sunday.

  He moved closer to the monument to see what Alfred was working on. Unlike the others in the cemetery, it was not a grave but a remembrance stone. Five strapping men of mythical appearance were carrying a large boat, as if dragging it to safety from the waves. Th
e stone was lighter in appearance than most, orange to brown, parts of which had evidently been lost to frost.

  Judging by its appearance, it was at least one hundred years old.

  “Many a fine man has been lost in the deep,” Alfred said. “Many a fine widow has been forced to fend for herself during winter’s darkest hours.”

  There was writing on a block beneath the five men, written in calligraphic form. Maloney read it quietly.

  O Trinity of love and power,

  Our brethren shield in danger’s hour;

  From rock and tempest, fire and foe,

  Protect them wheresoe’er they go;

  Thus evermore shall rise to thee,

  Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

  It was clear from the words the monument had been erected to honour those lost at sea. “I say, never have I seen the words of William Whiting appear so dignified,” he said, receiving no recognition from the gravedigger. “William Whiting. He wrote the lyrics to the hymn.”

  “If that be his name, sir.”

  “Yes, it was,” Maloney said, slightly indignant. “He was an Anglican churchman from Winchester. As a matter of fact, we attended the same school. Many years apart.”

  Alfred worked intermittently, banging away bits of frost from the stone. “We not be having any schools here, sir.”

  Maloney realised he had chosen a poor subject. Moving on, he tightened his overcoat, doing his best to keep out the cold. Judging by the lack of headstones in the graveyard, a couple of hundred at the most, and the low population of the island, he assumed resources were quite scanty.

  Behind the monument he saw a thick area of undergrowth: a series of small bushes surrounded by a gathering of trees, their bark depleted by the winter winds. There were further graves hidden among them, these smaller and seriously weathered. He walked towards them, holding back the branches with his gloved hand. The wood was brittle, snapping instantly, causing several twigs to fall to the ground.

  Crouching down, he looked at the nearest headpiece: a small stone with minimal writing. Like most, the stone was red, though the upper portion was slightly discoloured. Maloney brushed his hand against it, removing elements of mud and grime. There was no hint of a name or a date; whatever had once existed was no longer legible. Persevering, he cleaned the lower portion, revealing some form of engraving. A symbol.

  A double-headed eagle.

  Confused, he moved on to the next one. There were five gravestones in total, all the same colour, about two feet high. The double-headed eagle appeared in the same position on all of them.

  Maloney studied them in turn. As a historian, he knew that the double-headed eagle was a symbol associated with people in authority – usually a king or a governor. While the symbol itself could potentially belong to any age and race, over forty years’ experience told him it was Spanish.

  The mark of the Habsburgs.

  Pulling back the vegetation, he saw a sixth grave, clearly in worse condition still. While the other five remained standing, this stone was broken and lying loose.

  He picked it up and took a closer look. Again the double-headed eagle was the prominent feature, engraved into the upper portion of the stone. Below it was another symbol, large, yellow, possibly a bird. The creature had two arms and legs, and a head with two eyes, a long nose and a short, reptile-like mouth with sharp teeth and a long tongue. Its face was like that of a dragon, only with feathers covering its body.

  Above it, he made out a name.

  Pizarro.

  Maloney looked at it, awestruck. Had his career path been different, the image would have made little sense to him.

  Experience told him what he saw should not have existed on the Isles of Scilly.

  Still holding the stone, he looked around for Alfred; annoyingly, the man had disappeared. Failing to find him, Maloney returned to the church, again seeing nobody there.

  The vicar had also left.

  Leaving the church, he walked across the graveyard towards the rectory. A large oak door, surrounded by a white stone archway that was starting to look run-down, guarded the property in between thick grey walls. There was a round iron knocker situated midway up the door; he knocked loudly three times.

  The vicar answered moments later, carrying a recently made cup of tea.

  “Mr Maloney, did you find your long-lost relative?”

  The academic had already forgotten about it. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ve found something far more extraordinary. Tell me, Reverend, are you an authority on the history of the island?”

  “I’ve been the vicar here for over thirty-three years.”

  “Yes, quite. Well, tell me, good fellow. What possible reason could there be for a church on the Isles of Scilly to have a tombstone with a pictograph of an Aztec serpent god?”

  The vicar was confused. “Excuse me?”

  “There are graves.” Maloney pointed in the general area where he had seen the strange markings. “Over there, there are graves with Aztec symbols on them.”

  The vicar was unconvinced. “I assure you, Mr Maloney, I’ve been vicar here at St Lide’s for over thirty-three years. There is nothing of that type in this graveyard.”

  Maloney was still holding the loose slab beneath his right arm. “In that case, why don’t you have a look for yourself?” He offered the vicar the stone, showing him firstly the double-headed eagle, and then the image of the serpent lower down. “Much of it sadly has been lost over the centuries, but the symbology on the base is incredible. Who on the island is an expert on this sort of thing?”

  Suddenly the vicar’s expression hardened. “Mr Maloney, how dare you remove one of the slabs? The contents of our graveyards are sacred.”

  Maloney raised an eyebrow, initially stunned. Then, as the seconds passed, it dawned on him the vicar wouldn’t necessarily have known the slab had already been loose.

  He decided to be respectful. “All right, I’m very sorry, Reverend. I really didn’t mean any harm. The slab was just lying there. But, please, let me show you. The find is quite fascinating.”

  “Mr Maloney, please, I must insist you leave here at once. I suggest you return the grave marker to its rightful place. ’Less you be wanting any trouble, sir.”

  The vicar closed the door. Maloney looked at it, and then at the windows, the dark glass separated into smaller panels allowing minimal observation from the outside.

  Stunned, he followed the path back through the graveyard to the area where he had made the discovery. He returned the grave marker to its rightful location, once again distracted by the mysterious set of symbols, notably the feathered serpent.

  Its inclusion still left him baffled.

  Leaving the mysterious graves, he passed the sailors’ monument and headed towards the heart of the churchyard. He noticed names on the graves as he passed, Slater being the most common, dates ranging from the 1720s to the modern day. All were English, clearly Anglican. He had heard a rumour that the Spanish had once had a presence on nearby St Agnes, though this was still to be confirmed.

  There was no sign of anything Mexican.

  No clue about the origin of the mysterious symbol.

  He entered the church a second time and headed along the main aisle. He knew that the local church usually provided the key to discovering the history of a village, particularly the plaques and the graves below the floor.

  He started with the stained-glass windows, then the various wall plaques. On second viewing, he recognised certain names from the graveyard, but nothing out of the ordinary. He finished with a second visit to the Lady Chapel, paying extra attention to the tomb of St Lide. According to the story, the man had come from France.

  A preacher who became a hermit.

  Again, nothing Spanish or Aztec.

  He returned to the church and stopped before the altar. He saw there was a second storey adjoining the west wall that was used to house the church organ and possibly seating for members of the choir. As he sur
veyed the area in detail, he saw another stained-glass window directly above the main door; he had missed it earlier. The image reminded him of Noah’s Ark, though the scene was different to those he was used to. The window depicted a ship, unmistakably Spanish – the type that existed during the 16th century. It was docked in a small port with people standing alongside it: six men and one woman, all dressed in the attire of conquistadors.

  He looked at it, speechless.

  The time period was the same as that of the Habsburg symbol.

  *

  The door to the sacristy was locked, as were two others. Failing to find anything else of relevance, he left the church and then the graveyard.

  The church was located at the highest point of the island, a large hill overlooking the sea. The only access, apart from walking across a field, was a muddy pathway that connected the churchyard to the nearby hamlet, a settlement of several cottages. Islanders nicknamed it New Town, but that wasn’t its official name.

  Being the only settlement on St Lide’s, it simply didn’t have one.

  Ten minutes later Maloney approached the hamlet, still to see any sign of life. There were two buildings on the left: a fisherman’s cottage and a tavern, above the door of which hung a sign depicting a well-dressed individual dressed in a Georgian-style wig, holding an ale glass.

  The Duke of Cornwall.

  Maloney opened the door and entered a dimly lit establishment with a varied assortment of wooden furniture. Immediately he was overcome with a weird sensation: warmth; after four hours outdoors, he had already forgotten the feeling. A fire was roaring in the corner of the room, a wood burner surrounded by an iron grille and several keepsakes from the building’s past. The landlord was standing in front of it, poking the logs, causing the fire to glow orange.

  The tavern was small, and open, despite it being a Sunday. Instead of a bar, several long tables were joined together and extended all the way across the room, surrounded by eight wooden chairs, five of which were vacant. The interior was dated, brown and prone to woodworm, furnished with memorabilia of the island’s seafaring past. Among them was a framed photograph that had been taken ten years earlier; Alfred the gravedigger was standing alongside the landlord.