The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 6

  Nicholl got to his feet. “In that case, follow me.”

  *

  Nicholl led Ben into the bar area, which at this hour was deserted. Comfortable wooden chairs surrounded several nice corner tables and booths, while a selection of local memorabilia hung from the walls, complementing the dark patterned carpet.

  “Here.” Nicholl showed Ben to a large, wall-hung cabinet located in between two tables. He unlocked it with a set of keys and removed an antique object from inside.

  “Rumour has it, this was his.” He handed it to Ben.

  “A cigar lighter.”

  “Indeed it is. Sadly I can’t tell you whether it was really his or not.” He took it back from Ben and handed him another object, one of five. “This also.”

  “It’s a fishing hook.”

  “Your ancestor was fond of fishing?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Rather a nice product,” the local affirmed. “Guess the man knew his stuff.”

  Ben examined it. In theory that made sense.

  “Anything else?” He returned the object to Nicholl.

  “Not to my knowledge; as I say, this was all long before my time.” He closed the cabinet.

  Ben was intrigued by the other contents. A further three items were arranged on a single shelf, including some kind of drinking cup, apparently stone and coated white. “What’s that?”

  “Why that here is the Devil’s Cup.”

  “The Devil’s . . .”

  “Ancient tradition, Mr Maloney. Word on the curb once had it that Lucifer himself enjoyed a drink in this very establishment. They say never to touch it.”

  “Let me guess. I’ll die within a week?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s usually less than seventy-two hours.” Nicholl grinned.

  “Wow,” Ben said, turning away.

  “What exactly was Dr Maloney’s business on the island, Mr Maloney? I take it you were aware of his reasons?”

  “My great-great-grandfather was actually on his way elsewhere – Spain, I think. Years ago, our family were from Ireland. My great-great-grandfather believed some of our ancestors to be buried here – victims of the naval disaster. Folks by the name of Wilcox.” He forced a smile. “You aren’t familiar with anything personally?”

  The owner shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But the truth is, if I had a penny for every man, woman and child who had ever set foot in one of my inns, hotels, pubs or taverns, I would be a very rich man by now.”

  “Maybe in my great-great-grandfather’s day. If all you were to charge was a penny, you’d presently be out of business.”

  Nicholl laughed loudly. “When you get to my age, sometimes you forget how much things are worth. Such a wonderful thing, nostalgia.”

  Ben decided to let the subject pass. “Returning to the matter at hand, as I already mentioned, your staff were kind enough to provide me with all the details regarding my great-great-grandfather’s visit,” he said, removing the photocopied papers from his pocket. “If what I can see here is correct, he checked in on March 12 and was witnessed here for the next three weeks or so. What I see here seems to add validity to what is already intense suggestion that he never checked out.”

  “If that’s what was written by the staff at the time, I’m confident the information will be accurate.”

  “Was it likely back then a man could do this? I mean, I’m guessing a missing persons report was put out.”

  “Perhaps, though of course in those days things were very different. After all, it’s not like the Gibbous Moon of today where we insist on the use of a credit card when making the booking. Back then, the usual thing to do would have been to insist on money in advance.” He checked his watch.

  Ben noticed the gesture. “I appreciate you’re a busy man, Mr Nicholl, and I sure do appreciate you assisting me with all my questions. Any idea in what state the room was found after he disappeared?”

  “Sorry, records don’t really go back that far. From the stories I’ve heard in recent days, he had a few belongings, perhaps what we’re seeing right now – nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Ben smiled thoughtfully. “I see.”

  “I’m very sorry I can’t be of more help. In my profession, trying to find things of this nature can be compared to looking for the needle in the proverbial haystack. Now, is there anything else I can do for you? Are you okay for transport?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your time, Mr Nicholl.” He walked away, heading towards the door. “Oh, Mr Nicholl, I almost forgot. Any idea who it was discovered the boat?”

  “If what I read is correct, the man you’re looking for is a chap called Kernow. Peter Kernow. If you head up to the harbour and ask around, I’m sure you’ll find him.”

  “Much obliged, Mr Nicholl.”

  5

  8:00 a.m.

  The next port of call was the dining room, located just off the lobby. In keeping with the character of the inn, the walls were painted white and reflected the light of the rising sun in the morning and the overhead chandeliers in the evening. Twenty tables, accommodating two, four or six people, were placed evenly throughout, their brown tops covered with white tablecloths, empty wineglasses, white side plates, and various items of cutlery. An appealing aroma of cereal, tea, coffee and toast wafted through the room and beyond, accompanied by the smell of recently cooked bacon, sausages, mushrooms and eggs from the nearby kitchen.

  Chris was sitting alone at a two-seater table, scoffing down pancakes, toast and cereal. “Hey, I just knocked on your room. When did you sneak down?”

  Ben sat down opposite, poured a black coffee, and took a sip. “I was just having a chat with the owner. Apparently the boat was found by a guy named Kernow. I thought I might check it out.”

  Chris answered while chewing his pancake. “Give us ten minutes, I’ll come with you.”

  Ben bit his lip, knowing Chris would take far longer. “I have a better idea. You still able to read the handwriting in the diary okay?”

  “Only what you’ve seen. I’ve had to write it out to make sense.”

  “The diary will probably be the clue.” He glanced round, wondering if anyone was listening. As far as he could see, no one was.

  He gestured Chris closer. “You stay here and work on the diary. I’ll knock on your door when I’m back.”

  8:15 a.m.

  The Isles of Scilly had always been one of the least populated areas of the United Kingdom. Situated off the south-west coast of Cornwall, they formed an archipelago of some 145 islands and islets, the majority of which were uninhabited.

  Supposedly it had once been a single landmass. According to accounts from the fourth century, a large island named Ennor had spanned over thirty miles in length, sticking out into the Atlantic towards Brittany. Cornish folklore also spoke of the Isles once joining Land’s End as part of a mighty landmass named Lyonesse that was taken under the sea in the late 11th century. The tale rose to later prominence in the 1800s in the poetry of Alfred Lord Tennyson, leading to them becoming immortalised in the King Arthur myth.

  St Mary’s was the main hub of activity among the Isles. Measuring an area of approximately 6.5 square kilometres and with a population of over 1,700, it was officially the largest of the islands both in area and permanent residents. Legend had it the island had once been the haunt of ancient Phoenicians, early refugee bishops, Romans, Saxons, Vikings and Normans before becoming officially integrated into the county of Cornwall under the rule of the Plantagenets and subsequently forming part of the Earldom, and later Duchy, of Cornwall.

  According to what Ben had read, the island had barely changed over the centuries. Visually, it was an impressive assortment of rugged coastlines, quaint buildings, and unspoilt areas of greenery. The majority of the population lived in the capital, the largest settlement on the island, known officially as Hugh Town.

  Tre Huw in the local tongue.

  He had chosen the inn on the recommendat
ion of his grandmother; the same one mentioned in the diary. The Gibbous Moon was officially the oldest inn in Hugh Town. Like many on the island, it was three storeys high, comprised of grey stone walls stained by the past pollution of passing trawlers, and situated on a slope that overlooked the sea.

  Much of Hugh Town was in keeping with the Gibbous Moon. The centre consisted of a handful of long streets located on a narrow isthmus that connected the east side of the island with a peninsula known as the Garrison. The modern-day streets were the longest on any of the islands, its many pubs, restaurants, and gift shops favourites among eager tourists, whose accents ranged from English to Asian. Several side alleys ran off the main streets, frequented by skilled tradesmen, their crafts ranging from metalwork to boat maintenance. Most of the shops were tourism related, and many that weren’t were for fishing, selling wares from rods to clothing.

  Ben took a left along the Lower Strand, joining a small road called Thoroughfare. He then turned right, which brought him along a narrow side alley that ran parallel to the nearby harbour and beach. There was a large courtyard in front of him, lined with grey stone buildings whose walls had seen better days.

  He crossed the courtyard and came to a garage/workshop, the door to which was open.

  Ben hesitated, distracted by a foul stench of burning, rotted seaweed emanating from an open fire. Even from the doorway he could feel the effects of its bright orange flames giving off a strong heat on to the nearby surroundings and providing a brief respite from the chilly wind that echoed tunelessly through the gaps in the brickwork.

  A man was inside, working with a power drill. He was large, bearded, bald and muscular despite his age – Ben guessed he was over sixty – and had a tattoo covering his right bicep. The man was leaning over a substantial worktable, his eyes focused on his work. A large piece of stone was attached to its surface via two G-clamps, its exterior diminished and dirty.

  Ben had no idea what it was.

  Kernow didn’t notice Ben straightaway. He persevered with the drill for several seconds before placing his tools down on the side of the table and removing his goggles.

  “Are you Mr Kernow?”

  He eyed Ben curiously, distracted by the sight of a stranger standing by the door. “That’s right.”

  Ben moved to his right, eyeing a large display near the entrance. A colourful selection of flowers had been assembled, all fresh and well packaged, priced at anything between £1 and £9.99.

  “Are you a florist?”

  “We all are.”

  Ben placed his hands in his pockets, trying to make sense of both the statement and the sights. While much of the garage was as he expected – tools scattered across battered worktables or hanging from hooks, workmen’s overalls covering the backs of chairs, large pieces of plaster falling off the walls as if a small child had been purposely dragging them away – there were other things that didn’t make sense.

  He sensed the garage was dual if not multi-purpose.

  “What exactly do you do here?” Ben asked.

  “Everything,” the man replied. “That’s what we all do on St Mary’s. Particularly this time of year.”

  Ben picked up a bunch of lilies, smelt them and immediately put them back down. He shivered slightly. “Is it always this cold?”

  “Worse is yet to come, I’d imagine.” He walked around the garage. On the far wall was a further selection of tools, everything from hacksaws to power sanders. He removed something that looked like a chisel and returned to the table.

  “You mind holding this for me, friend? It’s a difficult tool for me to use on my own – even with the clamps.”

  Surprised, Ben approached the table. He placed his hands against the stone and braced himself as Kernow banged powerfully against the top corner. The stone was covered by thick layers of silt and grime that concealed any trace of its original appearance.

  Kernow continued for several seconds, causing the outer layer of dry silt to crack. He stopped and brushed the loose remnants away, allowing himself a first view of what was beneath.

  “Thanks. You know, you look like the helpful type.”

  Ben was curious. “What is it?”

  “Tombstone.”

  Ben looked again. The stone was so badly weathered and disfigured it would have been impossible for him to come to that conclusion. “You get much call for this type of work on the island?”

  “More in the winter than summer.”

  No surprises, Ben mused. “You have any other skills? You look more like a blacksmith than an engraver.”

  “Matter of fact, I’m a fisherman. No one knows these waters better.” He looked at Ben inquisitively. “You come here to hire a boat, friend?”

  “Perhaps. However, first I was hoping I might bother you for some information.”

  “Sorry. Afraid I don’t teach.”

  Ben folded his arms, his deep blue eyes silently taking in the man’s features. With his lips parted, he saw evidence of toothless gums, perhaps dentures at the front. His outer region of hair was grey, matching the colour of his beard and ear hair.

  “I understand it was you who discovered the boat last week on St Lide’s?”

  Kernow’s expression changed. “You come here to write an article, friend? Only, judging from your accent, I don’t know what paper in Cornwall I could possibly place you.”

  “As a matter of fact, the man in question was my great-great-grandfather,” Ben replied. “I was hoping I might be able to have a chat with you. I’ve come a mighty long way to solve the mystery about what happened to him. It’s not every day you come across something so bizarre.”

  Kernow removed a pipe from the inside of his jacket and filled it with tobacco. He eyed Ben inquisitively. “You say he was your great-great-grandfather?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Wow,” he replied. A red glow appeared as he lit the pipe. “Must have been quite a shock him turning up after all these years . . . he got any grandchildren alive?”

  “My grandmother is his granddaughter.”

  “His granddaughter? Old enough to remember him?”

  “No. She was born later.” Ben folded his arms. “Of course, she still refuses to believe it’s him. Was convinced he died somewhere further south. Like Africa.”

  “The man was well travelled?”

  “Matter of fact, he was an explorer.”

  “Explorer?” Kernow raised his eyebrows. “A hundred years sounds to me ample time to make a legend out of a cadaver.”

  “Trust me, you have no idea,” Ben said, restlessly wandering around the garage. “St Lide’s. I understand it’s a common place to be shipwrecked.”

  “I had an uncle that went missing round St Lide’s. Fine swimmer, too. They found him four days later, caught up in the seaweed. Even for an experienced seaman, it doesn’t do to take chances.”

  “I’m really very sorry for your loss,” Ben replied.

  Kernow looked up again, this time more amused. “Well now. You have a name, friend?”

  “Most folks call me Ben.”

  “Well, Ben, I’m really very sorry for your circumstances . . .”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m really quite fascinated. History is my background, and my ancestor, well, he’s always been something of an idol to me.”

  “I understand from the papers he was English. What brought him here? A long way from England. Not to mention Africa.”

  Ben laughed. “As a matter of fact, I understand he was looking up his ancestors.”

  “Small community here on St Mary’s. Smaller still the other islands. What’s his second name?”

  “Maloney. His ancestor was something different.” Ben walked slightly closer. “I was wondering where you found him?”

  “You mentioned it yourself. Place called St Lide’s. Just south-west of here.”

  Ben smiled. “Let me rephrase. I was wondering if you could show me the exact point.”

  “On a map?”

  “Actuall
y, I’d really like to see it up close.”

  Kernow frowned. “I really wouldn’t recommend it. These storms come from nowhere. Better later in the summer.”

  Ben shrugged. “I understand today is looking pretty fine.”

  Kernow walked towards a nearby table and picked up a local newspaper; its content had been lying scattered across the cluttered surface. “See this.” He pointed to pages five and six. “Now’s a bad time of year to carry out unnecessary journeys. Particularly to St Lide’s.”

  “I understand your concerns, but it’s clear blue sky out there. Even if it is a bit cold.”

  Kernow returned to the gravestone, brushing it down. “Matter of fact, I found this on your ancestor’s boat. Can’t think for the life of me what it was doing there.”

  Ben approached the table, examining the large object in better detail. The stone was an awkward shape, suggesting to Ben it had become broken across the top at a right angle. The original colour was possibly red or grey; it was difficult to make out due to the silt.

  “It’s a tombstone.”

  Kernow nodded. “That’s my understanding.”

  Ben noted the sarcasm. “Whose?”

  “Beats me. Whoever it was must’ve died a long time ago.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “If it was 19th century, it would be larger. And it’s the wrong colour.”

  Ben bit his lip, thoughtful. “Is there anything else like this on the island?”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “Difficult to tell in its present state. Lots of graves in the cemeteries – and from different ages.”

  “Where is the cemetery?”

  “Main one in these parts would be Old Town Church. About fifteen minutes’ walk from here.”

  Ben wetted his lips. “What’s the best way I can reach St Lide’s?”

  “Like I say, folks don’t go to St Lide’s this time of year.”

  “In that case, how do people get off if they want to leave?”

  “People don’t leave. Island’s abandoned.”