The Cortés Enigma Read Online Free

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 village’s seafaring past. Among them was a framed photograph that had been taken ten years earlier; Alfred the gravedigger was standing alongside the landlord.
     
    Alfred was also sitting at the table.
     
    Maloney took a seat alongside him just as the landlord was returning. “I say, do you always open on a Sunday?”
     
    The four men looked at him, their expressions offering little warmth. Their appearance matched that of the tavern, dirty and run-down. As Maloney sat down, he became aware of several smells, in particular the strong odour of damp wood and natural scent vaguely overpowered by the stench of smoke coming from the fireplace.
     
    “Here on St Lide’s we often do things a little differently, sir,” the landlord said, standing opposite, his large frame leaning across the table. The landlord was a stout, bearded individual of indeterminate age, probably closer to fifty than thirty, his thick hair black to grey.
     
    Maloney turned to Alfred. “How long did you say you’d been working at the churchyard?”
     
    The man was nursing two drinks at once, a large brandy and a small ale. He took a long swig from his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
     
    “Well now, let me see,” he said, pretending to mull the question over. “Must be going back all the way to 1881. That was the year the Dunbar went down.” He glanced at the landlord and shook his head. “You remember that one, boys?”
     
    The locals muttered, all in agreement. Heads shook in unison. Sitting opposite, the landlord filled his pipe with tobacco and smoked freely.
     
    Maloney didn’t know what to say. “What happened?”
     
    “Back in ’81 there was this wooden-hulled brigantine called the Dunbar – the Charlotte Dunbar , that be its full name,” Alfred began. “Nice vessel, too. One night, must’ve been about this time of year, it was sailing away past Burnt Island. You ever set foot on St Agnes, sir?”
     
    “No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. At least I haven’t had a chance to yet.”
     
    “Folks are real different there,” one of the men sitting close by said. He had red hair, a scruffy beard, his clothes on the verge of falling apart. “They say people there don’t take kindly to strangers.”
     
    Maloney did his best to ignore him.
     
    Alfred sipped again from his ale. “The sea was rough that night, real choppy like. Must have been past midnight when it happened. See, the Dunbar ran aground; the captain misjudged the gap between the islands. Been sailing from Newport out to France. No one knows what happened to the crew.”
     
    Maloney cleared his throat, unsure whether the story was over. Having seen the man tending graves and now nursing two drinks on a Sunday afternoon, it didn’t take any extra persuasion to decide he needed to be on his guard.
     
    “A number of them are buried right there in the churchyard,” he