The Cortés Enigma Read Online Free Page A

added.
     
    “Is that so?” Maloney said, cupping his hands together and placing his forearms on the table – no elbows. “Well, if you are correct in what you say, and you do know the churchyard better than any other, perhaps you might tell me about Pizarro?”
     
    “Tell you about who?”
     
    “Pizarro?”
     
    Alfred looked back with a blank expression. “Been tending those graves since 1881. In all that time, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any Pizarro.”
     
    “I assure you, he’s definitely there.”
     
    Maloney jumped, startled. The door to the tavern opened, its thick oak frame banging against its rusty hinges before closing with equally great force. A young man had entered: thin, nervous, and, judging by his appearance and manner, not old enough to drink in a tavern. He was tall for his age, approaching six foot, and dressed in a thick dark overcoat that matched the colour of his hair. He surveyed the low-beamed ceiling from a distance before walking towards the table.
     
    The landlord was furious. “What you doing in here, boy?”
     
    “Probably the same as the rest of us,” the final local replied. Like most there, he was aged somewhere in his late forties, rugged, his grey hair largely receded. “Something to keep out the damn cold.” He looked at the boy. “You okay, Sam?”
     
    The boy smiled faintly. “Mum sent me,” he said to the landlord. “The boiler’s gone again.”
     
    “Ah, heck. That’s the third time this week. That thing will damn near bankrupt me.”
     
    The landlord opened a bottle of brandy, poured two shots into a large round glass, and slid it across the table.
     
    “Here. You get that down you. It’ll help keep out the cold.”
     
    Maloney watched as the boy gripped the glass and sipped it down slowly. He could tell from the boy’s red raw fingers that he had spent significant time out in the cold. A deathly hush had descended, the atmosphere tense, as if everyone was afraid to break the silence.
     
    Maloney turned to Alfred, still thinking about Pizarro.
     
    “You know, I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced. My name’s Maloney. Dr Thomas Francis Maloney.”
     
    Alfred grinned as he accepted his hand. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr Maloney. My name’s Slater. Alfred.”
     
    Maloney smiled, recognising the name from the graveyard. “Now then, Mr Slater, if you’d be so kind, I’d very much like to hear about Pizarro.”
     
    “I told you already, Doctor, I don’t recall the name.”
     
    “You were cleaning a monument near his tombstone not one hour ago,” Maloney replied. “It was that very large monument, the one we were standing beside. The one that looks rather like a galleon being taken away by Spanish soldiers.”
     
    “Is that a fact?” the local with the red beard asked. “Truth is, none of us have ever been to Spain.”
     
    Laughter swept round the tavern, the sound interrupted by the howling of the wind as it blew against the door, forcing it open. It banged against the wooden frame, harder and harder.
     
    “Shut that door, boy,” the landlord barked at Sam.
     
    “Mum said about the boiler.”
     
    “Later.”
     
    Maloney watched the landlord disappear into an adjacent room while Sam left his seat to close the door. With the door closed, the room once again became silent.
     
    Alfred raised his glass to his lips and finished his ale in one swift gulp. He looked to his right and saw Maloney staring at him.
     
    “There were six of them in total,” Maloney resumed, “near the large monument. Ring any bells?”
     
    “Why, that’s the graves of the original settlers.”
     
    The statement came from the young boy, his attention firmly on Maloney. He had already polished off his brandy.
     
    Maloney eyed the boy and everyone else around him in turn. “I’d like to buy everybody in here a drink,” he said, removing a shilling from one of the pockets of his waistcoat. “Something to keep out