Read The Cortés Enigma for Free Online
Authors: John Paul Davis
eventful past, with the rugged, clean-shaven skin on his right cheek displaying evidence of past scars.
For Chris Maloney, it was a consequence of a hard and perilous life at sea.
Chris folded his arms, tucking his cold hands into the folds of his thick black leather jacket, and took a deep breath. The twenty-minute flight from Land’s End to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, had been largely straightforward, at least compared to the one that preceded it. The journey had started on Monday morning, just before 10am. At seven that evening he was boarding a plane, a direct flight from Boston to Heathrow. By the time he landed, it was morning, the faint glimmer of the rising sun barely visible behind the thick rain clouds that had enveloped the plane for the final hour of the flight. By 10am GMT he was in London, where he embarked on a train to Penzance.
It was now 8pm Wednesday, and he was tired.
But he was here.
Soon, his cousin would join him.
The surgeon removed the white sheet that covered the cadaver and quietly took in the sight. Alongside him, Chris Maloney did the same.
The skin had almost completely decomposed. According to eyewitness accounts, it had been in far better condition when the body was first discovered four days ago, but in that short intervening period, it had degenerated considerably through exposure to the air.
Everything else had disintegrated less recently. The eye sockets were an empty void, as were the ribcage and the stomach. A sickly gelatinous liquid was seeping from the area of the skull where the brain had once been.
Chris looked on, uneasy. Although his stomach had been upset since the in-flight meal, he knew it wasn’t a digestive problem that was affecting him. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body, and this one was much as he had expected from the initial reports. It had been extremely well preserved, particularly the bone structure. The skull was intact, except for a cavity on the left side. The jaw was slightly out of alignment, giving the impression of a grim smile and ironic humour.
It was the face of a man who had been shot.
Biting his lip, Chris took a step backward and began to wander around the room. Though the find itself was unsettling, what hit him most was the smell. It was the reason for the preservation. A strong odour emanated from a coating of moist silt that had formed a cocoon-like covering preserving both the boat and body.
Chris took a deep breath. “Cover it up. I’ve seen enough.”
The surgeon complied, replacing the sheet without argument. Finishing, he removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink.
“I understand he had some belongings?” Chris asked.
The surgeon nodded, walking toward a second table located by a recently painted white wall that reflected the overhead lights. He opened the lid of a large cardboard box and removed three items.
“One compass, Victorian,” the surgeon began, showing it to Chris. After a century buried in silt, it was impossible to open.
“One pocket watch, also Victorian.”
Chris accepted it with an outstretched hand and tried to force it open. Though it was no longer ticking, the exterior was in surprisingly good condition; fortunately its owner had kept it deep within a waistcoat pocket. Inside the casing was a small photograph, also well preserved, that he recognised immediately. A fair-haired woman was looking away from the camera, an elegant expression crossing her young face. As a Maloney, Chris was certain that he had seen her before, both in photographs and in real life. She was a spitting image of his grandmother.
The man’s wife. His great-great-grandmother.
“One external pocket.” The surgeon gave Chris what looked to be a hundred-year-old shoulder bag. The strap was broken, but the thick leather carrier itself was perfectly intact, its original dark brown colour lightened by
For Chris Maloney, it was a consequence of a hard and perilous life at sea.
Chris folded his arms, tucking his cold hands into the folds of his thick black leather jacket, and took a deep breath. The twenty-minute flight from Land’s End to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, had been largely straightforward, at least compared to the one that preceded it. The journey had started on Monday morning, just before 10am. At seven that evening he was boarding a plane, a direct flight from Boston to Heathrow. By the time he landed, it was morning, the faint glimmer of the rising sun barely visible behind the thick rain clouds that had enveloped the plane for the final hour of the flight. By 10am GMT he was in London, where he embarked on a train to Penzance.
It was now 8pm Wednesday, and he was tired.
But he was here.
Soon, his cousin would join him.
The surgeon removed the white sheet that covered the cadaver and quietly took in the sight. Alongside him, Chris Maloney did the same.
The skin had almost completely decomposed. According to eyewitness accounts, it had been in far better condition when the body was first discovered four days ago, but in that short intervening period, it had degenerated considerably through exposure to the air.
Everything else had disintegrated less recently. The eye sockets were an empty void, as were the ribcage and the stomach. A sickly gelatinous liquid was seeping from the area of the skull where the brain had once been.
Chris looked on, uneasy. Although his stomach had been upset since the in-flight meal, he knew it wasn’t a digestive problem that was affecting him. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body, and this one was much as he had expected from the initial reports. It had been extremely well preserved, particularly the bone structure. The skull was intact, except for a cavity on the left side. The jaw was slightly out of alignment, giving the impression of a grim smile and ironic humour.
It was the face of a man who had been shot.
Biting his lip, Chris took a step backward and began to wander around the room. Though the find itself was unsettling, what hit him most was the smell. It was the reason for the preservation. A strong odour emanated from a coating of moist silt that had formed a cocoon-like covering preserving both the boat and body.
Chris took a deep breath. “Cover it up. I’ve seen enough.”
The surgeon complied, replacing the sheet without argument. Finishing, he removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink.
“I understand he had some belongings?” Chris asked.
The surgeon nodded, walking toward a second table located by a recently painted white wall that reflected the overhead lights. He opened the lid of a large cardboard box and removed three items.
“One compass, Victorian,” the surgeon began, showing it to Chris. After a century buried in silt, it was impossible to open.
“One pocket watch, also Victorian.”
Chris accepted it with an outstretched hand and tried to force it open. Though it was no longer ticking, the exterior was in surprisingly good condition; fortunately its owner had kept it deep within a waistcoat pocket. Inside the casing was a small photograph, also well preserved, that he recognised immediately. A fair-haired woman was looking away from the camera, an elegant expression crossing her young face. As a Maloney, Chris was certain that he had seen her before, both in photographs and in real life. She was a spitting image of his grandmother.
The man’s wife. His great-great-grandmother.
“One external pocket.” The surgeon gave Chris what looked to be a hundred-year-old shoulder bag. The strap was broken, but the thick leather carrier itself was perfectly intact, its original dark brown colour lightened by
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