a distant hill, the three Spaniards got out of their black Renault Mégane and made their way through the undergrowth on foot.
A hundred years is a long time, particularly if you’re a gardener. The array of wild flowers, once so beautifully kept, had become a ragged jungle of death and decay. The entire east side of the hill was overgrown with long grass, particularly around the entrances to the old buildings. Countless dilapidated stone cottages littered the hillside like lookout towers, their jagged white rocks overrun by ivy and moss. There was little glass in the windows. Even the doors had mostly disappeared.
A single pathway led up the side of the hill, ascending at a gentle gradient before reaching the summit. At that point it straightened, continuing in a direct line before reaching a battered lichgate.
The three men followed the path to the other side of the hill, at which point they spread out. Something was there, hidden amongst the brambles and nettles.
And had been for over four hundred years.
9
Ben was standing in the east section of the churchyard, reading the inscription on the nearest grave. He had learned from the diary that TF had discovered three graves, all bearing the name Wilcox.
He was still to find any of them.
He had been looking for something specific, something TF had mentioned as a guide. The diary described it as a memorial stone or monument. The diagram was rough but accompanied by precise descriptions: five burly men carrying a ship, perhaps a Spanish galleon. The monument had allegedly been erected in honour of all those who had lost their lives in the nearby waters, but TF had clearly been sceptical. He had also described it as a ‘strong stone structure, orange or brown, depending on the light’.
Again, Ben was still to find it.
Old Town Church is one of two churches on St Mary’s. It is located in the centre of Old Town, a fifteen-minute walk from Hugh Town and situated atop a hill that offers inspiring views of the south coast. Like most churches in England, what began as a Roman Church in the mid 12th century turned Anglican at the height of the reformation, with building work carried out at various intervals during the following two centuries until it fell into disrepair. Decrepit, forlorn, the charming remains were lovingly restored on the orders of the island’s governor, bringing it back to its former glory.
Though the church had rarely been used in over a century, the graveyard was the largest on the island and remained the principal cemetery for all of the Isles of Scilly. Over the centuries, the lush green field had become the final resting place for all of the important local families, including those of the sailors who had lost their lives since the early Middle Ages.
Chris returned from inside the church, carrying a pamphlet. “There’s a service on at half five,” he said, stopping beside Ben. “You know, according to this, they don’t even have electricity. They have to conduct the entire thing using candles.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Makes you appreciate St Michael’s all the more, doesn’t it?” he said of the local church back home.
Chris folded the pamphlet and placed it inside the right pocket of his jeans. As he did, he noticed the name on the grave in front of him. “Harold Wilson.”
“Used to be Prime Minister of the UK.”
That, Chris did not expect. “Wow.”
Ben moved to one side, passing a row of graves. Despite the aid of the diary and its many diagrams, the stones TF spoke of were nowhere to be found. The cemetery itself was generally well cared for: flowers were starting to bloom, the majority of the graves in a good state of repair, the smell of recently cut grass teased the nostrils.
Ben concentrated on an area close to the perimeter of the graveyard that was slightly worse kept. Seven years as a history lecturer told him it was in areas like
A hundred years is a long time, particularly if you’re a gardener. The array of wild flowers, once so beautifully kept, had become a ragged jungle of death and decay. The entire east side of the hill was overgrown with long grass, particularly around the entrances to the old buildings. Countless dilapidated stone cottages littered the hillside like lookout towers, their jagged white rocks overrun by ivy and moss. There was little glass in the windows. Even the doors had mostly disappeared.
A single pathway led up the side of the hill, ascending at a gentle gradient before reaching the summit. At that point it straightened, continuing in a direct line before reaching a battered lichgate.
The three men followed the path to the other side of the hill, at which point they spread out. Something was there, hidden amongst the brambles and nettles.
And had been for over four hundred years.
9
Ben was standing in the east section of the churchyard, reading the inscription on the nearest grave. He had learned from the diary that TF had discovered three graves, all bearing the name Wilcox.
He was still to find any of them.
He had been looking for something specific, something TF had mentioned as a guide. The diary described it as a memorial stone or monument. The diagram was rough but accompanied by precise descriptions: five burly men carrying a ship, perhaps a Spanish galleon. The monument had allegedly been erected in honour of all those who had lost their lives in the nearby waters, but TF had clearly been sceptical. He had also described it as a ‘strong stone structure, orange or brown, depending on the light’.
Again, Ben was still to find it.
Old Town Church is one of two churches on St Mary’s. It is located in the centre of Old Town, a fifteen-minute walk from Hugh Town and situated atop a hill that offers inspiring views of the south coast. Like most churches in England, what began as a Roman Church in the mid 12th century turned Anglican at the height of the reformation, with building work carried out at various intervals during the following two centuries until it fell into disrepair. Decrepit, forlorn, the charming remains were lovingly restored on the orders of the island’s governor, bringing it back to its former glory.
Though the church had rarely been used in over a century, the graveyard was the largest on the island and remained the principal cemetery for all of the Isles of Scilly. Over the centuries, the lush green field had become the final resting place for all of the important local families, including those of the sailors who had lost their lives since the early Middle Ages.
Chris returned from inside the church, carrying a pamphlet. “There’s a service on at half five,” he said, stopping beside Ben. “You know, according to this, they don’t even have electricity. They have to conduct the entire thing using candles.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Makes you appreciate St Michael’s all the more, doesn’t it?” he said of the local church back home.
Chris folded the pamphlet and placed it inside the right pocket of his jeans. As he did, he noticed the name on the grave in front of him. “Harold Wilson.”
“Used to be Prime Minister of the UK.”
That, Chris did not expect. “Wow.”
Ben moved to one side, passing a row of graves. Despite the aid of the diary and its many diagrams, the stones TF spoke of were nowhere to be found. The cemetery itself was generally well cared for: flowers were starting to bloom, the majority of the graves in a good state of repair, the smell of recently cut grass teased the nostrils.
Ben concentrated on an area close to the perimeter of the graveyard that was slightly worse kept. Seven years as a history lecturer told him it was in areas like