Читать книгу Flame Of Diablo - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

A FEW flakes of snow were drifting down from a leaden sky as Rachel Crichton paid off the taxi, and ran up the shallow flight of steps to the front door. Her urgent ring at the bell was answered almost immediately by a tall thin woman in a neat dark dress, a smile of thankfulness relieving the anxiety in her face.

‘Oh, Miss Rachel, you’ve come at last! He’s been asking and asking for you. Dr Kingston wants to move him to the Mordaunt Clinic, and he won’t go. Said he had to see you first. He’s been getting himself in a real state—and Miss Rachel, he mustn’t!’

‘I know.’ Rachel gave the housekeeper’s hand a comforting squeeze. Even after twenty years, Mrs Thurston still had not been able to come to terms with Sir Giles Crichton’s arrogant refusal to allow any denial of his wishes. ‘I came as soon as I got your message. How—how is he?’ She made a little helpless gesture. ‘This is the last thing I was expecting. He seemed to have got over the last attack …’

She paused, and saw Mrs Thurston give a little shake of her head.

‘It’s bad this time, Miss Rachel, the worst yet. That’s why Doctor Kingston wants to move him. He told him to his face that he couldn’t be trusted to rest properly here.’ She swallowed. ‘I was with him when it happened, and I thought we were going to lose him, that I did.’

‘Oh, Thursty!’ Rachel stared at her in dismay. ‘It must have been awful for you. I should have been here—the play closed over a week ago.’

‘It wouldn’t have made much difference.’ Mrs Thurston seemed to rouse herself from her anxiety, and moved to help Rachel off with her coat. ‘Sir Giles has hardly been here himself for the past fortnight. He’s been backwards and forwards to London nearly every day. He even spent the night there one day last week. And when I tried to remind him of what the doctor had said, he nearly bit my head off. I said no more, naturally, but I’m wondering now whether, if I hadn’t given up so easily, this might have been avoided.’

‘I don’t think so, Thursty darling. And you’re not to blame yourself.’ Rachel gave a soft sigh. ‘We both know what Grandfather’s like when he’s got the bit between his teeth. But what can he have been doing in London? Did he give no hint?’

‘None at all, Miss Rachel.’ The older woman hesitated. ‘But he seemed—different. More like his old self. I wondered if it might have something to do with Mr Mark.’

‘I don’t think so, Thursty,’ Rachel said gently. ‘But we can always hope. Now, I’d better go up.’

She ran up the broad, shallow flight of stairs which led to the first floor bedrooms, and turned along the landing to the big double doors of the room situated at the far end. As she approached they opened, and a slight grey-haired man emerged. He looked tired and anxious, but his eyes lit up when he saw her, and he laid a finger conspiratorially over his lips, glancing back towards the room he had left.

‘Uncle Andrew?’ she whispered. ‘How is he?’

‘No worse, but certainly no better either,’ he said quietly. ‘Your arrival should help. He’s under sedation, and I rely on you, Rachel, not to allow him to get excited in any way. Now that you’re here I’ll go and arrange about that ambulance.’ He patted her cheek and went on past her towards the stairs.

It was very warm in the bedroom. A fire had been kindled in the old-fashioned grate, and its leaping flames together with a shaded bedside lamp provided all the light in the room.

Her grandfather lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed. He was very pale, and there was a bluish tinge around his mouth which frightened her, but she was careful not to let the fright show as she trod across the carpet, her slender feet noiseless in their low-heeled shoes. There was a chair close beside the bed, and she sat down on it, waiting for him to open his eyes and notice her there, unwilling to disturb him purposely.

At last his eyes did open, still fiercely blue, but with some of their former fire dimmed. For a moment Sir Giles gazed at her almost without recognition, then his glance sharpened and focussed, and he said, ‘So you’re here at last.’

Rachel tried to ignore the implied reproach in his words of greeting, to forget that if he’d been backwards and forwards to London as Mrs Thurston had said, there had been plenty of opportunities for him to contact her if he’d wanted—opportunities that had remained neglected. She tried to forget too that the reproach had always been there, ever since, in fact, the longed-for first grandchild had been born a girl instead of the boy he had set his heart on, and had not been alleviated even with Mark’s birth some two and a half years later.

She bent over the bed and put her lips to his cheek. ‘I’m here, Grandfather. Can I get you a drink or anything?’

‘No, child.’ The effort of speaking seemed to be using up his breath at an alarming rate, she thought. ‘Just—listen.’

He closed his eyes again and lay still, absorbed with some interior struggle for strength. She was just beginning to grow uneasy, when he said, ‘Have you heard from Mark?’

‘No, darling,’ she said gently. ‘Not a word.’

He gave a slight nod. ‘Not important. I—know where he is.’

‘You know?’ Rachel felt a stab of anger. ‘And you never told me? You never …’

‘I’m telling you now, child,’ he interrupted testily, and she subsided, remembering what the doctor had said about not letting him become excited. ‘It was by chance I found out. I had to go up to Town to see old Grainger. I was having lunch at the club afterwards when Larry Forsyth walked in. Do you remember him?’

‘I think so,’ Rachel returned almost mechanically, her brain still whirling from the news she had just received. ‘Wasn’t he in the diplomatic service?’

Her grandfather gave a grunt. ‘Still is. He’s been out in Colombia for a couple of years. And that’s where he saw Mark, less than three weeks ago.’

‘In Colombia?’ Rachel shook her head. ‘It sounds most unlikely. Was he sure it was Mark?’

‘Of course he was sure!’ Sir Giles sounded irritable. ‘Knew him at once, and Mark recognised him too. He was dining with some people—name of Arviles. Señor Arviles is one of the top lawyers in Bogota, according to Larry.’

‘Mark was at university with someone called Arviles—Miguel Arviles,’ Rachel said slowly. ‘But I didn’t know he was a Colombian. And I didn’t realise that Mark was on particularly close terms with him either.’

But then, she thought, why should she had known? Mark had never been forthcoming about his friendships, and Rachel had had to learn to curb her curiosity, knowing that any suspicion of over-protectiveness would be resented.

She frowned a little. ‘Did Mr Forsyth know what Mark was actually doing there?’

‘Of course not. He assumed I would know all about it and I allowed him to think so, or did you imagine I was prepared to make him cognisant of our private affairs?’ Sir Giles’ eyes glared a little under the bushy white brows and Rachel said hurriedly,

‘No, no. It was silly of me. Did—did Mark send any kind of message?’

‘Apparently he had very little to say for himself,’ her grandfather said shortly. ‘That’s why I asked whether you’d heard from him. It occurred to me that as he must realise his whereabouts are now known, he might have been in touch.’ He was silent for a moment, his breathing ragged.

Rachel was silent too, remembering. There had been family rows before, some of them quite spectacular, as when she had announced her intention of going to drama school, but somehow she had known they had not really been important. Grandfather had been irritated by the idea of her wishing to become an actress and had expressed his views forcibly, but she had always suspected he was merely going through the motions. It didn’t really matter to him what Rachel did with her working life, because she would merely be filling in time before she made a suitable marriage.

But Mark was different. Grandfather had plans for Mark, and had never made any secret of the fact, and none of these plans took into account Mark’s openly acknowledged passion for geology, and his desire to study it at university. Harsh words had been uttered on both sides, but Mark had got his way in the end—as he usually did, Rachel thought resignedly. Perhaps Grandfather had thought it was just a boyish quirk from which Mark would recover in his own good time if left unopposed. Only it hadn’t been like that. When he had left university, it was to seek work as a geologist, not to succumb to the none too subtle pressure being exerted to make him join the family firm.

And that was when the real row had started. Rachel had been staying at Abbots Field during that weekend, and she had been powerless to intercede while her grandfather and her brother prepared to tear each other to pieces.

The trouble was they were too alike in many ways, she thought. Neither of them could easily see any point of view other than his own, or even believe that such a thing existed. The weekend had been full of tensions—rather like duellists, she had thought afterwards, selecting their weapons and taking the prescribed paces, but the first shots had not been exchanged until Sunday evening at dinner, just when she’d begun to hope that an open confrontation might be avoided. They’d quickly passed from veiled remarks to open recriminations, both of them becoming angrier and less accessible to reason with every moment that passed, with Rachel sitting in between them, a helpless spectator, trying to resist the urge to press her hands over her ears and shut out the cruel hurtful things they were hurling at each other.

‘You’ll be a pauper, boy, d’you hear me? A pauper!’ Sir Giles had crashed his fist down on the table making the silver and glasses jump. ‘What can you expect but some minor post in a beggarly university department—spending your vacations taking elderly maiden ladies on fossil-hunting expeditions. What kind of life is that for a Crichton?’

‘My God, you make me sick!’ Mark had jumped to his feet, his face crimson with temper. ‘You and your preconceived ideas of everyone outside your narrow bigoted experience! Why, you don’t even know the kind of salary a top class geologist can command from an oil industry these days.’

‘Top class—you?’ Sir Giles had laughed sneeringly. ‘It takes years, boy, to get to the top in any profession, and you didn’t even get an Honours degree. You’ll be back here in a year, moaning that you can’t manage on your salary, begging me for a hand-out. Well, wait and see what answer you get!’

Mark was white where he had been red before. He leaned across the table, staring his grandfather in the face. His voice was very even and distinct as he said, ‘If and when I ever do come back, I’ll be rich. I’ll have so much bloody money that I’ll make you eat every word you’ve said. And I shan’t come back until I’ve got it.’

He’d walked out of the room, and Rachel had gone after him, but it had been no use. He’d looked at her almost as if he didn’t see her, and her pleadings had been to no avail.

In the end she’d said, ‘Mark, he’s an old man. You can’t do this to him. You can’t—just walk out like this.’

His remote look deepened. ‘Does age give you the right to ride roughshod over everyone? We’ve had it all our lives, Rachie, ever since Mother and Father died, and I’ve had enough of it. He’s had pre-ordained slots for both of us, and I’m not going to humour him any longer. He seems to think the only wealth in the world is to be found in the City of London. Well, I’m going to teach him that he’s wrong.’ His hand came up and touched her cheek. ‘I’ll be back one day, Rachie. Don’t worry about me.’

It had been a week later that Grandfather had suffered his first minor attack, and Rachel, panicking and sending for Mark, had discovered that he was nowhere to be found. He had given up his flat and apparently vanished into thin air. She did the rounds of his closest friends, but none of them knew, or professed not to know, where he had gone. And she’d waited, endlessly, for the phone call, the letter, the message of reassurance which did not come.

And now, six months later, Sir Giles had suffered yet another attack, and this time he was really ill. Every bone in the proud old face seemed suddenly prominent beneath the transparency of his skin, and Rachel felt a sudden dryness invade her mouth as she looked at him. Was he—could he be dying? Uncle Andrew had never suggested a nursing home before, especially a high-powered one like the Mordaunt Clinic. She sank her teeth into the softness of her lower lip and waited for the sick man to speak again.

He moved restlessly at last and opened his eyes again, blinking a little as if even the muted light in the room hurt them.

He said hoarsely, ‘I was going to fetch him, Rachel. It’s all in the desk downstairs—my air ticket, hotel reservation in Bogota—everything. I’d planned to leave next week as soon as the inoculations took effect. You’ll have to go instead.’

For a dazed moment she thought her ears had deceived her—or that she was going mad.

Then she saw his eyes fixed on her with almost painful intensity, and heard him repeat, ‘You’ll have to go, Rachel. It’s the only way. Bring the boy home to me—before it’s too late.’

Andrew Kingston said angrily, ‘It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. You can’t seriously mean that you’re going?’

Rachel said wearily, ‘What choice do I have? You’ve told me yourself how ill he is—that another attack could occur at any time and be fatal. He wants to see Mark before he dies. It’s understandable. He’s his heir, after all.’

Dr Kingston moved his shoulders sceptically. They were in his private office at the Mordaunt Clinic, a tray of freshly made coffee on the desk between them. Sir Giles had been brought there by ambulance only half an hour before and was now in an intensive care unit. Rachel had been in to wish him goodnight, but he had been under heavy sedation and had not recognised her.

He said, ‘My dear child—–’ and paused, apparently lost for words.

She smiled rather wearily. ‘He has it all arranged. He even has an appointment tomorrow for all the various jabs—yellow fever, cholera—you name it. I’m supposed to keep the appointment in his place. The bookings are made, and my passport is in order. I don’t need a visa as I don’t expect to stay more than ninety days. It—couldn’t be better.’

Dr Kingston’s frown intensified. ‘My dear, it couldn’t be worse. What can Giles be thinking of? A beautiful young woman like you—alone in South America of all places!’

She said quietly, ‘He’s thinking of Mark.’

There was a brief unhappy silence while Andrew Kingston looked at her across the desk. There had been a feature article about her recently in one of the Sunday papers. It had described her jibingly as the ‘Ice Maiden’ of the English stage, and perhaps that was the impression she gave, with her cool blonde beauty and air of rather aloof composure. But a more discerning writer, he thought, might have detected the vulnerability beneath the poise which betrayed itself in the soft curves of her mouth, and the faint shadow which so often lurked in her green eyes.

He said abruptly, ‘But what about your career? The play you’re in—and that panel game on television?’

She smiled. ‘The play closed—and I’ve finished my stint on that particular game. My agent has other offers which I’ve been considering, but there’s nothing as yet that I feel I would die rather than miss. For all practical purposes I could go to Colombia. I’ve been promising myself a holiday, and it would get me away from the English winter.’

‘Oh, it would do that all right,’ said Doctor Kingston grimly.

Rachel leaned forward, setting down her empty cup. ‘I told him I’d go,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’

‘You told me not to let him get excited. He saw that I was hesitating and he started to get—very excited, so I had to agree. He wants Mark home. It means everything to him—the sorting out of this stupid quarrel. Mark won’t refuse to come back with me when he knows what the situation is.’

‘But do you have to be the one to tell him?’ he demanded. ‘This fellow—Forsyth—who saw Mark in Bogota. Couldn’t he arrange something—have the boy traced?’

Rachel sighed. ‘But don’t you see that would mean including other people—strangers—in a family upset? Grandfather wouldn’t be able to bear that. You’re really the only person outside the family who knows what happened, and you’re my godfather, so that makes it—legal, I suppose. And it isn’t really so onerous, you know. The arrangements have all been made for me. All I have to do is fly out to Bogota next week, trace this Arviles family and persuade Mark to come home—that is if he wants to see Grandfather alive.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I doubt if I’ll be in the country more than forty-eight hours.’

Doctor Kingston nodded almost absently, his fingers playing with the cap of his fountain pen. Then he said gently, ‘My dear child, what are you trying to prove?’

He saw the colour rise in her face. ‘That isn’t fair!’

‘It’s the truth, Rachel, so what about it?’

She got up from her chair and went over to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out into the darkness. She said, ‘Do you know, it’s snowing quite hard now.’ And then with barely a change of tone, ‘Don’t you see, Uncle Andrew, he’s asked me to do this for him. It’s the first time in my life that he’s ever asked me for something. He’s always been the one to give—you know that, ever since Mother and Father died. And he always made it clear that no return was ever expected or wanted, because I was a girl.’

‘But he’s always been proud of you. And you’re making a name for yourself in the theatre now. That must please him.’

She smiled wryly and let the curtain fall back into place.

‘Grandfather has always secretly believed that women belong in two places—and the theatre is neither of them. He has always looked on my career as a curious aberration which will be cured when I do the right thing and marry, and produce a family—boys, naturally.’

‘Rachel!’

‘Oh, it’s true, Uncle Andrew, and we both know it. He forgave me for my sex a long time ago, but he’s never let me forget it either—until now—and I’m not going to let slide an opportunity for Grandfather to see me as a person. I want him—I need him to be grateful to me, and if that sounds an unworthy motive for going to find Mark, then I’m sorry, but it’s the only one I’ve got.’

She swung back towards him, her lips smiling and her eyes luminous with unshed tears.

She said lightly, ‘I’m relying on you to give me the necessary shots, Uncle Andrew. I’d rather it was you than this strange doctor that Grandfather has found. You know what a coward I am.’

Andrew Kingston said soberly, ‘That isn’t quite the word I’d have used, my dear. But if your mind is made up, then I’ll say no more.’

Rachel leaned her aching head against the cool glass of the cab window and stared out at the rain-washed streets that they were so rapidly traversing. It had been a long and tiring journey and she was beginning to wish that she had obeyed her first impulse and stretched out on the comfortable bed in her hotel room. As it was, she had stayed only long enough to register and leave her luggage before enquiring at the desk if they could provide her with Señor Arviles’ address.

The Señor seemed to be quite as well known as Larry Forsyth had said, for within a matter of minutes a taxi had been summoned by the helpful clerk, and Rachel was on her way to the expensive suburbs which lay to the north of Bogota beneath the towering and slightly oppressive peaks of the Andes.

It was much cooler than she had anticipated, and Rachel found she was glad of the cream-coloured suit in fine wool she was wearing. What little she knew about the prevailing climate in Latin America did not seem to apply to Bogota, and she supposed vaguely that this was due at least in part to the fact that the city lay at over eight thousand feet above sea level.

She’d intended to do some background reading before setting out, but the days had slipped past with increasing acceleration, and the day of her departure was upon her almost before she knew it. Apart from packing, and spending an uncomfortable day reacting from her injections, she’d visited her grandfather daily.

On her last visit, she’d received the cheering news that he seemed to be out of immediate danger, and wasn’t altogether surprised as she entered his room to hear that he’d undergone a change of heart about her trip.

Sir Giles was all set to make plans to visit Colombia himself as soon as he was back on his feet again, and it required a stern visit from Andrew Kingston, spelling out to him precisely how long that might take, to reconcile him to the fact that Rachel was going in his place.

Instead he contented himself with uttering dire warnings about the kinds of attitude that Rachel might encounter on her trip.

‘They’re an old-fashioned society out there still.’ He fixed Rachel with a glare. ‘None of your Women’s Lib nonsense. Women have their place and they keep to it.’

‘Haven’t I always?’ Rachel asked with a trace of bitter humour in her voice.

Sir Giles’ glance was still fierce, but there was a tinge of discomfort in it. ‘You’re a good child,’ he admitted almost unwillingly. ‘But you’re a good-looking one too, and you’ll be mixing with men with the blood of the conquistadores in their veins. Have you thought about that?’

Rachel lifted an arched eyebrow. ‘I always thought they were more interested in gold than in personal conquests,’ she said. ‘And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, you know. I’ve been working in the theatre—remember?—and they call me the Ice Maiden.’

‘Lot of damned nonsense,’ Sir Giles rumbled. ‘And written by that fellow who was supposed to be keen on you. What happened? Did you quarrel?’

Rachel was silent for a moment. One could not tell one’s devoted and old-fashioned grandfather the truth—that Leigh’s article had been prompted by nothing more than sexual pique, because he’d suddenly discovered he was not as irresistible as he’d always thought.

She’d liked Leigh, and frankly enjoyed the kudos of being seen with one of Fleet Street’s youngest and most attractive show business columnists. And eventually, inevitably there had started to be more to it than that. He’d become more than attractive. He’d begun to be necessary to her. Afterwards when she could think about it clearly and rationally, she could see what he had done—how clever he had been. He’d always known she wouldn’t be a pushover like most of his girl-friends, so he’d played the game her way, making his approach a gentle, almost insidious one, even making her believe, God help her, that he was falling in love with her.

She had even invited him down to Abbots Field for the weekend, although it had not been a great success, as she was the first to admit. Leigh’s elegant boutique-bought clothes and slightly raffish charm had seemed out of place against the quiet gracious lines of the old house, and although Sir Giles had behaved with perfect correctness, Rachel knew all the same that he was not impressed with Leigh. It had been a disappointment, but not, she had told herself optimistically, an insurmountable one. Grandfather and Leigh had to be given a chance to come to terms, occupying as they did, two very different worlds.

But there had been no opportunity for that. The following weekend Leigh had invited her to go away with him, to meet his family, he’d said. She’d accepted gladly, but then the doubts had begun. His manner had changed subtly, for one thing, and then for someone travelling home for the weekend he didn’t seem altogether sure of the route. And when they arrived at the secluded cottage, and found it deserted, she knew, and dismissed all Leigh’s too-fluent excuses about mistaken dates. The cottage wasn’t his home. He’d simply hired it for the weekend. He’d admitted as much eventually, amused at her dismay, but clearly confident of his ability to win her over and persuade her to stay there with him as his mistress.

‘But I don’t want it to be like this,’ she’d cried at last. ‘It’s dirty—it’s sordid—and if you loved me, you wouldn’t want it like this either.’

The memory of his laughter still had the power to make her cringe as if something slimy had left a trail across her skin. That, and the things he had said to her which had killed any feelings she’d had for him—the first sweet stirrings of desire that he’d roused in her—stone dead.

The Ice Maiden article had appeared two weeks later under his byline. It was skilful, even humorous, but Rachel recognised as she’d been meant to do the sting in the tail, and knew that, at a time when female sexuality was being exploited in the theatre, she was being written of as shallow, naïve and frigid. Everyone knew of her relationship with Leigh, and would assume that he knew what he was talking about.

Only his spite had misfired. A role in a television play that she’d not expected to get was suddenly offered to her, and for the first time in her career she was almost overwhelmed with work. Her agent, who had groaned over the Ice Maiden article, was surprised and delighted, and her success had helped in some way to relieve the ache Leigh’s treachery had caused her.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly at last, aroused from her painful reverie by the knowledge that her grandfather was becoming restive, ‘you could say that we—quarrelled.’

Sir Giles grunted. ‘Well, he’s no great loss to you, my dear. I can’t say I took to him. Strange sense of values he seems to have.’

She nodded silently, a feeling of desolation striking at her.

In the weeks which followed she had lived up to the image that Leigh had bestowed upon her, holding aloof from all emotional attachments, pretending that she preferred her own company, learning to conceal the harsh facts of her own loneliness. At least, she had tried to console herself, she had Grandfather and Mark to rely on. But then had come that terrible night at Abbots Frields, and it seemed as if Mark too had deserted her.

Rachel gave herself an impatient little shake and sat up, studying her surroundings. The streets the taxi was passing through seemed to combine a multitude of styles with glass skyscrapers springing up next to buildings of the old Spanish colonial tradition, and the elaborate façades of public buildings and churches. It could be an intriguing place, she decided, perched high on its Andean plateau and it was a pity that she had not more time at her disposal to explore. Perhaps after she’d made contact with Mark and persuaded him to return to England with her, there might be a brief opportunity then, she thought hopefully.

The scenery was changing as they left the more commercial districts behind and entered the purely residential area. There was no sign here of any poverty or decay in these gracious mansions with their velvet lawns and fountain-bedecked gardens. It all spoke of peace and tranquillity and the solid comfort that money can bring. And the Arviles family were part of all this, she realised, as the taxi turned into one of the smooth curving drives.

It was a charming house, low and rambling, a fragrant creeper burgeoning with pale pink blossoms cascading down to the ground beside the front door as Rachel knocked. She had told the taxi to wait for her. If Mark was there, she told herself hopefully, he might pack and come with her straight away. They could drive to the airport and pick up the next flight out.

When the door opened she was confronted by a stout woman in a dark dress covered by a white apron, who regarded Rachel with a doubtful frown. Relying on the Spanish phrase book she had bought at the airport, Rachel asked if she might speak to Señor Arviles. For a moment she was afraid that she had not made herself understood, for the woman frowned a little as if puzzled, but she held the door open for Rachel to enter.

The entrance hall was large with a coolly tiled floor. Rachel followed the maid to a large salón at the back of the house, where it was intimated she should wait. It was beautifully furnished and the chairs looked comfortable as well as luxurious, but Rachel felt too restless to sit down and compose herself. Her headache was worse too, and she felt an odd dizziness.

I’m a fool, she thought. I should have rested and had something to eat before I came here. But the thought of food, hungry though she was, was suddenly and grossly unappealing, and she was thankful when the door behind her opened, diverting her mind from her own physical discomfort.

A small, rather plump woman came in, followed by a young girl. The physical resemblance between them was too pronounced for them to be anything but mother and daughter, but where the girl was dressed with a demure and expensive simplicity, the older woman had a stunning and moneyed elegance. She wore black, and there was a discreet glitter of diamonds on her hands and at her throat, and she smiled rather uncertainly at Rachel.

The girl stepped forward. ‘You asked for my father,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘I regret that he is not here. My mother wishes to be of assistance, but she speaks no English. How can we help you, señorita?’

‘My name is Rachel Crichton.’ Rachel paused. ‘I was hoping that my brother might be here—or that you might know where he was?’

She had to wait while the girl translated what she had said for the Señora, and then Señora Arviles came forward with both hands outstretched. Rachel only understood about one word in ten of what she was saying, but she knew she was being made welcome, and she smiled in response.

The girl came forward too, her lips curving piquantly. ‘So you are the sister of Marcos. I am Isabel. He has mentioned me, perhaps.’

‘He hasn’t mentioned anyone,’ Rachel returned rather awkwardly. ‘I—we’ve rather lost touch over the past month or two, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m here. Our grandfather is very ill, and he wants to see Mark.’

Isabel looked bewildered. She spread her hands prettily.

‘But he is not here, señorita. He has not been here since three weeks. We understood he was returning to Gran Bretaña. Is this not so?’

Rachel’s heart sank within her. She had come all this way for nothing. For all she knew Mark might be back in England at this moment. He might even have gone to Abbots Field.

‘You are pale, señorita.’ Isabel urged her to sit down, and she was glad to because her legs felt like jelly.

‘But he was staying with you,’ she persisted.

’si. He was with Miguel. He likes to bring friends here to stay.’

‘Perhaps Miguel would know exactly where he was,’ Rachel said half to herself. ‘Could—could I have a word with him?’

Isabel’s eyes widened. ‘He is not here, señorita. He has gone to Cartagena to stay with the family of his novia.’

The Señora broke in, clearly intrigued by the exchange between the two girls and wanting to know its subject. While Isabel explained to her mother, Rachel sat her head whirling. She didn’t know what to do next. She supposed she ought to try and make contact with the Mordaunt Clinic to see if Mark had turned up there. She pressed a hand against her throbbing head, willing herself to think straight. Perhaps there was some way she could enquire if Mark had left the country. She would have to arrange to see Señor Arviles. He was a lawyer, after all. He would be able to advise her.

She looked up, and that was a mistake because the room swam around her, and she could see Señora Arviles rising, her face full of concern.

‘Ay de mi!’ Isabel was at her side. ‘What is the matter, señorita?’

Rachel said through dry lips, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.’

The next few hours in retrospect were like a nightmare. She knew that somehow they had got her out of the salón and upstairs to a bedroom. Then someone was there called Dolores, helping to remove the cream suit with warm capable hands, holding a basin while Rachel vomited until her stomach was sore and bathing her forehead with a cool damp cloth in between spasms.

Rachel wanted to tell her that she was grateful, but she was too dizzy and too weak, and every attempt to raise her head from the pillow seemed to bring on another attack of nausea. She wasn’t even aware that at last she had drifted into an exhausted sleep.

When she opened her eyes, the room was dark except for one heavily shaded lamp in the corner. She stirred and stretched cautiously, but her body seemed to respond normally to the action, and she risked sitting up. As she did so, the door opened cautiously and Isabel’s head came round it.

‘Ah, you are awake,’ she exclaimed. ‘That is good. Do you feel better now? Well enough to speak to my father?’

Rachel nodded, thankful that there was no return of that appalling dizziness as she did so. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble,’ she said contritely.

‘What trouble?’ Isabel shrugged. ‘It is the altitude which makes one suffer in this way. Many turistas are afflicted when they first arrive here, but one soon becomes acclimatised.’

She produced a large silk shawl which she proceeded to drape carefully round Rachel’s bare shoulders, then sending her a flashing smile she went back to the door and admitted her father.

Señor Arviles was a dapper man of medium height with an intelligent, humorous face. He bowed slightly over Rachel’s hand, then drew up a chair and sat down beside her bed. Rachel was amused to see that Isabel remained in the room, presumably to act as a youthful chaperone.

After an exchange of civilities, he came swiftly to the point.

‘I am grieved that we can give you no news of your brother, señorita. But we all understood that he was to return home to England. Has he not done so?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Apparently not. And I need to contact him urgently, Señor.’

‘So Isabel has told me. A family illness, is it not?’ Señor Arviles gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Believe me, I would help if it were possible, but your brother merely stayed with us for a short while, then went on his way. His visit was shorter than we would have liked,’ he added courteously, ‘because he knew Miguel was to go to Cartagena.’

‘I see.’ Rachel paused. ‘He didn’t give the impression that he intended to stay in Colombia, maybe?’

‘No, señorita.’ Señor Arviles shook his head. ‘While he stayed with us, Miguel and he made tours, and paid visits to places of interest. There would be little left for him to see, I think.’

‘No,’ Rachel said desolately. ‘I suppose he must have—moved on somewhere.’

She would have to go home and confess failure, she thought unhappily, and what would that do to Grandfather’s already precarious health? She could only be glad that it was she who had had the wasted journey to the other side of the world, and not Sir Giles.

Señor Arviles’ eyes studied her downbent head attentively.

He said, ‘In the meantime, señorita, you will spend a few days with us? We are happy to welcome the sister of Marcos to our house.’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I’ve caused quite enough disruption already. Besides …’ She broke off, stricken, suddenly remembering. ‘My God, I had a taxi waiting and …’

Señor Arviles laughed. ‘It was paid off a long time ago, señorita, and the driver told us the name of your hotel so that we could contact them also. They might have become anxious if one so young and lovely had gone out into Bogota and not returned.’

Rachel returned his smile rather wanly. ‘That’s hardly likely.’

‘You think not?’ Señor Arviles shrugged. ‘Yet you must remember, señorita, that this is Colombia, not Gran Bretaña. Our history has blood in it, and some of it is recent. You would do well to remain here with us, I think, and allow my wife and daughter to entertain you while I make what enquiries I can about Marcos.’

His tone was firm. It was the one he would use, Rachel decided, when he was giving a client some unpopular advice.

‘So it is decided, then.’ He rose briskly from the chair before she could utter a further protest. ‘Rest, señorita, and we will make all necessary arrangements. Presently Dolores will bring you some soup.’

He bowed again and walked to the door. Isabel following him, her pretty face wearing a curiously thoughtful expression.

The soup when it came was delicious, almost a meal in itself, thick with beans and spiced meat, and served with delicately flavoured corn muffins.

Recalling how ill she had been only a short time before, Rachel was amazed that she could eat anything, but she finished every mouthful. When she heard the knock on the door, she imagined it was Dolores coming to remove her tray, and was surprised when Isabel came in.

She exclaimed with pleased politeness about Rachel’s return to health, and sat down in the chair that her father had vacated, folding her hands in her lap. Watching her, Rachel thought suddenly that she looked troubled, and saw that her fingers gripped each other, tight with tension.

‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ she said, cutting across Isabel’s somewhat dutiful recital of the museums they would visit and the sights they would see while she remained in Bogota.

Isabel’s eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘Perhaps, señorita. I—I do not know.’

‘Well, tell me what it is,’ Rachel urged.

‘But first you must promise that you must not tell my father.’ Isabel’s tone was equally urgent. ‘He would be so angry—because I tell you and not him.’

‘I promise I won’t mention anything to him about this conversation.’ Rachel’s eyes never left the younger girl’s face. ‘Do you know where my brother has gone?’

Isabel lifted her shoulders in a deep shrug. ‘Maybe—that is all I can say. señorita, I must tell you something now of which I am much ashamed.’ She paused. ‘I love my brother, but sometimes he is not kind. Sometimes, when he has his friends, he tells me to go away, to leave them in peace, and this hurts me. So they go to his room and they talk, and sometimes I go to my room where there is an amario on the wall next to Miguel’s where there is also an amario.’ She paused again. ‘You know what I am trying to say?’

‘I think so,’ said Rachel. ‘There are adjoining—wardrobes, perhaps, and you can—hear what they are talking about.’

Isabel blushed unhappily ’si, it is so. I am much ashamed now, but before I used to laugh to myself because Miguel thought he had his friends to himself, and I could not share in the things they talked about.’

Her eyes gleamed for a moment and Rachel thought that the sheltered daughter of the house had probably found her eavesdropping on purely masculine conversations more than enlightening at times.

She said, ‘So you listened and you heard Mark and Miguel talking. Is that it?’

Isabel nodded. ‘It was then I knew my father would be angry because Miguel had spoken to Marcos of forbidden things.’

‘What forbidden things?’

Isabel looked down at her lap again. ‘Emeralds,’ she said in a low voice. There was a long taut silence, then she went on. ‘Our emerald mines here in Colombia, Señorita Raquel, are the most famous in the world. They make much money for our country. But not all the emeralds that leave Columbia do so with the will of our government, you understand.’

There was another pause and Rachel made herself say dry-mouthed, ‘Smuggling? You mean Miguel and Mark were talking about smuggling emeralds?’

’si, and from what Miguel is saying I know that he has done this thing, and that if my father ever finds out he will be angry, because it is so much against the law, and the law means everything to my father. He would think that Miguel had dishonoured him.’

Rachel said in a hollow voice, ‘Do you mean that Miguel was suggesting that Mark should become an emerald smuggler?’

‘No, not that. He seemed to be warning him. Many people die all the time because of emeralds. There is much danger. He says that he thinks your brother is a little mad. And then Señor Marcos says “You would not think I was so mad if I came back with the Flame of Diablo.” ‘

‘What is the Flame of Diablo?’

‘It is a legend, Señorita Raquel, a story that I heard when I was a child, as did Miguel. It is said that somewhere in the hills to the north there is a mine where one can find emeralds worth many millions of pesos. But it is also said that no one has set eyes upon this mine since the days of El Dorado, the Golden One who used emeralds from the Diablo mine to ornament himself before he made the offering in the Sacred Lake.’

‘Then Diablo is a place?’ Rachel queried.

Isabel shuddered. ‘It is truly named,’ she said in a low voice, ‘for it is a place of the devil. Many people seek the Diablo mine and the green flame which burns there, but they do not return. My father says the reason is simple. It is a dangerous place. Often there are landslides, and the rivers are deep with fierce currents and little fish that can eat a horse and rider before a man can utter a last prayer, and leave only the bones. And there is el tigre who kills, and many snakes. Also bandidos and other evil men,’ she added, crossing herself. ‘Perhaps it is all so, but there are those who say the reason why the Flame of Diablo stays hidden is that it is guarded by the old gods who were worshipped before the conquistadores came to this place, and that all who seek the Flame are accursed.’

In spite of herself, Rachel felt a long cold shiver run the length of her spine. It was all very well to tell herself robustly that only the very credulous would believe such a tale, but here in this alien land, in the very shadow of the pagan mountains, it was difficult to dismiss Isabel’s recital as nonsense.

‘And you think Mark has gone to this dreadful place?’ she asked, steadying her voice.

Isabel’s eyes met hers frankly. ‘I did not, because Miguel talks much to your brother, telling him of the dangers. But now you come and tell us that he has not returned to Gran Bretaña, and I worry, because he told Miguel that was what he planned to do. I think perhaps he only told Miguel this to put his mind at ease, so that he would not blame himself for having told him the legend. There are many such stories, you understand. I think Miguel did not believe Marcos would take him seriously.’

‘Mark’s a geologist,’ Rachel said, passing her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I suppose he might think that if this mine existed he had as good a chance as any of finding it.’ Or of dying, her mind ran crazily on. Of being drowned in a river, or eaten by piranha fish, or shot by bandits, or even swept off a mountain ledge by a giant condor. Hadn’t she read somewhere that they sometimes attacked unwary travellers?

Isabel’s cold little hand crept into hers. Her great dark eyes looked enormous suddenly, too large for her pinched face.

‘What will you do, señorita?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rachel said rather helplessly. ‘After all, we have no real proof that that’s where Mark has gone, although it does seem more than likely.’

‘If and when I ever do come back, I’ll be rich. I’ll have so much bloody money, I’ll make you eat every word you’ve said. And I shan’t come back until I’ve got it.’

The words seemed to sting and burn in her brain. Through Miguel Arviles, Mark now knew of the possible existence of an emerald mine which could fulfil his wild promise. Also through Miguel he could know of a way to get any gems that he found out of the country. Generations ago there had been a wild streak in the Crichtons. Perhaps this streak had been reborn in Mark, blinding him to all aspects of the perilous game he was playing but its high stakes.

Rachel smiled reassuringly into Isabel’s anxious eyes.

‘I expect I shall go back to England myself,’ she said untruthfully. ‘After all, we may be making mountains out of molehills.’

‘Que quiere decir eso?’ Isabel’s brow wrinkled; ‘What is this molehill?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rachel assured her. ‘I—I’ll inform the authorities here that Mark—seems to be missing, so that they can keep an eye open for him, but there isn’t much more I can do.’

‘No,’ Isabel agreed, but so despondently that Rachel was tempted to throw caution to the winds and tell her that she intended to set out for Diablo herself the following day. But she restrained herself. Isabel might fear her father’s wrath, but Rachel felt sure that would not prevent her telling Señor Arviles about her plans if she got wind of them, and he, Rachel did not doubt, would take steps to prevent her from doing anything so foolhardy.

She soothed her conscience by telling herself she did not want to cause the Arviles family any more anxiety on her behalf. But she knew in her heart that this was not altogether true. Perhaps it was not only in Mark that the forgotten wild streak had surfaced.

I’m going to Diablo, she told herself, even if it means coming face to face with the devil himself.