Flame of Diablo (2 page)

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 Senor

Arviles' address.

The
senor
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