Flame Of Diablo

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.

CHAPTER TWO

THE bus rounded the bend with a lurch that almost had Rachel flying out of her seat. She controlled the startled cry which had risen to her lips, and settled herself more firmly. The other passengers seemed used to coping with the bus’s vagaries, she noticed. Across the aisle, an Indian woman continued to feed her baby in the shelter of her ruana, her coppery face impassive. Rachel had seen as she boarded the bus that a small gaudy statue of the Virgin was secured just above the driver’s seat, and there was a general tendency as the rickety vehicle rocked round a particularly hairpin bend, or swayed dangerously near the lip of some ravine, for the passengers and the driver to cross themselves devoutly.

Rachel could sympathise with this evidence of devotion, but she couldn’t help wishing at the same time that the driver would keep both hands on the wheel.

She could understand now why the hotel clerk had stared at her in horror when she had enquired about buses, and strongly advised her to hire a car instead. Apart from her concern about the cost, she had not been keen to accept his advice. From what little she had seen of the drivers in Bogota, most of them seemed to regard a car as a symbol of their machismo and behave accordingly, Rachel possessed a driving licence, but she doubted her ability to compete, and now that she had seen the standard of the road up to Asuncion, she was glad she had not tried. She tried to imagine meeting one of these buses on one of those bends, and shuddered inwardly.

The window she was sitting beside was covered in dust, but she couldn’t really be sorry. At least she was being saved those stomach-turning glimpses of some of the valleys they had passed—a sheer rocky drop down to a wrinkled snake of a river. And snakes were another feature of the journey that she did not want to contemplate.