Flame Of Diablo. Sara Craven

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      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.

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