Flame Of Diablo. Sara Craven

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      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.

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