Flame Of Diablo. Sara Craven
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