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,
