“We should take a vote on extending this expedition to include searching for the lost city,” Frobisher said. “All those in agreement….”
“I’ll have nothing to do with it.” Julian threw back his chair and left the tent.
Moments later, his eyes blazing with triumph, Frobisher emerged with the two other men trailing behind. “I knew they’d have the sense to agree. You’re outvoted.”
“You won’t let us down, will you, Grieve?” Forster’s tone suggested it would be criminal of Julian to do so.
Hewson dropped his gaze. He of all people knew Julian’s feelings on the matter.
This not only disappointed Julian, he saw it as a betrayal. Their contract had clearly stated what this trip would encompass. Searching for the lost Inca ruins in a remote and mountainous part of the country was madness and more likely a complete waste of time. Julian stared at them wondering if they’d been struck down by some Amazonian fever. Was it the prospect of gold and riches that drew them or the hope of immortality?
“You’ve all gone mad,” he said. “I intend to leave for England by May as planned, even if I have to do so alone.”
“Couldn’t you give it a few more months, Grieve?” Hewson pleaded.
“It wouldn’t be merely a few months, and you know it.” Julian headed for his tent, too angry to remain in their company.
“Grieve?” As the others returned to the main tent, Frobisher walked after him. “It’s going to be difficult to justify this trip without you.”
“I doubt I’d be able to justify it either. You’re counting on finding it. It’s more likely that you won’t. Who’s going to finance such a rash decision?”
“There’s a good chance we could find it. You’re letting us down. Won’t you change your mind?”
Julian swung round furiously. “I’m letting you down? For a start, you’ve got that wrong.”
Frobisher came up to him, anger sparking in his eyes. “You always were a loner. You only had to look at Clara to know that.”
“Watch what you say,” Julian growled.
“A stunning beauty, Clara. She could mesmerize any man she met. And she knew it.”
“If you speak her name again, I’ll wipe it off your filthy mouth.”
Frobisher gave a hollow laugh. “She needed some loving, and I obliged. Did she tell you?”
“You’re a liar!” Julian’s breath hitched, and his fists curled at his side as his mind refused to bury the image of this man’s hands on Clara.
“Clara was coming to meet me in Paris the day that cursed cart ran into her carriage.” Frobisher dropped his gaze, but not before Julian saw the pain there, mixed with a strange exhilaration.
“You bastard.” Julian reeled back and punched him, striking him on the chin. He felt the sting to his knuckles and relished the pain. He wanted to kill Charles.
Frobisher fell back a pace and wiped his mouth with his arm, and then with a cry, he launched himself at Julian, punching wildly.
The other men ran from the tent. They stood watching, not attempting to stop them. Julian was vaguely aware of them as he and Charles fought. Their grunts filled the clearing. A group of howler monkeys sensed trouble and screamed from the trees.
Julian licked his lips and circled Frobisher. Fired by anger, remorse and guilt, he had proved the stronger. One final blow to Frobisher’s solar plexus and the man fell.
Beaten, Frobisher rolled away, muttering, “You win this one, Grieve. But I’ll still win in the end, you’ll see.” He stumbled to his feet and looked at the stony faces of his companions. Staggering, he ran from the camp, pushing his way through the thick foliage and vines.
“Where’s he going to now?” Hewson asked disgust making him sound disinterested.
“He’ll head back to the village.” Julian wiped salty blood from his stinging lip and gingerly moved his jaw. “We’d best go after him.”
“I don’t care if I never see the bounder again.” Lord Forster disappeared into his tent.
“I’m sorry, Julian.” Hewson shrugged, shame darkening his eyes. “Frobisher has a way about him, had us all fired up. It was lunacy, and we were wrong to go against you.”
“I’ll give him tonight to cool off, and then I’ll go and get him,” Julian said. He’d have to cool off himself, first. He still wanted to put his hands round the man’s throat. Frobisher’s implication that Julian had driven Clara into his arms hurt more than her infidelity.
Julian went inside his tent to fetch a handkerchief, licking at his sore lip and reliving the last time he and Clara had talked. She’d sat at her mirror, the morning after he’d arrived home from his last trip away. She had been obsessed with her appearance and afraid of getting old. Well, she never would now.
Turning to him, her green eyes flashed, beautiful and cold as emeralds. “I’m tired of living this life, Grieve.”
“It’s a very comfortable one,” he replied, sensing what was coming ‒ had been for some time. She had never been any good at domesticity, wasn’t suited to it. Clara’s life before she married him had been exciting, following her politician father around the world. Parisian society was where she felt she belonged. She’d been the toast of both cities when he met her, and he’d often wondered why she’d married him. She’d said once that physical attraction had overridden her better judgment. It had overridden his, too.
She stood and walked gracefully about the room, showing off her curves visible beneath the sheer, apricot peignoir that skimmed her body.
Julian glanced away. He couldn’t look at her without a fillip of desire, but he no longer burned to make love to her.
Clara trailed a casual finger along the mantelpiece. “I haven’t been alone while you’ve been away.”
“What?” he’d roared, crossing the room to face her. “Who?” Her words struck him like a blow, although he had suspected. And the suspicion almost sent him mad. He stared down at her, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
Her eyes widened. Had he frightened her? This rage frightened him too; it was so completely out of character.
“I won’t tell you his name. It doesn’t matter. It’s finished.”
“Why tell me anything then? Just to hurt me?” Trying to ignore the ache in his chest and his sense of failure, he forced himself to speak in a quieter tone. “So we are to forget this and go on as before?”
“I don’t wish to hurt you. I don’t feel any hate for you. I just want to be free.” She fiddled with the bracelet at her wrist. “I suppose I want to wipe the slate clean. I’m returning to Paris.”
“What about our daughter?”
She shrugged. “Blythe loves you. She won’t miss me. And neither will you.”
“You mean you won’t miss her. Don’t you worry that her life will be blighted by your actions?”
“She can visit when she’s older.” She shrugged again, the fabric slipping from one perfect shoulder, revealing skin like cream silk.
“How beautiful you are, Clara,” he said soberly as the rage suddenly left him. Only a sense of failure remained. “On the outside.”
She whirled to look at him. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”
He had wanted to know who it was, hadn’t he? Well, he knew now. The man Clara had been with was Charles Frobisher.
Chapter Twenty
The next day dawned, bringing no sign of Charles. Before Julian could seek him out, a leopard roared. It sounded close to camp and frightened the pack mules. One pulled free and made a mad dash into the jungle. The men spent hours rounding up the scared animal, finally bringing it back safely. By the time things settled down, dusk was upon them and another day had passed.
The next morning Julian checked to make sure his rifle was loaded. He took a native bearer with him and made his way along the path to the village, finding the thick air and rotting vegetation strangely claustrophobic. As they approached, wild cries emanated from behind the mud brick wall, making the hairs stand to attention at the nape of his ne
ck. The bearer stopped and glanced at him, his eyes wide.
“We go.” Julian directed the way with his rifle.
They walked into the clearing circled by a cluster of conical-shaped mud and straw huts. A group of natives parted to let them through, the blowpipes they used to kill birds and animals hanging on their bare chests by a leather strap.
Julian searched for Frobisher, but he wasn’t amongst them. The natives wore face and body paint and had decorated themselves with circlets of white and yellow toucan feathers. Drunk on cashiri beer, they performed some kind of symbolical dance. Julian turned to the native bearer shuffling nervously at his side. “What is the significance of this dance?”
He shook his head. “Something make them angry.”
The tempo of the natives’ dance increased, punctuated with blood-curdling yells. Julian turned to the fidgeting bearer. “Can you find out? And ask him if the man with the golden hair, Frobisher, has been here.”
The bearer spoke to the medicine man. He stood out from the rest, heavily tattooed with rings in his nose and ears. Shaking his head, he gestured so violently a chill passed up Julian’s spine, making him shudder. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. The crowd of frowning faces and gyrating bodies leaned towards him as if ready to pounce. He shifted the rifle from his shoulder and gripped it in his tense fingers.
“He was here. He go. We go, too.” The bearer’s black eyes were huge with fear.
“In a moment.” Julian made a valiant effort to sound calm. “Ask him where Frobisher is now.”
After another heated discussion with the medicine man, the bearer came back. He nodded toward a woman standing on the fringe of men beside one of the huts. “They caught toucan. The birds hard to catch, very smart. But delicious to eat. Frobisher, he lay with the chief’s woman. Gave her the meat of a toucan bird to eat. Women not allowed this meat. They drove him away.”
The woman was beautiful, with jutting bare breasts and black hair falling to her waist. Aware of Julian watching, she shifted her hips, and her full lips broke into a smile.
“Where would he have gone?” Julian asked, looking away before she read an invitation in his expression. The bearer merely shrugged. There wasn’t another village for fifty miles. Charles wouldn’t be mad enough to travel without his equipment, and he would never leave his notes and specimens behind. Julian backed away from the menacing crowd. “Let’s get out of here.”
The bearer needed no urging. When they reached the path, they increased their pace.
Reaching the camp, Julian gathered the men together. “I think we all agree we should move on as soon as Frobisher returns. I hope he comes back tonight, though I’m deeply concerned about his whereabouts.”
Lord Forster and Hewson returned to their work without comment. The trip was taking a turn for the worst. Julian knew they were annoyed with the way things had gone, and although they assured him they didn’t blame him, he felt that to some extent they must.
During the night, the native drums began. The throbbing noise echoed through the jungle, waking the men. Julian thought it was a sound to drive men mad. They rose at the first rays of dawn, bleary-eyed and yawning and began to pack.
By lunchtime, Charles still had not appeared. Julian insisted Hewson and Forster help look for him, although they refused to go as far as the village. He couldn’t blame them for that.
Accompanied by the native bearers, they searched along the paths around the camp.
They found Charles just before dusk. It was Julian who spotted his hat lying half-hidden by leaves the size of an elephant’s ears. Charles’ body lay farther down a hill under a log, where he had rolled off the path. The horror took Julian by the throat, turning the sweat on his body frigid as they carried him back to the camp and laid him out on a table.
Horace Carpenter examined the body. “I’m not trained to carry out postmortems.” He wiped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. “The only thing I found is this small puncture wound in his neck.” He moved aside a lock of blond hair. “His muscles have suffered some sort of rictus. Poisoned I’d say, probably by a blow dart.”
They all stood silently, staring down at the frozen snarl on Charles’s face.
“Listen.” Julian held up his hand. “The drums have stopped.”
“They’ve calmed down,” Hewson said with relief. “We should be all right here for a day or two.”
“I don’t think so,” Julian said. “This pause means nothing. We’re in great danger here. If we bury Charles tonight, we can get out first thing in the morning. We must mark his grave with some kind of headstone. Charles was an important man.” There was a challenging note in Julian’s voice, in response to the opposition he saw in his colleagues’ faces. His deep distress that the quarrel had led to Charles’s death made him ready to fight for a proper burial.
“If you insist, but I can’t see the sense of it,” Hewson said. “The jungle will obliterate anything we leave behind.”
They buried Charles Frobisher by lamplight. Julian stood before the grave. “Man has but a little time to live … ,” he read from the Bible. He pounded the tent pole into the ground with the cross he had fashioned out of wood attached. Hewson was right of course. In very little time, the jungle would remove all trace of it. The men sat around smoking, lost in their own thoughts, sorrier that the trip was to end prematurely than about Charles’s death, Julian thought uncharitably. “I’ll take first watch,” he said. “Try to get some rest.”
Sometime during the night, the drums began again. At first light, they were all jittery. The beating increased in tempo, flooding the jungle with teeth-jarring noise. It made it difficult for Julian to think straight. The bearers chattered nervously amongst themselves, and Julian became afraid they would bolt. The men gathered for a hasty breakfast. “I want us out of here within the hour,” Julian said.
“I can’t,” Lord Foster began. He waved his hands helplessly. “My plant specimens have yet to be categorized.”
“Can’t be helped. Anything not packed will have to be left behind.” Julian kneaded the tight knots in his shoulders with his fingers. “They are building up to something, and I, for one, am not waiting until they decide to act. They can move through the jungle three times as fast as we can. Get moving! If we get out with our lives, we’ll be lucky.”
Gulping the last of their coffee, they leapt up to finish packing. Somehow, they got on their way in a little over an hour.
They’d been pushing through the jungle for several hours when wild yells told them the natives had begun to search for them.
Hewson took out his pistol. “I’ll fire a warning shot.”
Julian grabbed his wrist. “No sense in telling them where to find us.”
Behind them, the natives’ cries ceased, and the jungle settled down around them with just the chatter of spider monkeys, the occasional roar of a jaguar, and the incessant shrill cries of parrots for company. Julian ducked his head at the sight of a reddish-brown boa constrictor, big enough to digest a small tapir, coiled around a tree branch a few feet above them.
Foster jerked his head around and peered into the undergrowth. “I preferred it when the natives were noisy,” he muttered.
Sweat ran in rivulets down Julian’s back, causing his shirt to adhere to his skin. The overly ripe jungle odors assailed his nostrils, the rank smells of death, decay, and fear.
They continued on their way at an infuriatingly slow pace, with the native bearers slashing out a path ahead of them.
“If we make it out of their territory, it’s unlikely they’ll follow.” Julian looked to Forster walking beside him. “I’m sorry this happened. I blame myself.”
Forster stared back at him with widened eyes. “Are you crazy? Remember the woman? Could you have kept Frobisher away from her?” He shook his head. “Man is little better than a savage animal, Grieve, who for some strange reason every now and then tries to destroy himself.”
The stinging rain began again, and
the ground quickly turned to mud. Their boots sank down in it to their ankles, slowing them further. The concentration required to put one foot in front of the other rendered them silent. No one had breath to complain, aware of the natives sliding through the trees, silent and deadly, somewhere behind them. Hewson and the guard, Frederick Parker, made up the rear, their guns trained on the wall of impenetrable jungle, from which the Indians could leap at any moment.
*****
Grateful that his quick thinking had got them all to safety, Julian’s colleagues all rushed to reassure him that he was in no way to blame for what had happened. On their first night back at Para, Hewson espoused quiet good sense. It was his opinion that Julian valued over Forster’s, who remained aloof from the whole thing, as if common matters never touched him. The consensus expressed by all the men was that Charles Frobisher was meant to die in the jungle. He took far too many risks and reveled in living on the edge.
Hewson had followed him outside into the hot, still night, alive with the trill of insects. “You take too much on yourself, Grieve,” he had said. “You can’t be responsible for the actions of others.”
“Such a waste, Hewson.” Julian hated to see Charles die in that horrible way. He had been an intelligent man with much to offer the world, and his life had been snuffed out like a candle. “If only I’d not lost my temper. But when he admitted to having an affair with Clara, I lost my head.”
“As any right-minded man would do. You’re thawing out, Grieve. Since the breakup of your marriage, you’ve been like a ghost walking, denying yourself any pleasure. At least until you met Vanessa. You finally came to your senses and chose a fine woman.”
“I hope she won’t be disappointed in me.”
Hewson had taken him by the arm. “You can’t take the blame for any of this. Have sense. We know what Charles was, and Clara … well. You married a butterfly, Grieve. Clara flittered from place to place, touching only lightly. You managed to pin her down for a moment, and then she was gone.”
The Folly at Falconbridge Hall Page 18
