Chapter 1

It was a hell of a view. People called the Himalayas the Roof of the World. It wasn't a sobriquet I would argue with, but to my mind, the Andes were just as majestic.

I had been to South America before - before the world went mad and tried to destroy itself in a four-year paroxysm of mutual antipathy. It had been a different world then. I had been different. Then it had been a hedonistic circle of parties and pleasure seeking, of luxuries carelessly bought and sold, unmindful of the poor and dispossessed who clung to the gates of the great houses in Rio, Para, Caracas, Lima, Cartagena and a dozen other cities.

Now, too many of the friends I had drunk and laughed with back then were now dead. There had been no trumpet calls, no heroic charges, and no undying glory to be immortalised by the poets. The poets had instead written all too truly of the hell that had been that war in the trenches - too truly to some people's way of thinking. They had not been there. For those of us who had been there, who had written those poems, it had been as close to hell on earth as any of wanted to get. We were the ones the war had changed, sometimes beyond recognition.

I remembered that first Christmas in London afterwards, the crowds of merrymakers trying to return to a past that could not be reclaimed. I had met up with an old friend from school at the Garrick Club in St James's. He had served in the trenches, led men over the top, ran headlong into the shelling and the machine gun fire for no other reason than because it was expected of one of his class. He had got caught up on the wire, abandoned in no-man's land as shells fell all around him until the next attack enabled his own men to cut him down. The doctors called it shell shock. He was invalided back to England early in '18, but he never really recovered. One evening that Christmas at the Garrick, he broke down at the sound of a champagne cork being popped. An aged, florid faced veteran Major who had fought in the Boer War had laughed and accused him of cowardice, saying he had been hiding back in England instead of returning to his regiment.

I had been the only one to respond to the slight to my friend. Had others not intervened and stopped me, it could have developed into quite an unpleasant incident. It was that encounter at the Garrick that decided me. I needed to get away from everything, from everyone. Back home everything was too near the surface. Avebury was no retreat, there were too many memories there as well, other distant no less painful memories. I had to get far away, to somewhere where I could try to find out who John Roxton was, if not Major the Lord John Roxton.

Perhaps that was why I was here, back in South America, a place I had known before everything had changed for me. I was not here this time to revisit the cities or the great houses, but instead to get to know the countryside and the mountains: those incredible, snow-capped monsters that marched the length of the continent. There was a raw, untrammelled beauty to them, so alien to the tamer hill country of England. Even the stark bleakness of Wales and Scotland was nothing compared to this.

To reach this place had taken weeks of travel, by steamship, train and finally by horseback. It was an outcropping of the Cordillera Oriental of Peru, a range of mountains dwarfed by the ponderous bulk of the Andes we had left behind us. I had hired two of the local Indians back in Cajamarca to guide me over the mountains. They probably believed I was just another crazy foreigner. There was such a timelessness to this place that I could easily imagine their ancestors had once felt the same about Francisco Pizarro four hundred years earlier.

Ten years ago back in Africa I would have brought enough with me to require the services of at least half a dozen bearers to transport. In the war I had learnt the virtue of packing light. My sole concession to the old days lay with the rifles I had brought with me: a .318 bolt-action made for me by Westley Richards, and the heavier .470 double-ejector made by Holland and Holland. A colt .45 had found its way into my luggage mostly by instinct. I had spent the previous four years making sure that wherever I had to go, that handgun had gone with me. Some of my colleagues had called me obsessive about that little detail. The fact that I had survived where many of them hadn't, relieved any concerns I might have felt in that field. Once in the mountains I had taken to wearing the same style of serape and hat as my guides. I just wanted to fade into the background. Each of us rode one horse and led another carrying supplies. The horses were unprepossessing creatures, compact and wiry, untidy in their heavy coats against the cold of the mountains, but each had what the Spanish called 'brio escondido', a stamina and toughness that would carry them through the roughest terrain.

So there we were, looking eastwards from the foothills of the Andes. The green, mist-shrouded carpet of the Amazon jungle was spread out below us. I could make out the glimmering threads of open water running through it that would join up far away to become the Amazon River. From where I stood to the Atlantic coast of Peru lay two thousand miles of nigh impenetrable jungle. It was humbling yet exciting, to be so close to one of the last great, unexplored regions of the world.

My guides just waited for me. They had seen this view too many times in the past to be as awed by it as I was. I could sense one of them, Domingo, getting bored of the delay caused by my reverie. Salvador and Domingo Ramirez were brothers, but as dissimilar as brothers often are. Domingo was the younger, quick- witted and quick tempered. For him, an Englishman wandering pointlessly over the mountains was something he could not understand. To Domingo, a man had to have good reason to travel the cold high passes of the mountains. I was at a loss to explain why he had accepted the commission. Maybe it was the money, or his brother's urging: I couldn't say, and wouldn't ask. It was really none of my business. Salvador was the steadier, more considering of the two. He was ten years older than Domingo, making him about my age, but he looked far older.

Apart from the view, I was here to take advantage of an offer given to me years before by Don Ferdinand Lopez whom I had met whilst on safari in Africa back in '11. His family had owned much of the surrounding land since the Eighteenth Century. His ancestors had built a Hacienda near the town of Tarapoto. I had sent him a wire from London, telling him that I finally intended to take him up on his long-standing offer to visit him and he had agreed. It seemed an ideal opportunity to reflect and spend some time with an old friend in quiet solitude away from cities and people.


That evening we reached a remote mountain village: Chalhuanca Alto. My guides had family here and we were to stay with them for a few days. Though I had never met any of these people, I received a welcome from them like few I had experienced. We feasted that first evening: the entire village gathered around a great central fire. The night was full of dancing and singing and laughter. To my astonishment I found myself joining in. It was wonderfully cathartic: I hadn't been able to laugh like that for so long. As the evening wore on the jokes got more vulgar and the atmosphere more raucous until early the next morning we finally called a halt.

I woke up the next day with a hangover I wish never to have to endure again. My next shock was the presence of a woman, petite and dark haired, curled up against my side. I tried to think back, but I couldn't remember going to bed, let alone going to bed with a woman. Disturbing her as little as possible I got up and went outside. The air was crisp and chill. It cleared away some of the cobwebs and confusion but I still couldn't place the woman. I made my way over to the pump. Village women were already there, washing, gossiping, and collecting water. The remains of last night's fire had left a black scar on the ground in the central square of the village. Going by the amused expression on their faces, my condition was obviously familiar to them. I put my head under the spout of the pump and let them gleefully sluice icy water over me. That did the job. My head felt delicate and my stomach queasy, but it was an improvement. When I got back to my lodgings, the woman was gone without a trace. I hadn't even found out her name.

The following days were glorious. The weather was still cool but the sky was almost always a clear intense blue, apparently something to do with the altitude. The horses were given a chance to rest as were we. I took the opportunity to devote some time to cleaning my guns properly. One day at the urging of, I think all the children in the village, I did a bit of target practice. They were duly impressed! I knew very well how good a shot I was - I had, after all, had enough opportunity to practice. It felt odd, though, just showing off like that. The last time I had fired a gun, it had been with the intention of killing a man who had been intent on trying to kill me. For a mere instant I was back there, in hell, then the moment was gone.

I never saw the woman again for certain, though given the local women's habit of wearing headscarves it was difficult to be completely sure. Several times I thought I recognised her; only to find out I'd been mistaken on closer study. I had, however, noticed a dearth of men in the village. I assumed they were away working. I wasn't to discover the truth about that until later.

One thing I did notice after the revelry of that first night was the general poverty of the village. Clothing was old and heavily repaired. Buildings too showed a want of maintenance. The villagers themselves were thin. The children were healthier than the adults. In times of hardship, the parents always see to their children's welfare first. I made gifts of as much of the food as I could spare, having to argue against their fierce pride to get them to accept.

On the evening before our departure I noticed Salvador sitting alone, smoking, beside the fire. I walked up and sat down next to him. I lit a cigarette and offered him one. For a few minutes we sat there smoking in silence. Finally he stubbed out the cigarette and lit the one I had given him.

"It was a good thing, you did, offering them the food," he murmured. "It is a big thing for them to have so great and important a caballero as a guest of the village."

The silence crowded around again. I felt unsure of how to respond. Domingo, Salvador and all the villagers had addressed me simply as senor, no titles or 'my lord's'. It seemed there were some things I could not escape from. I had never sought the title, much less to inherit it as I had. I wanted to ask about the state of the village, the whereabouts of the men. I couldn't think how to phrase the question without giving offence to these prideful, independent people.

"The day after tomorrow we will reach the Hacienda of Don Ferdinand," announced Salvador. I had lost the moment. Perhaps I would be able to find out from my old friend Don Ferdinand what had happened, why there was such poverty here.


Half a day's ride out of the village and we were in the midst of a forest of rubber trees. Two hours later a quartet of horsemen rode down the track toward us. Each was armed. They stopped, blocking the track in front of us. Their leader rode forwards and spoke in haughty Spanish, a language I could thankfully speak fairly well.

"You are trespassing on private property. Leave!"

I did not like his attitude. So far as I knew we were now on Don Ferdinand's land, and I was expected as Don Ferdinand's guest. "I am Lord John Roxton, I wired ahead…"

"Ah, yes, senor Lord Roxton. You are expected. You and your servants will follow and I will escort you to the Hacienda. My name is Ramon." There was a sneer to his voice despite the apparent courtesy. Don Ferdinand was a gentleman of the Old School, to whom courtesy and chivalry were all. I was forced to wonder why this man was still in his employ.


It took the rest of that day and most of the next day to reach the house. My unwilling escort was civil but it was clear that we, particularly Domingo and Salvador, were not the most welcome of visitors. In that time we met other groups of mounted men, all of them armed. That first evening as we sat by the fire I had enquired of Ramon the reason for the armed men, asking if he had problems with bandits. The only reply I had received had been a brief, humourless laugh.

We arrived at the Hacienda late in the afternoon. I remembered seeing the pictures of the place that Don Ferdinand had shown me. It had changed since then with the addition of a high garden wall topped with spikes, and wrought iron bars on the windows. Riding through the large open gates I noticed more men, all of whom carried rifles or shotguns. We dismounted as a scared looking boy scurried forwards to take the horses' reins. I had the growing feeling that something was very wrong. Domingo and Salvador were led off to the servants' quarters with a dismissive gesture from Ramon. I was ready to protest at their cavalier treatment, but a sharp glance from Salvador convinced me against it. I caught myself frowning - what did he know that I hadn't worked out yet?

Ramon led me into the elegant hallway of the Hacienda. Compared to the building's rough exterior, the inside was ridiculously sumptuous. Persian carpets covered the floors, paintings on the walls, heavily carved and inlaid wooden pieces of furniture were completely in scale with the size of the place, but somehow still looking wrong. It was just too over done, sheer excess. Don Ferdinand's fine sense of taste and style was absent in the decoration here. A young man, whose clothing bore the unmistakable stamp of Savile Row and Jermyn Street, walked languorously toward me. The expression on his face was one of supercilious disdain matched with a sly cunning that would have better suited a weasel. There was a woman on his arm, sleek and predatory, with long dark hair and fathomless eyes. Ramon performed the introductions, smirking slightly as he did so.

"Lord John Roxton, I have the honour to present his Excellency, Don Ernesto Lopez and his sister Dona Maria Lopez. Don Ernesto is the nephew of our late, lamented Don Ferdinand who had the misfortune to meet with an accident while out riding; he fell from his horse and broke his neck. Don Ernesto, Dona Maria, this is Lord John Roxton of whom your Uncle spoke. His brother too met with an accident while out hunting with him."

I looked from one to the other, from Ramon's insolent grin to the sneering appraisal of Don Ernesto and the almost devouring regard of Dona Maria. I felt uncomfortably like I was being displayed as the latest exhibit at the zoo. My old friend Don Ferdinand was dead. There had been a notable lack of remorse on the part of either his nephew or niece. As for the accident, Don Ferdinand had been the finest horseman I had ever met. I wouldn't say he couldn't have fallen and broken his neck, but I'd come off too many horses myself to deny that even the best horseman is sometimes going to fall. It just seemed unlikely.

The thing that really worried me was that in Africa, Don Ferdinand had said that he was the last of his line. His only sibling - a brother - had died childless while he himself had never married. It was a detail he had found embarrassing, this failure to produce an heir, and had kept as secret as possible.

But now, I was in his house being greeted by his soi-disant nephew and niece. I could not help but wonder what had I got myself into?

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