Temple Of The Moon. Sara Craven

said, hating the inanity in her voice, ‘Oh—of course. They’ll all be so busy. I didn’t think … Is that juice for me? How lovely. I think I will sit down—in the courtyard, did you say?’

      Isabella’s eyes were openly contemptuous now. ‘Carlos is waiting for you, señorita. He too has other work to attend to,’ she mentioned abruptly. She turned and waited ostentatiously for Gabrielle to precede her into the hall. Then she closed James’ door with rather more than necessary force before marching across the hall to her own office without a backward glance.

      ‘And hasta la vista to you too,’ Gabrielle thought wryly as she sipped her drink. She wandered out into the sunshine and stood listening to the splash of the fountain as she finished the contents of the glass. She left the empty glass on the bench as she turned to greet Carlos who came out of the Institute to meet her. He was small and round with a warm smile, and he looked oddly familiar, although she was hard put to it to discover where the familiarity lay. It wasn’t until they were in the jeep and driving away and she saw him in profile that she knew. It was the typically Mayan profile that she had seen in endless pictures and reproductions, even to the slightly sloping forehead. It made the jungle palaces seem suddenly far less remote.

      The return drive to the hotel was an altogether different proposition. Carlos needed no urging to deviate from the direct route and show off his abilities as a guide.

      ‘But a jeep is not the best way to see Merida, señorita,’ he told her reproachfully. ‘Tomorrow you must walk to the Plaza de la Indepencia and see the Casa Montejo.’

      ‘Wasn’t it a Montejo who founded Merida?’ Gabrielle searched her memory for the facts she had assimilated during her background reading on the Yucatan.

      ‘Si. Don Francisco de Montejo. He conquered forty thousand Indians with only four hundred Spanish knights. Our beautiful cathedral is built on the spot where he won his victory.’

      Gabrielle sighed a little. ‘Quite a victory,’ she said drily. ‘And all in the name of God, I suppose.’

      ‘Si, señorita. How could it be otherwise? And in the cathedral, there is a beautiful picture of the visit of the king Tutul XIV visiting Don Francisco only weeks before his conversion to our blessed faith.’

      Whatever the physical evidence might be, Carlos had chosen his own ancestors, Gabrielle realised, hiding a smile.

      ‘I think your Mexico is very beautiful, Carlos,’ she said.

      Carlos gave her a disgusted look. ‘Is not my Mexico, señorita. I was born a Yucateco. I do not concern myself with Mexico.’ He removed his hands from the wheel to snap his fingers as a sign of his sublime disregard for both Mexico and the mass of traffic around them.

      Gabrielle was sorely tempted to laugh, but managed to retain her self-control. ‘I’m sorry, Carlos. I didn’t realise feeling was so strong here.’

      He grinned cheerfully. ‘We belong to ourselves, señorita, that is all. For so long we were alone that we became—accustomed.’

      It was probably true, Gabrielle thought, visualising the small Spanish outpost that the conquistadores had set up on the peninsula and held against all odds.

      Carlos was continuing, pointing out places of interest as they passed and recommending restaurants. ‘And when you are too tired to walk any further, señorita, you can go to the Parque Cepada and take a calesa for the rest of your tour.’

      Gabrielle nodded a smiling agreement. She had already promised herself a ride in one of the pony-drawn buggies which could be seen everywhere on the streets. But before she embarked on any of these pleasures, she silently reminded herself, she had to find somewhere to stay. She nearly asked Carlos if he could help her, but bit the words back at the last moment. She had led that Lennox man to believe that she could continue to stay at her hotel. She did not want him to find out the truth through some chance remark from Carlos.

      She was half toying with the idea of hiring a car to take her to Villahermosa, but common sense intervened. At least in Merida she had a contact—however tenuous—with the Institute. Sooner or later, James would return there. If she went to Villahermosa she would be searching for a needle in a haystack, and there was every chance that she would miss him again.

      She ate a solitary dinner in the hotel dining room, very conscious that she seemed to be the only person in the room on her own. She ordered enchilada, but asked for it to be accompanied by a tomato sauce instead of the usual red chilli accompaniment until her palate had adjusted to the new highly spiced dishes. The last thing she wanted was a touch of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’, especially if she was homeless, she thought wryly.

      She was drinking the last of a reflective cup of coffee when she heard someone speak to her, and glancing up, she saw a couple, not many years older than herself, who had been sitting at the next table. They introduced themselves as Jon and Cathy Benson and needed no urging to accept Gabrielle’s rather tentative invitation to join her for more coffee. They seemed a friendly, outgoing pair and she soon learned that they were from California and were enjoying a delayed ‘honeymoon’ after five years of marriage. They obviously believed she was yet another eager tourist like themselves, and they were wide-eyed with interest as Gabrielle explained the work she hoped to do.

      ‘Gee, you’re lucky,’ Cathy sighed. ‘We have to start for home next week. Have you visited many of the sites yet? We stopped over to see Bonampak and Palenque on the way here. Oh boy, the Temple of the Inscriptions—it’s just so—tremendous. I felt like some kind of ant.’

      Her husband laughed. ‘Cath’s exaggerating as usual,’ he teased. ‘Not even a Mayan temple could put her down.’

      ‘Oh no?’ Cathy laid her hand over her heart with an extravagant gesture. ‘Reading about all those human sacrifices gave me some genuinely bad moments, I can tell you.’

      Gabrielle smiled. ‘I expect they had roughly the same effect on the victims,’ she said drily.

      Jon shuddered. ‘This is a great after-dinner conversation! What we really came across to say was that a group of us are going to La Ermita tonight and as you seem to be alone, we wondered if you would care to come along too.’

      ‘La Ermita?’ Gabrielle looked at them questioningly. ‘What—or where—is that?’

      ‘It’s an old hermitage on the outskirts. It’s been restored and they’ve made a garden out of the old cemetery next door. At night, it’s all lit up and there’s even a waterfall. They have music and there are usually dancers that you can watch.’ Cathy laid an eager hand on her arm. ‘Come with us and see for yourself. We love it there.’

      Gabrielle was sorely tempted. Things had gone so badly for her, it seemed, ever since she had first set foot in the Yucatan that the idea of an evening of gaiety appealed to her strongly. But at the same time, she was reluctant to leave the hotel in case James tried to contact her, although that was beginning to seem an increasingly remote possibility. And she also had the prospect of a strenuous day ahead of her, searching for fresh accommodation, she remembered.

      She was genuinely regretful as she refused the invitation, and was warmed by the Bensons’ disappointment at her refusal, as well as their cheerful assurances that they wouldn’t take no for an answer next time. It was the first friendly reaction she’d had from anyone since she arrived in Mexico, she thought as she left the dining room, and instantly choked down the lump that rose in her throat at the thought. Self-pity was one of the last emotions she could afford to waste her energies on, she told herself resolutely as she went up to her room. She showered and climbed into bed, reaching for the book that stood on her bedside table. It was a modern account of the re-discovery of the Maya by Stephens and Catherwood during the 1840s, and reminding herself of the trials and sufferings they had endured in the rain forest would, she hoped, help her to get her own problems in perspective. But when, eventually, she fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming confusedly of jungle courts and creeper-hung palaces, it was not the pale bearded face of any Victorian