Just a Song at Twilight

Author – Lisa Paris – 2006

Feedback – All constructive feedback gratefully received at lisaparis25@hotmail.co.uk

Disclaimer – I own no part of the show or the characters just the thoughts they inspire in my head. The various Jack the Ripper theories aren’t mine either, but I’ve woven them into the thread of the story and tweaked them to tie-in with the episode (The Knife – Season Three, The Lost World.)

Category – Very much an M/R story, although Challenger does have an important, supporting role. There’s a strong supernatural theme throughout the whole of this tale, romance, hurt/comfort and angst. Some profanity and sexual references, violence and the discussion of murder.

Summary/Spoilers – Set post Season Three’s ‘The Knife,’ the day after the travellers have returned from the caverns. The legacy of the Ripper seems to be at an end, but is the nightmare finally over? Veronica takes Malone to the Zanga village to help him recover from his distressful visions. Marguerite, Roxton and Challenger remain alone in the Tree House. There are dark clouds looming on the horizon. A storm is about to break . . .

Thanks - With grateful thanks to Rann for her wise and insightful critique, and for kindly hosting my work on her excellent website.

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Just a Song at Twilight
‘Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low
And the flickering shadows softly come and go.
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes love’s old, sweet song,
Comes love’s old, sweet song.’*

From ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ – by James L. Molloy and J. Clifton Bingham

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Part One

Marguerite gave a tiny sigh and let the book fall into her lap. She was usually an avid reader but if anyone were to quiz her about the last couple of chapters, they might find her answers sadly lacking. She flipped the volume over and regarded the title with a slightly sardonic eye ‘The Woman in White,’ by Wilkie Collins,* a Victorian gothic romance. Not precisely the best choice of reading matter in light of the last few days. She’d read it many years ago and vaguely remembered the plot. All graveyards and ghostly figures, wicked Counts and lunatic asylums.

The light outside was fading fast; it was time to light the candles. The tree house seemed cavernous and gloomy, full of wraiths and unwelcome shadows. Marguerite shivered despite the heat, suddenly uncomfortable in the silence. Just for a moment, she felt strangely alone. Cut off, and abandoned to the darkness.

She got up rather quickly with a snort of self-disgust, the discarded book sliding unheeded to the floor. It was ridiculous to be so fanciful, out-of-character and most unlike her. She picked out a taper from the spill jar by the fire and set about rectifying matters. The brightly-lit lanterns and candles chased the demons away and made the tree house seem friendly again. Even though she knew Challenger was buried down in the lab working on his latest invention, Marguerite felt still felt oddly deserted. Perhaps it was a lingering aftermath of the horror of the last, few days. By the time she’d uncorked a bottle of wine, things were looking decidedly more cheerful. A vivid imagination was a dangerous thing when given free rein to run wild.

She glanced across at the oven and gave a small sigh of resignation. Her stomach was starting to grumble but nothing tasty bubbled on the stove. Any last hopes of Roxton arriving back in time to cook supper seemed to have fallen by the wayside.

Talking of Roxton, where was the man?

She hadn’t seen him since early this morning when Veronica had left with Malone. He’d muttered something unintelligible about fishing and set off to accompany them as far as the river. Personally speaking, she wouldn’t have blamed him for wanting to stay as far away from water as possible in light of the recent set of circumstances. Marguerite frowned and looked towards the balcony. It was getting too dark to be out there alone. Any longer, and Roxton would be breaking his own cardinal rule. No one should travel at night unless necessary – and certainly not unaccompanied.

As if to appease her sudden anxiety, she heard the click of the gate. A minute later, the creak of the pulley sent the lift trundling downwards and she knew the errant hunter had returned. Marguerite bit her lip with relief, annoyed at her uncommon reaction. The thought of losing him was too close to home. It still taunted her with unaccustomed fear.

“Where have you been?” Concern made her tone sharper than usual. “It’s gone six and it’s your turn to cook.”

“I’m sorry, Marguerite.” Roxton threw a string of fat, river trout down upon the table in-front of her. “I dozed off for a while in the sunshine. When I woke, it was later than I thought.”

Bloody typical of the man, snoozing in the sun without a care in the world whilst she sat here and worried about him. Marguerite felt her irritation rise as she lifted her head to confront him. But when she regarded him more intently, the rebuke went cold on her lips. For someone who’d spent the afternoon sleeping, Roxton seemed haggard and uncommonly weary. His eyes looked dull and bloodshot and he was pale beneath his tan.

Her own eyes softened. He’d been through quite an ordeal during the last few days. They all had. Perhaps the curare wasn’t completely out of his system yet, or he’d maybe he’d caught a slight chill from lying in the filthy water for so long. Whatever it was, she forgave him. It was hard to see him looking so wan.

“Come along, Rip Van Winkle, let me pour you some wine. We’ve time for an aperitif before supper.” Marguerite led him out to the balcony and pushed him down into a comfortable armchair.

She felt him watching as she poured out the wine and placed it into his hand. There was the hint of a smile on his tired face and her heart gave a thrill of contentment. ‘This is what it feels like to love someone.’ It was a feeling she barely remembered. ‘When performing the simplest of tasks for that someone is capable of giving me so much pleasure.’

Marguerite checked herself hurriedly and endeavoured to change the subject. Better to steer clear of such dangerous thoughts and return to safer ground.

“Did Malone seem any better when you left him?” Her voice was coolly nonchalant.

Roxton took a sip of his wine, a small frown creasing his brow. “I hope I’m wrong, but I have a feeling it’s going to take more than a trip to the Zanga village for Ned to recover from this. Something’s different about him . . . something fundamental has changed.”

“None of us came through it unscathed.” Marguerite was sombre. “It hasn’t been long since he returned from the spirit world and the visions have certainly shaken him. A few days away with Veronica might be just what he needs.”

“Could be.” Roxton didn’t sound convinced. He leant back in the chair with a heavy sigh and closed his eyes for a second. “Shame about our little seaside break, though. A dip in the sea with Jack the Ripper was not what I had in mind.”

“And what pray, did you have in mind, my Lord Roxton?” Marguerite spoke playfully, glad to lighten the mantle of gloom which seemed to have settled around them. “Or, do I really need to ask?”

“It wasn’t so much what I had in mind,” there was a gleam of green beneath his eyelids now. “There was nothing cerebral about my intentions, I had a far more corporeal goal. Let’s say it involved my body - or perhaps, I should say - yours.”

“Why, Lord Roxton!” Marguerite backed away from him with just the right amount of maidenly horror. “I’m shocked you should admit to such wicked designs, have you no virtue or honour?”

“Not where you’re concerned, Marguerite.” He regarded her frankly, a wide smile crinkling his face. “Honour and virtue, be damned!”

He placed the wine glass down on the table and reached across to take her in his arms. She leaned a little closer and went willingly enough, taking pleasure in the width of his broad shoulders. His embrace was comforting and she felt so safe, relaxing bonelessly against his body. Any lingering demons began to fade as his fingers massaged her scalp.

“Umm . . .” Marguerite gave an involuntary sigh of bliss and snuggled her head into his neck. Her lips were pressed against his throat and she could feel the throb of his pulse. It was suddenly and shockingly erotic and her body felt alive with arousal. Goosebumps shivered across her skin as she melted into his touch, she reached up to push his collar aside and gain better access to his skin. He smelled of leather and sunshine, with a faint undertone of male musk.

“Marguerite . . .” Roxton’s voice was husky.

“Roxton, Marguerite – are you both out there on the balcony?”

Marguerite pulled away hastily as Challenger’s query rang out. She gave Roxton a glance of profound regret and caught the answering frustration in his eyes. Often it seemed as though some bad fairy had placed them under a curse, to be forever interrupted whenever they tried to get closer. Marguerite felt a pang of irritation but this time at least, the intrusion was benign and didn’t involve any danger. The fires which simmered so insistently between them would simply have to wait a little longer.

“I say,” Challenger came out to join them. “Is there any of that wine left for me? Those trout look rather good, John. Thought I might be late for supper . . . got carried away down in the lab with some intriguing soil samples.”

“Fascinating,” drawled Marguerite dryly, with a naughty look at Roxton. “There’s nothing like a good soil sample to make me feel dirty.”

“I’ll get right onto it, George.” Roxton got to his feet with a rueful smile and then gave an impromptu sneeze. He reached for his handkerchief just in time as three more of them racked his body. “Or rather, I’ll get onto it straight after washing my hands.” He turned away and blew his nose before heading back into the tree house.

Challenger watched him go with the hint of a frown. “Sounds like Roxton’s developing a cold.”

“It’s hardly surprising.” Marguerite’s anger towards Inspector Anderson was still palpable. “He lay in the cold mud all night long, paralysed, in just his shirt-sleeves. And then in that filthy estuary water until the wretched tide came in . . .”

Her voice faltered and she took a deep breath. The implications of what had nearly happened were almost too enormous to comprehend. If she’d found him just a minute or two later, then it would have been too late.

“He ought to take a cup of willow-bark tea, just as a precaution.” Challenger wasn’t really listening to her. “Remind me to prepare some glycerine linctus in-case he develops a sore throat. We’ve plenty of honey and lemons in the kitchen, they should help soothe any inflammation.”

Marguerite nodded absent-mindedly and stared out at the darkening sky. The heat had been painfully oppressive all day and it going to be a close and sultry night. It bade the promise of very little sleep in the stifling, suffocating air. An involuntary chill ran through her as the demons began to encroach upon her again, tormenting her thoughts with their snide little taunts and barely veiled hints of threat. There was plenty out there to worry about, dinosaurs and hostile tribes, all of the usual dangers which they’d learned to take in their stride. But this was something she couldn’t put a name to, a vague and indescribable air of menace. Something lingered out there in the darkness, just watching them and biding its time.

“Marguerite, are you listening to me?” It was Challenger, a trace of asperity in his tone.

“I’m sorry, George.” Marguerite shivered and tried to look interested, fixing a smile to her face. Everything appeared to have returned to normal. So why did she still feel afraid?

“I was saying there might be a storm on the way. Those clouds on the horizon look rather ominous. Cumulo-nimbus, if I’m not mistaken. There’ll be no moon tonight.”

“Anything to get rid of this wretched heat. At least some heavy rain will make things cooler.”

Challenger moved across to the telescope and fixed his eye to the lens. “I think you’ll get your wish, Marguerite. We might need to batten down the hatches before we go to bed. There’s been little or no rain for weeks now and from the way those clouds are building-up, this could be the start of a monsoon.”

In-spite of Challenger’s cautionary words, the thought of a down-pour was somehow appealing. A decent shower of rain would feel cleansing, the precursor to a fresh start. Recent events had left Marguerite feeling shop-soiled and rather tainted. She was ready to scrub the layers away and begin all over again. Challenger was right. The clouds looked like black drifts of gun-smoke swirling across the moon. Soon, they would obscure it completely and any view of the heavens would be gone.

Marguerite had always liked thunder storms, ever since she could remember. The raging power and elemental fury seemed to touch a chord within her soul. It was as though the gods were up there, laughing at mankind’s conceit. Issuing creation with a livid reminder there was still a higher power in control.

She could hear Roxton coughing away in the tree house. It was time to go in and chop up some lemons, but glycerine linctus, be-damned. There was still some of the whisky that they’d traded for a while ago; she would use it to make him a hot toddy. His Lordship would certainly appreciate that more than some foul-tasting, medicinal concoction. Her brow furrowed as he started coughing again – it didn’t sound particularly good – and if he had to endure a nasty cold, it was unfortunate, but so be it. If fate hadn’t intervened at the Inland Sea, it could have been so much worse!

Marguerite left Challenger to his meteorological ruminations and headed back indoors. A change in the weather might be just what they needed to wash away the lingering taint of evil.

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Marguerite turned over and thumped her pillow. So much for George and his predictions of rain. If anything, it was hotter than ever, the proverbial calm before the storm. The air was heavy and stifling, so humid, everything felt damp.

She sat up in the darkness, resigned to yet another night of poor sleep. There wasn’t much point just lying here, she might as well read more of her book. She lit a candle and opened it up, becoming engrossed in the story, but even after several chapters, her insomnia was not so easily dispatched. In-spite of the candle-light which brightened the gloom, her sense of uneasiness persisted. The traces of fear which still lurked in her head resisted all attempts to usurp them. For whatever reason, she could not shake free from the horror the knife had brought into their lives. The Ripper’s foul legacy continued to haunt her. She had a feeling it wasn’t over.

“Damn it!” Marguerite felt as if someone was watching her, as if there were mocking eyes upon her.

Roxton’s coughing didn’t help. The flimsy walls of the tree house weren’t exactly sound-proof and she was a notoriously light sleeper. In-spite of being dosed-up with glycerine and honey, plus a large whisky-laced hot toddy, it was obvious the cold he’d been nursing had settled in on his chest.

She got out of bed in one fluid movement. Perhaps she would take him some tea. In that respect, Roxton was typically English. The man certainly enjoyed his cuppa. Marguerite grimaced and glanced in the mirror, she had better run a comb through her birds-nest of hair. She wouldn’t want Roxton in his feverish state, thinking he’d been visited by a banshee. She picked up the silver-backed brush on the dresser and teased out the tangled ends of her hair, reflecting with pleasure, how much Roxton loved it. He called it her crowning glory.

Just for a second, the candle-light flickered. The shadows dipped and darkened in the room. In that instant, Marguerite glimpsed the pallid oval of another face reflected alongside her own. She was gripped with terror and a flash of recognition – then she blinked and the apparition was gone. She spun around quickly, filled with dread, half expecting to see someone behind her, but the room was empty apart from the shadows. She was indisputably alone.

Marguerite fought for control of her breathing and tried to slow her hammering heart. Illusion – it was purely an illusion. A trick of candlelight and shade. She had left her shawl draped over the chair, perhaps it was that she had seen. The pale silk folds and paisley flowers might have mimicked a woman’s shape. So why did she still feel afraid to turn around and look into the mirror again?

Averting her eyes, she got up from the chair and moved back across to her bed. Her holster was where she left it each night, slung over the wooden bedstead, within easy reach of her pillows so she could grab her gun quickly in an emergency. It felt wonderfully reassuring to hold the weapon in her hand. It was only then she felt able to turn back to the mirror and confront its silvery depths. Nothing. There was nothing to see but her own reflection and the dancing candle-flames, a wild-eyed harpy clutching onto her gun with only the empty room behind her.

Marguerite laughed derisively at herself. She had never been prone to night terrors. Perhaps she should avoid reading gothic novels and filling her head with dark thoughts. Below her, Roxton was coughing again and the sound was bizarrely comforting, a link with the feeling of protection and safety which had come to epitomise the man. The thought of taking him a pot of tea was more attractive than ever, and not wholly altruistic, if she was being totally honest.

She didn’t want to be alone. There, she had admitted it. She still had the sense she was being watched, of something hiding just beyond the shadows. An insidious feeling of premonition which refused to go away.

It didn’t take long to finish her hair and make herself look respectable. And if she hesitated over taking the revolver, it was only for a second or two. Roxton would have apoplexy if she turned up in his room in the middle of the night brandishing a loaded gun. The man would think they were under attack and leap out of bed to the rescue. Either that, or he’d assume she’d finally decided to make good on one of her frequent threats to finish him off. The thought made Marguerite’s lips twitch with mirth and the shadows receded a little. She didn’t want to make his condition any worse, so she had better behave herself.

But when she entered his sleeping quarters, her newly-found good humour faded. Roxton sat hunched on the side of his cot, clutching an arm around his chest. Even in the dim light emitted from the candles, she could see the hectic colour in his cheeks. She put down the tea tray with an exclamation of concern and sat down on the mattress beside him.

“John, my God, you look terrible. Why didn’t you come and get me?” Her hand was soft on his burning brow and she didn’t like what she found. “What on earth were you planning to do, just sit here and make yourself really ill? Of all the stupid, stubborn men . . .” Marguerite’s words were merely a token to maintain the status quo, belied by the anxiety which shone in her eyes as she helped him to lie back down. “Here, let me plump up your pillows.”

“Thank you.” Roxton attempted a rueful smile but burst into another bout of coughing. “I must have swallowed more of the Inland Sea than I realised – sorry for waking you up.”

She paused and gave him an old-fashioned look. It was typical of the man. More worried about her lack of sleep than the fact he was raging with fever.

She pushed the hair back off his forehead with tender fingers. “You didn’t wake me, I couldn’t sleep. I keep waiting for Challenger’s storm to break and clear this stuffy air. I swear it’s so muggy I can hardly breathe, it’s probably the reason why you’re worse.”

“Possibly.”

Roxton lay back against his pillows and obediently swallowed some tea. His breathing did indeed sound laboured but it was the radiating heat which worried her most. His skin felt as hot as a furnace, as dry as old parchment to the touch. Marguerite waited patiently until he’d finished the whole cup. It was tempting to go and wake Challenger however much she knew Roxton would dislike it.

He must have guessed at her intent. “Don’t worry about me, Marguerite. It’s just a bit of a cough. I’ll be right as rain in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Like you say, once this heat-wave has broken, we’ll all feel a damned sight better.”

She sighed and looked at him doubtfully, wanting to believe his words. He was probably right. Roxton was normally so fit and strong, this was merely a protracted chill. It was just that she’d been feeling out of sorts ever since their return to the tree house. The mood of dread which kept haunting her edged in on her senses again. What if something was really wrong and she was wilfully closing her eyes to it?

If anything happened to Roxton, she would never forgive herself. Unbidden memories flooded back with a vengeance as she remembered the last year of the war. The influenza pandemic* of 1918 had been no respecter of fitness or strength. A cruel reaper of youth and vigour, it had seemed to target the healthy, ironically culling the homecoming soldiers who’d survived the terrible conflict.

Marguerite made a decision. When it came to Lord John Roxton, she baulked at taking any risks. His life was too important to gamble with – too precious for a game of chance. Like it or not, George Challenger was in for a rude awakening.

She returned the tea-cup to the nightstand and placed a light kiss on Roxton’s lips. “Admit it, John – you feel like hell. Just relax and let us take care of you. If George is right, there’ll be plenty of time to catch-up on lost sleep later. If the storm breaks before morning, we’re going to be stuck inside for a while because of the heavy rain.”

“I’m sorry,” his eyes were troubled. “This is the last bloody thing we need.”

Marguerite regarded him with exasperation. He was transparent as a pane of glass, worried about being out of action and neglecting his role as protector. Well, she would also be guilty of dereliction of duty if she ignored all the warning signs. Roxton was ill, she was forced to admit it, however unpalatable the truth.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she forced a teasing note to her voice. “At last I have you where I want you, helpless, and completely at my mercy.”

“Why, Marguerite . . .” he wasn’t that ill yet and there was an answering gleam in the look he gave her. “I didn’t suspect you liked those sorts of games – but I’m willing to be inventive. If I’d known you wanted to get me into bed, I’d have been very happy to oblige. You only had to ask, you know . . .”

The roguish effect was rather spoiled by another outburst of coughing, but she was happy to hide her anxiety by playing along with him.

“But that wouldn’t have been half as much fun. And besides,” she shook her head at him. “You don’t look capable of playing anyone at anything just now. Not even tiddlywinks!”

“Ah, but Marguerite, I’ll always raise my game for you.”

Roxton was incorrigible, even when ill, and Marguerite loved him for it. The memory of him lying in the estuary water created a near physical pain. Her race through the swamps of the Inland Sea had been one of the most desperate times of her life. She’d nearly given up hope when she’d found him, and even then, it had almost been too late. He had drowned in the muddy water, the breath driven out of his lungs. It was a miracle she’d managed to revive him at all, another second and it would have been over. Roxton would have been taken from her.

But now, with the onset of this bloody illness, it seemed there was still a price to be paid. Marguerite clenched her fists so hard until her knuckles whitened. If Veronica hadn’t killed Anderson, she would have hunted him down herself.

“Down, boy!” The heightened emotion brought a lump to her throat.

She leant forward and gave him a spontaneous kiss, hiding her distress from his eyes. Roxton’s vision was razor-sharp wherever she was concerned. She let her hand trail across his forehead again. The tea hadn’t made much difference, his skin still blazed with fever. It was time to go and wake-up Challenger. The scientist would know what to do. Perhaps then, she would be able to shake off the air of ill-omen which persisted in hovering around her. George’s scientific practicality ought to help her feel more reassured.

Ought to.

Marguerite shivered. There was something close by – something evil. It was waiting and growing stronger.

END OF PART ONE

Lisa Paris – 2006

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Part Two

It had not been easy waking Challenger, the man slumbered like the proverbial log. Of all of the tree house occupants, the Scientist never seemed to have problems sleeping. Within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, his snores would resonate and echo through the rafters like a saw.

Perhaps he didn’t waste time with regrets or maybe his conscience was clear . . . Marguerite made a rueful face as she set a pan of water on the stove. A damned sight clearer than hers was for sure, or was Challenger just more pragmatic?

There was so much she wasn’t proud of. So much which kept her awake.

She selected two lemons and picked up a knife. It was better not to go there just now. Her secrets became harder to live with as every month passed by. She hadn’t intended to get close to anyone . . . but then again, she hadn’t chosen to get stranded on the Plateau either.

Marguerite cut into one of the lemons with unnecessary force and violence. Sometimes, she wished her fellow explorers were more like the men she was used to. Past experience had left her cynical regarding the human race. But fate with its customary arbitration had marooned her with extraordinary companions, each one of them special in so many ways – but more specifically, important to her.

A sudden rattling made her jump and she dropped the knife on the table. One of the rattan blinds on the balcony had unfurled in the freshening wind. The air was colder with a promise of rain, the herald of Challenger’s storm. Marguerite shivered suddenly, as the tree house filled with shadows again. The feeling of danger grew stronger and she reached down for the knife, eyes drawn by a flash of lantern’s gleam that danced off the razor-sharp metal.

It was there again - the face from the mirror. This time, reflected in the blade. The pale, oval face of a woman, sombre with anger and warning.

Marguerite dropped the knife as if scorched and stepped back from the table. A gust of wind blew in off the balcony and the lantern-wick flickered out. She stood, stock-still in the darkness, feet rooted to the ground. Challenger was still downstairs with Roxton but she knew she wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was hardly a whisper. She straightened and spoke more resolutely. “Come out – you’d better show yourself. I’m tired of playing games!”

Nobody answered back, of course, but the very silence seemed to mock her. The sudden darkness was dense and still, opaque and hushed with menace.

The air seemed to shimmer around her, alive with electricity. A sense of someone standing behind her made each strand of hair prickle on end. If she turned fast enough . . . if she reached out a hand . . . Marguerite took a breath and spun around suddenly but no-one or nothing was there.

The silence was interrupted by a protracted rumble of thunder. It was still some way off in the distance, a growling harbinger of storm. A flash of lightening lit the heavens but there was still no sign of rain. They had, perhaps, another two hours of grace, but the worst of it would break by morning.

Marguerite picked up the matches and moved across to the lantern. It took two attempts to re-light the wick and even then, her fingers still shook. At least another minute passed before she could bring herself to touch the knife again. Logic and common-sense dictated she had glimpsed her own face in the blade, but Marguerite had never been a slave to logic. There was no getting away from it; she knew what she had seen.

And besides, since when had any of the rules of logic ever meant a damn on the Plateau? The place continually challenged every reality they’d known, defying the accepted laws of science on an almost daily basis. Nothing was written in stone anymore, the tenets had all been shattered. The Lost World was a maelstrom of uncharted waters, in many more ways than one.

Marguerite turned the blade in her hand and stared at it grimly for a moment. There was nothing to see in it now, of course, she hadn’t expected there would be. Someone or something was trying to warn her, of that she was one hundred per cent certain. Whether or not they were the cause of the evil, she wasn’t sure as yet, but the threat was real and sentient. It was waiting to do them harm.

“Marguerite, what are you up to?” Challenger came up the staircase behind her and she could hear the frown in his voice. “That syrup should have been boiling by now, Roxton’s going to need it.”

“Sorry . . .” Marguerite was still distracted but his last statement made her wake-up. “What do you mean, he’s going to need it? It’s serious, isn’t it?”

“I’m rather afraid it is.” Challenger’s tone was grim. “A result of the immersion and the damned curare, it’s affected Roxton’s lungs.”

“How?” She was almost reluctant to ask him.

“When John became paralysed, he lost most muscle tone, but luckily, not involuntary muscle function. These muscles work regardless of will, they keep us breathing and maintain life.” Challenger became momentarily distracted. “Anderson must have been quite an expert in toxicology to calculate the dosage of curare so accurately. Too little, and it might not have achieved the desired effect, too much and John would certainly be dead.”

Marguerite controlled her anger but her face went suddenly white. “Instead, he chose to render John helpless. The sadistic bastard gave him just enough . . . forced him to lie there fully conscious knowing he was going to drown.”

“Quite.” Challenger looked sombre. “Unfortunately, the curare relaxed Roxton’s larynx just enough to accomplish that result. Tell me, Marguerite, when you found him, had Roxton stopped breathing then?”

“Yes. I thought . . .” she paused as the words seemed to stick in her throat – they were almost too hard to say. To find Roxton in the water, not breathing. It would haunt her for the rest of her days. “I thought I was too late. The tide had nearly covered him, I suppose he was technically drowned.”

“He still is.” Challenger didn’t pull any punches. “The sea water went down into his lungs and damaged the delicate linings. He’s developed a type of aspiration pneumonia which is producing its own exudate.”*

“You’re saying he might still drown?” Marguerite had done enough nursing to understand what was being said.

Her earlier memories of the Spanish Flu came back to haunt her again. The victims had developed broncho-pneumonia and drowned in their own body fluids. It had been heart-rending to watch them, weakly gasping for breath, fighting the relentless horror of a ghastly, inevitable death. Dear God, she wouldn’t let it happen to Roxton. To lose him now, after everything, would be more than she could bear.

Challenger steepled his fingers together. “Oh, we won’t let it come to that, but he does have a worrying build-up of fluid on one of the lobes of his lungs. We need to find something to fight off the infection. The priority is to prevent the illness progressing to the second stage. If that happens, lung damage would be irreversible. Like the Spanish Influenza strain, bacillus influenzae* back in 1918.” Challenger stopped and shook his head. “Although, I always suspected the so-called authorities got it badly wrong. If that outbreak was caused by a bacterium, then I’ll eat my hat . . .” He looked up distractedly at Marguerite. “It would probably be wise to construct a sealed, underwater vacuum to drain off some of that fluid and release the pressure on his lung. Make it easier for John to breathe.”

The Scientist’s brow was furrowed in thought and Marguerite recognised the signs. The great man was already working on the problem and it was reassuring to watch. It was a small but real crumb of comfort. Thank goodness, she had followed her instincts and woken Challenger up. If she had waited until morning, it might have been too late.

There was another rumble of thunder, louder and closer this time. Marguerite tried to concentrate and push her fears to one side, but the ghostly image of the woman’s face kept intruding on her thoughts. Was this the warning she’d been trying to deliver, the advent of Roxton’s illness? The two didn’t seem connected in the overall scheme of things. There was a sudden flash of lightening which rent the sky in two. One thing was for certain, the storm was about to break.

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Marguerite leaned on the open window-sill and looked out over the jungle. It had gone five o’clock in the morning and the sun had usually risen by now. The sky was a strange shade of yellow, streaked through with gunmetal grey. Heavy and brooding with portent, the dark promise of changes to come.

By rights, she should be exhausted, she had been up most of the night, but there was something about the approaching storm which made her feel wide-awake. There was a crackle of electricity in the air, or it could have been plain old worry. Her nerves were on-edge and over-charged, alive with elemental energy. Marguerite gave a heavy sigh, she knew the weather had nothing to do with it. Whichever way she chose to look at things, Roxton’s condition had worsened.

She glanced at him briefly for reassurance. He had drifted off at last, propped-up on a high bank of pillows to support his faltering lungs. Challenger had given him a light dose of morphine to allow some much needed rest. The scientist was down in the lab even now, working on various remedies. It was the perfect opportunity to catch forty winks and Marguerite knew she should seize it, but she could no more sleep than fly to the moon. Her feeling of disquiet had grown.

Something splashed on the back of her hand. The first heavy drops of rain. The break in the weather was a big relief, at least the air would be clearer. It would make it easier for Roxton to breathe and allay the sense of crushing pressure. It didn’t take long for the deluge to start and within minutes the heavens had opened. Huge sheets of water poured down from the sky, drumming loudly against the roof. Marguerite looked over the window-ledge to the jungle floor below. It already resembled a quagmire, awash with debris and muddy water.

Her sense of isolation grew stronger – they were marooned at the top of the world. Cut off from help until the storm abated and the unseasonable weather improved. No-one was going anywhere . . . at least not for a day or two. It would be dangerous and foolhardy to risk setting foot outside. On the other hand, it was highly unlikely that anyone would attempt to get into the tree house. It was some consolation, however small, if the evil which threatened them was tangible. But Marguerite knew she couldn’t count on that, at least not here on the Plateau. Bitter experience had taught her to always expect the worst.

Roxton murmured and moved in his sleep, dislodging one of his pillows. Marguerite turned, afraid he might have woken, but the morphine had done the trick. Miraculously, the rain didn’t seem to rouse him and he slept on undisturbed.

She replaced the pillow carefully and sat down in the chair at his side, pushing the damp hair back off his brow and allowing her hand to linger. It felt almost intrusive to watch him like this, gripped in the throes of a dream, but she felt too afraid to leave him alone, not even for a minute. They were all in some kind of danger, but a sick Roxton was by far the most vulnerable. She was no one’s idea of a guardian angel, but she was all he had right now.

His hand was resting on top of the counterpane and Marguerite picked it up. The muscles were usually sinewy and firm, it felt strange to feel them so lax. The entire reversal of roles was odd, Roxton was usually the strong one. She felt a sudden rush of tenderness towards the man in the bed. If the hunter should need her protection, so be it, it was how things would be.

Roxton’s fingers tightened suddenly as he gripped onto her hand. It was as though he could sense her emotions and was showing his gratitude. Marguerite became very still and her eyes shone with unshed tears. At that moment, she was profoundly glad they were by themselves in the room. She was not ashamed of her feelings - dear God, she could never be that, but such times were rare and treasured, more precious than the costliest jewels.

“What would I do without you, John?”

It was almost a rhetorical question, one which had haunted her on a daily basis for the last, few difficult years. Time and tide seemed to be gaining on her, it was as though fate was playing a game at her expense and all the while laughing up its sleeve. Marguerite knew she had choices to make, choices and painful decisions. The search which had driven her adult life had not yet reached a resolution.

She was closer than she’d ever been – she could sense it. The Plateau held some of the answers and they were tantalisingly near. On the other hand, the Lost World Expedition had given her more than she’d ever believed possible. The search for her parents had thrown her together with a motley group of strangers. The fact she now regarded them as family seemed almost too ironic. The lies and deceptions, the secrets she’d kept, all threatened to tear them apart. The storm which crashed and raged outside mirrored the turmoil in her mind. It was a mockingly appropriate metaphor for the way she’d been feeling lately.

From whichever angle Marguerite examined it, she knew there was a chance she’d lose this man. Lord John Roxton loved her – she had no doubt of it - loved her with a pure and shining brightness which had frightened her at first. In the beginning, she had brushed him aside and spent all her time and energy determinedly pushing him away. Deeply afraid of her own emotions, she’d been more than wary of his. She had questioned his motives and wondered at his sanity, mocking the out-dated notions of chivalry which had prompted his self-nomination as her champion of body and soul. They were the same precious notions of honour and chivalry which caused her such heartache today.

Put quite simply, John Roxton was the best man she’d ever known. Honourable, intrinsically decent, and most of all, he was kind. Not a saint – Marguerite smiled a little faintly at the thought of it – she was not one for the pious virtues and could never have tolerated such in a partner. No – Lord John Roxton was a flesh and blood man with faults and human frailties. He could be stubborn, self-opinionated and infuriatingly annoying, but he was none the less dear for all that.

How could she ever tell him the truth – how could she confess to all the lies? And then, there was the uncomfortable fact that a rather large chunk of her previous life was still protected by the Official Secrets Act.* According the Crown and the British Government, she was forbidden, on pain of death, to reveal any part of it.

So much of her past was a web of deceit; would Roxton be able to forgive her? He was a man who led his life by the basic tenets of principle, nobility and respect. He would not condemn her for what she’d done, Marguerite knew him better than that. It was rather the fact she had lied all along; that she’d wilfully and deliberately deceived them all.

The downpour had brought the fresher air and Roxton began to shiver, although whether with cold or fever, Marguerite couldn’t tell. She pulled her fingers gently from his and tucked an extra blanket around him, helping herself to another one and settling back down in the chair. For the moment the past was irrelevant. It was the present and future which counted. The only thing that mattered to her was for John to regain his health.

Outside, the wind picked-up tempo and the lightening flashed again, a jagged, spiky needle, lancing down through the sky.

“One, two, three, four . . .”

Marguerite held her breath and counted just like she’d done as a child. The roar of thunder rattled the tree house before she got to five. It was almost directly above them now, crashing around their fragile, tree-top eyrie like a vengeful Titan throwing rocks at the ground. She huddled herself smaller into the chair and drew the blanket up to her chin. For the first time in her entire life, Marguerite was afraid of a storm.

END OF PART TWO

Lisa Paris - 2006

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1. Wilkie Collins – ‘The Woman in White’ – ‘The Woman in White’ was a huge success when first published in 1860 – Gladstone postponed a night at the theatre to read it – and it has lost none of its power to enthral since then. It was a Victorian best-seller, a romantic, gothic mystery full of masterly plotting and suspense.

2. The Spanish Influenza Pandemic – also known as La Grippe Espagnol or The 1918 Flu was a pandemic caused by an unusually severe and deadly strain of the species influenza A virus. It is estimated that 50 – 100 million people died worldwide during the year 1918-1919 as a result of succumbing to the pandemic. It was particularly harsh in so far that the virus targeted the young and previously healthy, killing many soldiers who had survived the carnage of war.

3. Exudate and Secondary Drowning – Secondary drowning is a real, life-threatening syndrome and the cause of a surprising number of deaths. Damage to the lungs maybe insidious and the victim may not show signs of distress for as long as 72 hours following immersion in water. The physiological process of secondary drowning is complicated, but basically, the lungs fill up with self-produced fluid and the victim drowns after the event. With prompt and supportive treatment, the survival rates are good. The judicious usage of chest drainage and diuretics forms a major part of the cure. Of course, in the Lost World universe, I’ve tampered slightly with time-lines and absolutes and had Challenger work his usual miracles.

4. The Official Secrets Act – The British Official Secrets Act was first drafted in 1911 and is basically an Act of Parliament which acts as a gagging instrument for anything the government does not want known. The penalty for breaking the Act back in Marguerite’s time would have been the death sentence for committing High Treason.

Lisa Paris

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