Mark of the Lion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1 - COMPIÈGNE, FRANCE—May 1918

  CHAPTER 2 - LONDON—February 1919

  CHAPTER 3 - NAIROBI—June 1919

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27 - FRANCE—August 1919

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Mark of the Lion

  “From the extraordinary opening sentence in the shell-torn trenches of France in the Great War to the green hills of British colonial East Africa, Mark of the Lion sweeps the reader along with an irresistible narrative and literary drive. If you’re looking for a fresh new mystery series, a vivid historical setting, and an especially appealing heroine, look no further. One of the most memorable mystery adventure stories I’ve read in a long time.”

  —Douglas Preston, New York Times Bestselling Author of

  Tyrannosaur Canyon and coauthor of Dance of Death

  “Set in 1919, Arruda’s promising debut introduces a heroine who’s no ordinary Gibson girl. . . . Most readers will close this charming book eagerly anticipating the next installment of Jade’s adventures.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Jade del Cameron is smart, capable, and insightful . . . and although Mark of the Lion would be a good read just for Arruda’s encyclopedic knowledge of Africa, it is Jade herself . . . readers will remember best. Arruda has given us a literary hero in the tradition of Sir Richard Burton and H. Rider Haggard, but without the burden of nineteenth-century sensibilities.”

  —Max McCoy, Author of the Indiana Jones Series

  and The Moon Pool

  “There’s something for everyone in this new series debut—mystery, history, adventure, travel, even a bit of romance.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Mark of the Lion is historical mystery at its best with a dynamic amateur sleuth and a well-drawn supporting cast of quirky characters. First-time author Suzanne Arruda hits the reader with a gripping opening and builds tension, twists, and turns from there . . . a compelling premiere performance. . . . I hope Arruda’s working on her second book!”

  —Karen Harper, New York Times Bestselling Author of Dark Angel

  and the Queen Elizabeth I Mystery Series

  “Mark of the Lion carries a feel of authenticity that makes me long to return to Africa . . . [and] should position Jade del Cameron as a heroine for many future adventures.”

  —Peggy Anne Vallery, Past President of the Arizona Chapter

  of Safari Club International

  “Readers will compare this gem of a historical investigative tale to Alexander McCall Smith’s Precious Ladies Detective Agency thrillers. The story line is cleverly written so that fans will obtain a taste of life at the end of WWI in England and Africa as Jade goes from one escapade to another. . . . This is the start of what looks like to be a long friendship between historical mystery fans and Jade del Cameron.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Arruda manufactures an intriguing backdrop for the debut of her new series, delivering both a heady sense of East Africa’s cultural and geographical landscape during the early 1900s and an outspoken heroine who proves herself gratifyingly ahead of her times in numerous ways.”

  —Booklist

  “Arruda’s debut is an enjoyable romp through a colorful place and period in which the heroine has a Douglas-Fairbanks-in-a-split-skirt charm.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An exciting, well-paced debut. . . . Arruda’s [Africa] feels more like a travel writer’s—awesome beauty that is unknowable and untouchable. But it’s a place worth visiting. And Jade is a character worth getting to know.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  New American Library

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First New American Library Trade Paperback Printing, December 2006

  Copyright © Suzanne Arruda, 2006

  eISBN : 978-1-101-53227-0

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  This work is dedicated to Mom (Woofy), who always loved

  everything I wrote, and to my dad (the Dad)

  for everything he’s done for us and still does for Mom.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MY THANKS TO THE MEMBERS OF the Joplin Writers Guild for support and critiquing; Max McCoy for all his assistance and encouragement; the Pittsburg State University Axe Library Interlibrary Loan staff for all the books; Neil Bryan, John Fields, and Ellen Benitz for the lessons in firearms, and the National Wild Turkey Federation’s Women in the Outdoors program for the opportunity to handle a rifle, a shotgun, and a bow; Helen and Dr. John Daley for valuable critiquing and information on historical weapons; my agent, Susan Gleason, and my editor, Ellen Edwards, for taking a chance on a new author and their advice and encouragement; and my sons, James and Michael, for their love and
support. I especially wish to thank my wonderful husband, Joe, for setting up my Web site but mostly for all his love, support, and encouragement.

  CHAPTER 1

  COMPIÈGNE, FRANCE—May 1918

  “Despite Britain’s attempts, East Africa

  is still a dangerous land. Perhaps that is part

  of its charm for so many of its visitors.”

  —The Traveler

  JADE DEL CAMERON’S THIRD AND LAST run from poste de secours to the evacuation hospital began as dawn broke. She yawned, tired after a long night of driving. As her friend Beverly used to say with her typical British understatement, “War’s deucedly inconvenient in the dark.” Of course, that was the only time it was relatively safe to drive so close to the front and evacuate the wounded. Safe enough, that is, if the moon wasn’t up, and one drove with the lights out and managed to avoid the treacherous shell holes, unexploded grenades, and piles of rotting horses, or “smells,” as they were called. The horizon before her glowed with a beautiful rosy pink gilded with tangerine. A delicate golden yellow brushed the edges of the wispy clouds that flicked their tails in the sky like wild mustangs.

  Beautiful, thought Jade. Just like sunrise at her parents’ ranch in Cimarron, New Mexico, only she was hell and away from Cimarron. She was attached to the French army and went where the army went. At present, that meant Compiègne, the front lines, and evacuation duty. The latter required the driver to go alone on cratered roads to God only knew where, at all hours, in all conditions, and in a car that was generally not in any shape to handle the trip. Both Jade and Beverly considered themselves incredibly lucky.

  Jade studied the rough track ahead and replayed the night’s events in her mind as she drove. It began, as did most runs, when their supervisor, Second Lieutenant Loupie Lowther, met the women as they lined up by their trucks.

  “Same area as yesterday, ladies,” Lieutenant Lowther announced. “Poste de triage. Remember to turn left at the first ‘smell.’ ”

  Jade had started to drive off when Miss Lowther motioned her and Beverly to wait, then came alongside their cars. “Are either of you ladies game for a new assignment? I need someone to go to poste de secours tonight.”

  “Ma’am?” Jade asked.

  “I just received a follow-up message over the wireless. Seems they need an additional ambulance after yesterday’s shelling. African corps, but I can only spare one of you.”

  Beverly grinned and urged Miss Lowther to send Jade. “Did you know she has Moors among her ancestors?”

  “I do trust you and your flivver more than the others, Jade,” said the commandant, addressing her Ford Model T by its slang name. “Might be rough, and you’re a better mechanic if there are problems, you know. I was asked to send my most trusted driver.”

  Jade nodded but said nothing. Her arms tingled in excitement. The poste de secours sat right behind the batteries, as close to the front lines as any ambulance driver ever got.

  “This is a bit of a sensitive situation as well, and I’m not certain all of the girls would understand,” Lieutenant Lowther said.

  “I appreciate your trust, ma’am. I won’t ruin it.”

  “Very good. Don’t turn at the first ‘smell.’ Drive another kilometer beyond. There should be a rather large tank that was shelled in the road. An orderly will be there watching for you.” Their commandant patted Jade’s arm and smiled. “Good girl, Jade. I trust you’ll handle everything splendidly. You western Yanks have a way with situations like this.”

  Jade’s mind returned to the present and her load of wounded Africans. She’d heard of the African corps and knew the French treated their wounded at the same hospitals as the other French soldiers. She admired that blatant disregard of traditional color barriers. Having a darker complexion herself, she knew real or implied discrimination firsthand and detested it. Hell, she thought, Beverly was probably right about the Moorish ancestry. She glanced at the wounded black corporal of the Chasseurs d’Afrique sleeping next to her. Before Corporal Gideon had succumbed to exhaustion, he had explained his motives for fighting.

  “We are the front, mademoiselle. The Bosch, they are very afraid of the Chasseurs d’Afrique. And now I have proven my manhood. I can take a wife when I go home.”

  Strange idea, Jade thought, having to kill someone before you can get married. Jade mentally sorted through all the wounded she’d driven. Many were the Les Joyeux, convicts given a second chance at redemption and marked with a fleur-de-lis. To earn a Croix de Guerre medal carried a further reduction of sentence, so those men tended towards incredible recklessness. Jade understood why they fought, but she wondered what prompted a man to leave the warm climate of Africa for the harsh winters of Europe to fight in someone else’s war.

  She peered again at the sleeping African corporal. Surely no one had to travel that far just to find someone to slay. Then again, since they lived in French colonies, maybe they had no choice. Whatever their motives, they deserved care and comfort, and Jade did her best to avoid jarring ruts. Speed was essential, but so was the well-being of her passengers. The rule was twenty-five kilometers per hour maximum with a load.

  The first shell slammed into the ground about fifty yards from her, a 220, judging by the impact. The shock wave rocked her Model T ambulance and sprayed her face with gravel and mud. She heard a ping followed by a plop as something hard ricocheted off the top of her wobbly helmet and struck the dazed Somali corporal next to her. From her right, the French returned fire.

  No point in driving slowly now. Jade pushed the lever of her trusty old vehicle forward, and gave it the gas. Someone in the back screamed, a high-pitched, gut-knifing wail. Whether he screamed from terror, a rude awakening to pain, or both didn’t matter, as she couldn’t stop and tend to him now. Corporal Gideon groaned next to her, his eyes masked by swaths of bandages.

  Jade peered through the smoke and debris, searching for the bloated pile of horse carcasses. The “smell” marked her final turn toward the evac hospital. Finally she spied the pile of rotting horses stacked to one side of a caisson a hundred yards ahead. Naturally white, they’d been dyed red while alive to make them less visible. Now their color ran and bleached them to a sickening pink.

  Another high-explosive shell exploded on impact to her right. “Damn!” she swore. “They’re firing whizbangs.” Jade felt a sudden longing for a good old, dependable howitzer shell. At least they had the decency to give you a little advance notice. She chanted her own personal fear-controlling mantra aloud.

  “I only occupy one tiny space. The shells have all the rest of France to hit.”

  Almost in answer to her words, a shell exploded directly in the road ahead. It landed far enough away to miss her, but close enough that she couldn’t avoid the crater at her current speed. Quickly she forced the wheel to the right to avoid the deepest part and felt the truck drop down on its left side with an agonizing shudder. A fresh scream exploded from the back.

  “Come on, flivver. Hold together now,” she coaxed from the cab. She tried to climb out of the hole. The right front tire spun uselessly, spraying dirt. “Damn!”

  Jade jumped out of the cab and ducked low beside the truck, scuttling crablike around the ambulance as she searched for the problem. She found it. The right tire was hung up on some lump instead of making contact with what remained of the road. Probably a rock. Jade opened the wooden toolbox on the side.

  “I’m going to kill Beverly when I get back,” she muttered to the tools. She imitated her friend’s British drawl. “Madame Commandant, send Jade to fetch the African soldiers. She’s so swarthy herself that they’ll feel more comfortable.” My aunt Fanny, Jade thought. As if her coloring made her a better candidate to move African wounded. It was just another one of Beverly’s ideas of a joke. Almost funny, too, if it wasn’t for this accident. Her helmet, oversized to fit a thick roll of hair that she no longer had, slipped from her head and slapped her on the ear.

  Jade extracted the crowbar from the bo
x. Then she slid on her belly around the side and began leveraging the ambulance off the rock.

  Only it wasn’t a rock. Rocks should be hard. This one wasn’t. The shell had landed on the “smell” and spewed horseflesh everywhere. Jade set the crowbar at the rear of the horse meat and pushed the carcass forward. It worked. The slab of meat slid out from under the axle, and the truck dropped back down onto four wheels.

  Good! No broken axles. Then she saw the small black spot on the crowbar. “Blast it.” Probably a crack in the oil pan. That’s it! Beverly owes me now. Best friend or not, she would pay. Maybe the next time Jade went on leave to visit David at the aerodrome, she’d tell on Bev to David’s friend, Lord Dunbury, whom Bev flirted with so shamelessly.

  With the crowbar, Jade dragged the horse remains out of her way and inspected the rest of the huge crater. It was steeper in front than behind and would be difficult to climb out of, at least going forward with her low gas tank. No way to go around the crater either without risking a puncture on shrapnel. While she pondered her options, she heard a sound that made her flesh crawl. Above her head in the ambulance, one of the shell-shocked wounded reacted to the shelling with insane laughter. It started out as a low, tentative giggle and soon swelled into high-pitched, rolling cackles.

  “Dear Lord, no,” Jade murmured. A cold sweat erupted on her skin. Of all the horrible sounds along this hellish front, that hideous laughter was the one she could not deal with.

  The booming reverberations around her were deafening. Unfortunately they could not drown out the screams of terror from one passenger and the insane giggles from another. The giggling increased in intensity and volume. Jade shouted a few words of encouragement in French to the back as she climbed shivering into the cab. The corporal next to her was in a dead faint. “Lucky you,” she whispered as another shell slammed to her left. She turned the ambulance around in the crater to take the steep side in reverse.