Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [36]
Needless to say, the caviar and the beer were still intact when we docked. The trip took only about ten minutes.
I found myself on a windswept jetty with a flight of steep wooden steps ahead. Tomas gestured towards them, raising an inquiring eyebrow, and when I nodded he got back into the cockpit and started easing the boat towards a covered shed at the end of the jetty.
At the top of the steps a gravelled path led through formal gardens to the front of the house. It looked even bigger close up than it had from a distance. Part creamy stucco, part grey weathered wood, part stone, it appeared to have grown over the centuries as naturally as the trees that sheltered it.
A man stood at the door looking eagerly in the direction of the stairs, and when he started forward I understood why he had not met me at the dock. Even with the aid of his stout wooden stick he limped badly, dragging one foot.
I knew what his first words would be. ‘I am so happy! Come in, come in, you must be tired. It is a long journey.’
He looked just the way I had pictured him – in fact, he looked like the five old gents at the garage, except for the smile that gave his lined face an inner radiance. Like many men of his colouring he had worn well; he might have been any age between forty and seventy, and with the exception of the bad leg he had kept in good shape.
With a wide, hospitable gesture he showed me into the house. The hallway was dark and narrow, with pieces of heavy furniture lined up in rigid rows. A doorway on the left led to a lighted room. I turned in that direction, but before I had taken more than a few steps, Gus said seriously, ‘Victoria, there is tragic news. Be brave, my child. It was so good of him to come the long distance to share your grief and give you the comfort of a friend and kinsman.’
Heaven knows I have plenty of hostages to Fortune, starting with my parents and proceeding through a long line of friends and relatives; but it never occurred to me for an instant that there had been a genuine tragedy. After a moment’s pause I went into the room. And there he was, the bastard, perfectly at ease, immaculately tailored, the one, the original, restored by the miracles of modern cosmeticians to his Anglo-Saxon fairness.
In a voice choked with emotion I quoted from the sagas. ‘Blonde was his hair and bright his cheek; Grim as a snake’s were his glowing eyes . . .’
‘I hate to be the one to tell you, Vicky,’ John interrupted. ‘Aunt Ingeborg is – is – ’
‘Dead,’ I agreed. ‘You know, for some strange reason I’m not surprised to hear it.’
John swept me into a brotherly embrace. He looks so willowy and aristocratic, I keep forgetting how strong he is. One arm squashed my ribs and cut off my breath, the other hand pressed my face into his shoulder. As I squirmed, unable to utter a word, he said to Gus, ‘A glass of brandy, perhaps? The shock, you know.’
Gus clucked sympathetically and hurried out. Freeing my mouth, I mumbled an obscenity into John’s tweed shoulder. He kept his hand firmly on my head.
‘I told you I’d look after Gus,’ he murmured. ‘Why the devil didn’t you do as I asked?’
I said, ‘Let go of me.’
The pressure on my neck subsided so that I was able to move my head. John promptly kissed me, with considerably more skill than he had displayed the night before.
‘Nice,’ he said, as I sputtered. ‘You really have the most – ’
‘What have you told Gus?’
‘Nothing. I thought I’d leave that to you. You can be so much more persuasive.’
‘I’m telling the truth.’
‘You don’t know the truth. I don’t doubt that your educated guesses are reasonably accurate, but we ought to discuss the situation before deciding what to say.