The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“Something I would also regret?” Ramses inquired. “Has he threatened me?”
“More than threatened.” Geoffrey passed a trembling hand over his face. “One night last week he took out that pair of pistols he’s so proud of, and cleaned and loaded them.”
“Revolvers,” Ramses said absently. “The Colts.”
“If you say so. I take no interest in such things. I hate firearms. It made me a little sick to watch him rub and polish them, as if he were caressing the confounded things. Finally he shoved both of them into his belt and started for the door. I asked where he was going, and he said … I can’t repeat the words, not in the presence of ladies; the gist of it was that he was going after the villain who murdered his sister. He’s a good deal stronger than I am, and he was beyond reason just then, but I got to the door ahead of him, turned the key, and removed it.”
“How frightfully courageous,” Ramses said. Nefret gave him a reproachful look.
Geoffrey shrugged. “Not especially. I knew he wouldn’t use a weapon on me. If he’d been able to get close enough he’d have knocked me flat, but I made sure he didn’t. It was rather pathetic and quite ridiculous—me skipping and ducking and Jack lumbering after me like a great clumsy bear. He wore himself out eventually, and I was able to get the weapons away from him. I did it for his sake as much as yours.”
“Yes, of course. Well,” Ramses drawled, “I’ll have to do something about this, won’t I? For Jack’s sake.”
“Stop talking like a fool, Ramses,” I said sharply. “If you are thinking of marching over there and confronting Jack, you can dismiss the idea. The main thing is to stop him drinking. Leave it to me.”
“Now?” Geoffrey exclaimed, his eyes widening as I put on my hat and removed my parasol from the hook near the door. “Alone?” he added, his eyes widening even more when neither of the others moved from their chairs.
“Certainly. I won’t be long.”
I always like to settle such matters as soon as they come to my attention, for procrastination is inefficient. In this case immediate action was advisable; it was still early and Jack had not had time to drink enough to render him beyond reason. Rather than risk a denial, I did not send in my card but proceeded directly to the sitting room, where the servant had told me I would find his master.
The sight of that once bright and cheerful chamber confirmed Geoffrey’s pessimistic assessment. There was now no mistress in the house; the poor little old aunt (whose name I never did learn) had been so overcome by the tragedy that Jack had sent her home. Human nature being what it is, servants usually do no more than is demanded of them, and it was obvious that Jack demanded very little. Dusty sand covered every article of furniture, the floors had not been swept for days, and a strange unpleasant smell hung about the room. Jack had not changed from his working clothes. He sat slumped in a chair with his dusty boots on the table and a glass in his hand and a bottle on the table next to his boots. When he caught sight of me he moved so abruptly that he knocked the bottle over.
“That is a good start,” I said, retrieving the bottle. Enough had spilled to make a reeking puddle, but there was quite a quantity left. Carrying it to the window, I poured the rest out onto the ground.
I will not bore the Reader with a detailed description of my subsequent actions. It did not take long to go through the house and confiscate several other bottles, with Jack following after me expostulating and protesting. I did not suppose I had found them all, and of course he could easily get more; it was the dramatic impact I counted upon. Having thus got his attention, I sat him down in the parlor and spoke to him gently but firmly, as his own mother might have done.
I moved him to tears; he bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. I administered an encouraging pat on the back and prepared to take my leave.