The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (31 page)

"Aywa, Sitt Hakim, we will come and do what we can. It is a sad thing."

"Ramses," said his father, "how did you know she was down there? Oh, damnation, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I only wondered what prompted you to jump for the rope. I couldn't see a thing."

Ramses reached into his pocket and pulled out a fragment of cloth. It was gold tissue, delicate as chiffon. "This was caught on a point of rock. It had been torn from the scarf we gave her."

As I had predicted, the investigation of Maude Reynolds's death was a travesty. Why put those concerned through the torment of a postmortem when the cause of death was obvious?

This was the question posed to me by Mr. Gordon, the American Consul, when I went to him to protest the proceedings, or the absence thereof. When I replied that it might be useful to discover whether she had been under the influence of drugs or alcohol at the time, or whether any of the bruises could have been made by human hands, or whether—

He cut me off with a shocked exclamation before I could go on, which was probably just as well, since my next suggestion would have shocked him even more. A complete medical examination would have cleared the poor girl's name. I did not believe Maude had been enceinte, but half of Cairo society did—the old cats, as Ramses had called them. It would have been useless to point out to them that the old-fashioned attitudes of their youth had changed—and thank God for it, in my opinion! A modern, wealthy young woman was not likely to take her life out of shame, or because there were no other ways out of that particular dilemma.

So Cairo gossiped and whispered—for a week. No scandal lasted much longer, there were always new sources of entertainment. Maude was laid to rest in the Protestant cemetery in Old Cairo. Walled all round, it was a pretty spot, filled with trees and imported shrubs, so that it resembled a village churchyard in England. The funeral was well attended and Jack was a picture of manly fortitude as he cast the first handful of dirt into the grave.

The verdict had been accidental death.

For the living, the pain had just begun. Whether Jack knew what was being said of his sister I could not tell. He would have been helpless to deny it, since not even the worst of the scandalmongers would have dared say it to his face. He had come out of his stupor of grief and was in a dangerous state of mind, sticking close to his house and, I was told, drinking heavily.

His friends, of whom I counted myself one, were relieved to know that Geoffrey had moved into the house and was staying with him. A few days after the burial the young Englishman sent a message to ask if he might see me. I responded at once, inviting him to tea that same afternoon, for I was anxious to be of help.

Upon my return from the dig I bustled about ordering special dainties and trying to make the ambience as pleasant as possible, for I had a feeling he might be in need of comfort. I was correct as usual. I would be the first to admit that the maternal instinct is not one of my most notable characteristics, but I daresay any woman would have been moved by the sight of the young fellow. His refined features were drawn and there was a hint of pallor under his tan. Sinking into a chair, he let his head fall back against the cushions.

"How good you are to have me, Mrs. Emerson. I feel better just being here. You have made the place a home."

"Its charm is due in large part to you, Geoffrey. I always say there is nothing like a garden to rest the soul. Your plants are flourishing, you see. It was a particularly thoughtful gesture for which I will always be grateful. What do you take in your tea?"

"Nothing, thank you." He leaned forward to receive the cup from my hand. His eyes moved round the enclosure; I suspected it was not the blooming plants and twining vines that drew his attention.

"Nefret will be here in a moment," I said.

His cheeks took on a warmer hue. "Not much escapes you, Mrs. Emerson. Though it was not my primary reason for asking to see you, perhaps I should take advantage of these moments alone to assure you that I have no intention of behaving in an underhanded manner with regard to Miss Forth."

Concealing my amusement at his formality, I assured
him
I would never harbor such suspicions.

"Not that I've had the opportunity," he said with a rueful smile. "I care for her very much, Mrs. Emerson. Her beauty would attract any man, but it was not until I had learned to know her and appreciate her unique qualities of mind and spirit, that my feelings developed as they have. If I believed she reciprocated them, I would ask the Professor's permission to pay my addresses."

"You think she does not?"

"She thinks of me as a friend, I believe. That is an honor I cherish for its own sake. She knows how I feel. I told her that I stood ready to be of service to her at any time and in any way, and that I would ask nothing of her except her good opinion. I hope for more, of course. I will never abandon hope, but rest assured I will not press my attentions upon her."

"In Nefret's case that would be a serious mistake," I said. "Your feelings and your behavior do you credit, Geoffrey."

Nefret soon joined us. Observing her warm but unselfconscious greeting, I concluded he (and I) had been correct in our assessment of her feelings for him.

As I had suspected, it was concern for Jack Reynolds that had prompted Geoffrey's visit.

"I don't know what to do," he confessed, brushing back a lock of fair hair that had fallen over his brow. "It is natural he should grieve for Maude—they were very close—but I had hoped he'd show signs of improvement by now. Instead he is sinking deeper into depression and despair. Mr. Fisher talks of starting work in earnest next week, and Mr. Reisner will be back before the end of the month, and he will expect us to have accomplished a great deal, and—and if Jack goes on at this rate, he won't be fit for work of any kind, much less the exacting schedule Mr. Reisner demands of his people."

"Mr. Reisner is not a monster," I said. "He will understand that Jack needs time to recover from his loss."

"How much time, though? Hard work is the best medicine for grief; I'm sure you are of that opinion, Mrs. Emerson, and I would have expected Jack to feel the same. This isn't like him. He's always been so strong. I can't help wondering ..."

He broke off. "If there is something else tormenting him?" I prompted. "Some deeper, darker sentiment than simple grief?"

Geoffrey stared at me with respectful amazement. "How did you know?"

"Aunt Amelia knows everything," Nefret said. "You cannot shock or surprise her, so stop beating about the bush. You've been with Jack almost constantly. He must have dropped some hint."

"It is so unreasonable, so unfair—"

"He isn't satisfied that Maude's death was an accident," Nefret said. "That isn't unreasonable. We're not satisfied either. Does Jack have any particular suspicions?"

The young man's shoulders slumped. "Yes. That's really why I came. I felt I must warn Ramses—"

"What about?" The query came, not from one of us, but from Ramses himself, who had apparently materialized out of thin air, in that uncanny way of his. I deduced he had been in the work area washing pottery fragments, for his shirtsleeves were rolled above the elbows.

"I didn't know you were here, Godwin," he went on, taking a chair. "Haven't seen you since the funeral. Warn me about what?"

"Don't pretend you were not listening to the conversation," I said, pouring tea.

"I couldn't help overhearing some of it. What is Jack saying about me?" He took the cup from my hand and settled back, crossing one leg over the other.

"He's beside himself," Geoffrey muttered. "He's not responsible."

"You mean he's drunk most of the time," Ramses corrected. "In vino veritas—what he takes to be veritas, anyhow. Does he still believe I cold-bloodedly seduced his sister and .. . And then what?"

"And murdered her!" As soon as the words left his mouth Geoffrey looked as if he wanted to take them back. Ramses's affectation of callousness had angered him (as it may have been designed to do). Turning impulsively to me, he exclaimed, "Mrs. Emerson, forgive me! I didn't intend to blurt it out that way. Jack is insane with grief and guilt. When he's in his right mind he knows better, but just now he's not in his right mind, and I'm afraid he may do something he would later regret."

"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. Wondering if I dared attempt to confiscate his weapons as well as his whiskey, I took hold of the handle of the guncase and tugged. It was locked.

Jack looked up and I said calmly, "I am glad to find you keep dangerous weapons secure, Jack. You don't leave the key lying about, I hope."

"No. No, ma'am. I have been very careful about that, after one of them was stolen. It was one of the Colts, a forty-five caliber—"

"That is all right, then," I said, for I did not want to hear a lecture on weapons. What I had wanted to know was where he kept the key, but neither by gesture nor word had he indicated the answer to that.

"Good-bye, then, for now," I continued. "I trust in your promise of reformation, Jack. You are too fine a man to succumb to this weakness. If you are tempted, remember those angelic presences that even now watch over you; and come to me, at any time, if you are in need of earthly consolation."

Or words to that effect.

I was reasonably certain I had made Jack see the injustice of his suspicions of Ramses. Others were not so easily dealt with. Stories of Maude's involvement with various young men sprang up like noxious weeds, but there was no doubt that the name most often mentioned was that of my son. Apparently the poor wretched girl had made no secret of her infatuation. As young girls will, she had confided in her friends, and they had confided in their brothers and their fiances and their mamas.