Jacob, his face distorted with rage, shoved Blunt hard into the wall then pressed the length of the poker against the bigger man's throat. Blunt scrabbled at Jacob's hands, grasping nothing but cool, empty air since he couldn't see Jacob. His eyes widened with fear and perhaps the realization that he'd been wrong-Jacob might kill him. His cheeks and nose became a changing palette of colors-red to mauve to purple-and the veins on his forehead formed thick, bluish ridges. He tried to talk but only squeaks came out.
"He's going to kill him!" George took one step forward but hesitated. "Should we let him?"
"No!" I said. "Jacob, no! Stop this. Let him go."
"He deserves it," Jacob growled. His eyes frightened me. They were cold and dark, two voids of swirling anger.
Blunt jerked about trying to free himself, but it didn't dislodge Jacob. He held the poker against Blunt's throat as if his own life depended on it.
Oh God, I had to do something. "You can't do this, Jacob. Think about it. Think about what you're doing!" If only I could get through to the rational side of him, the side not blinded by fury. "Do you want another death on your conscience?"
George turned to me, his spectacles halfway down his nose. "Another death?"
I ignored him. My plea seemed to be working. With a roar of frustration, Jacob eased back. The schoolmaster slid down the wall like a splotch of mud and sat on the floor. He was still very pink and he held his throat with both hands as if he was holding it together. He heaved in great lungfuls of air and glanced feverishly around the room.
The maid entered carrying a tray of tea things. She gasped when she saw Blunt's state and the tray tilted dangerously to one side. "Mr. Blunt! Everything all right, sir?"
"He, uh, had a coughing fit," I said, trying to catch George's eye but to no avail. He held the gun in plain sight, seemingly unaware of the uproar he would cause if the maid saw it. I grabbed his spare jacket and threw it at him.
He placed it over his hand and the gun. "He's not going to talk now" he muttered, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door.
With my heart rampaging like an advancing army of soldiers, we left. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Jacob would stay or go. Fortunately he was right behind us, his gaze fixed on George's hand holding mine. I thought he'd still be angry, wanting to fight, but he looked worried. No, not worried. Haunted. The irony of the word wasn't lost on me.