Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [46]
I tried to imagine what Blankenhagen’s face would look like if Tony said, ‘I was attacked by a suit of armour.’
‘I was attacked by a suit of armour,’ muttered Tony.
Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept scepticism. He sat up and thrust out a dramatically stiffened arm.
‘You don’t believe me? Then tell me what’s happened to that set of armour?’
The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, ‘Armour of Graf Burckhardt von Drachenstein, ca. 1525.’
‘That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘I saw the whole thing.’
Tony gaped at me. George said calmly,
‘I thought maybe you were the one who slugged him.’
‘Well, of all the – You think I was in that armour?’
‘You’re too tall,’ George said, with the same maddening coolness. ‘So am I,’ he added.
‘Hah, that is right.’ Blankenhagen looked relieved as the conversation took a rational turn. ‘I have noticed, with old suits of armour, how small these ancestors of ours were. Diet, of course, and unhealthy living . . .’
Poor Tony collapsed again. He hit the back of his head, groaned, and swore.
‘While you’re standing around arguing about medieval diet I’m slowly bleeding to death, and Schmidt is getting away. I know you don’t care about me, but – ’
‘Schmidt, of course!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘He is not here.’
‘Oh, damn,’ said Tony.
‘Come on, get up.’ I lent him a strong right arm. ‘You can’t be much hurt or you wouldn’t be so talkative. Schmidt is the only one of us who could fit into that armour. Let’s go get him.’
George was already halfway up the stairs.
Blankenhagen followed, leaving me to support Tony’s tottering footsteps. When we reached Schmidt’s room we found another crisis in process. The fat little man was lying on his bed and the doctor was bending over him.
‘I found him in the doorway,’ George said. ‘Looks like a heart attack.’
‘He said he had a bad heart,’ I said.
‘Maybe we were wrong about him,’ Tony said, leaning heavily on my shoulder. ‘A man with a weak ticker couldn’t go tearing around in armour. If he heard that racket Vicky made and came running out . . .’
Schmidt’s eyes opened. Involuntarily I stepped back and Tony, deprived of my support, swayed wildly. Schmidt’s face was transformed by the most vivid expression of terror I have ever seen.
‘Ruhig sein, Herr Professor,’ said Blankenhagen soothingly. ‘You are better now.’
‘But he . . .’ Schmidt mumbled, ‘Herr Lawrence. He is not . . . dead.’
Tony was not a reassuring sight; the cut, though shallow, had bled copiously, and his shirt front was a bloody mess. With his hair standing on end and his face white under the dust that smeared one side of it, he was enough to alarm anyone, much less a man who had just had a heart attack. George stepped in front of him.
‘Of course he isn’t dead, he’s in great shape. You’re the one we’re concerned about, Schmidt; did you hear something that alarmed you?’
Schmidt’s shrivelled eyelids drooped.
‘A scream,’ he said with difficulty. ‘Someone screamed . . .’
His eyes followed George, who was wandering around the room.
‘That will do,’ Blankenhagen said. ‘He must rest now.’
The doctor followed us to the door.
‘It is not serious,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A faint, shock – not his heart. He will be recovered in the morning. Lawrence, go to bed. A bit of plaster on that cut, that is all you need.’
George and I escorted Tony to his room and put him to bed. The doctor’s diagnosis was correct; once I had mopped off the blood I could see the cut was nothing to worry about. I slapped some Mercurochrome and a couple of Band-Aids on it.
George had settled himself in a chair with a cigarette and Tony’s bottle of bourbon. When I had finished being Florence Nightingale he offered me a drink, which I was glad to accept. Tony demanded his share, pointing out that it was his bottle.
George