The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [100]
“Enough of this,” said Emerson, in the quiet voice no one ignored or disobeyed. “Selim, as you see, a sad accident has occurred.”
Selim’s wide dark eyes were fixed on the single small boot I had uncovered before Ramses pulled me away. “Is it the young American lady? God be merciful! How did it happen? What was she doing here?”
“It was an accident,” Emerson repeated. “There was no negligence on your part or that of anyone else. Her brother must be sent for, and we must make arrangements to remove the—to remove her. Can you find a cart or wagon, Selim? It is not very dignified, but—”
“But it is better than some of the alternative methods of transport,” said Ramses coolly. “As for Jack, it won’t be necessary to send for him. He’s come looking for us. Interesting. I wonder why? He cannot be aware of what has happened.”
Nefret gasped, “Head him off, for heaven’s sake! He mustn’t see her.”
She ran toward the approaching rider. I pulled the rug over the small boot and went after her. The news must be broken gently and the poor young man prevented from viewing the sad sight until he had had time to accept the truth.
We were all together, waiting, when Jack reined up, pulling the unfortunate horse back on its haunches. He flung himself from the saddle. Pushing past Nefret, he caught Ramses by the front of his shirt.
“Where is she? What have you done with her?”
He was several inches shorter than Ramses, but quite a bit bulkier, and he was very angry. Ramses did not move. Looking down his nose at Jack’s red, distorted face, he said, “You had better explain what you mean.”
“She’s gone, that’s what I mean! Last night! And you have the goddamned gall to stand there pretending you didn’t … What the devil have you done? Where did you leave her?”
Ramses freed himself from the other man’s grasp with a single sweep of his arm. “Control yourself,” he said sharply. “I don’t know where you got the idea that Maude and I were together last night; it’s not true, but that is not important now. There is bad news, Reynolds. The worst kind of news.”
“Worst kind? I don’t understand.” His eyes moved in bewilderment from Ramses to the tear-streaked face of Nefret. “Are you telling me … Are you telling me she’s dead?”
“I am sorry,” Ramses said.
Men are, I suppose, comprehensible only to other men. I certainly would not have expected a newly bereaved and affectionate brother to relieve his feelings with vulgar violence, but Ramses must have anticipated the movement; he twisted aside so that the blow Jack had aimed at his face only grazed his cheek. Emerson started forward with a loud expletive, but the fight, if it could be called that, was over almost as soon as it had begun. Jack’s second wild blow gave Ramses the opportunity he wanted. His hands snapped into place with clinical precision, bending the other man’s arm back and forcing him to his knees.
“Now, Mr. Reynolds, that is quite enough of that,” I said sternly. “Tragic duties lie before you; face them like a man!”
My admonition had the desired effect; the firm but kindly tone struck chords of memory and of duty. Jack’s burly shoulders sagged.
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.
The frozen calm of acceptance had replaced the frenzy of disbelief. His time of greatest suffering lay ahead, but for the moment he moved and spoke like an automaton. He asked if he might see his sister and accepted my emphatic negative with no more than a dull stare. I was administering sips of brandy from my flask when I saw another person approaching, this time on donkeyback. It was Karl von Bork, come, as he explained, to see what we were doing and lend a hand if we needed one.
“Aber,” he went on, his happy smile fading as he looked at Jack, mute, white-faced, and swaying, and at our grave faces. “Aber, was ist’s? What has happened?”
So I had to explain again. The story was beginning to sound like the wildest sort of fiction; I could hardly believe myself that it was true. Sentimental, tender-hearted Karl was so affected he did not think to ask uncomfortable questions, such as