The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [81]
“The hell with what she thinks,” Ramses said angrily. “Damn it, Bertie, you don’t climb a rock face when there’s someone up above who doesn’t like you. I wouldn’t have risked it.”
“Yes, you would—if you’d seen what I saw. He was laughing, Ramses, and waving some object. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it glittered. Like gold.”
6
I cannot recall ever seeing Cyrus Vandergelt so angry. Even Emerson sat in silence, without attempting to interrupt, while our old friend paced up and down uttering incoherent American ejaculations.
Nefret and I arrived at the house shortly after the others. From what I could make out, amid his cries of fury, Cyrus had met the other four on the homeward path. He had been searching for Bertie and Jumana for hours, after discovering that both had left Deir el Medina, and was at Medinet Habu, still in quest of them, when they appeared, with Ramses and Emerson supporting Bertie. Whether Cyrus had harbored the same suspicions that would have occurred to his wife upon finding two young persons of opposite genders unaccountably missing from their designated places, he never said.
Relief was immediately succeeded by outrage, as is usually the case. When Cyrus found out where they had been, a good deal of the outrage was directed at Emerson. At the latter’s suggestion they had brought Bertie straight to our house, and it was obvious from their appearance that none of them had had the time, or perhaps the inclination, to make themselves tidy. Their dusty, sweat-stained garments were sufficient proof of a somewhat arduous day, but a quick yet comprehensive survey assured me that Bertie appeared to be the only casualty. He had his foot up on a hassock and Kadija was smearing it with her famous green ointment. Fatima ran in and out with plates of food—her invariable solution for all disasters; Gargery demanded to know what had happened—Jumana tried to tell him; and Cyrus raved. It was very busy and loud.
Nefret went to Ramses. He shook his head, smiling, in response to her unvoiced concern. I removed my hat, put it neatly on a table, and proceeded to bring order out of chaos.
“Cyrus!” I said, rather emphatically.
“Of all the consarned, low-down . . .” He stopped and stared at me. “Amelia. Where’ve you been? Why weren’t you here? Do you know what underhanded, contemptible stunt this bunch of crooks played on us?”
“I am beginning to get an idea. Sit down and stop shouting, Cyrus. Fatima, will you please bring the tea tray? Thank you. Let us now have a coherent narrative, from . . .” Jumana was waving her hand in the air and bobbing up and down, like an eager student volunteering to recite. I observed that the jangling noise accompanying her movements came from several articles attached to her belt. I was somewhat flattered but not inclined to encourage her; she looked a little too pleased with herself.
“Emerson,” I said. Jumana subsided, pouting.
I had to shush Cyrus more than once during the course of Emerson’s tale, but the genial beverage, which I forced upon everyone present, had its usual soothing effect—even on me. I was extremely put out by Emerson’s duplicity. However, I confined my expressions of chagrin to a few reproachful looks, which Emerson pretended not to see.
“All’s well that ends well, eh, Peabody?” he inquired.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Nefret?”
She was conferring with Kadija. “No broken bones,” she announced. “He was lucky. But he’ll have to stay off that foot for a few days.”
“Lucky!” Cyrus burst out. “He had no business going off like that. He—”
“Is not the only person present who has ever been guilty of reckless behavior,” I interrupted.
Ramses gave me a wide, unself-conscious grin, and then sobered. “We’d have found him eventually, Cyrus, even without Jumana.”
The girl must have been even more annoying than usual that day, or he would not have minimized her effort. We would certainly have looked for Bertie, but we might not have found him in time. It might well be said that the young man owed her his life.