The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [79]
‘Ouch,’ said Ramses. ‘Mother –’
‘Be quiet. Emerson, fetch my medical kit. Nefret, tear that sheet into strips.’
Emerson was back almost at once. ‘How is he?’
‘Luckier than he had any right to expect. The lung has not been punctured, probably because the knife struck a rib. Ramses, stop squirming. I know the alcohol stings, but I must disinfect the wound before bandaging it.’
‘I am not squirming,’ said Ramses, faintly but indignantly. ‘That was an involuntary physical reflex. And may I say, Mother, that I take exception to the word “lucky.” Observing a glint of light along the blade of the knife I was able –’
‘Be quiet, Ramses.’
‘He can still talk, at any rate,’ said Emerson, with a long breath of relief. ‘What the devil happened here?’
‘The boy crept in and tried to – to – assault her,’ Gertrude cried. ‘I heard her scream and came at once, but he must have got out the window before I could –’
‘That is a lie,’ Nefret said. ‘It was not David.’
‘It was dark.’ Gertrude’s voice rose hysterically. ‘How could you see who it was? I saw his outline against the window.’
‘You saw Ramses,’ Nefret said. ‘He was the first to respond to my call for help. The man who . . . the man let me go and ran to the window. Ramses went after him.’ Her hands continued to move mechanically, tearing strips from the sheet, but she was as pale as her nightdress and her voice was unsteady.
‘That will do, my dear,’ I said. ‘Emerson –’
He took her into a fatherly embrace. ‘We’ll sort this out tomorrow,’ he said, clumsily patting the bright head that had come to rest on his breast. Emerson’s hands, as I had cause to know, were never clumsy. It was rage that made them tremble now.
With seeming coolness he went on, ‘Miss Marmaduke, return to your room. I will speak with you later. Nefret, your aunt Amelia will take you to our room as soon as she has finished with Ramses. He had better remain here. I will stay with him. David –’
‘It was not David.’ Ramses’ eyes were half-closed, but he was alert enough to hear how his father’s voice had hardened when he pronounced the boy’s name. ‘He was just stirring when I left our room. The individual was larger and stronger than David, though dressed the same. Someone is trying . . .’
‘You have made your point, Ramses,’ Emerson said. His arm around Nefret, he drew her towards the foot of the bed and stood looking down on his son. ‘Well, Peabody?’
‘You can put him on the bed now,’ I said, tying a neat knot. ‘Carefully.’
This operation having been performed, I covered Ramses and wiped the perspiration from his face. I believed him to be asleep or unconscious, but I might have known Ramses would insist on having the last word. His lips parted.
‘Now you will be able to retain your reputation for honesty with Aunt Evelyn. When she arrives you can show her . . . a genuine . . .’
He would have gone on quite a bit longer, I suppose, if he had not lost consciousness. Leaving Emerson tight-lipped and silent by his bedside, and noting that David had settled down in the corner with a look that told me it would require force to remove him, I put my arm round Nefret and led her to our room.
There was no question about it, Ramses was developing a sense of humour. As I might have anticipated, it was a deuced peculiar sense of humour.
VII
The Soft Voice of the Father of Curses Is Like the Growl of an Angry Lion
FOR once Emerson was up before me the following morning. He was trying to move quietly, but he is not good at that; a muffled swearword woke me and I opened my eyes to behold Emerson standing one-legged like a stork, holding his stockinged foot in his hands. I deduced he had stubbed his toe on the bedframe, since his mumbled maledictions were addressed to that article of furniture.
There was just enough light for me to make out his form. ‘And where do think you are going at this hour of the morning?’ I inquired. I thought I knew, though.
‘Curse it,’ said Emerson, in what he fondly believes