The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [44]
“Don’t be absurd, my dear.” With a strange sensation of déjà vu I knelt beside the young man. He was lying on his back this time, in a particularly graceful attitude; but what a change from the well-dressed, neatly groomed individual who had fallen upon our hearthrug a few weeks earlier! His suit had been cut by an excellent tailor, but it was crumpled and stained. Sunburn had scorched his cheeks and peeled the skin from his nose. His hat (a fashionable but inappropriate tweed cap) had fallen from his head; from under the sweat-darkened curls on his brow a thin trickle of blood traced a path across one cheek.
Emerson had been the first on the scene, but the others soon followed, and curious spectators ringed us round as I dampened my handkerchief from the canteen at my belt and wiped the young man’s flushed face. The response was prompt. As soon as consciousness returned, a flush of embarrassment further reddened Mr. Forthright’s cheeks, and he began stammering apologies.
Emerson cut them short. “If you are stupid enough to wear wool clothing in this climate and go racing around in the hot sun, you must expect to be overcome by the heat.”
“It was not the heat that caused my collapse,” Forthright exclaimed. “I was struck on the head by a stone, or some other missile. Another struck my camel, which bolted, and… Good heavens!” He sat up, catching at my shoulder for support, and leveled an accusing finger. “There is my assailant—that man there!”
He was pointing at Kemit.
“Nonsense,” Emerson said. “Kemit has been working at my side all afternoon. Do you often suffer from hallucinations, Mr. Forthright?”
“Then it was a man very like him,” Forthright said stubbornly. “Tall, dark-skinned—”
“As are most of the male inhabitants of this region.” Emerson leaned over him and with ruthless efficiency parted the curls on his brow. Forthright flinched and bit his lip. “Hmph,” said Emerson. “There is no swelling, only a small nick in the scalp. No stone caused this injury, Mr. Forthright; it was a sharp-edged object like a knife.”
“What difference does that make, Emerson?” I demanded. “Mr. Forthright was obviously attacked—though not by Kemit, who, as you have said, was with us at the time. I suggest we retire to the shade and partake of some liquid refreshment while we discuss the situation. Mr. Forthright has a good deal of explaining to do.”
“That is certainly true,” said Emerson, his brows lowering. “But I have no intention of stopping work early on his account. Take him away, Peabody, and see if you can get any sense out of him.” Beckoning the men to follow, he stalked off, still complaining. “What the devil are we going to do with him? He can’t go back to the camp alone, he’d get himself lost and fall off the cursed camel again and knock himself unconscious and die of exposure or thirst or both and it would be on my…”
The words died into an unintelligible but still audible grumble. “He is right, you know,” I remarked, assisting Forthright to rise. “It was extremely foolish of you to start out in search of us alone.”
“I was not alone,” Forthright replied gently. “My servants were with me. It is not their fault that I so far outstripped them. They were attempting to follow when I last saw them, and I expect they will be here before long.”
“That must be them now,” said Ramses.
“ ‘They,’ not ‘them,’ ” I corrected. “Ramses, what the dev——why are you still here? Papa told you to get back to work.”
“I beg your pardon, Mama, but I did not hear Papa address a direct order to me. Admittedly the general tenor of his comments suggested that he wished the work to resume, but in view of his failure to make a specific—”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Yes, Mama. I had thought I might start a fire to boil water for tea.”
“What a thoughtful lad,” said Forthright, smiling at the boy.