The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [134]
Leaving Emerson to guard Lidman until we could send a litter, we got the other wounded back to the house. Nefret put several stitches into Bertie’s arm while her assistant Nasrin and I tended to Jumana.
“This family is certainly hard on clothing,” I remarked. “I fear your shirt and trousers are beyond repair, Jumana.”
I tossed them into a corner and, since she was now attired only in her undergarments, pulled the curtain that separated that part of the examining room from the outer half, where Nefret was working on Bertie. Perched on the edge of the table, with her feet dangling, Jumana pressed her lips tightly together while I applied antiseptic, and Nasrin smeared Khadija’s green ointment lavishly over face and limbs and body. Jumana had a number of nasty bruises, not only from her tumble down the stairs of the tomb but from her initial encounter with Lidman. Not until we had finished did she speak.
“I did wrong. If you will not punish me for my stupidity, at least scold me!”
“I think you have been punished enough,” I replied. “You will be stiff and sore for days. Thank God it was no worse.”
Her wide eyes were fixed on the curtain. There hadn’t been a sound from Bertie.
“It might have been worse, much worse. I only meant to find him, if I could. There were footprints, not yours or Bertie’s or the Professor’s, at the entrance to Tomb 25. I was going to go back to tell Mr. Vandergelt when he jumped out at me and knocked me down, and—and he was strong, stronger than I thought. I didn’t think he would do that.”
He had seen the advantage of taking a hostage and he had handled the poor girl ruthlessly. She was wiry and strong, but so small, and Lidman’s strength had been that of a desperate man.
Bertie had overheard. “You behaved like a bloody little fool,” he shouted. “If you suspected Lidman was there, why didn’t you tell me and Cyrus? Oh, no, you had to prove your superiority. It would serve you right if you had broken every bone in your body.”
Jumana stiffened. “You didn’t think of it, did you? We caught him, didn’t we?”
“No thanks to you. The only thing that saved you was the fact that Lidman hadn’t the least idea how to use a knife. If he’d had it at your throat—”
“Well, he didn’t,” Jumana yelled.
The curtain was yanked aside. Bertie’s shirt had been another casualty; Nefret had strapped his arm to his chest and every muscle was rigid with rage. Jumana gasped. “Are you…”
“All right? No! I might have bled to death. Damn it, Jumana, if you ever pull another stunt like this…” His eyes moved from her swollen, green-streaked face, over bare brown shoulders and arms, down to her little bare feet. “Good God. Are you…”
“She’ll be fine and so will you,” I interrupted, before his naturally kindly nature could destroy the effect of that admirable shouting match. “Now go and rest. We need to clear the examining room for Mr. Lidman.”
Lidman was still unconscious when they carried him in. After a quick examination Nefret’s face lengthened. “It doesn’t look good, Aunt Amelia. There are internal injuries. I daren’t operate under these conditions. His blood pressure is dangerously low.”
“Will he recover consciousness?”
“One never knows. But it isn’t likely.”
Emerson had refused our medical assistance. He had no more bumps and cuts than was usual after a day at work, and for a wonder his shirt was relatively intact. I expected he would declare his intention of returning to work—somewhere—but instead he hung around getting in Nefret’s way and asking after Lidman every few minutes.
“Leave the man alone, Emerson,” I scolded. “We’ll find the statue, he can’t have taken it far.”
“It isn’t only that.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “He’s guilty of something, no question about it, but of what? If he is a murderer as well as a thief, who shoved him in the river?”
I countered with another question. “Are you ready to commit yourself as to the identity of the killer?”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, and took his departure.
I had sent one of our fellows across to Luxor to tell Sethos and