The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [71]
Cyrus returned after showing the doctor out. He announced that the cook was boiling a chicken and asked what else he could do to help me.
“Nothing, thank you. He has taken a little water; that is a good sign. I am very impressed with Dr. Wallingford.”
“He has an excellent reputation. But if you would like to send to Cairo—”
“We will wait awhile, I think. I expect you are full of questions, Cyrus. I will answer some of them now if you like.”
“I know most of the story. I gave myself the pleasure of a little chat with Abdullah.” Seating himself in an armchair, Cyrus took out one of his cheroots and asked my permission to smoke.
“By all means. Emerson loves his nasty pipe; the smell of tobacco smoke may rouse him. I hope you were not too hard on Abdullah.”
“I couldn’t bawl him out, could I, for succeeding when I failed? Nor for letting you bully him into going along. You’ve got him right under your little thumb, Amelia.”
“It was his devotion to Emerson that inspired him. But, yes, I think he is fond of me too. I never realized that. It was a touching moment when he opened his heart to me as he had never done before.”
“Huh,” said Cyrus. “I suppose I can’t persuade you to get some rest while I keep an eye on my old pal.”
“You suppose correctly. How could I sleep? Go to bed, Cyrus. You must be tired. I need not ask if your mission to the hotel was unsuccessful.”
“I’m plumb wore out, it’s true; but what did it was coming back here and finding you gone. I was afraid the message had been a stunt to get me out of the way so they could carry you off. I don’t want to spend another couple of hours like those.”
“Dear Cyrus. But all’s well that ends well, you see.”
“Let’s hope so.” Cyrus crushed out the cheroot. His hand was a trifle unsteady, and this evidence of affectionate concern moved me deeply. “Well, I’ll leave you to your vigil. Call me if … Oh, shucks, I almost forgot. The mail came this afternoon. There’s a letter for you from Chalfont.”
“The promised letter!” I cried. “Where is it?”
Cyrus indicated a pile of letters on the table. The one on top was the one I wanted; its bulk suggested that the writer had quite a story to tell, and so it proved.
A brief note from Walter introduced the missive.
I have decided to let young Ramses have his say; his epistolatory style has a panache mine lacks. You know your son well enough not to be misled by his tendency toward exaggeration. Have no fear for us,we have taken all precautions, as you will see. It is for you, dear brother and sister, that we are anxious. Please keep us informed.
There followed several pages closely written in a hand with which I was only too familiar. I can do no better than copy out this extraordinary document in its entirety, for it is impossible to summarize Ramses.
Dearest Mama and Papa [it began]. I trust this finds you well. We are all well. Aunt Evelyn assures me my hair will soon grow back.
After I had recovered from the effect of this startling statement, I read on.
Your telegram was of great assistance in preventing a more serious event than actually occurred, but I already had reasons for suspecting that a game of some sort was afoot. While making my usual rounds of the estate in order to run off poachers and look for traps, I came upon a roughly dressed individual who, instead of running away when I challenged him, ran at me with the evident intention of taking hold of me. Retreating, as discretion seemed to indicate (for he was approximately twice my bulk), I led him through a thorn