Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [67]
His premonitions turned out to be correct, but not in the way he expected. One night shortly after the tomb had been refilled, they were sitting on the veranda after dinner when they heard hoofbeats approaching.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” Ramses said, going to the door. “Good Lord, it’s Bertie. What’s wrong?”
“Can Nefret come? Right away?”
“Of course.” Nefret rose without haste, her voice taking on its note of professional calm. “Who is ill, Bertie? Your mother?”
“No, thank God. That is…” He removed his hat. “Sorry. I’m afraid I rather lost my head. It’s not a matter of life and death, I suppose, but he’s an awful sight, covered with blood and—”
“Cyrus?” Emerson demanded.
“Nadji. He went over to Luxor this evening, and we were just starting to worry about him when he staggered in, covered with blood and—”
“Let me get my medical bag,” Nefret said.
“I will start the motorcar,” Emerson exclaimed.
“We will take the horses,” his wife said, putting her embroidery back in its bag.
“Now, Peabody, the motorcar is in perfect condition. Selim and I had it out for a spin yesterday.”
“The steering apparatus came loose.”
“But the brakes worked,” Emerson said triumphantly. “And Selim has repaired—”
“No, Emerson. Not in the dark and along that road.”
Ramses slipped out. By the time the others reached the stables he had roused Jamad and saddled Risha and Nefret’s Moonlight. Nefret hurried in, bag in hand, while, at his mother’s insistence, several other mounts, including hers, were being saddled. He had known it was a forlorn hope that she would remain behind.
“We’ll go on ahead,” Nefret announced. “With Bertie.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Ramses asked Sethos.
Hands thrust into his pockets, he stared unenthusiastically at the mare Jamad was saddling, and then shrugged. “I suppose I ought.”
Ramses left them to it, following his wife out the open gate and along the road. Nefret set a rapid pace. The Castle shone through the dark like a public monument, and the gates were open. Hastily dismounting, they hurried into the house, where Cyrus was waiting.
“Sorry if we scared you,” he said. “Cat says it’s not as bad as it looked, but Bertie got worked up and—”
“Don’t apologize, Cyrus,” Nefret said. “Where is he?”
Nadji had been put to bed in his own room. Though Katherine had sponged off his face and bared chest, he was still a nasty sight. When he saw Nefret he smiled apologetically.
“They should not have bothered you. Mrs. Vandergelt is a good nurse and I am not much hurt.”
“You look like hell,” Ramses said, studying the bruises and cuts and the blood matted in his hair. “What happened? Should he talk, Nefret?”
She had given the exposed parts of his body a quick inspection. Now she pulled down the sheet that covered him to the waist. He was wearing loose drawers, but he let out a cry of protest.
“I’ll go,” Katherine said tactfully. “You mustn’t mind Dr. Emerson, Nadji, she is accustomed to—er—this.”
Cyrus or one of the male servants must have helped him undress and change clothes, Ramses thought. Brick-red with embarrassment, Nadji looked even younger than his real age, which was probably in the early twenties, but he swallowed and tried to pretend he was accustomed to being examined by a woman. “Aywa. Yes. Of course, I understand.”
Fortunately Nefret had finished checking the lower part of his body before the rest of the party burst in. Nefret smoothly