The storm was still pummeling the island as the maid who answered the door helped the three archaeologists get Bohn into the house. A second servant girl, coming at the sound of commotion, nearly fainted when she saw him. Once they had put him on a bed, Philip asked the housekeeper, a woman who had never worked for him when he had owned the villa, if he might borrow one of Lady Emily’s horses.
“I understand she keeps several on the island,” he said. “They will be much faster than our donkeys, and I must get to Oia as quickly as possible to fetch the doctor.”
“Of course,” she said. “I am rather confused about your identity, though, sir. How can you be Lord Ashton? We all know him to have died years ago. Yet—”
“Yet both of the maids recognized me,” Philip said. “I will be more than happy to explain when I return, but right now I am afraid I must be on my way.”
“I recognize you as well, even if I did not work for you. Go. May God be with you.”
With the assistance of a stable boy, Philip saddled one of the horses and raced toward Oia, as quickly as the foul weather would allow. He kept to the inland road, knowing the cliff path to be dangerous during a storm. By the time he reached the doctor’s house—the men in the taverna directed him—he was soaked, mud-splattered, and exhausted. Or, he observed, in precisely the same condition as when he had arrived at the villa.
In the space of only a few moments, Dr. Liakos had his horse ready, and they thundered back to Imerovigli. The housekeeper opened the door and ushered them in, but winced when the doctor asked to see the patient.
“I am most very sorry, Lord Ashton,” she said. “Your friend is dead.”