Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (146 page)

‘You see me,’ she said icily. ‘I am unharmed. You know what you can do to serve me. That answers all your questions, I believe.’

‘Enid!’ He rushed toward her, overturning the chair for the second time that afternoon. I heard a crack as one of the legs gave way.

Enid waited until he was almost upon her, then raised one hand with a solemn dignity that stopped him in his tracks. ‘Enid,’ he repeated, in tones of gentle reproach. ‘How could you do this? If you knew what agonies I have endured, being ignorant of where you were or how you fared–’

‘Always
your
agonies,’ she interrupted, with a curl of her lip. ‘I don’t know how you traced me here, but we have nothing to say to one another. Unless you have decided to play the man and admit what you did.’

‘But I’ve told you over and over, Enid, that I would gladly confess to anything if it would save the dear old chap from his present plight. Heaven knows he took the blame for me often enough when we were children; the least I can do–’

‘Is nobly confess to a crime you did not commit? Ronald, you are – you are beyond words.’ With a gesture of disgust, she turned as if to go back into the house.

‘Wait, Enid. Don’t leave me like this. What more can I do?’

She whirled around, her eyes flashing. ‘Go to Donald’s commanding officer and make a clean breast of it. But you will have to be convincing, Ronald.’

‘My darling girl–’

‘And don’t call me darling!’

‘I beg your pardon. It is hard to keep from one’s lips the sentiments that fill one’s heart. Enid, I will do as you ask – I swear. But first I must find my dear brother. I have searched for him night and day, Enid, in places I would not want to mention in your presence. But always he has fled before me. I am in terror that he may do something desperate – that any day I may hear of a body drawn from the Nile, or found in some foul den…’

His voice broke. He covered his face with his hands.

Enid was unmoved. Coldly she said, ‘Have no fear of that, Ronald. Have no hope of that, I might say. Do as you have promised – then come to me with the papers proving your brother innocent.’

‘And then?’ He raised his head. Tears filled his eyes. ‘And then, Enid?’

The colour drained from her face, leaving it as white as a statue’s. ‘I promise nothing,’ she said falteringly. ‘But … come to me then.’

The blood that had abandoned her countenance rushed into his. ‘Enid,’ he cried. ‘I will! Oh, my dear–’

She fled before him, going into the house and closing the door. Ronald would have gone after her had not Emerson stepped in the way.

‘No, no,’ he said, in the genial growl that sometimes deceived insensitive persons into believing he was in an affable mood. ‘In case it has slipped your mind, Mr Fraser, a gentleman does not force his attentions upon a lady when she is unwilling to receive them. Particularly when
I
am able to prevent it.’

‘She is not unwilling,’ Ronald said. ‘You don’t know her, Professor. She has always scolded and insulted me; we got into the habit as children. It is just her way of showing her affection.’

‘A most peculiar way, I must say,’ Emerson said sceptically. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘I appeal to Mrs Emerson,’ said Ronald with a smile. He certainly was a volatile young person; all traces of sorrow had vanished, and a look of satisfaction brightened his handsome face. ‘Isn’t it true, Mrs Emerson, that some young ladies enjoy tormenting the persons they love? She treats Donald just the same; you must have observed that.’

‘Had I had the opportunity to see them together, I might indeed have observed it,’ I replied shortly, for I resented his transparent attempt to trick me into an admission. ‘Without wishing to seem inhospitable, Mr Fraser, I suggest you leave.’

Ronald bent his earnest gaze upon me. ‘Now that I am at ease about Enid’s safety, I have only one concern. My brother, Mrs Emerson – my poor, suffering brother. Enid has always taken his part; she has for him the affection of a sister. He did wrong, but he has been punished enough. I want to find him and take him home. Together we will face whatever troubles the world sends us. If I could only tell him – only speak with him! I would remind him of the happy days of childhood, the hours we spent in harmless play, the reeds by the canal where we lay for hours watching the little birds fly in and out–’

‘Oh, really, I cannot stand any more of this,’ said Emerson, half to himself. ‘First he bleats and sobs at the girl, now he is blathering on about his childhood days – and in the most maudlin, sentimental clichés I have ever heard. Goodnight, Mr Fraser. Go away, Mr Fraser.’

There was no way even Ronald Fraser could turn this into a conventional and courteous farewell, but he did his best, bowing over my hand and repeating his thanks for my protection of his poor delicate darling, as he put it. The phrase was unfortunate, for it moved Emerson into abrupt action. I think he meant only to snatch Mr Fraser up and throw him onto his horse, but Mr Fraser anticipated him. After he had galloped away, Emerson bellowed to Abdullah to close and bar the gates. ‘If anyone tries to come in, shoot to kill,’ he shouted.

Then he turned to me. ‘How long until dinner, Peabody? I am ravenous.’

‘It has been a busy day,’ I agreed. ‘Sit down, Emerson, and have another cup of tea. I can boil more water in an instant.’

‘I think I will have whisky instead. Will you join me, Peabody?’

‘Yes, thank you. Where is everyone?’

‘Fraser – our Fraser – is probably skulking around somewhere in the back.’ Emerson picked up the chair and looked at it critically. ‘One of the legs is broken. These young men are deuced hard on the furniture, Peabody.’

‘So they are, Emerson.’

‘The young woman,’ Emerson went on, ‘is, if I know young women, weeping wildly in her room. That is what young women do when they are in a state of emotional confusion. Have I mentioned to you, Peabody, that one of the reasons why I adore you is that you are more inclined to beat people with your umbrella than fall weeping on your bed? The latter is a very trying habit.’

‘I quite agree with you, Emerson. That takes care of Enid, then. We have only to account for Ramses before we can settle down to a nice quiet–’

‘I am here, Mama,’ said Ramses, emerging from the house with the whisky bottle and glasses on a tray. Emerson leaped to take it from him, and Ramses continued, ‘I heard all that transpired through the crack in the door. I considered that my appearance on the scene might divert the course of the discussion, which I found most interesting and provocative. Now that I am here, we can talk over the possible permutations of the most recent disclosure and their bearing on the major problem that confronts us. I refer, of course, to–’

‘Good Gad, Ramses, have you added eavesdropping to your other misdemeanours?’ I demanded. ‘Listening at doors is not proper.’

‘But it is very useful,’ said Ramses, holding out a glass as Emerson poured the whisky. He lived in hopes that his father would absent-mindedly fill it and that I would absent-mindedly fail to see him drink. The chance of both those failings occurring on the same day were slim to the point of being nonexistent, but as Ramses had once explained to me, it cost nothing to make the attempt.

It proved ineffective on this occasion. Emerson handed me my glass. ‘I wonder,’ he said musingly, ‘how Mr Ronald Fraser knew the young lady was with us. He does not strike me as a person of profound mental capacity.’

‘He may have caught a glimpse of her yesterday,’ I suggested.

‘Possibly. Well, Peabody, what do you think? Is the guilty man Donald or Ronald?’

‘How can you doubt, Emerson? Enid told us–’

‘Yes, but it is the word of a young girl who admits she does not know the facts against those of both brothers. They are certainly in a better position to know than she.’

Logically he was correct. In every other way he was wrong. I had no rational arguments to offer, only a profound understanding of human nature, which is a far more reliable guide in cases of this kind than logic; but I knew what Emerson’s response would be if I mentioned that.

‘Interesting and touching as the personal affairs of the young people may be, Emerson, more important is our search for the Master Criminal. The revelations of Father Todorus may contain a clue after all. Or perhaps one of the villagers know more than he or she is willing to admit.’

Ramses instantly demanded to know what I was talking about. Humouring the boy, Emerson told him about the temptation of Father Todorus – omitting, I hardly need say, any reference to other than liquid temptations.

‘Hmmm,’ said Ramses, pursing his lips. ‘The incident casts a most intriguing light upon the personality of the gentleman for whom we are searching, but I cannot see that it offers any useful information. Perhaps if I were to interrogate the priest–’

‘You would learn no more than we did,’ I said shortly. ‘In fact, Father Todorus would be even less inclined to confide in a person of your tender years. Your father is right; this genius of crime–’

A spasm crossed Emerson’s face. ‘Must you refer to him by that complimentary name?’

‘I don’t see what is complimentary about it, Emerson. However, if it disturbs you, I will confine myself to calling him Sethos. A most curious appellation, that one; I wonder what prompted him to select it.’

‘I,’ said Emerson, ‘could not care less.’

‘But Mama has raised a point worthy of consideration,’ piped Ramses. ‘We know this gentleman has a peculiar sense of humour and a fondness for challenging his opponents. What if this alias is in itself a joke and a challenge?’

‘I hardly think so, Ramses,’ I said. ‘It is much more likely that the name expresses the man’s poetic and imaginative qualities. The mummy of Sethos the First is remarkably handsome (as mummies go) and the phrase describing Set as a lion in the valley–’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘What rubbish, Peabody.’

‘I am inclined to agree with Papa’s evaluation, though not with the language in which it was expressed, for I would be lacking in filial respect should I apply such a term to the cognitive processes of either parent, particularly–’

‘Ramses,’ I said.

‘Yes, Mama. I was about to suggest that the golden ring bearing the royal cartouche may be significant. Where did Sethos obtain such a rarity? Was it conceivably part of the loot from his first venture into tomb-robbing, and did it suggest the name by which he has chosen to be known?’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson thoughtfully. ‘Quite possible, my boy. But even if you are right, the information is of no use to us. It seems to me that my original suggestion was nearer the mark. Curse it, what about the red hair? We have not one but two redheaded men. One of them must be Sethos.’

Darkness had fallen. The waning moon cast a pallid light across the courtyard. In the silence that followed Emerson’s statement, the cheerful voices of the men gathered around the cookfire struck strangely on our ears.

‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, Emerson, you were the one who informed me, when I made that very suggestion, that Donald could not possibly be the man in question.’

‘It could be either of them,’ Emerson said. ‘Donald or his brother.’

‘The same objection holds, Papa,’ said Ramses. ‘The colour of their eyes –’

‘Oh, never mind that,’ Emerson and I burst out simultaneously.

I added, ‘We might question Enid, to learn whether one or both of the brothers was away from England last winter.’

‘I will go and ask her now,’ said Ramses, rising.

‘I think not, my boy.’

‘But, Papa, she is in great distress. I meant to go to her before this.’

Emerson shook his head. ‘Your intentions do you credit, my boy, but take Papa’s word for it: Young ladies in a state of great distress are best left alone, except by the persons who occasioned said distress.’

‘Is that indeed the case, Mama?’ Ramses turned to me for confirmation.

‘Decidedly I am of your papa’s opinion, Ramses.’

‘Yet I would think,’ Ramses persisted, ‘that a demonstration of affectionate concern and perhaps a brief lecture on the futility of excessive emotion would have a positive effect.’

A hideous premonition crept through my limbs. I had not failed to observe the tolerance with which Ramses permitted Enid to pet and caress him. It was a liberty he did not allow strangers unless he had some ulterior motive, and I had naturally assumed he had an ulterior motive with regard to Enid – that, in short, he hoped to win her confidence by pretending to be a normal eight-year-old boy. Now, hearing the earnest and anxious tone in his voice, I began to have horrible doubts. Surely it was much too soon… . But if Ramses proved to be as precocious in this area as he had been in others … The prospects were terrifying. I felt a cowardly reluctance to pursue the inquiries I knew I ought to make, but the traditional Peabody fortitude stiffened my will.

‘Why did you allow Enid to embrace you today?’ I asked.

‘I am glad you asked me that, Mama, for it leads to into a subject I am anxious to discuss with you. I was conscious today of a most unusual sensation when Miss Debenham put her arms around me. In some ways it resembled the affectionate feelings I have for you and, to a lesser extent, for Aunt Evelyn. There was, however, an additional quality. I was at a loss to find words for it until I recalled certain verses by Keats – I refer in particular to his lyric poem ‘The Eve of St Agnes,’ which aroused–’

‘Good Gad,’ I cried in agonized tones.

Emerson, naive creature, chuckled in amusement. ‘My dear boy, your feelings are quite normal, I assure you. They are the first childish stirrings of sensations which will in time blossom and mature into the noblest sentiments known to mankind.’

‘So I surmised,’ said Ramses. ‘And that is why I wished to discuss the matter with you. Since these are normal, natural sensations, I ought to know more about them.’

‘But, Ramses,’ his father began, belatedly aware of where the conversation was leading.

‘I believe I have heard Mama say on several occasions that the relationships between the sexes were badly mishandled in our prudish society, and that young persons ought to be informed of the facts.’