Lion in the Valley (22 page)

Our
men started running after Emerson, shouting and waving their arms. After some
confusion, the viscount and his followers mounted and galloped off in pursuit.
The two grooms looked at one another, shrugged, and sat down on the ground to
watch.

Whether
by accident or because Ramses had managed to regain some control over the
horse, it had swung in a wide circle. If this was indeed designed by Ramses, it
was a serious error on his part; for the steed was rapidly approaching one of
the wadis, or canyons, that cut through the western desert. I could not see how
deep it was, but it appeared to be a good ten feet across. The horse might be
able to jump it. However, I felt reasonably certain Ramses would not be able to
stay on it if it did.

As
the Reader may suppose, my state of mind was not so calm and collected as the
above description implies; in fact, "frozen with horror" would be a
trite but relatively accurate description of my condition at that time.
However, I could do absolutely nothing except watch. There were already enough
people running and riding wildly across the countryside.

His
lordship had outstripped his men. Whatever his other failings—and I felt sure
they were extensive—he rode like a centaur. Even so, he was far behind the
first pursuer, who was rapidly closing in on the large horse and its small
rider. As one might have expected, Emerson was a considerable distance behind,
with the rest of our men strung out behind him like runners in a race.

The
unknown rider—of whose identity, however, I had no doubt; it could only be
Nemo—in a sudden burst of speed cut in front of the runaway horse and turned
him, on the very edge of the wadi. For a few heart-stopping moments the two
steeds thundered on side by side; Nemo's appeared to be galloping on thin air,
so close were its hooves to the crumbling rim of the ravine. Then the
courageous effort of the rescuer bore fruit. Ramses' mount turned and slowed
and finally came to a stop. Ramses fell off the horse, or was plucked off, I
could not tell which; for he was immediately enveloped in the billowing folds
of Nemo's robe. From that distance it was hard to see whether Nemo was
embracing the boy in a frenzy of relief or shaking him violently in another
kind of frenzy.

By
this time the other pursuers were spread out all over the terrain, in their
efforts to follow the changing course of the runaway. It must have been Emerson's
strong paternal instincts that led him to be first upon the scene, for no one
could possibly have predicted where the animal would eventually halt. The
others all converged on the spot, and before long the protagonists in the drama
were swallowed up by a crowd of screaming supernumeraries and hidden by
agitated blue and white draperies.

Not
until that moment did I feel the hand that had gripped my shoulder, though its
pressure was hard enough to leave (as I later discovered) visible bruises. The
grip relaxed and I turned in time to catch Enid as, with a tremulous moan, she
sank fainting to the ground.

I
dragged the girl into the tent and left her there. The intensity of the drama
was sufficient excuse for her reaction, but I knew Emerson would be annoyed if
he discovered she had succumbed. He had a poor opinion of swooning females.

The
viscount and his entourage were the first to return. Most of them kept their
distance, but his lordship summoned courage enough to face me. However, he was
prudent enough to remain on horseback as he made his stammering apologies.

I
cut them short. "I don't hold you wholly accountable, since Ramses has a
habit of getting into scrapes; however, I think you had better take yourself
off before Professor Emerson gets here. I refuse to be responsible for his
actions when he is under extreme emotional stress, as I suppose him to be at
this time."

The
gentlemen took my advice. They were in full retreat when Emerson staggered up,
with Ramses clasped to his bosom. After Ramses had finally convinced his father
he was capable of standing, Emerson ran after the riders, cursing and demanding
that they come back and fight like men. Having expected a demonstration of that
sort, I was able to trip him up, and by the
 
time he had resumed
 
an upright
position and
brushed the sand from his perspiring
countenance, he was relatively calm.

"No
harm done," he said grittily. "But if that idiot ever shows his face
here again—"

I
handed him my water flask, for it was evident that his speech was encumbered by
sand. "Perhaps we had better stop for the day," I suggested. "It
is after noon, and everyone is tired from all that running around."

"Stop
work?" Emerson stared at me in amazement. "What are you thinking of,
Peabody?"

So
we returned to our labors. The diggers went at it with renewed vigor; I heard
one of them remark to another that he always enjoyed working for the Father of
Curses, since there was sure to be something amusing going on.

Naturally
we looked for Nemo in order to express our appreciation and admiration, but he
was nowhere to be found. Since he was still wearing his Egyptian robes and
turban, it was not difficult for him to hide among the fifty-odd diggers; and
even after we had finished work and returned to the house, I was unable to
locate him. I need not tell the Reader that my reasons for wishing to speak to
him were not solely those of parental gratitude. I had a number of questions to
ask that young man, and this time I was determined to get answers.

I
had, of course, explained to Ramses that his behavior was wholly inexcusable.
Not all the blame for the incident could be attributed to him, since the
accidental discharge of the firearm had startled the horse into bolting.
However, if Ramses had not been on the horse, the danger would not have
occurred.

Remarkably,
Ramses made no attempt to defend himself, but listened in silence, his narrow
countenance
even more inscrutable than usual. Upon the
conclusion of the lecture I ordered him to his room—not much of a punishment,
since he usually spent the hottest part of the day there working on his
grammar.

Emerson
and I had never succumbed to the lazy habit of afternoon rest which is common
in the East. There is always a great deal to do on an archaeological
expedition, aside from the digging itself. I knew Emerson would be busy that
afternoon, for as he admitted, the stratification of the ruined buildings at
the base of the pyramid was complex in the extreme. His copious notes and
sketches would have to be sorted and copied in more permanent form.

He
was frowning and muttering over this task when I began to set in motion the
scheme I had contrived that morning.

I
found Enid lying on her cot. She was not asleep; her wide eyes stared
unseeingly at the ceiling and she did not turn her head when I entered, after
giving the emphatic cough that was the only possible substitute for a
knock—there being, as the Reader may recall, no door on which to knock.

I
understood the cause of her lethargy, and the despair of which it was the
outward sign, and I was tempted to mitigate it by assuring her that I was about
to take action. I decided I could not risk it; she might have tried to dissuade
me from the course I contemplated. Subterfuge was necessary, and although I
deplore in the strongest possible terms the slightest deviation from
straightforward behavior, there are occasions upon which moral good must yield
to expediency.

"I
have brought you something to read," I said cheerfully. "It will, I
hope, beguile the hours more effectively than Meyer's
Geschichte des
Altertums."
For such was the volume she had tossed aside.

A
slight show of animation warmed her pale cheeks, though I fancied it was
politeness rather than genuine interest. She took the books and examined the
titles curiously. "Why, Amelia," she said, with a little laugh.
"I would not have suspected you of such deplorable taste in
literature."

"Only
the book by Mr. Haggard is mine," I explained, taking a seat on the
packing case. "The other belongs to Ramses—a collection of what are
called, I believe, detective stories."

"They
are very popular stories. You don't care for them?"

"No;
for in my opinion they strain the credulity of the reader to an unreasonable
degree."

I
was pleased to see that our little literary discussion had cheered the girl:
her eyes twinkled as she said, "To a more unreasonable degree than the
romances of Mr. Haggard? I believe his plots include such devices as the lost
diamond mines of King Solomon, beautiful women thousands of years old—"

"You
give yourself away, Enid. You would not be so familiar with the plots if you
had not read the books!"

Her
smile faded. "I know—I knew—someone who enjoyed them."

Her
cousin Ronald? He had not struck me, from what I had heard of him, as a reading
man. I was tempted to inquire why the memory brought such a look of sorrow to
her face, but decided I must postpone further questions, since I had only a
limited time in which to put my scheme into effect.

"Mr.
Haggard's stories," I explained, "are pure fantasy and do not pretend
to be anything else. However rational the mind—and mine is extremely
rational—it requires periods of rest, when the aery winds of fancy
may
ruffle the still waters of thought and encourage those softer and more
spiritual musings without which no individual can be at his or her best. These
so-called detective stories, on the other hand, pretend to exhibit the strictly
intellectual qualities of the protagonist. In fact, they do nothing of the
sort; for in the few I have read, the detective arrived at his solutions, not
by means of the inexorable progress of true reasoning, but by wild guesses
which turned out to be correct only because of the author's construction of his
plot."

Enid's
abstracted murmur proved that I had lost her attention; and since the books had
been only the pretext for my visit, I was quite content to change the subject
to one which might appear—as I trusted it would—even more frivolous than that
of literature, but which was, in fact, at the root of my scheme.

I
began by telling her how much I had admired her gray-green afternoon frock, and
asking where she had obtained it. Emerson has been heard to assert that the
discussion of fashion will distract any woman from any other subject
whatsoever, including her own imminent demise. Without subscribing to this
exaggerated assessment, I am bound to admit that there is some truth in it, and
this was proved by Enid's response. We discussed fashion houses and fabrics and
the frightful expense of dressmaking; and then I subtly closed in upon my
purpose.

"The
costume you were wearing the day you arrived quite intrigued me," I said.

"Oh,
but it is the latest mode," Enid explained. "It is called a bicycling
dress. Have you not heard of them? I was sure you had, since your own costume
is similar in design—if not in color."

"Oh
yes, quite; I try to keep au courant with the latest styles, although
practicality is a greater consideration
than beauty here. That was what surprised
me—that a young lady of fashion would include such a garment in her travel
wardrobe."

"I
am not as frivolous as my recent conduct may have led you to believe,"
Enid said with a wry smile. ' 'I took it for granted that boots and short
skirts would be useful for exploring ruins and descending into tombs. And
indeed they were, though not in the sense I had expected. When I woke from my
sleep or swoon that awful morning, my first thought was to get away. I knew
what people were saying; I knew what the police would believe if I were found
with the dead body of my supposed lover. To make matters worse, we had
quarreled the evening before, and several of the hotel employees could have
testified to the fact."

I
had intended to inquire into the details of Enid's flight at another time. Here
she was confiding in me voluntarily, without the firm interrogation I had
thought might be necessary. The moment was not the one I would have chosen, but
I feared I would lose her confidence if I put her off; so I settled myself, with
a degree of interest the Reader may well imagine, to hear her story.

She
continued in an abstracted tone, as if she were speaking to herself and
exorcizing the anxiety of that dreadful experience by reliving it in memory.
"I find it hard to believe I could have acted so quickly and coolly.
Shock, I am told, does sometimes have that effect. I dressed myself, selecting
a costume suited to the physical hardships I expected I would have to endure.
It had the additional advantage of being one I had not worn before, so it would
not be recognized. I left the room by means of the balcony outside my window,
descending a stout vine that had twined up the wall. A few tourists had
assembled before the hotel, though it was
scarcely daybreak. Hiring a
carriage, I asked to be taken to Mena House, for some of the others were going
to Giza. By the time I reached the hotel, the reaction had set in; I was sick
and trembling and had no idea what to do next. I knew I could not remain
undiscovered for long, since an unaccompanied woman would provoke questions
and—and worse.

"I
was having breakfast in the dining room when a gentleman asked if I was one of
the archaeologists working in the area. That gave me the idea, and also
reminded me of your letter. I had no one else to turn to, and I determined to
make my way to you. It was a council of desperation—"