Lion in the Valley (32 page)

"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
color 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 / 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 skeptically. "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 clich6s 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 whiskey instead. Will you join me, Peabody?"

"Yes,
thank you. Where is everyone?"

"Fraser—our
Fraser—is probably skulking around somewhere in 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 whiskey
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
misdemeanors?" I demanded. "Listening at doors is not proper."

"But
it is very useful," said Ramses, holding out a glass as Emerson poured the
whiskey. 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
knows more than he or she is willing to admit."

Ramses
instantly demanded to know what I was talking about. Humoring 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 humor 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 color 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 me 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 Mr. Keats—I refer in particular
to his lyric poem 'The Eve of St. Agnes,' which aroused—"