Part 17 (1/2)
”Always your 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.” 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 n.o.bly 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 flas.h.i.+ng. ”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....” 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 ca.n.a.l 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 s.n.a.t.c.h Mr. Fraser up and throw him onto his horse, but Mr. Fraser antic.i.p.ated 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 gla.s.ses 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.” to your other misdemeanors?” I demanded. ”Listening at doors is not proper.”
”But it is very useful,” said Ramses, holding out a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. ”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.” 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-” 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.