Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [104]
I had not gone far when I saw the young man ahead of me. A few others were abroad by then, and at first glance one might have taken him for an industrious farmer heading for the fields. It was obvious that he thought he had left the house unobserved, for he did not look back. However, I took the precaution of concealing myself behind a small donkey loaded with sugar cane, which was going in the same direction.
Finally Donald left the path and plunged into the lush green growth between the canal and the river. I had to abandon my donkey, but the reeds and coarse grass sheltered me so long as I moved with my back bent over. At last Donald stopped. I crept forward and crouched behind a clump of weeds.
Donald made no attempt to conceal himself. On the contrary, he straightened to his full height and removed his turban. The sun’s brazen orb had lifted full above the horizon and its rays edged his form with a rim of gold. His sturdy shape, the sharp outline of his profile, and above all the red-gold of his hair rendered him a prominent object.
I could not help recalling Emerson’s insistence on the red hair of the god Set. Had I been misled after all by a consummate actor simulating the role of an innocent, wronged young Englishman? Impossible! And yet—what if Sethos were not one brother, but both? His seemingly uncanny ability to accomplish more than an ordinary mortal could achieve would thus be explained.
Yet the other half of the persona (if my latest theory was indeed correct) failed to make an appearance. Donald was as puzzled by his brother’s absence as was I. He scratched his head and looked from side to side.
A violent agitation in the reeds made him turn. I was not the source of the disturbance; it came from some distance to my rear. However, it had the unhappy effect of turning his eye in my direction, and the screen of weeds proved too frail a barrier for concealment. In two long strides he had reached my hiding place and plucked me out of it. He had not expected to see me. Astonishment contorted his face, and his hand fell from my collar.
“Mrs. Emerson! What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” I replied, tucking my waist back into the band of my shirt. “At least I might if I did not know the answer. Your brother’s message was heard and understood by me. However, it appears that he has been delayed. What was the hour of the rendezvous?”
“Sunrise,” Donald replied. “That was the hour at which we were accustomed to go to the marsh to shoot. Please go back, Mrs. Emerson. If he wants to speak privately with me, he won’t make his presence known so long as you are here.”
I was about to acquiesce, or appear to—for of course I had no intention of leaving until I had heard what the brothers had to say to one another. Before I could so much as nod, a disconcerting thing happened. Something whizzed through the air a few inches over my head with an angry buzzing sound. A split second later I heard the sound of the explosion. A second and third shot followed.
With a stifled cry Donald clapped his hand to his head and collapsed. So startled was I by this untoward event that I failed to move quickly enough, and I was borne to the ground by the weight of Donald’s body.
The ground was soft, but the impact drove the breath from my lungs, and when I attempted to free myself from the dead weight upon me I was unable to move. I hoped the figure of speech was only that, and not a description of fact, but the utter inertness of his limbs aroused the direst forebodings. Nor was my apprehension relieved by the sensation of something wet and sticky trickling down my cheek. I felt no pain, so I knew the blood must be Donald’s.
I was trying to turn him over when I heard the rustling of foliage. Someone was approaching! I feared it was the murderer, coming to ascertain whether his foul deed had been