Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [106]
“I had my parasol, Emerson.”
“A parasol, though an admirable weapon—as I have been privileged to observe—is not much defense against a pistol, Peabody. Those were pistol shots I heard.”
“They were, Emerson. As you know, the sound is quite different from the report of a rifle or shotgun. And Donald may thank heaven it was a hand weapon, for at such close range only a very poor shot could have missed with a rifle.”
Emerson stopped and looked back. “Here they come—positively intertwined, upon my word. I take it an understanding has been arrived at.”
“It was most touching, Emerson. Believing him dead or mortally wounded, Enid confessed the profound attachment she had kept hidden—though not, I hardly need say, from me. It is a great relief to have it all settled.”
“I would say it is far from settled,” remarked Emerson. “Unless you can clear the young lady of a charge of murder and the young man of embezzlement or fraud or forgery, or whatever it may have been, their hopes of spending a long and happy life together do not appear prosperous.”
“But that is precisely why we are going to Cairo today. Do hurry, Emerson, or we will miss the train.”
Thanks to my organizational talents we did not miss the train, but it was a near thing, and not until we had settled ourselves in the carriage did we have a chance to discuss the morning’s interesting events. To my astonishment I learned that Emerson did not share my belief as to the identity of the concealed marksman.
“But there is no other possible explanation,” I insisted. “The Master Criminal is still seeking a scapegoat for the murder of Kalenischeff. Furthermore, Donald has on several occasions foiled his attacks on us. Naturally, Sethos would resent his interference. Or—here is another attractive idea, Emerson—perhaps it was not Donald but my humble self at whom the bullet was aimed.”
“If that is your notion of an attractive idea, I shudder to think what you would call horrible,” Emerson grumbled. “You were not the target of the assassin, Amelia. In fact, the whole business is unaccountable. It makes no sense.”
“Aha,” I exclaimed. “You have a theory, Emerson.”
“Naturally, Peabody.”
“Excellent. We have one of those amiable little competitions of ours, to see who can guess—deduce, I meant to say—the solution to this most perplexing mystery. For I feel sure,” I added, with an affectionate smile, “that our opinions do not coincide.”
“They never have yet, Peabody.”
“Would you care to disclose to me your reading of the matter thus far?”
“I would not.” Emerson brooded in silence, his rugged profile reminding me of the Byronic heroes so popular in some forms of literature. The dark hair tumbling on his brow, the lowering frown, the grim set of his mouth were extremely affecting. At least they affected me, and had there not been a dour old lady sharing the compartment with us, I might have demonstrated my feelings. As it was, I had to content myself with looking at him.
Emerson went on brooding and finally I decided to break the silence, which was getting monotonous. “I don’t understand why you find this morning’s events puzzling, Emerson. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that the—that Sethos used a pistol instead of a rifle because he hoped to make Donald’s death look like suicide. Donald would have been found with the weapon in his hand, and a suicide note in the other—for I have no doubt that the genius of crime could reproduce his handwriting.”
“Oh, yes,” Emerson said bitterly. “You wouldn’t be surprised to see him sprout wings like a bat and flap off across Cairo, spouting lyric poetry as he flies.”
“Lyric poetry?” I repeated, genuinely perplexed.
“Merely a flight of fancy, Amelia. Your theory of a false suicide falls apart on one simple fact. You were there.”
“Suicide and murder, then,” I said promptly. “Sethos would not be balked by a little matter like that, and I am sure he would shed no tears over my demise.”
Again Emerson shook his head. “You astonish me, Peabody. Can it be possible