Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [124]
“The assassin,” Emerson exclaimed, freeing himself from my grasp and raising his fist. As he recognized the newcomer his arm fell nervelessly to his side and I myself staggered under the shock of the impression. I looked from Donald, alive and on his feet, to Donald recumbent and slain; and then, somewhat belatedly, the truth dawned on me.
“It is Ronald, not Donald,” I exclaimed. “What is he doing here? What is either of them doing here?”
Donald had seen his brother. The rays of the sun warmed the dead man’s face with a false flush of life, but there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Ronald was no more. With a cry that sent a thrill of sympathy through my veins, Donald dropped to his knees beside the body.
“Don’t touch him,” Emerson said sharply. “There is nothing anyone can do for him now. He has been dead for hours; the rigidity of the limbs is well advanced.”
Donald might not have heeded this sensible advice, but the sound of someone approaching reminded him of a more important duty. He rose and ran to meet Enid, taking her in his arms and holding her head against his breast. “Don’t look,” he said in broken tones. “It is Ronald—my poor brother, dead, foully slain!”
The cat Bastet was at Enid’s heels. After a curious but cursory inspection of the body she sat down and began washing herself. I was tempted to speak severely to her about her failings as a watch cat, but upon reflection I decided she could not be blamed for failing to warn us of the killer’s presence, if, as I assumed, she had been shut in Enid’s tent. Her primary responsibility had been to watch over the girl and that aim had been achieved, though how much of the credit was due to the cat Bastet only she (the cat) and heaven knew.
Emerson went into the tent and returned with a blanket, which he threw over the dead man. “A suspicion of murder does indeed arise,” he said grimly. “Aside from the fact that I see no weapon in his hand, he must have been carried to this spot after the deed was done. I am a sound sleeper, but I rather think a pistol shot five feet from my ear would have awakened me. Come, come, Donald, pull yourself together. Your grief is somewhat absurd, considering the fact that your brother has done his best to ruin you. Explain your presence.”
Holding Enid in the curve of his arm, Donald turned. With his free hand he dashed the tears from his eyes. “I do not apologize for my womanly weakness,” he muttered. “At such a time resentment is forgotten and a thousand tender memories of childhood soften the recent past. Professor, surely my brother’s death casts a doubt upon his culpability. He cannot have taken his own life.”
“Precisely,” Emerson said.
Enid, more quick-witted than her lover, instantly understood Emerson’s meaning. “How dare you, Professor! Are you suggesting that Donald murdered his brother?”
“What?” Donald cried. “Enid, my darling, you don’t believe—”
“No, my darling, of course not. But he—”
Emerson let out a roar. “If I hear one more maudlin phrase or sentimental endearment, I will abandon you to your fate! You are in a pretty fix, Mr. Donald Fraser, and I have a feeling we may be short on time. Answer me without delay. What brought you here at this hour?”
“I have been here all night,” Donald said.
“I see.” Emerson’s critical fown softened. “Well, Mr. Fraser, I must say that demonstrates better sense than I had expected from you. Miss Debenham can testify that you were with her—”
“Sir,” Donald exclaimed, his cheeks flushed with indignation. “You are casting aspersions upon the noblest, the purest girl who ever—”
Enid’s face was as rosy as his. “Oh, Donald, you dear, adorable idiot . . . He was with me, Professor.