Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [125]
Donald protested, of course, and it took several roars from Emerson to silence the pair. To summarize the confused and impassioned statements that were eventually produced, it seemed that Donald had spent the night stretched out on a rug before the entrance to his beloved’s sleeping quarters. She had not been aware of his presence, and neither had heard anything out of the way.
Emerson gave the young man a look of blistering contempt. “It is this cursed public-school spirit,” he muttered. “Of all the pernicious, fatuous attitudes . . . What of Ramses, you irresponsible young fool?”
“He promised me solemnly he would not leave the house during the night. I felt I could take his word—”
“Oh yes,” I said hollowly. “But, Donald, the night is spent.”
Across the desert, from out of the sunrise, galloped a splendid horse, with a small figure perched on its back.
Ramses tried to bring the mare to a spectacular, rearing stop. The feat was of course quite beyond his strength; he rolled off the animal’s back and hit the ground with a thump. Rising to hands and knees, he began, “Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Papa. Good—”
Emerson hoisted him to his feet. “Eschew the formalities, my son,” he said.
“Yes, Papa. Thank you for reminding me that time is indeed of the essence. A party of officials has just disembarked from a government steamer. It will not take them long to learn where we are to be found, and from the constitution of the group and the solemnity of their demeanor I deduce that some serious matter—”
“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “We should have anticipated this, Emerson. The murderer—whose name, or epithet, rather, I need not mention—wishes to have Donald arrested for his brother’s death. Of course he would notify the police.”
The latest catastrophe had struck Donald dumb. He stood staring helplessly as Emerson ran his hands over the young man’s body. “He has no weapon,” he remarked.
“The weapon,” I cried. “Without it the police cannot prove—”
“That is not necessarily true, Mama,” said the voice of Ramses, from somewhere nearby.
At first I could not tell where he had got to. Turning, I discovered that he had crept to the shrouded figure and lifted the blanket. After a brief and emotionless stare he let the covering fall again and stood up. “The situation is as I surmised,” he said. “Papa, failure to find the pistol that fired the fatal shot may not save Mr. Donald Fraser, for the prosecution will claim it could easily be concealed in the sand. I would not be surprised, however, if it were not found nearby, in a place easily discovered by the most cursory search.”
With a cry, Enid ran toward her tent. I knew what was in her mind and hastened to aid her; for although Ramses was right (drat him) in saying that the absence of the weapon would not clear Donald, the discovery of it would certainly strengthen the case against him.
When I reached her, Enid was crawling on the ground, brushing sand and pebbles aside in her frantic search. However, it was Ramses who found the pistol wedged in a crevice in the rock some twenty feet from the tent. Emerson hastily took it from him.
“We ought, by rights, to turn it over to the authorities,” he said.
“Give it to me,” I said. “I will conceal it in my sponge-bag.”
“Whatever you do had best be done quickly,” remarked Ramses. “For here they come.”
The party was an imposing one—several constables, Major Ramsay, and no less a personage than Sir Eldon Gorst, the Adviser on police matters in the Ministry of the Interior. The latter was the first to speak. Dismounting from his donkey, he approached me, his face grave. “Mrs. Emerson! It is always a pleasure to see you; I wish our meeting could have taken place under more pleasant circumstances. Professor—”
“Hallo, Gorst,” said Emerson. “Get it over with, will you? I have a great deal of work to do. The body is over there.”
“So it is true,” Sir Eldon said heavily. “I could scarcely believe . . . You know Major Ramsay, I think?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding frostily at the major. “We have only just made