Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [127]
“Never mind,” Emerson said, anticipating my protest. “We will take it as read that Donald did not kill his brother. Some other person . . . Oh, curse it, I may as well admit it. We are back to your friend Sethos, Amelia.”
“I knew that from the first, Emerson.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “Here is something I’ll wager you don’t know. I have come to the conclusion that Sethos has played the same trick he played on us once before—that at some point he has actually introduced himself to us. In disguise, I hardly need say—”
“Quite right, Papa,” cried Ramses. “You anticipate my very words. And I know who he is. The gentleman Mama met in Cairo, the self-styled private investigator!”
“Don’t be silly, Ramses,” I said. “You have not even met Mr. Gregson.”
Ramses became red in the face with frustration. “But, Mama, I have tried over and over to tell you—Tobias Gregson is the name of the police officer in the detective stories by Arthur Conan Doyle. I put it to you that it would be typical of the strange sense of humor of the man known as Sethos to select as a pseudonym the name of the character Mr. Sherlock Holmes—the most famous private investigator in modern fiction—despised as a bungler and a fool. What do you know of this man, in fact? Did he show you his papers? Did he refer you to the police in order to verify his semi-official standing? Did he—”
“I will not permit that accusatory tone, Ramses,” I exclaimed. “Don’t dare talk to me like a schoolmaster lecturing a dull student. Mr. Gregson was working under cover. Furthermore—er—furthermore, he has brown eyes.”
Emerson started as if he had been stung. “I am shocked, Amelia, that you should go around staring into the eyes of strange men.”
“I have good reason to notice the color of a suspect’s eyes,” I replied stoutly. “As for Mr. Gregson, I hope and believe you will meet him shortly. He is not Sethos. But I know who is. Mrs. Axhammer, the elderly American lady who visited us at Dahshoor!”
I expected Emerson to say “Bah,” or “Humbug,” or something equally insulting. His response offended me even more. He burst into a peal of laughter. “Come, now, Peabody, that is too absurd. On what basis—”
“Several. She was careful to wear a veil, but it did not conceal the lively sparkle of dark eyes. When on one occasion the veil was displaced, I observed that her teeth were firm and white and that her chin, though close-shaven, showed signs of stubble!”
“I have known old ladies with full mustaches and beards,” said Emerson, grinning. “You are both wrong. I know who Sethos really is. His lordship, Viscount Everly!”
He gave me no time for rebuttal, but went on, “Ronald was in his entourage. It was while the presumed viscount and his friends were shooting at Dahshoor that both the incidents involving firearms occurred. It was his horse that bolted, endangering Ramses—”
“Pure coincidence,” I said. “Sethos cannot be his lordship. He is Mrs. Axhammer.”
“The viscount,” Emerson growled.
“Mr. Gregson,” piped Ramses.
His high-pitched voice contrasted so oddly with his father’s baritone grumble that Emerson and I both burst out laughing. Ramses contemplated us haughtily down the length of his nose. “I fail to see the humor in the situation,” he said.
“You are quite right, my boy,” said Emerson, smiling. “I suppose we must agree to disagree. Time will tell which of us is correct.”
“If we are not all wrong,” I said more seriously. “I cannot get it out of my head, Emerson—your reminder that the god Set was red-haired. But I will wager that I am the first to come face to face with his evil emissary.”
“You had damned well better not be,” said Emerson, and refused to apologize, even though he had promised me he would try not to swear in front of Ramses.
When we entered the lobby of Shepheard’s, the first person we saw was Enid. She sat reading a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the curious stares and whispers of the other guests, but the moment we