Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [83]
Emerson looked grave. “Is there no other suspect?”
“Er—yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, there are two.”
Emerson brightened. “Who?”
“Both,” I said, “are in this room.”
Emerson’s eyes moved, quite involuntarily, I am sure, to Ramses.
“Oh, come, Emerson,” I said impatiently. “If a woman could not strike such a blow, how could an eight-year-old boy? No! Who is the man with thews of steel and a formidable temper, who has been heard on numerous occasions to describe Kalenischeff as a villain and a rascal and has stated that his very presence was an affront to any decent woman?”
A modest smile spread across Emerson’s face. “Me,” he said.
“Grammar, Emerson, if you please. But you are correct. You are the person I meant.”
“On my word, Peabody, that is cursed ingenious,” Emerson exclaimed. “If I didn’t know I hadn’t done it, I would suspect myself. Well, but who is the other suspect?”
“She is referring to me, Professor,” said Donald, carefully avoiding the grammatical error Emerson had committed. “I was at the hotel that night. You had told me to meet you there—”
“But you didn’t,” Emerson said.
“No. I—I was in a strange state of mind. Appreciating your trust and yet resenting your interference . . . I wandered half the night trying to decide what to do.”
“I believe I can understand, Mr. Fraser. But the fact that you were in the motley crowd outside the hotel doesn’t make you a suspect. You were there other evenings, you and dozens of other nondescript Egyptians. I assume you did not enter the hotel?”
“How could I?” Donald asked with a wry smile. “A ragged beggar like myself would not be admitted to those precincts.”
“Then I fail to see how you can fall under suspicion.”
Ramses had been trying for some time to get a word in. “Papa—were Mr. Fraser’s true identity known—”
“Just what I was about to say,” I remarked, frowning at Ramses. “Mr. Donald Fraser might have a motive for killing Kalenischeff that a ragged beggar would not. Furthermore, I know for a fact that he is suspected.”
“Who told you?” Emerson demanded. “Baehler?”
“No, it was—”
“You went to police headquarters the day you were in Cairo,” Emerson said accusingly. “You misled me, Amelia. You promised—”
“I made no promise, Emerson. And in fact the police were of little assistance. I cannot think why our friend Sir Eldon has such incompetent people as his aides. Major Ramsay is a perfect fool, and he has no manners besides. The person I was about to mention is a well-known private investigator. I started to tell you about him last night before you—before we—”
“Please continue with your narrative, Amelia,” said Emerson, glowering.
“Certainly, Emerson. I only mentioned the—er—interruption because I don’t want you to accuse me of concealing information from you.”
“Your explanation is noted and accepted, Peabody.”
“Thank you, Emerson. As I was saying, I happened to meet this gentleman outside the Administration Building. He recognized me and addressed me—most courteously, I might add—and it was he who informed me that a certain beggar in a saffron turban was under suspicion. His name is Tobias Gregson. He has solved such well-known cases as the Camberwell poisoning—”
I was not allowed to proceed. Every member of the group—with the exception of the cat Bastet, who only blinked her wide golden eyes—jumped up and attempted to speak. Enid cried, “Ronald is behind this! How could he . . .” Donald declared his intention of turning himself in at once. Emerson made incoherent remarks about the moral turpitude of private detectives and told me I ought to know better than to speak to strange men. Ramses kept exclaiming, “But, Mama—but, Mama—Gregson is—Gregson is—” like a parrot that has been taught only a few phrases.
By speaking all at once, each defeated his (or her) purpose, and as the hubbub died, I seized the opportunity to go on. “Never mind Mr. Gregson; we won