Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [87]
At the end of a series of passages and corridors was a small chamber some seven and a half feet square, with a fine corbeled roof. It was entirely empty. A brief search through the debris on the floor disclosed nothing of interest, and, leaving Selim to sift through the dust to make sure nothing had been overlooked, I returned to the open air, heroically concealing my disappointment.
I found Enid outside, perched on one of the blocks on the side of the pyramid. Chin on her hands, the breeze ruffling her hair, she watched the others gather for the midmorning break. I indicated I was ready to join them, and as we scrambled down the steplike stones I remarked, “It won’t do, you know. You cannot go on forever treating him like a leper.”
“I can and will,” Enid said hotly. “Unless he comes to his senses and confesses the truth.”
“He has already confessed to such a staggering variety of sins, I can’t imagine what he could be concealing,” I remarked. “Unless you believe he is the killer.”
“You misunderstand me.” We reached the ground and she turned to face me. “It was Ronald,” she blurted. “Not Donald at all. He took the blame for Ronald’s fault, as he has always done.”
“Losing his commission, his honor, and his fortune? Come, Enid, I can’t believe any man (even a man) would be so foolish. Nobility and self-sacrifice are the highest qualities of which humanity is capable, but when carried to excess, they are not so much admirable as idiotic.”
“I quite agree,” Enid said, with a bitter laugh. “But you don’t know Donald. Quixotic is too mild a word for him. Ronald was always his mother’s darling—the younger and smaller and weaker of the two.”
“The runt of the litter,” I said musingly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is a slang expression, and a very pithy one. How often have I seen a mother cherish some pitiful crippled infant, to the neglect of the other children in the family. Weakness brings out the best in us, Enid, and I must say—”
“Yes, I have no doubt that in the abstract it is a noble quality. But in this case it resulted in terrible harm to both brothers. Ronald was never at fault, he was never punished. Instead of resenting this unfair treatment, Donald tried to win his mother’s approval by appointing himself Ronald’s defender and whipping boy. When Ronald did something wrong, he blamed Donald, and Donald took the beating. When Ronald taunted a hulking bully, Donald did the fighting. Their mother’s last words to Donald were, ‘Always love and protect your brother.’ And he has done exactly that.”
“In childhood, perhaps. But how can you be certain Donald took the blame for his brother this time? A beating is one thing; to admit responsibility for a debt one has not incurred—”
“It would not be the first time,” Enid said. “Donald has paid a number of Ronald’s debts in the past. This time the situation was more serious. Ronald would have been publicly disgraced and perhaps sent to prison if the gentleman whose signature had been forged had decided to press the matter. He was willing to let Donald off more lightly because of the respect and affection felt for Donald by all who know him—a consideration that would assuredly not have been extended to Ronald. For that reason Donald agreed to take the blame on himself. I am as certain of that fact as I am that we are standing here, but I cannot prove it. The only ones who know the truth are the brothers themselves. Ronald won’t betray himself, and if Donald is determined to play the martyr . . . That was why I had to come to Egypt. Ronald had already set out, ostensibly to find Donald and bring him home. I knew he would not press the