Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [98]
I had no intention of allowing him to leave as yet, but it was not easy to introduce the topic I wanted to question him about. “Did you forge your brother’s signature?” or “Do you believe Miss Debenham is a murderess?” seemed a trifle abrupt, especially since I was not supposed to be acquainted with the persons in question. However, the young man saved me the trouble by an inquiry almost as direct as the ones I had rejected.
“I had another reason for coming,” he said gravely. “May I have a word, please, with Miss Debenham?”
I rallied at once without, I am sure, indicating how surprised I was by the question. “Miss Debenham? I don’t believe I know—”
“I cannot believe she has succeeded in deceiving you, Mrs. Emerson, no matter what name she has assumed. You are too astute to be gulled. Your kind heart and gentle sympathy are well known; everyone talks of it; it is impossible to spend more than a few days in Egypt without knowing your reputation—and, of course, that of your distinguished husband. You took her in, a helpless fugitive, and for that you will always have my gratitude. Do you suppose I would betray her—I, who hold her above all living creatures? Only let me see her, speak to her—assure myself she is unharmed—learn what I can do to serve her. . . .”
Unwillingly impressed by his eloquence, I listened without either confirming or denying his assumption. How long he would have gone on I cannot say, but his speech was halted by Enid herself. She had to push Emerson out of the way; he had been listening with an expression of incredulous disgust.
“You see me,” she said icily. “I am unharmed. You know what you can do to serve me. That answers all your questions, I believe.”
“Enid!” He rushed toward her, overturning the chair for the second time that afternoon. I heard a crack as one of the legs gave way.
Enid waited until he was almost upon her, then raised one hand with a solemn dignity that stopped him in his tracks. “Enid,” he repeated, in tones of gentle reproach. “How could you do this? If you knew what agonies I have endured, being ignorant of where you were or how you fared—”
“Always your agonies,” she interrupted, with a curl of her lip. “I don’t know how you traced me here, but we have nothing to say to one another. Unless you have decided to play the man and admit what you did.”
“But I’ve told you over and over, Enid, that I would gladly confess to anything if it would save the dear old chap from his present plight. Heaven knows he took the blame for me often enough when we were children; the least I can do—”
“Is nobly confess to a crime you did not commit? Ronald, you are—you are beyond words.” With a gesture of disgust, she turned as if to go back into the house.
“Wait, Enid. Don’t leave me like this. What more can I do?”
She whirled around, her eyes flashing. “Go to Donald’s commanding officer and make a clean breast of it. But you will have to be convincing, Ronald.”
“My darling girl—”
“And don’t call me darling!”
“I beg your pardon. It is hard to keep from one’s lips the sentiments that fill one’s heart. Enid, I will do as you ask—I swear. But first I must find my dear brother. I have searched for him night and day, Enid, in places I would not want to mention in your presence. But always he has fled before me. I am in terror that he may do something desperate—that any day I may hear of a body drawn from the Nile, or found in some foul den. . . .”
His voice broke. He covered his face with his hands.
Enid was unmoved. Coldly she said, “Have no fear of that, Ronald. Have no hope of that, I might say. Do as you have promised—then come to me with the papers proving your brother innocent.”
“And then?” He raised his head. Tears filled his eyes. “And then, Enid?”
The color drained from her face, leaving it as white as a statue’s. “I promise nothing,” she said falteringly. “But . . . come to me then.”
The blood that had abandoned her countenance rushed into his. “Enid,” he cried. “I will! Oh, my dear—”
She fled before him, going into the house and closing