The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [39]
I set off for Kent, and the grim residence of the uneasy, tweedy parents of Captain Marlowe. They sent someone to fetch me at the station, and I was driven to the servants’ entrance of their country home and led up the back stairs to a small library, where the Marlowes sat in silence. The thickly moustached but unusually short father did not speak. Having limply shaken my hand without a word of welcome, he sat in front of a writing desk and kept his hands crossed on his lap. He looked only at the floor, but from time to time, as I explained that I was leading a private enquiry to determine events including those surrounding their son’s disappearance, he would lift his eyes, as if he was at last prepared to look straight at me, but then his gaze would just continue right past, and he would peer instead at the ceiling. When I asked a question of them, his wife would look to him first, and when his silence was unbroken, she’d turn to me and answer, as fast as possible, addressing only my shins. Certain types of English do this with Aussies, I was learning fast.
The Marlowes had received official correspondence from the British Army, of course, but having no body to bury or story to tell, they’d attempted to learn more; there was another son in the Army still, and a daughter married to a military family, but the Marlowes had found nothing more than I had. Quite a bit less, in fact. Had Captain Marlowe corresponded with them during his time in Egypt? Yes. Had he mentioned a friendship with an Australian soldier, a Corporal Caldwell? The mother looked confused, and the father actually laughed briefly, a short bark, before looking at the ceiling, reminding me of my own accent and the unlikely social allure of Aussie Other Ranks. Had they known that Corporal Caldwell’s weapon and identification were found with Captain Marlowe’s? Dumbfounded silence and headshakes. Did Deir el Bahari mean anything to them? Nothing. Any idea why Captain Marlowe would have taken a four-day leave so far from base after the Armistice? Well, of course: for the archaeology.
Now that’s intriguing, isn’t it, Macy? Captain Marlowe had studied archaeology and Egypt at Oxford, I learnt. He’d been quite an advanced student, and had been intending to return to his studies after the War. He’d been quite pleased to be posted to Egypt. Did Captain Marlowe have friends from Oxford who I could speak to? Yes: Beverly Quint, who’d shared rooms with him one or two terms. “And then there was also this rather odd . . .” The mother trailed off and looked at the father. The senior Marlowe shrugged, turned in his seat, and drew a large, brown, opened envelope from the top drawer of the writing desk. He handed it to me with disgust. It was addressed to the Marlowes with a return address care of Harvard University in America, and inside it was a small book: Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt. It was a dedication copy, and inside the front cover I found this inscription in a blue ink, a fountain pen of eastern American origin, if my lifelong study of inks and nibs did not betray me: “13 August, 1920. To Priapus and Sappho Marlowe, who know well the importance Hugo held for me, my treasured Friend in University and in War, an Inspiration in Life and Death. With fond recollections of happier times in your warm and welcoming home, from your ‘other son,’ R. M. Trilipush.” (Congratulations and thank you, Mr. Macy, for your patience. My promiscuous brewer has led us, as promised, to your aunt’s first fiancé.)
“Very kind, I’m sure,” I said, solemnly, to the mute Marlowes. “And have you spoken to your friend Mr. Trilipush since Captain Marlowe’s disappearance?” The father looked at his hands, the mother shook her head. I stumbled on: “Perhaps he could shed light on your son’s life and passing.”
“We do not know him,” she said.
“Would you like me to speak to him in your place?”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Ferrell. I mean to say that we have never