The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [40]
“I’m confused, madam. What does he mean by ‘other son’ then?”
“We have no idea,” she said.
“Hugo never introduced him to you?”
“Never.”
“He hasn’t spent happy times ‘in your warm and welcoming home’?”
“Certainly not.”
“And this book?”
There was a long silence before Mrs. Marlowe spoke in a very subdued voice: “Filth.” She swallowed. “And in its foreword he asserts that Hugo assisted him.”
“Also”—the noise was unfamiliar and surprising this first time that little Priapus Marlowe spoke. “Also, those are not our Christian names.” The wife nodded in silent agreement.
“I’m inclined to think that perhaps I can be of use to you,” I said, and the father chewed slightly on the tapered end of his moustache.
Mysteries upon mysteries, Macy. The Davies Case begins to sprawl all over the globe, and we must ask the crucial question, common at such moments, when the wise detective attempts to frame and limit his field of vision: are we being led astray into unrelated territory? Or are we wise to keep our minds open, perhaps all of this will lead us to a clearer picture of the late Paul Caldwell? And we must find answers, also, for our newest and potentially most lucrative, if dreadfully embarrassed, clients—the mourning parents of Hugo Marlowe, who wish to understand what has become of their dear boy. We’ve much to do, Macy, so rouse yourself from your pleasure-hunting antics in London, put down the cocktail, say good-bye to the lovelies, and come assist me; the game is afoot! (How old shall you be in this chronicle, given that you weren’t actually born yet? I rather like the idea of you being a young pup, a twenty-year-old with no particular expertise but an admiration for my deductions and a weakness for low glamour and Negro jazz.)
So I sober you up, and off you go on my orders to Oxford while I track down and question a few London men who served under arms with Captain Marlowe. What do the good blokes say, as we enjoy our Davies Ale in their locals? Never heard of Trilipush, never heard of Caldwell, Marlowe was a desk wallah interrogating prisoners.
Still waiting for your return from Oxford with the good oil, Macy, I pay a visit on Beverly Quint, and oh yes, despite the name, that’s Mr. Beverly Quint. What did his parents think was going to become of him?
I find Beverly Quint, our Captain Marlowe’s Oxford friend, now living in London, by no means gainfully employed but living quite well nonetheless as a gentleman at large. Here’s a suggestion, Macy: in your rewriting, perhaps some drama can be added if you’re doing crucial research at Oxford (taking my historical place with your more literary presence), at the precise moment I’m in the queer Oriental reception room of Beverly Quint’s flat in The Albany. You’re asking the ancient, fur-eared keeper of records at Balliol, “Are you quite certain?” at precisely the same moment I’m asking the lascivious and supercilious Mr. Quint, “And you’re quite certain you knew him?”
“Quite certain, sir, though, it is not impossible that records are lost or removed,” says the record keeper under gathering Oxford storm clouds and your mounting excitement. “There is no record of a Ralph Trilipush resident at Balliol in any term between 1909 and 1916.”
“Certain? Am I certain? Of course I’m certain, Mr. Ferrell,” says queer Mr. Quint at that same instant, leering at me in the lurid sunshine and dust of his rooms, and examining wistfully the Marlowes’ inscribed book I showed him. “Ralph Trilipush, Hugo Marlowe, and I were an inseparable trio at Balliol,” reminisces squinting Quint. “Though those two were Egypt men and I read Greek, of course, ducks. The closest of friends, we three, shared absolutely everything, quite the three musketeers, or three little maids from school were we, as your tastes dictate.” There could be no question what Mr. Quint was implying in this room that dared not speak its name. “Do I make you uneasy, my alluring colonial?” he asked, flipping through Trilipush’s book.
“I’ve seen rather enough of the world, thank you,