The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [42]
“Why didn’t you serve in the Army, Mr. Quint?”
“Various weaknesses,” claims my strapping interviewee.
“Were you conscripted?”
“Mmmm, I should think I would remember that—it sounds delicious.”
“Did you correspond with Captain Marlowe when he was at war?”
“Bien sûr. I fretted dreadfully for him, but I knew he had Trilipush there to look after him. Ralph and Hugo were based near those dreadfully grim pyramids they so adored, fighting the Boche or the wogs or whomever merited a sound English thrashing, the lucky devils, until poor Ralph went off to fight in Turkey. We thought we’d lost him, you know, but he’s the sort who always pulls through.”
All well and good, this tale, but there you sit, Macy, back at Tailor HQ, scratching your head at the official letter, just arrived, saying that His Majesty’s War Office, just like old Oxford, has no record whatsoever for anyone named Ralph Trilipush.
“And what do you suppose became of Captain Marlowe, Mr. Quint?”
“What do I suppose? You Australians are terrible cynics. Just what the Army said is what I suppose. I am not the sort who doubts the official version of anything. He trotted off on leave to look at some dusty queen’s tomb or another and was probably set upon by swarthy, bearded bandits or desperately rugged, whiskered Germans who treacherously but manfully refused to accept the Armistice. They devoured him, belching at their good fortune. What do you suppose became of him, feral Ferrell?”
“You didn’t happen to save any letters from Captain Marlowe, did you?”
“Of course I did, and it would give me a warm and damp pleasure to deliver them to you this very instant if they hadn’t been ruined when I had some plumbing problems a few months ago.”
“Did Marlowe ever mention a Paul Caldwell in his correspondence?”
“I don’t recall the name, no.”
“Australian? Possibly involved with Captain Marlowe in archaeological matters? Or personal matters?”
“Speaking as one who knew Hugo’s tastes,” says this specimen of English manhood, “I should be very surprised if he were too personally involved with an Australian. Pioneer types not at all suited to his palate.”
I hurry back to you, Macy, and we meet at Tailor HQ to exchange notes. “What does it all mean?” you ask me, not without frustration. “It’s too early to say, Macy. Patience, old fellow, keep your mind open.” And I send you off to book our passage to the United States of America, expenses paid by our clients, Hector and Regina Marlowe and Barnabas Davies. Oh, yes, indeed, America: where we must certainly speak to our Mr. Trilipush, professor at Harvard University.
And what does it all mean? Trilipush, a man who apparently did not go to Oxford and did not serve in the War, apparently did go to Oxford and did serve in the War. A man who did not know Marlowe’s parents pretended or believed that he did know them, and so confidently that he pretended it to them. Or he did know them, and they lied to me to hide their embarrassing nicknames and the scandalous behaviour that must have earned them. Further, Quint, who would know, seemed to say Marlowe and Trilipush shared a shameful variety of intimacy. Meanwhile Quint and the men who served under Marlowe had never heard of Caldwell, but the War Office and Marlowe’s soldiers had never heard of Trilipush. What could be clearer?
And with that, Macy, I post the latest chapter of our adventures to you.
Yrs,
Ferrell
(Thursday, 12 October 1922, continued)
Book notes: To be placed after Author’s Introduction and before Journal Entries: Egypt at the time of Atum-hadu: King Atum-hadu, to whom I owe my academic reputation and relatively small fortune (dwindling, with ten days still until first financial reinforcements arrive), reigned at
Journal: Visit bank to introduce myself to manager, confirm establishment