The Egyptologist Page 9

  If some of the newspapers made Dahlquist a hero in ’16 and a fool in ’17, well, that didn’t slow him down any. He stopped an anarchist bomber, and if the price was a cloud of retractions and mumbled official apologies and cancelled trials, that didn’t bother him much.

  Were you a military man, Macy, hero of Korea or some such? I was a bit too old to spit fire and sign up for this Great War of ours. Down here, most of our boys went off to show Jack the Turk a thing or two, the glory of us Aussies at Gallipoli! To watch your insides stain a turquoise Turkish beach for the good of Serbia, if I understand that one right—not for me, thanks, nor for Paul Caldwell, either, as we now see. If you missed Suez and Jerusalem and Gallipoli, as he did, then Egypt was a pretty safe spot by ’17, when he would’ve arrived, but of course he was going for love, not war. He’d found a way to do the unimaginable for a boy from Sydney’s slums: he was going to the land of his dreams. What he thought he’d find there, I can’t begin to say, and sure not worth dying for, if you ask me. Better if he took the prison time, my advice with hindsight, at least he’d be alive today.

  By this time, July ’22, I’d spent a few weeks tracking down Barnabas Davies’s long-lost Sydney heir, and I didn’t really have much hope I could spin the case out any farther. I’d have a nice, hefty payday for what’d been easy, safe work. I cabled my long report to London, giving the good and the bad of Paul Caldwell. Thanks to this last interview, if you squinted, we did have him working on behalf of the Crown to stop the deadly tide of Communism in the Commonwealth. I mentioned (though admittedly downplayed) that he was likely deceased. There was, however, the option, I wrote, of learning from his regimental mates and officers something about his War record that might be interesting to Barnabas Davies. If he’d been heroic, I advised, perhaps Davies’s lawyers could retroactively change the dead boy’s name, maybe get him a medal or citation in the new name, if Bar-nabas Davies felt like bribing the right people. And, for what it was worth, more of a joke than anything, I proposed that my investigations into Caldwell’s heroism would most naturally lead me to England, where I should speak with the family and colleagues of Captain Marlowe, with whom our boy had vanished, and who had recommended the boy’s promotions.

  I expected London HQ would thank me, pay me, and that would be that. I thought it possible they would pay me to write some guidance for some other Tailor detective in England, preparing him to conduct the English interviews I suggested. But four days later, I received a very surprising reply by cable: AUTHORISED IMMEDIATE TRAVEL TO ENGLAND, EXPENSES TO DAVIES CASE. Now this was odd, to say the least. Of course, I was more than happy at the news: see the world, make some more money on a safe and interesting job. But why would such a thing be done? Tailor Worldwide didn’t lack for snoops in England. What it cost to pay me and haul me around the globe was far more than any payment Bar-nabas had authorised in the first place to convince Paul Caldwell into becoming Paul Davies.

  I mulled it over for two weeks waiting for the boat to leave Sydney, pondered it hard while I was ill then bored to tears then ill again from Sydney to Melbourne to Adelaide, Fremantle, Port Aden, Alexandria, Malta, and Liverpool, ill and confused the whole trip (though, give old Davies his due, I travelled in the best style available all the way to the end of this tale). I didn’t understand it until I reached England, the 12th of September, 1922, by which point it didn’t matter. Turned out to be the simplest thing in the world: Barnabas Davies wanted to meet all of us detectives on his case, anyone who’d met the children or seen the women. I made the trip to England to pursue the case, paid for all the way by Davies Ale, because the old man wanted to know if Eulalie was well and shapely, wanted to see my face when I talked about Paul. Of course by the time I arrived in London, Davies was cold under the ground, and old Miklos Tailor was grinning ear to ear, because the solicitors had just informed him that the Estate of Barnabas Davies was going to pay for this investigation to reach its conclusions. I’d never met Mi-klos Tailor until the day I walked into that office, but he embraced me, pinched my cheek, welcomed another of his “brothers.” He retired at the end of the Davies case, you know, lived high off his inflated billings of the dead man’s coffers for the rest of his days.

  And obviously, no expense was spared for his detectives on the case. Davies took priority over everything else, and whatever we asked for, we got two of. The usual would-be divorcés and adulterous this-and-that and suspected embezzlers had to wait patiently because Tailor was going to make sure every last loose end of this case was pursued, gathered, braided, and dipped in gold paint. The final report he submitted to the solicitors, duly marked up and passed on to the executors of the estate, ran to 2500 pages with photographs, individual biographies of the multi-national bastards, transcripts of interviews with them, maps of their locations, letters of acceptance and name-change certificates, and on and on. You can imagine the proportion of that report dedicated to the late Paul Caldwell.

  More on that later. First though is our next interview. Say! What do you think of that idea? Our interview, as in yours and mine, Macy! You could write these up with you in a participatory role. You could be my Watson on the scene, not just with the pen. Of course, not every scene, that wouldn’t be realistic, and we mustn’t forget who’s the main attraction here, no offence. But still, an assistant, someone to ask me questions, to whom I can explain my reasoning and deductions so the reader can follow along with some of the more twisty turns—this has a nice ring to it. Let’s see how it feels.

  London had procured a little more information on Captain Marlowe, and they’d arranged for me to pay the late Captain’s parents a visit. First you and I examine the information they’ve dug up, a summary of various available military records and the work of a couple of Tailor’s local men snooping around to save me time:

  Captain Hugo St. John Marlowe left base camp at Cairo on 12 November, 1918, on four-day pass. Did not return on 16 November. Searches initiated 18 November revealed nothing. Interviews with officers, men, revealed nothing of significance. March 1919, natives appeared asking for reward, having found Capt. Marlowe’s identity disks and those of Corporal P. B. Caldwell (AIF), as well as an AIF Lee-Enfield .303 rifle. Natives reported finding these objects near Deir el Bahari. Renewed interviews revealed no knowledge of any relationship between Captain Marlowe and Corporal Caldwell, though AIF records show Capt. Marlowe twice took unusual step of recommending promotions for Caldwell to Capt. T. J. Leahy (AIF), Caldwell’s company commander.

  “What do you make of that, Macy?” I asked as we sat in the plush offices of Tailor Enquiries Worldwide. (And welcome to the action, Macy!)

  “Can’t figure it, can’t make heads or tails of it, Mr. Ferrell,” said my young American assistant. “Most peculiar.”

  “And so it shall remain, until all at once the truth in its crystal purity will be made manifest to us, Macy, and vile fraud will melt away.”

  Here’s all we had for certain: our Caldwell had some relationship with a British captain who’d poked his nose in Australian affairs enough to get Caldwell promoted twice. And they’d gone on leave together. And disappeared together. And likely died together.

  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 silenc
e 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 met him, though Hugo spoke often of him at Oxford.”

  “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, Mr. Quint, to find nothing takes me unawares.”

  “Of course, ducks, very man of action of you. Would you happen to have an address for dear old Ralph, you clever man? I’ve lost all track of him since the War, and I have so much to tell him. Are you going to see him soon? You must tell him that Bevvy sends his very best love.”

  At my request for photographs of his friends, Quint produced a painting of Hugo Marlowe, a large-scale bust portrait of a very ugly youth, though someone had spilt heaps of pigment to get him on canvas. He was positively reptilian, to my admittedly undiscerning eye. From the base of his neck to the tip of what must have been his chin, there was a nearly straight line, and his curly black hair was stuck at random to his head, here in unstable piles, there just thick enough to cover the scalp. His translucent elephant ears joined his temples at right angles. He had bags and circles under his eyes, and his colouring was as floury as Mr. Quint’s manner was flowery. “Handsome devil,” I managed.

  “Quite, but only the most refined can see it,” purred my host with evident pride of ownership.

  The odd thing, Macy, is that Quin
t himself was undeniably handsome, the way we’d all like to be and quite precisely how every pom imagines himself: square jaw, clear eye, cocked eyebrow, and that smirk to make women swoon. If Hugo Marlowe had been Quint’s fancy man, it was a lopsided match, beauty and the beast.

  And did Quint have a picture of Trilipush? “I think so, I should do.” But all he could find was a photograph of some childish theatricals from Oxford, Quint front and center, periwigged and powdered as Marie Antoinette, a very clear (and even uglier) Marlowe as a dour revolutionary, and in the very back, in a crowd of identical blurs, under Quint’s manicured fingertip, the blurry peasant third from the left. “There’s our Ralph. Just look at that smug expression!” exulted Quint. “Who else could be such an unbearably self-assured French revolutionary peasant? That’s just poetry. That suited Ralph down to his toes.”

  “Did Trilipush ever meet your parents? Or Marlowe’s?”

  “But of course, dear boy. One did introduce one’s dearest chums to the old folks. Holidays, dinners, the usual. How do you people express friendship down there on the bottom of the earth?”