The Magus, A Revised Version (105 page)

Polymus Films.
I didn
’
t see the obvious, that one misplaced letter, until painfully late.

Tartarus.
The more I read, the more I began to re-identify the whole situation at Bourani
–
or at any rate the final situation
–
with Tartarus. Tartarus was ruled by a king, Hades (or Conchis); a queen, Persephone, bringer of destruction (Lily)
–
who remained
‘
six months with Hades in the infernal regions and spent the rest of the year with her mother Demeter on earth
’
. There was also a supreme judge in Tartarus
–
Minos (the presiding
‘
doctor
’
with a beard?); and of course there was Anubis-Cerberus, the black dog with three heads (three roles?). And Tartarus was where Eurydice went when Orpheus lost her.

I was aware that in all this I was acting the role I had decided not to act: that of detective, of hunter, and several times I abandoned the chase. But then one, and one of the apparently least promising, of my bits of research bore spectacular results.

It began, one Monday, with a very long shot, the assumption that Conchis
had
lived in London as a boy and that there had indeed been an original Lily Montgomery in St John
’
s Wood. I went to Maryle
bone Central Library and asked to look at the street directories for 1912 to 1914. Of course the name Conchis would not appear; I looked for Montgomery. Acacia Road, Pri
nce Albert Road, Hen
stridge Place, Queen
’
s Grove … with an A to Z of London by my side I worked through all the likely streets on the east of Wellington Road. Suddenly, with a shock of excitement, my eyes jumped a page.
Montgomery, Fredk, 2
0
Allitsen Road.

The neighbours
’
names were
given as Smith and Manningham,
although by 1914 the latter had moved and the name Huckstepp appeared. I wrote down the address, and then went on searching. Almost at once, on the other side of the main artery, I came across another Montgomery; this time in Elm Tree Road. But I no sooner caught sight of it than I was disappointed, because the full name was given as Sir Charles Penn Montgomery; an eminent surgeon, by the look of the trail of initials after his name; and obviously not the man Conchis described. The neighbours
’
names there were Hamilton-Dukes and Charlesworth. There was another title among the Elm Tree Road residents; a
‘
desirable
’
address.

I searched on, double-checking everything, but without finding any other Montgomery.

I then followed up in later directories the two I had found. The Allitsen Road Montgomery disappeared in 1922. Annoyingly the Elm Tree Road Montgomery went on much longer, though Sir Charles must have died in 1922; after that the owner
’
s name appeared as Lady Florence Montgomery, a
nd continued so right up to 193
8.

After lunch I drove up to Allitsen Road. As I swung into it, I knew it was no good. The houses were small terrace houses, nothing like the
‘
mansions
’
Conchis had described.

Five minutes later I was in Elm Tree Road. At least it looked more the part: a pretty circumflex of mixed largish houses and early Victorian mews and cottages. It also looked encouragingly unaltered. Number 46 turned out to be one of the largest houses in the road. I parked my car and walked up a drive between banks of hydrangeas to an imposing front door; rang a bell.

But it sounded in an empty house, and sounded so all through August. Whoever lived there was on holiday. I found out his name in that year
’
s directory
–
a Mr Simon Marks. I also found out from an old
Who
’
s Who
that the illustrious Sir Charles Penn Montgomery had had three daughters. I could probably have found out their names, but I had by then become anxious to drag my investigations out, as a child his last few sweets. It was almost a disappointment when, one day early in September, I saw a car parked in the driveway, and knew that another faint hope was about to be extinguished.

The bell was answered by an Italian in a white housecoat.

‘
I
wonder if I could speak to the owner? Or his wife?
’

‘
You have appointment?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
You sell something?
’

I was rescued by a sharp voice.

‘
Who is it, Ercole?
’

She appeared, a woman of sixty, Jewish, expensively dressed, intelligent-looking.

‘
Oh, I
’
m engaged on some research and I
’
m trying to trace a family called Montgomery.
’

‘
Sir Charles Perm? The surgeon?
’

‘
I believe he lived here.
’

‘
Yes, he lived here.
’
The houseboy waited, and she waved him away in a
grande-dame
manner; part of the wave came my way.

‘
In fact… this is rather difficult to explain … I
’
m really looking for a Miss Lily Montgomery.
’

‘
Yes. I know her.
’
She was evidently not amused by the astounded smile that broke over my face.
‘
You wish to see her?
’

‘
I
’
m writing a monograph on a famous Greek writer
–
famous in Greece, that is, and I believe Miss Montgomery knew him well many years ago when he lived in England.
’

‘
What is his name?
’

‘
Maurice Conchis.
’
She had clearly never heard of him.

The lure of the search overcame a little of her distrust, and she said,
‘
I will find you the address. Come in.
’

I waited in the splendid hall. As ostentation of marble and ormolu; pier-glasses; what looked like a Fragonard. Petrified opulence, tense excitement. In a minute she reappeared with a card. On it I read:
Mrs
Lily de Seitas, Dinsford House, Much Hadham, Herts.

‘
I haven
’
t seen her for several years,
’
said the lady.

‘
Thank you very much.
’
I began backing towards the door.

‘
Would you like tea? A drink?
’

There was something glistening, obscurely rapacious, about her eyes, as if while she had been away she
’
d decided that there might be a pleasure to suck from me. A mantis-woman; starved in her luxury. I was glad to escape.

Before I drove
off
I looked once more at the substantial houses on either side of number 46. In one of them Conchis had perhaps spent his youth. Behind number 46 was what looked like a factory, though I had discovered from the A to Z that i
t was the back of the stands of
Lord
’
s cricket ground. The gardens were hidden because of the high walls, but the
‘
little orchard
’
must now be dwarfed by the stands overhead. Very probably they had not been built before the First War.

The next morning at eleven I was in Much Hadham. It was a very fine day, cloudless September blue; a day to compare with a Greek day. Dinsford House lay some way out of the village, and although it was not quite so grand as it sounded, it was no hovel; a five-bay period house, posed graciously and gracefully, brick-red and white, in an acre or so of well-kept grounds. This time the door was opened by a Scandinavian
au pair
girl. Yes, Mrs de Seitas was in
–
she was down at the stables, if I
’
d go round the side.

I walked over the gravel and under a brick arch. There were two garages, and a little farther down I could see and smell stables. A small boy appeared from a door holding a bucket. He saw me and called,
‘
Mummy! There
’
s a man.
’
A slim woman in jodhpurs, a red headscarf, and a red tartan shirt came out of the same door. She seemed to be in her early forties; a still pretty, erect woman with an open-air complexion.

‘
Can I help you?
’

‘
I
’
m actually looking for Mrs de Seitas.
’

‘
I am Mrs de Seitas.
’

I
had it so
fixed in
my
mind that she would be grey-haired, Conchis
’
s age. Closer to her,
I
could see
crow’s-feet
and a slight but
telltale
flabbiness round the neck; the rich brown hair was probably dyed. She might be nearer fifty than forty; but that made her still ten years too young.

‘
Mrs Lily de Seitas?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
I
’
ve got your address from Mrs Simon Marks.
’
A minute change in her expression told me that I had not recommended myself.
‘
I
’
ve come to ask you if you would help in a matter of literary research.
’

‘
Me!
’

‘
If you were once Miss Lily Montgomery.
’

‘
But my father
–
‘

‘
It
’
s not about your father.
’
A pony whinnied inside the stable. The little boy stared suspiciously at me
; his mother urged him away, to
go and fill his bucket. I put on all my Oxford charm.
‘
If it
’
s terribly inconvenient, of course I
’
ll come back another time.
’

‘
We
’
re only mucking out.
’
She leant the besom she was carrying against the wall.
‘
But who?
’

‘
I
’
m writing a study of-Maurice Conchis?
’

I watched her like a hawk; but I was over a bare field.

‘
Maurice who?
’

‘
Conchis.
’
I spelt it.
‘
He
’
s a famous Greek writer. He lived in this country when he was young.
’

She brushed back a strand of hair rather gauchely with her gloved hand; she was, I could see, one of those country Englishwomen who are abysmally innocent about everything except horses, homes, and children.
‘
Honestly, I
’
m awfully sorry, but there must be some mistake.
’

‘
You may have known him under the name of … Charlesworth? Or Hamilton-Dukes? A long time ago. The First World War.
’

‘
But my dear man
–
I
’
m sorry, not my dear man … oh dear
–
‘
she broke
off
rather charmingly. I saw a lifetime of dropped bricks behind her; but her tanned skin and her clear bluish eyes, and the body that had conspicuously not run to seed, made her forgivable. She said,
‘
What is your name?
’

I told her.

‘
Mr Urfe, do you know how old I was in 1914?
’