Trilby's Notes: The (Un)Official Novelization (Chzo Mythos #3)

Chapter 3: The Child

DeFoe Manor, July 28th, AD 1821

       Matthew DeFoe is fifteen years old today. He is excitedly putting the finishing touches to a painting which his father commented on encouragingly, the first time he has ever been supportive of Matthew's artistic leanings. Matthew is now convinced that his father is lifting from the mysterious depression that has plagued him for as long as either of them can remember. Now, he intends to make the painting absolutely perfect before showing it again.

*knock knock*

       "Master Matthew? Sir Roderick has requested your presence in the trophy room."

       Matthew leaned back on the stool he was sitting on as if trying to listen more intently. James, the butler, was a friendly bloke and used to slip Matthew treats from the kitchen as a child. "Thank you, James," Matthew called back, carefully setting his palette down.

       "And if you would be so good to inform him that I will now be retiring for the night?"

       "Very good, James," and Matthew quickly blew on the painting to help set the damp paint faster so he could show his father.

       "Ah, there you are, boy," Sir Roderick greeted Matthew as he stepped into the trophy room. It seemed today that Sir Roderick had a guest. "Let me introduce my son, Matthew."

       "Hello." The stranger looked at Matthew with a small smile playing on his lips.

       "This is my friend Mr. Smyth. He's an expert on African tribal art."

       "Well, just a scholar," Mr. Smyth protested. "Hardly even that, just someone with an interest in the subject."

       "He has offered to assess the figurine I brought back from my travels." Matthew didn't seem to mind Sir Roderick being occupied on his only son's birthday. Matthew just seemed happy that his father was in good spirits.

       "I wasn't aware you had a family, Sir Roderick. Is your wife home, too?" Sir Roderick turned back to Mr. Smyth, replying in a small voice.

       "Regrettably, Belinda is no longer with us."

       "Oh, I'm sorry," Mr. Smyth drew back, ashamed.

       "Quite alright, you couldn't have known. She succumbed to illness shortly after Matthew was born."

Silence hung in the air like a wet towel until Matthew found a voice of his own.

       "I've finished the painting I showed you, father." Matthew obviously wasn't about to let an awkward silence or prior engagement stop him from showing his father the painting he laboured over for many nights.

       "Oh, good," Sir Roderick, however, turned back to Mr. Smyth, much to Matthew's disappointment. "Well, Mr. Smyth, what do you think of the piece?"

       "It's an intriguing little puzzler, actually. The design is reminiscent of a few central African tribal gods I'm aware of...but to be honest, I've never seen anything like this before. May I ask how you acquired it?"

       "I'm glad you asked. It was twenty years ago, when I was a younger man, on my first travels in the dark continent. We were travelling along the west coast when our bearers spotted a ship that had run aground. It was an English clipper, named the Sea Angel, and a short exploration revealed that every single crewman had just disappeared. Of course, we immediately sent a letter to the nearest embassy to report the finding. But the point is, it was on the lowest deck of the ship that I found this very figurine you see before you today."