Excerpt!
The following is not a tale for the faint-hearted. I wish I could say we all made it out alive, but this is not the case. Some languish behind prison bars and some rest beneath the dirt. Others have returned to the comforts of home.
I escaped with my life, though you have likely guessed as much.
What follows is a humble account of my time with Tristan Beaufort. Looking back, I would say he is best described as a man who would place himself among the Philip Marlowes and Sam Spades of the world, but was far too kindhearted to be hardboiled, and too distinct to be discreet.
The rest must be read to be believed.
I was in my twenty-seventh year, when I first met Tristan Beaufort. My life had been shaping up to be less than ideal, though perhaps of some interest to one of the more burned-out existentialists. While others settled into their careers and families, I passed from one temporary job to the next, never in one workplace for long.
I had resigned myself to this fate: this life of endless, stalling distraction. I accepted my lot with the kind of stoicism Marcus Aurelius himself would envy. At least, this is what I told the few who asked.
I am aware that a clinician might have known my distraction by another name, but that is neither here nor there. Out of respect for the reader, I shall elaborate no further.
My practiced resignation experienced a subtle shift when, one day, I received a phone call. The woman on the line thought she had a job that would suit me well. She recalled my interest in the written word, and thought I might make good use of it in this position.
Her voice droned through the finer details, barraging my ears with her anesthetic. From amidst the tide of useless words and mundane utterances, I picked up the heart of the message towards which she uneconomically wandered: I would become the assistant to a famed private detective, Tristan Beaufort.
Famed. If the name sounded familiar, the reason escaped me.
Lucy is an apathetic young woman who is hired to assist eccentric private detective Tristan Beaufort, a man whose wildness, endless optimism, and occasional naiveté seem at odds with his chosen career. Her job is to keep a written account of his cases, to play the Watson to his Holmes.
They are hired by a woman who suspects her wife, Professor Jennifer Darvis, is having an affair. What begins as a simple investigation of adultery soon spirals into a case of conspiracy, arson, and murder.
Professor Darvis is a delusionally self-assured academic whose writings regarding the existence of a shadowy organization known only as The Quadrette have failed to find an audience outside of her students, for whom she has made her book assigned reading. However, an FBI agent shows up on her doorstep, insisting that her theories have spawned a series of murders, and requesting her help in preventing further deaths.
Soon, Tristan and Lucy find themselves unravelling a plot surrounding Darvis which seems as though it could not exist, despite the evidence they encounter at every turn. Their adventures will bring them up against the police, the enigmatic FBI Agent, and the leader of The Quadrette herself.
Author bio:
Lila Fogle lives in Connecticut, where she writes humour.
