The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  Many devices of torture lay in many chambers. One of my men found a strange Nuremburg Virgin[15], which was locked. Fearing to find a fresh occupant, we smashed it open, but within we only found the stinking refuse of some poor wretch, long dead. It was a dark day when noble vermin such as Fenalik did descend upon Poissy, and if God does not punish him for his sins, then the King surely will. It was with a just heart that I ordered the burning of the house and those that remained within, though the Comte did howl and scream as though his very soul were afire. We then took him to the place that shall be his new home. There may he rot.

  Food for thought, indeed. This mention of a ‘strange Nuremburg Virgin’ – could it be that this was the Simulacrum? The manuscript does not mention it again, nor does it give us the exact location of the count’s residence, though we have a name at least. Poissy – a small town some thirty kilometres north-west of Paris.

  Mrs Sunderland and the colonel returned to the hotel to make arrangements for a trip to the town. For myself, I was interested in what happened to our elusive count. I returned to the Bibliothèque Nationale for a final afternoon’s searching, and was justly rewarded for my persistence. I uncovered the journal of one Lucian Rigault, a physician to the queen at the time of this dark affair. In it, he describes the count’s fate:

  Two nights later the soldiers of the King went in force to the Comte’s villa, to halt his excesses. After burning his mansion, they brought the Comte before the King’s deputy, who then ordered me present to deliver an opinion.

  Comte Fenalik was screaming and writhing; it was easy to see that he was mad. As a nobleman and a madman, he could not be executed, so I suggested that a merciful King might place Fenalik in Charenton. The King’s deputy apparently decided upon this course, and arranged that Fenalik be taken there. Later, the King expressed his approval, and the disposition was made permanent. The last I learned of him was that he had been locked away in a cellar, because he had attacked several other patients.

  I did uncover one final thing, and likely irrelevant too, but I shall record it here for interest regardless. I was unfamiliar with this ‘Charenton’, mentioned as Fenalik’s final resting place. A little investigation quickly revealed that it was, as I expected, an asylum for the insane. I was surprised to learn that it is still in operation today, protecting the sane from the disturbed (or, perhaps, vice versa), and I happened across an obituary in Le Figaro from only a few days ago. It seems unlikely to have any bearing on the current case, and is most probably simply a macabre coincidence, but I must admit reading it gave me a chill that I cannot quite understand or express. I have reproduced it for interest below.

  At least now we have some leads. In the morning, we will journey to Poissy, and see if we can discover the location of the Comte Fenalik’s mansion. It may be a futile trip, but the fates have looked kindly upon us so far.

  OBITUARY - DOCTOR ETIENNE DELPLACE

  We mourn the loss of our esteemed director, Dr Etienne Delplace, a man of the highest professional standards and a true pioneer in the field of neurology. His loss by tragic accident comes as a great blow. We at the hospital extend our heartfelt sympathies to his family, hoping that they may overcome their grief in time. Dr Delplace will be greatly missed by the Charenton community, Paris at large, the glorious nation of France, and civilised men everywhere.

  - Dr Francois Leroux, Acting Director, Charenton Asylum.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, 30th October, 1925

  I must admit that I had been looking forward to our little trip today – we have been in Paris five days and I have scarcely seen anything of the city other than the inside of the Bibliothèque Nationale. I am glad Grace and Violet have taken the opportunity to explore, though – they are far too young to be spending weeks with their noses buried in books.

  The time apart from them was helpful for us fogeys too, as it gave Alphonse the opportunity to inform us of the dreadful discovery he made in the British Library – poor Beddows! I think he was wise to keep it from the girls, though it does make me wonder whether he keeps anything else of his research from us? Neville, of course, does not approve, but I have reassured him that I will let the girls know when the time is right. Thankfully we have made no similar discoveries in the Parisian libraries, though this Fenalik character has led us a merry chase.

  The documents we found suggested that the Comte Fenalik’s old mansion was built in a small town called Poissy, about twenty miles from Paris. Neville suggested hiring a car but I delicately advised that a train may be a more suitable idea (I don’t know how he managed when he was in the military, but his map-reading skills are somewhat below par, and I don’t want to see Alphonse and him getting into another argument).

  So the train it was; a local train on the French national railway. It was a small thing, nothing like the luxury we are soon to experience on the Orient Express, but pleasant enough nevertheless. Alphonse insisted in bringing along a canvas bag with torches, entrenching tools and other excavating equipment, ‘in case they became necessary’ - which drew suspicious looks and raised eyebrows from the railway officials, not to mention Grace and Violet. I had asked Violet to dress sensibly, which she somehow took to mean long trousers and a tight-fitting blouse, which rather made poor Neville’s ears burn bright red. He does have some old-fashioned ideas, though – even the thought of a woman wearing trousers is enough to make him start grumbling about the youth of the nation.

  After disembarking at Poissy, which is a small and delightfully picturesque village, Alphonse led us to the town hall, where he began a protracted and rather dull conversation with one of the officious-looking men behind the desk. Even though we couldn’t understand the language, it was obvious that the negotiations were not going well, and I was wondering whether to surreptitiously slip the man a sovereign when Violet stepped forwards with the top button of her blouse undone and began flirting with him in the most outrageous manner I have ever witnessed! Neville and Alphonse didn’t know which direction to look. I think that Violet has rather let the spirit of Paris go to her head.

  After Violet’s display, the young man’s demeanour brightened considerably, and he was far more receptive to Alphonse’s reasoning. Within ten minutes, we were standing in a small back room, examining an architectural document dating from the 18th century. It detailed the locations and construction of all the buildings in Poissy at the time – including Fenalik’s mansion, which lay a couple of miles outside the village itself. The clerk, also examining the paper, told us that he thought the area we were looking at corresponded with a house on the outskirts of the village, where the local doctor now resides. I suggested, to general agreement, that as it was only midday we may as well walk to this house, and see what remained of the mansion.

  The walk was delightful. Considering that it is nearly the end of October, the weather was wonderful, sunny and just a little cool. The village and its surroundings were quaintly beautiful, and something about the fresh air and the green rolling fields made us all feel as if we were on holiday. The trip even inspired Neville to tell us an old war story as we ambled along (one of his adventures with the natives as a young soldier in Africa; we’d all heard it several times before of course but this afternoon it didn’t seem to matter). I think there was some part of us all that felt we were enjoying the journey more than we would the destination.

  At about two o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at a large, crumbling brick wall; obvious eighteenth century work. The walls were covered, and probably in part supported, by massive climbing rose bushes. Perhaps in the spring this would have been a beautiful sight, but with winter fast approaching they were bare, and the thorns looked grim and forbidding, putting me in mind of twisted, knotted barbed wire. I said as much to Neville, but he frowned and told me I had an over-active imagination. He may have been right, but I felt a shiver as we passed through the open gateway (any gates that had once stood in the gap were long since missing).

  Through the gate
way we could see a small, two-story brick house, with smoke rising from the chimney; a picture of homeliness and civilisation that immediately dispelled my dark thoughts. We strode over to the house, and after knocking upon the door were greeted by a handsome young man (though many men appear young at my age!) in a neat brown suit. I introduced myself and our party, and it is a tribute to French hospitality that he seemed only a little fazed by our group arriving at his doorstep. He, in turn, introduced himself as Doctor Christian Lehmann, and before I had a chance to explain our business here he invited us in (which was greatly appreciated – the air, which had been pleasantly cool before, had started to take on the sharper bite of a winter’s evening) and offered to make us coffee. Such a sweet young man. Sadly, however, before I could make any knowing looks at Grace I spotted a wedding ring on his finger. Ah well, plenty more poissons dans la mer, I suppose!

  We sat around Christian’s large table as the kettle boiled. As we did so, we heard someone racing down the stairs, and a beautiful little girl of perhaps three years old appeared at the doorway.

  ‘Ah, Quitterie!’ Christian exclaimed at her arrival. ‘Here to meet our guests?’

  At first nervous, she stood gazing at us whilst clinging on to her father’s legs, but soon she overcame her shyness and within a short space of time she was sitting on my lap, giggling and laughing, and generally making me feel young again. Over our coffee (not tea, sadly!) we explained to the young doctor (whose English was, of course, excellent) what had brought us to his house. Alphonse seemed reluctant to explain the details to him, saying only that we were scholars with an interest in archaeology, and that we had reason to believe that there may be an historic find somewhere nearby. He explained that the house was built in the grounds of an old manor, a fact that Christian was apparently unaware of. He remained politely interested but it was obvious that he suspected the professor of holding back. I decided that we could trust these people and eventually, ignoring Alphonse’s withering looks, I told Christian that the artefact we were looking for was part of an ancient Turkish statue, the Sedefkar Simulacrum.

  At the mention of the artefact’s name, Christian’s brow furrowed, and he scratched his head.

  ‘That name sounds familiar to me... let me think,’ he said. After a few moments contemplative silence he suddenly rushed out of the door which led upstairs, returning a minute later carrying a letter, which he handed to Alphonse.

  ‘I knew I had heard that word before,’ Christian said. ‘Here. I received this several months ago, but with one thing or another I have not had a chance to reply. I don’t see the harm in letting you look at it. It is not addressed to anyone in particular.’

  The letter was in French, but Alphonse read it out loud to us in English. Later, I asked him to make a written translation for me, which he kindly agreed to do, and so I have made a copy of the letter here.

  50, Rue St. Etienne

  Lausanne, Switzerland

  To Whom It May Concern

  I realise that I am a complete stranger and that this letter may well mean nothing to you. My name is Edgar Wellington, and I am researching the history of a statue known most commonly as the Sedefkar Simulacrum. I recently came into possession of an old scroll which presents an intriguing description of the item. This piqued my interest and I am now endeavouring to trace the Simulacrum. My search has led me to your address.

  The name is probably meaningless to you but through my researches I have learnt that the last recorded resting place of the piece of art was in the house that occupied your land in the late 18th century. The statue was a unique Arabian artefact, lost during the events of 1789. Its last owner was a German nobleman who once lived where you live today.

  Please, I ask that if you have heard any local stories regarding this item, or maybe found any traces of the old house and its possessions on your land which might give a clue as to the eventual fate of the object, would you be so kind as to write me with a summary of the information.

  I apologise for the rather strange nature of my request, but I feel that I should pursue whatever leads remain to me. I hope you will not go to any great length regarding this.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Edgar Wellington

  It seems we are not the only people searching for this thing! Perhaps the professor was correct in his assertion that we should attempt to be as circumspect as possible in our investigations.

  Before any meaningful discussion could be made of this new matter, however, a rather unfortunate accident occurred. As I had momentarily stopped giving Quitterie the attention she required, she tugged on my hand – regrettably, the hand which held my coffee. The hot liquid spilled all over Quitterie’s arm and on to my lap. The poor girl leapt up, wailing like a demon, and ran over to her father, who embraced her. The coffee on my lap was warm enough to be uncomfortable, but surely not hot enough to scald, so I was greatly surprised to see a red line of inflammation all along the girl’s arm as Christian rolled back the sleeve of her blouse. Hushing his daughter, he handed me a towel to dry myself, and then took Quitterie into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with an apologetic smile.

  ‘I am afraid she has rather sensitive skin, but she will be fine,’ he said. ‘She has retreated upstairs for the moment to be with her mother.’

  He went on to explain that his wife, Veronique, was in bed with a severe attack of arthritis, but that she would be delighted if we would be able to join them for dinner. Outside it was starting to look very dark and cold so we readily and gratefully agreed. Christian set to work, and Grace and I helped as best we could. Alphonse decided to go for a walk around the grounds whilst Neville dozed in the comfortable armchair in the living room.

  Soon dinner was prepared. When Christian called his wife, Veronique, to join us, I could see how sadly far out of Grace’s reach he was. Veronique is a beautiful, if somewhat too slender, young lady, charming and delightful. The arthritis that Christian mentioned was indeed severe; her left arm was shrivelled, and her poor hand was twisted and bent almost double at the wrist with the ravages of the disease. She helped Christian as best she could though we insisted that we would serve the food ourselves.

  Dinner was a pleasant affair. Afterwards, Alphonse revealed the copies of the plans of Fenalik’s mansion which he had taken from the town hall (though, curiously, I don’t remember there being any copies; I have learned that it is better not to enquire too deeply about this sort of thing where the professor is involved) which excited Veronique and Christian greatly. They both became interested in our quest, and kindly suggested that we stay the night, with a view to performing some explorations in the grounds of their house in the morning.

  And so here we are, sleeping arrangements finally made to everyone’s satisfaction. I am in the spare room with Grace and Violet, whilst Alphonse and Neville

  (there follows a line of smeared and scrawled handwriting)

  An interesting development! As I was writing, a dreadful scream filled the house from the room opposite, where Quitterie had retired to bed earlier. Being the closest, I leapt to my feet and ran through the door to find the poor girl crying and shaking on the bed, pointing at the window. I quickly ran across and peered out into the night. As I did so, Christian and Veronique appeared in the girl’s doorway, and her mother rushed to her aid.

  ‘Le Pére Fouettard!’[16] Quitterie screamed. ‘Le Pére Fouettard!’

  Whilst Veronique comforted her daughter, Christian rushed over to the window with me and looked out into the darkness, although there was nothing to see.

  ‘She believes she saw a man at the window,’ Christian explained, peering into the night. ‘But we are too high up, of course.’ We opened the window and looked down at the house, but it was obvious that no-one could have been there without climbing the walls - an act surely impossible without a rope or some other climbing aid.

  ‘A bad dream,’ the young doctor said, and I nodded. As I left, I couldn’t fail to notice that Quitterie’s le
ft arm was still greatly inflamed from the spillage earlier.

  As I sit here, writing in my diary, I find myself wondering if I should admit in here what I did not mention to Christian, Violet or Grace. It is probably the overactive imagination that Neville accuses me of, and likely not worth mentioning. But if I don’t write it here, where shall I write it?

  As I rushed into Quitterie’s room, and followed the line of her pointing, I am certain, just for a moment, that I saw a twisted, ugly face staring right back at me! In the time it took me to rush over to the window, it was gone.

  Perhaps I should mention it to the others, but I think it likely that I was in a suggestible state – I have spent too much time in libraries recently! I will sleep on it; that is, if any sleep will come tonight.

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Saturday, October 31st , 1925

  Dear Diary,

  I do wish Auntie Betty would lay off the after-dinner port. She spent all last night muttering and groaning drunkenly about faces at the window. It was all I could do to resist going and pouring a glass of cold water onto her head.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Saturday, October 31st 1925

  It has been another long and tiring day, but I feel that I should write now whilst the details are still fresh in my mind. Even now, just a few hours later, the colours of the roses seem unreal, as if from a dream... but I am getting ahead of myself. I shall try and make this entry brief, if possible.