The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  This morning was clear and relatively warm for the time of year. Doctor Lehmann made us some breakfast, one of those continental things, all pastries and butter. Not really to my taste, but the thought behind it was kind enough, and the talk was convivial. Afterwards, we made our way out into the grounds to see what we could discover. It was immediately apparent that there was nothing whatever left standing of Fenalik’s manor save the outer wall, but we concluded that the basement might still be intact, and may yet yield some secrets to us. I was thankful for the plans that Moretti procured (I didn’t ask how) from the town hall; with their aid, I was able to discern the probable location of the stairs which should lead down to the count’s basement.

  The spot was just next to a largish oak tree, and secure in my calculations I begin to dig – Moretti had brought along several spades, and the doctor helped with one of his own, whilst his wife looked after their little girl (who seemed to have quite recovered from last night’s excitement – she buzzed around us as we worked like a manic bee. There is something about the presence of children that makes one feel young again).

  Violet and Grace both very politely offered to help, but what with their delicate frames and the professor’s bad back I found myself doing the lion’s share of the work[17]. Doctor Lehmann helped with the digging too but I noticed that he tired quickly and grimaced when he drove his spade into the soil. Upon my enquiry, he explained that he had caught his left arm whilst cutting back the roses around the house earlier in the year, and despite his best efforts the wound had become infected. He assured me that it was healing slowly, but I suggested that he refrain from any further digging. He reluctantly agreed.

  The ground was hard, and filled with fragments of charred brick and broken glass, but after a short period of time we came across what appeared to be the top step. My elation was tempered by the thought of the work ahead; there was nothing for it but to dig.

  The day wore on slowly. Betty chattered to the Lehmanns as we moved the soil from the staircase. I confess to being rather distracted so unable to listen to anything she said. I do hope she did not reveal too much. Once her mouth gets in full swing it can leave her brain a few seconds behind.

  It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when the sun was low in the sky and the air was chill, that we reached the eighteenth step, and finally cleared the soil and debris from the old steel door which had been steadily revealing itself as we excavated. The door appeared reassuringly sturdy, and our hopes that the cellar was not completely filled with earth gained momentum. Moretti had also seen fit to bring some crowbars, which were necessary as the door had rusted into its frame, and become partially wedged under collapsed masonry. Between myself and the professor (with a small amount of help from Grace and Violet) we managed to push the door open a little. The small crack released a gust of damp, cool air, suggesting the rooms beyond were largely free of debris.

  Heaving the door open further, we were confronted by a mass of roots, forced through the weakening stonework by the nearby oak tree. They partially blocked the corridor ahead, although it was possible to squeeze past them and investigate. The Lehmanns, especially Veronique, seemed peculiarly disturbed by the discovery so close to their home, and I will admit that if one allowed one’s imagination to run riot, there could be said to be an evil air to the place. The doctor’s wife took their daughter indoors, despite her protests, though the doctor himself remained, intrigued.

  It was obvious that we would need some light before any explorations could continue, so Doctor Lehmann and the professor headed off to find some electric torches that the doctor believed he had somewhere. Violet, seemingly unaffected by the nervousness which had afflicted Mme Lehmann (as well as Grace and Mrs Sunderland, who had returned to the house), was keen to press on, and had begun working her way past the roots even before the torches arrived. In a few moments, she was gone, and I was left standing temporarily alone, unsure whether to pursue her or await the other men. In those few seconds, I stared at the roots - and just for an instant I fancied they looked less like roots than arms, pushing their way through the earth, reaching out for something at the end of the passage. Then, the doctor and the professor arrived, the light from their torches dispelling the illusion. There’s no fool like an old fool, I suppose.

  Taking the torch from Moretti, I pushed myself past, calling out to Violet as I did so. She had not gone far; she stood just a few feet away, gazing up the corridor. She turned as I approached.

  ‘There’s something glowing up there,’ she whispered, pointing ahead. Her lowered voice seemed entirely appropriate in the surroundings. The walls were slimy and cracked, and the air in the place was damp and still. It felt very much like we had broken into some forbidden tomb.

  I cleared my head of such fanciful notions, and lowered my torch, peering into the darkness where Violet was pointing. There was indeed a faint glow coming from some distance away, a strange and shifting glow, as if from the dying embers of a fire.

  ‘Quite likely some moss or lichen,’ I said to Violet, not feeling at all confident of this, but she seemed reassured, and we both began to move down the passageway towards it. The professor and Doctor Lehmann soon joined us, and we proceeded together. Several rooms branched off the main corridor, closed off with heavy iron doors. Doctor Lehmann investigated some of these, shining his torch through some of the peep-holes that had been placed in them. Each time, he gasped in dismay, and his demeanour grew darker, but I felt no urge to investigate them. The rooms were obviously prison cells, and we already knew what kind of a man this Fenalik was. I had no desire to witness any grisly evidence of whatever crimes he had committed behind those doors.

  After looking into three of the rooms, the doctor, his face pale and shocked, excused himself, and said that he wished to be with his family. The professor nodded, taking his torch. After Doctor Lehmann had left, Moretti peered into the third room himself, and shrugged.

  ‘The reports we read of Fenalik’s debauchery would appear to be accurate,’ he said, and we decided not to press him further.

  The glow drew us forward. I cannot now remember what I expected to see in that room, but it is certain that it was nothing like the sight that actually awaited us.

  The corridor opened out into a wide, large room, and it was immediately apparent that the strange phosphorescence we had seen came from an immense mass of roses. There must have been a hundred or more, of the most peculiar flowers I have ever seen – aquamarine, orange, bright green, violet, oily black, some of hues that I couldn’t describe, but that made my eyes water. I try and think of the colours now but I find they are already, perhaps mercifully, fading from my memory. The strange flowers filled the whole back wall of the room, growing up to the ceiling, and crawling across the floor. The vines from which the flowers sprouted were sinuous and covered in a thick, black ichor, which dripped from their long thorns and left dark pools on the floor.

  The whole sight was almost hypnotically disturbing, the more so when we looked closer and realised with a shock that within the thick mass of vegetation stood several skeletons, twisted and animated into a grim parody of life by the vines which must have grown through them and pushed them up from the floor. Presumably they were more of Fenalik’s victims, and it was terrible to see that even in death they had not found peace.

  We all stood, silent and shocked for several moments, before the professor pointed at something on the ground.

  ‘There!’ he said.

  I merged the beam of my torch with his. Lying at the base of the mass, almost encased in vines, was the smooth, dark arm of a statue.

  I had almost convinced myself that there would be nothing to be discovered at all in Poissy, and that Professor Smith’s mad story was the result of his pain and shock. Nevertheless, it lay before us - the object of our journey. Despite our success, we were strangely reluctant to disturb the scene in front of us. The professor was adamant that we take pains to avoid being pricked by the thorns, and I was heartily in
agreement with him. With the aid of thick leather gloves, shears, and twenty minutes hard work, we succeeded in freeing the arm from the weird vegetation. As soon as we did so, the flowers of the vines began to wither and die. The professor picked one but it shrivelled as rapidly as the rest, and by the time we reached the foot of the stairs the flower he had taken had shrunk to an unrecognisable pulpy mass, and he dropped it in distaste.

  So, now we have the first part of this thing. Doctor Lehmann gave us a lift back into Poissy, and we returned to Paris this evening by train. The doctor was disturbed by the discoveries we had made so near to his home, and I am sorry to say I think he was glad to see the last of us. He gave us the letter from Mr Wellington to keep for ourselves, as he said he had no wish to contact the man. He bade us farewell, but did not invite us to return, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  Later tonight, we board the Orient Express proper, and continue our journey through Europe. The professor has the... thing in his own room right now, no doubt studying and scribbling. I am not sure why, I do not know if it is homesickness, the memory of my dearest Lilly, the old wound, or something more, but I feel as if there is a black cloud over us now.

  Personal Journal of Professor Alphonse Moretti (trans. from Italian) 31st October

  The piece is truly fascinating, and strangely hard to describe. I can barely believe that I have it before me now; a piece of an artefact that until only a few weeks ago I had no knowledge of at all, yet has been lost for centuries!

  At first glance it is unremarkable – a life-sized left arm, well-moulded, with a lug at the shoulder end, presumably to fit into the torso of the statue. It is very light, and appears to be hollow, though it makes a peculiarly deep ringing sound when tapped. As to the material of its construction, I must admit to being perplexed. It seems to be ceramic, although it is both cooler to the touch and lighter than I would expect if this were the case.

  Perhaps the strangest or most difficult aspect of the arm to relay is its colour – it seems to change, from pastel, to blue, to inky-black, though it never shimmers when watched. Light appears to sink into it rather than be reflected. As I say, it is a thing hard to describe.

  Although the surface appears smooth, close examination with a magnifying glass has revealed to me that it is actually engraved with thousands of tiny interlocking arms, and once more I am at a loss to explain how the thing could have been constructed in so intricate a manner so many years ago.

  As I examined the thing I was surprised to find a small imperfection on the outside of the upper arm, with an appearance very much like a mole. My surprise was based on the fact that I myself have a near-identical mole on my own left arm. However, after making a note of this, and returning to examine the statue once more, I could find no trace of the blemish. Perhaps a trick of the light... perhaps not. I do not know of the others, for we have not discussed it, but it did not escape my notice that all three of the Lehmann family shared some affliction of their own left arms. It would be interesting to note what happens to these problems now the arm has been removed. Or, and this may be more to the point, what happens to us.

  So, tonight, at midnight, we board the Orient Express. With the letter we received from Doctor Lehmann, it seems sensible to make a stop in Lausanne. Who is this Mr Wellington, how does he know of the Simulacrum, and what is his interest in it? All questions worth pursuing, I feel - though I am anxious to see Milan again, I can wait another day or so. To think – there may have been a piece of the statue in the city of my birth for all these years!

  Postcard sent from Grace Murphy to her mother from Paris, 1st November 1925

  Dear Mother

  Thank you for your well-wishes and your recent postal order. Having a wonderful time here in France digging up people’s gardens in the bracing winter air.

  Mrs Sunderland is as wonderful an employer as usual, and I send my sincerest thanks once more for you arranging my situation with her.

  Tonight we embark on the Orient Express, which everyone seems very excited about.

  Wish you were here

  Love

  Grace.

  End of Part Two

  Interlude – Violet Davenport’s Dream Diary

  Another excerpt from Violet’s diary follows, once more undated but also very likely to have been written several months - if not years - prior to the winter of 1925.

  Another of those dreadful dreams plagued me last night, just when I had started to forget the first. This time, I found myself travelling through a beautiful palace or manor house, in the middle of a great party. Revellers and party-goers filled every room and staircase, drinking and laughing, the women dressed in the most beautiful ball gowns with tall white wigs, the men in fine jackets and breeches.

  It should have been a wonderful, happy scene, but it felt wrong. The laughter had a wicked edge to it, and the eyes of those not glazed with alcohol or worse seemed wide with fear.

  I found myself following one particular man as the party continued, a tall and deeply handsome man, with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes who smiled and charmed his way through the throng - but again something about this filled me with alarm. It seemed to me the man stalked through the crowd rather than mingled with it, and the people grimaced rather than smiled when he spoke to them.

  Eventually, the man moved through the hall to a dark staircase that descended down to the cellar. My mind filled with terror and I wished to turn and flee, but I could not resist being drawn down the stairs with the fearful man before me. There were people on these stairs too, men and women holding each other in states of undress, like beasts. The man approached the iron door at the base of the stairs and opened it as a scream echoed down the corridor ahead. None of the other party-goers reacted in the slightest to the noise, but man smiled and began to walk down the corridor towards a wide, open room at the end.

  Screams and whimpers echoed from rooms on either side of the dreadful place but the man continued straight towards the open room. It was dark, lit only by flickering torches which adorned the walls, but even so I could see several men standing around a large table in the centre of the room. There were ropes and chains at the corners of the table, and a brazier to one side in which some long metal rods stood. As the man ahead of me approached, the group surrounding the table parted, allowing me to see what lay upon it; a woman, naked, and bleeding from many small wounds. She appeared to be almost unconscious, but when her dull eyes fixed upon the man they opened wide and she screamed so loudly and for so long that I feared I might go mad.

  Then the man turned to me, and smiled. The light of the torch behind him cast a dark shadow upon the floor, and the shadow was not one of a man, but of the twisted, long-fingered scurrying creature that I had seen upon the wall in the ancient, burning city.

  He took a step towards me, and I felt my heart would stop with terror. I screamed, and found myself awake, sobbing, in Walter’s arms.

  Part Three – Lausanne

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Sunday, November 1st, 1925

  Dear Diary,

  I write this, bleary and red eyed, sitting at a small café near the station in a Swiss town called Lausanne. Why didn’t Auntie Betty warn me that we would have to get off the train again so early? I feel like we barely had a chance to sit down.

  Still, the surroundings make a change from the bustle of Paris. From where I sit, I see (other than the professor filling his pipe up with some horrible substance, Grace sitting sketching in that little pad she carries everywhere, Uncle Neville muttering quietly over his French coffee, and Auntie arguing with the waiter over some cakes that seem to have fallen into her handbag) a small town on the shores of an enormous, mist-covered lake. So quaint, and picturesque, like something from a postcard.

  I can’t help feeling, though, that it would be a more beautiful sight if it wasn’t a quarter to seven in the morning.

  The rest are drinking coffee, but Grace and I decided to try hot milk sprinkled with chocolate. It is
delicious, but not really the best beverage to keep me from the arms of Morpheus. Instead, in an attempt to stave off sleep, I shall write a brief account of our first experiences of the most famous train in the world.

  We arrived at the station and took in our first view of the train that will take us across Europe at half past eleven last night. Even from the outside the Orient Express is something special. The carriages are large – I’m sure they’re bigger than a normal train carriage – and beautifully decorated in blue and gold. The porters were ever so polite (especially considering all the things one hears about Frenchmen), and took our luggage away to the baggage car (which I have since learned is called the fourgon – which allowed the professor to make a dreadful quip about the end of the journey being a ‘fourgon conclusion’).

  At the station, the professor purchased a large trunk, and put the thing inside, wrapped up in a large blanket. I can’t say I was sorry to see it taken away and loaded into the fourgon. It makes my skin crawl. I am secretly hoping that the box will go missing somewhere on our trip, but the professor informed me that the Orient Express staff are ‘infinitely reliable’. Well, at least we aren’t sleeping anywhere near it.

  As we were about to board, a large crowd of people approached the train, cawing and cooing. The focus of their attention was a young, somewhat attractive woman (though her dress seemed a little ostentatious for a train journey, if you ask me) who was parading towards the Orient Express. My first thought was that they were going to push her on to the track, there was such a manic expression in their eyes, but then I realised they were throwing roses at her. She turned, smiling and bowing at them, not at all modest, and threw her arms up in the air. The crowd cheered, and at this point I realised the professor was making a strange gurgling noise in his throat. I turned to him to see if all was well, and was alarmed to see him staring at this lady as if she was the Holy Mother returned to Earth.