by Nick Marsh
‘Caterina!’ he whispered, an expression upon his face that I had never seen before but that resembled something close to bliss. Slowly he noticed our bewildered stares and tore his eyes from the young lady (who was still shamelessly playing up to the throng around her).
‘This is the lady Caterina Cavollero!’ he said, as if this explained everything. ‘The greatest soprano in Europe! She must have been performing in Paris – how could I have missed such a thing! I do hope...’ he looked over at the young lady, who was now climbing into one of the carriages and waving at her adoring (and, in my opinion, demented) crowd.
‘Yes!’ the professor exclaimed. ‘She travels with us! On the very same train!’
Uncle Neville was frowning deeply by now at this unseemly display. I don’t believe any of us had seen the professor in such a mood. ‘Giddy’ is the only way I feel I can describe it.
‘Erm... shall we board the train now?’ Uncle Neville suggested, tactfully. His low voice defused some of the professor’s excitement, and we climbed up the steps and into the carriage.
I am, of course, no stranger to luxury – I may have come from humble beginnings but Walter and I have travelled all over the world. I have stayed in some of the best hotels, and travelled on the most luxuriant ocean liners, but I would not be honest if I did not admit that the Orient Express matched them all with ease.
My first surprise, stepping into the carriage from the chilly November night, was how warm it was inside – a very pleasant surprise, to be sure! Uncle Neville began talking about a central heating system the Wagons-Lits[18] company had devised; something to do with hot water from the low pressure – or was it high pressure? – of the engine, or some such. I’m afraid I rather switched off, entranced by our surroundings.
Teak and mahogany inlaid panelling on the walls and doors; beautiful, deep-pile carpets; exquisitely comfortable armchairs in the compartments covered with soft Spanish leather, embossed with gold – it will do, I told myself, as Grace and I entered our carriage for the first time. Poor Grace was quite overcome by the finery. Let her enjoy it, I thought. She’ll probably never have the chance to become used to it, as you have.
I hope it doesn’t seem indecent that I even describe the toilet cabin, which has Italian marble fixtures, and basins of decorated porcelain. Inside are fresh towels, tablets of soap and vials of eau de toilette (a service not even provided, I might add, by some of the more expensive hotels I have stayed in). An attendant waits outside the cabin day and night, and his duty is to clean the toilet after every visit. I fear that over the next few weeks he will come to dread the heavy tread of the professor clumping down the carriage!
The professor himself was utterly immune to the charms of the train, giving his compartment (which he will be sharing with Uncle Neville) the most cursory of glances. He threw his overnight bag onto one of the armchairs, quickly brushed his hair, and then hurried off in the direction of the salon car[19], where his new paramour, Caterina the opera singer, was now holding court. Auntie Betty was clearly rather embarrassed by his childish behaviour, and said that she would be retiring early, as did Grace (still a little overawed, I think). Despite my weariness, I decided that I couldn’t bear to risk being out of date as regards the latest Italian fashions, and I persuaded Uncle Neville to accompany me with promises of brandy and cigars.
Much as we tried to avoid her, it was impossible to ignore the Cavollero woman. She was surrounded in the salon car by a halo of worshippers, the chief amongst them being our own Professor Moretti. Still, it was easy to relax in such an environment (in fact, with the steady supply of pink gin, I’m afraid I may have become a little too relaxed). As the evening progressed I found myself chatting to the lady, and I must say that when one gets her off the subject of arias (much to the professor’s disgust) she really is a delightful woman. We chattered away like schoolgirls for some time about clothes, fashion, and the Italian social scene, with poor Professor Moretti trying to keep up. Uncle Neville became embroiled in a poker game with a group of diplomats from various European countries (I can’t say for sure but I suspect from his thunderous mood this morning that it did not go well. I daren’t ask him with Auntie Betty around). As two o’clock approached, Caterina swayed to her feet, winked at the professor and me, and said that she would return in a moment.
Fifteen minutes later she swooped back into the salon car, looking heart-stoppingly beautiful in a delightful silver gown, eyes darkened with mascara, wearing an ankh on a chain around her neck. All eyes turned to her, and the carriage was silent save for the rattling of the wheels. Then she began to sing.
Now, I am not, nor ever have been, a fan of the opera, but the aria that Caterina sang for us last night was so clear and rich, so beautiful and resonant, that the words etched deep into my soul. Her voice is something I shall remember for the rest of my life, and when she finished, I was embarrassed to find tears prickling the corners of my eyes. My heart aches that Walter was not with me to share the experience. The professor was openly and unashamedly weeping, and even Uncle Neville seemed to have found something unexpectedly caught in his eye. The whole carriage erupted with applause. I think I have begun to see what the professor was giddy about!
Afterwards, Caterina kindly offered us front-row tickets for the opening night of Aida, at the famous theatre in Milan (I have just asked the professor to spell it for me – the Teatro alla Scala apparently). Offered these earlier in the evening, I would have as soon attended an evening’s cabaret in an abattoir, but now I find myself rather excited at the prospect. Caterina has even offered to book us rooms in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, which the professor informs me is one of the finest hotels in Milan.
All in all, it was a fabulous evening, and a wonderful way to start our journey on the Orient Express (or the Simplon Orient Express[20], as Uncle Neville will insist on correcting me). Unfortunately, no one thought to mention to me that our first stop, in Lausanne, would be at just after six o’clock in the morning! I feel like I have barely closed my eyes. Thank heavens for strong coffee. What we are doing here I have quite forgotten, I must admit. Something to do with an old scroll, I think.
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Sunday, November 1st 1925
Lausanne is one of the most delightful places I have ever had the pleasure of visiting, and I found it all the more beautiful for having a good night’s sleep. I won’t mention the antics of the other members of our party, for the sake of dignity, but I will say that with the day’s events so far it is fortunate that at least one of us had a clear head.
The morning started pleasantly enough, with coffee and cakes at a café near the station, overlooking the expanse of Lake Geneva. It was still shrouded with mist at such an early hour, and looked inviting, mysterious and dangerous, all at once. Such a shame Alphonse was in no position to appreciate it, staying up half the night cavorting with that opera singer! At his age, he should be ashamed of himself. Apparently she is arranging rooms for us to stay in a famous hotel when we reach Milan. Well, we shall see about that.
With our coffees drunk, and my travelling companions at least partially revived, we considered our next move. Mr Wellington’s letter is addressed from a Rue St. Etienne, so I decided we would begin our investigations there. We stayed in the café for an hour or so, so that we would not disturb Mr Wellington too early in the morning, and then, after getting directions from the café owner, decided that we would travel on foot to the address mentioned in the letter, leaving our luggage in the care of the station porters.
Picturesque Lausanne may be, but we quickly learned the disadvantages of building a settlement primarily on the basis of aesthetics. The town is one giant hill. Every street is a challenge, so much so that upon reaching the top of one I felt I should plant a British flag there, and set up base camp. When even Neville began to complain that the gradient was ‘a bit rum’, we changed our minds and hailed a taxi (a horse-drawn carriage! Wonderful! They are becoming a rarity on the streets of London). Wi
thin ten minutes we found ourselves standing in a quaint, cobbled courtyard, outside an old, glass-fronted shop. The window was filled with all manner of stuffed animals, and a weathered sign hanging above the door proclaimed
‘Wellington Fils
Taxidermie
50, Rue St. Etienne’
Even with my dreadful French I understood that this meant that there were at least two brothers in the shop (or, as I put it, ‘a pair of Wellingtons’. This didn’t seem to receive quite the appreciation that I felt it deserved, but I will forgive it due to the earliness of the morning). We had not realised they were taxidermists, but I thought nothing of this until I noticed Alphonse’s concerned expression, and suddenly thought of poor Beddows. Ignoring the shiver that passed through me, I knocked upon the door.
Presently a thin, balding man with a wiry moustache appeared at the door, a Gitanes[21] clamped in his mouth. He looked surprised, as most would to find our group on their doorstep early on a Sunday morning.
‘Bonjour--’ he began, but I quickly interrupted him.
‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘I am so sorry to bother you at such an early hour, but we are looking for Mr Wellington.’
The thin man appeared to relax immediately upon hearing my words, as any Englishman naturally would upon hearing his own tongue.
‘Then you have found him,’ he said. ‘I am Edgar Wellington.’ He extended his hand to me. ‘And you are?’
We introduced ourselves, and told him that we had recently visited a town called Poissy. Wellington’s eyes widened at this, and he instantly became much friendlier, inviting us inside. We accepted, and soon found ourselves within the gloomy shop. I have never found stuffed animals particularly unsettling before, but surrounded by squirrels, foxes, rabbits, birds of all sizes and one large bear, I suddenly had to fight a strange impulse to run from the shop, and abandon our quest.
I realised that I did not wish to spend one moment longer in this place than was absolutely necessary, and I could tell that the others, especially Violet and Grace, were experiencing similar disquiet. Mr Wellington was showing off his favourite pieces to us, and he clearly was quite skilled at his craft. I don’t know whether it was due to the atmosphere in the shop, or his suddenly obsequious manner, but I took a dislike to the man. As I opened my mouth to speak, a shadow moved at the back of the shop, and a strange figure suddenly lurched into view. I let out a shriek of surprise, but it was fortunately covered by Grace’s shrill scream.
Edgar turned to look. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘This is my brother, William. I am sorry if he startled you.’
The new man took a few more careful steps forward, nodding and smiling at us. He was the same height as his brother, and had the same slim build, but his eyes were glassy and bulged slightly. As he extended his arm to Alphonse, he continued to nod his head, which I then noticed was strangely swollen at one side.
‘Head wound. Seen hundreds of them,’ Neville whispered in my ear. ‘The man’s a simpleton.’
Alphonse politely shook William’s hand. William smiled, then stood back, smiling at us and continuing to bob his misshapen head up and down.
‘My brother is mute, I’m afraid,’ Edgar said apologetically. I thought of my quip about the ‘pair of Wellingtons’ just a few moments ago, and how incongruous it now seemed having met the strange couple.
‘I think,’ Violet said, in a quiet voice, ‘that I would just like to get some air.’
‘Yes,’ Grace quickly agreed. ‘Me too.’ As politely as they could, the two fled the shop, and I felt a pang of envy that I was not leaving with them.
‘Ah, a shame,’ Edgar said, as the door closed behind them, ‘I have many fine works I was hoping to show you. Take this, for instance--’
‘We are interested,’ I said quickly, interrupting Edgar as he was lifting up a large snowy owl to show to us, ‘in the scroll which you mentioned in your letter to Doctor Lehmann in Poissy.’
Edgar raised his eyebrows as he replaced the owl on its stand. ‘Not one to beat around the bush then, eh?’ he said, smiling unpleasantly around his cigarette. ‘Fair enough. What, may I ask, is your interest in the scroll?’
‘We are collectors,’ Alphonse stated, simply, with a touch of iron in his voice suggesting that we wished to say no more on the matter. Edgar grinned again, and shrugged.
‘Fair enough,’ he said again. As he spoke, William took out a small notepad and began scribbling something on it. Presently he tore off a page, and handed it to me. Upon it, he had written the words:
‘A fine day today.’
I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Definitely a simpleton.
‘The scroll,’ Edgar said, ‘is written in rather a confusing jumble of languages, I’m afraid. As far as I can tell, it’s written in Turkish, but using Arabic script. I’ve had the devil’s own job trying to make sense of it.’
‘Where did you acquire such an item?’ Alphonse asked.
‘During the war,’ Edgar said, leaning back against his desk, and lighting up another Gitanes. ‘Got it from some Frenchie, in exchange for food. It’d been in his family for generations, apparently, but... well, needs must. I’ve always had a keen eye for such things.’
‘And where did his family get it from?’ Alphonse persisted.
Edgar shrugged. ‘Some Paris nobleman,’ he said. ‘A count, I think. My French friend’s ancestor took it from his mansion after the nobleman was arrested.’ Alphonse glanced at the colonel and me. ‘I don’t know any more than that,’ Edgar continued. ‘But I have been trying to translate the scroll for years. It seems to refer to something called the “Sedefkar Simulacrum”. But then I reckon you know all about that, don’t you?’
He fell silent, watching us all intently for our reaction. As he did so, William passed me another note. This one read:
‘Welcome to Lausanne.’
The poor man was trying to make conversation with me as best he could. I nodded at him politely, and he seemed pleased with this. Then his brother spoke again, and William turned to look at him.
‘Well, we’re all keeping our cards close to our chests today. Fair enough. Fair enough.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘All right, I’ve spent years on the thing, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. You are clearly interested, and I’m willing to part with it now.’
He looked into Alphonse’s eyes.
‘For two hundred and fifty pounds.’
Neville snorted.
‘You don’t think we’re going to buy this scroll without even seeing it?’ I asked sharply.
‘Of course not,’ Edgar replied. ‘But I must first retrieve it. It is in a safety deposit box--’
‘But surely,’ Alphonse interrupted him, ‘you have it hidden somewhere in this very shop?’
The question caught Edgar off-guard, but he was canny enough to give nothing away. His brother, however, was not so quick. As the professor asked the question, I watched William glance fearfully at the large stuffed bear that loomed in the shadows, then back to the professor. This told me all that I needed to know, and I silently congratulated Alphonse on a game well played, even though Edgar himself simply said ‘No, no I do not. I must retrieve it first, and I must warn you that there are interested parties other than yourselves--’
At that moment, the bell above the shop door tinkled again, and I turned, expecting to see Violet and Grace returning. Instead, a short, portly, immaculately-dressed gentleman entered the shop, and blinked in surprise to see the group of people that awaited him inside.
‘Ah,’ Edgar said with a wide grin. ‘Speak of the devil, and he appears! This is my old friend, the Duc d’Essientes.’ (I do hope I have the spelling correct here. French is such a flowery, difficult language.)
The duke, suavely recovering, smiled and extended a hand towards me. He was handsome, with a thick black moustache, and watery blue eyes. ‘Delighted to meet you, Madame,’ he said, in heavily-accented English.
Now, in any normal situation I would be flattered, in
terested and excited to meet such a person. I have encountered nobles on my travels from time to time, and even entertained a certain very young prince in my own home for a few hours, but I had never before met a French duke. Given prior warning, I would have flustered for hours with Grace over what to wear, how best to address him, and so on. But to encounter this man so suddenly, without warning, in that uncomfortable shop... well, I regret that I did not behave with the decorum that such a man should normally deserve.
I think that I took his hand, although I was quite unsure whether to curtsey, bow, or whatever so I am afraid that I nodded in a rather mannish fashion and simply said ‘Mrs Betty Sunderland. From Yorkshire.’
The duke did not take offence; in fact, he smiled more broadly, then leaned in and kissed my hand in a charming fashion. I could almost hear Alphonse bristling beside me, and I realised that I had forgotten to introduce my companions. I did so, as Neville and Alphonse each shook the duke’s hand in turn. The duke was warm and affable, offering us cigarettes and asking how we were, how we were travelling, and other pleasantries. He was, in short, a ray of light in the dark shop.
Perhaps that is why I almost immediately distrusted him. It may be something to do with my upbringing, but when someone is as deliberately friendly as the duke, I become suspicious. I can’t deny that my thoughts may have been coloured by that other member of European nobility whom we had recently been investigating - that frightful Fenalik character.
‘You are, I understand,’ Alphonse said to the duke after pleasantries had been exchanged, ‘also interested in the item we have come to view?’
‘Ah, the scroll,’ the duke said, nodding. ‘Yes, I have come because Edgar here told me of it. Interested, perhaps... though I would have to see it before I came to any conclusions,’ he added, looking at Edgar. ‘Occultism is, for me, really just a minor diversion. A hobby.’ His tone was indifferent, but I’ve been around long enough to know when a dog fancies a sausage, if you take my meaning.