The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Edgar agreed, much more affable now. ‘I need to retrieve it first. Well now, here’s my suggestion.’

  He went on to propose that we all meet in a local café called Le Chat Noir that evening, at around half-past seven. He would bring the scroll, and we could discuss matters then. I was taken with the idea of a civilised discussion in more pleasant surroundings. During this time, William passed me another note, but I’m afraid to say that I ignored it, and simply smiled at him. He grinned back, so it seemed to satisfy him regardless. The four of us left the shop, to find Grace and Violet outside, shivering in the misty morning air. We introduced the duke to them – of course, they had seen him enter the shop, but had failed to intercept him or, at least, give us any warning. I really do wonder what they teach young children at school these days. Not a great deal of common sense, apparently.

  ‘Well, as it appears we all have some free time,’ the duke announced once we were all acquainted with one another, ‘why do I not furnish you all with a tour of my town? There are many wonderful sights to see,’ he said, smiling.

  I decided to decline the duke’s offer. I had other plans. In any case, someone had to find us a hotel for the night. The duke gave me the name of a hotel which he recommended, the Moulin Vert, and I told Grace to make some notes from the tour for me, in case I missed anything interesting. We agreed that I would meet my companions again at the hotel. We left in separate taxis, and as soon as the other was out of sight, I asked my driver to stop the carriage and wait whilst I approached a young boy, with skinned knees and a bright red face. Obviously a truant, but this was just the sort of tyke I needed for my little mission! Tempting him with a pound note (I had nothing smaller on me, but it certainly did the trick) I asked him if he and his friends would be able to watch over the Wellingtons’ shop for the rest of the day. My faltering French and his poor English were a barrier, but the task was a simple one and he seemed to understand, agreeing to report back to me later at the Moulin Vert.

  My secret mission accomplished, I travelled to the hotel, where I booked rooms for us all, and where I sit now, writing this entry and awaiting the return of my companions from their no doubt fascinating tour of the city with the Duc d’Essientes.

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

  Dear Diary,

  Well, we have finally escaped the clutches of the evil duke!

  All right, perhaps that is putting things a little strongly; the poor man meant no harm after all, and it is obvious that he is proud of his town, but my Lord what a tedious tour he took us on this afternoon!

  I had briefly, and as it turns out vainly, hoped that when our elders emerged from that stuffy old shop and announced we would be shown around Lausanne, that we would be visiting shops, and fashionable cafés - the sort of places where I could discuss and advertise Walter’s magic show, and relax after a very early morning. Instead, the duke ‘treated’ us to a visit to an ancient cathedral (big and rather pretty, but how many cathedrals can one get excited about?), and then dragged us below to show off the crypts! I couldn’t tell you if it was pretty or not because it was so dark and damp down there that it took all my efforts not to trip over or emerge covered in cobwebs.

  Next stop was – joy of joys – a museum, filled with coins, vases, medals and other old rubbish. Why, when people talk about the ‘sights’ of their city do they usually mean things made by people who have been dead for hundreds of years? It’s like being invited to meet someone’s family and then being taken on a tour of the graveyard where they’re buried! Morbid and depressing - not to mention dull.

  At around one o’clock the professor announced that he would be leaving our trek, and would meet us at the hotel later. My sudden hope of escaping with him was soon dashed when he announced that he had some investigations to carry out in the library attached to the museum. Faced with the miserable choice of sitting in a room filled with books and trying to be quiet, or continuing with the duke, I decided on the latter; at least I would get some fresh air (provided that we didn’t creep about in any more ancient tombs) and would have Grace and Uncle Neville to keep me company. And so the tour continued. A very long afternoon, all in all. I can’t believe Auntie managed to clear off early! She must have known what we were in for.

  On the way to the hotel, Uncle Neville admitted that he had managed to doze off whilst we were in the crypts. I had no idea he could fall asleep standing up.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Monday November 2nd, 1925

  It is a dashed cold morning to be sitting here, waiting for the train. The station is heated, so they say, but it still feels cold to me. I find that writing has a way of warming one up, or at least distracting from the outside environment, so I will try it now as at least one of us should try and stay awake.

  By the time we arrived at the hotel (I forget the name – something French, I think) we had very little time to prepare before our meeting with this Wellington fellow, and the duke. Even though Wellington was British, I didn’t trust him one bit, and therefore was unsurprised when we arrived at the restaurant[22] precisely on time to discover that neither he nor the duke had arrived. The five of us had no sooner sat at a table and begun to look at a menu when we were approached by a tall, blond-haired young man, who strolled up to us as if he had known us for years.

  ‘Good evening, my friends!’ he said, his gaze lingering particularly on Violet. ‘My name is Max von Wertheim, and I must apologise for my friends the duke and Mr Wellington. They have both been delayed by last minute business, and will be here as soon as they are permitted.’

  Now, I must add here that it was not simply the heavy accent or the obvious Prussian ancestry that gave me the measure of the man. I’ve come across chaps like him in the army; layabouts, who swagger through life relying on charm and good looks rather than honest work. It only took me a few seconds to see through him. Sadly, it has been my experience that the female mind takes longer to recognise a bounder, and this is just as it was last night.

  Betty asked von Wertheim to join us at our meal, despite my attempts to dissuade her, whereupon he proceeded, quite uninvited, to furnish us with his life story; some rot about an ancestral fortune, and an evil brother who is preventing him from claiming it. During the meal, when it became clear that Betty had quickly tired of his patter, and that Violet was a happily married woman, von Wertheim concentrated his charm on poor Grace, who rapidly became quite taken with the man.

  I do not say this in a mean-spirited way, but Grace is a young lady who is quite unused to male attention, and so is particularly vulnerable to this kind of rubbish. By the time we were drinking our coffee, with no sign of either the duke or Wellington, the rest of us had fallen into a kind of glazed stupor whilst the idiot man continued to prattle his nonsense to his rapt audience of one.

  After several hours of this, von Wertheim confirmed my worst suspicions. When the bill arrived, he stood up and with a mock expression of surprise exclaimed that he had ‘left his wallet at home,’ and casually asked Betty ‘Would you be so kind?’ – this after he had ordered two bottles of finest champagne during the evening. Finally tiring of this fool, I made my excuses and followed him as he headed to the toilet, whereupon I cornered him and suggested that it was time for him to leave. True to his heritage, he showed himself to be a coward as well as a cad, and quickly left the restaurant. He failed even to say goodbye to our party, upsetting Grace but filling the rest of us with relief.

  At midnight, the waiters told us that they would be closing the restaurant for the night. We had seen nothing of our potential business colleagues, and standing on the cold street outside we considered our options. Most of us were of the opinion that we should retire, and revisit the shop first thing in the morning, but Betty was very insistent, in the way only she can be, that we needed to revisit the Wellingtons’ straight away, as she was certain that something strange was afoot. Quite how she convinced all of us th
at this was the best plan I can’t now remember, but I suspect it had a lot to do with the champagne, the chill in the air, and the prospect of some excitement despite the lateness of the hour.

  And so we found ourselves, at a quarter to one in the morning, standing outside the taxidermist’s that we had left only hours before. The restaurant, it transpired, was not far at all from the Wellingtons’ place and so we had walked from there – in retrospect, a fortunate decision.

  As we stood in the square, the darkness broken only by a fitful street-corner gas lamp, a small shape approached Betty – some kind of street urchin. I was about to shoo the boy when to my surprise Betty stooped down to him and began a whispered conversation, as if they had met before. The boy jabbered quickly and nervously, making several gestures including holding his arms out wide and puffing his cheeks up, then holding his finger under his nose like a moustache. It was perfectly obvious to whom the lad was referring.

  Betty slipped the boy a few coins and he disappeared into the night. Observing my raised eyebrows she remarked ‘Oh, don’t be so prudish, Neville. You of all people should know that reconnaissance is half the battle!’

  ‘Well then,’ I said, sighing, ‘what has he told you?’

  ‘The duke,’ she said. ‘He has been here, tonight, while we were stuck with that abominable man. Sorry, Grace,’ she added, at her harsh intake of breath.

  ‘Then they have done some kind of deal,’ Violet said. ‘We’ve lost the scroll.’ She did not sound especially upset at the prospect.

  ‘Hm,’ Moretti said, thoughtfully. ‘Well, we shall see. Knock on the door, Mrs Sunderland.’

  This whole enterprise suddenly seemed very foolish, but before I could say so Betty had reached up and rapped sharply on the door of the shop. It swung open, slowly and silently, until the jangling of the little bell above the door made the others jump. She looked round at the rest of us, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Betty,’ I began, ‘Perhaps we should--’

  But she was already inside.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Monday November 2nd 1925 (Ctd.)

  Moretti has just turned up at the station. He refuses to divulge anything about whatever errand he was on but he has that twinkle in his eye that he develops when he thinks he has done something clever. Let us hope that he is right. The trip has had too many surprises already.

  Now, I have lost my train of thought. Where was I? Ah, yes. The shop.

  It was damnably dark inside, and this being something of an impromptu expedition neither the professor nor I had come equipped with electric torches. The dim street light cast long shadows into the depths of the shop, and the reflections of the stuffed animals’ glazed eyes did nothing to dispel the nervousness of my companions. Fumbling about in the darkness, trying to find a light switch, Moretti knocked over several birds, which crashed to the ground with a dreadful cacophony, but there was no response or reply from further inside.

  Muttering some Italian swear words under his breath, he closed the door carefully, whilst Grace and Violet replaced the stuffed animals as best they could.

  ‘Mr Wellington?’ Betty called towards the stairs behind the counter. ‘Are you there?’

  Still no response was forthcoming. She began to ascend the staircase, and I had little choice but to swiftly follow her. It was pitch dark at the top of the stairs, and we could only just make out the outlines of several doors around us. Violet joined us as Betty scrabbled on the wall and, enjoying more luck than Moretti had downstairs, flicked the switch that she found there. Electric light filled the hallway and illuminated a sight that the women really should not have seen.

  Betty gasped, and Violet stifled a scream. The door opposite the stairs was open, revealing the Wellingtons’ small kitchen. Pots and pans were scattered all about, and in the centre of the room the poor simpleton William Wellington lay on his back, an expression of utmost terror upon his face. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that he was quite dead.

  Betty and I cautiously approached the body. William was surrounded by a halo of blood, his fixed eyes staring at the ceiling, reminding me horribly of the stuffed creatures’ glassy expressions below. His shirt was ripped and torn in several places, and pulled open at the neck. His trousers and stomach were covered in blood and the clothes there had been shredded. The real horror, however, was his chest - flayed of skin and cut down almost to the bone, so that white and gleaming ribs were visible through the gore. Betty turned away as I knelt beside the body. A couple of objects were visible in the congealing blood by William’s side; a long, sharp knife, probably from the Wellingtons’ own store, and William’s notepad, stained but not completely submerged. I picked it up with my handkerchief as Moretti entered.

  ‘Dio Mio,’ he muttered, but I doubt that God had anything to do with what had happened in this room. I have seen far worse things in the war, but to be visited by such horrors again, in peacetime, was an unpleasant shock.

  I cleaned off the pad as best I could, and examined the top page. Four letters were visible, hastily scrawled and almost illegible because of the shaking letters and the staining. Four letters forming a clue which, by now, was no longer needed. Seeing them, I felt a pang of sorrow for the simple man, for the unfairness of war, and for the last desperate moments of his life, wasted in a futile gesture.

  The four letters were a D, a U, a C and a K.

  ‘The duke,’ I murmured, and Moretti nodded wordlessly, staring at the corpse. Violet and Grace stood at the top of the stairs, stunned into silence. The game was suddenly real to them.

  ‘Edgar!’ Betty exclaimed at once. ‘We must find him! He may still be alive!’

  The search did not take long. Edgar lay on his bed, fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, his hands by his sides. His eyes were closed, and he looked peaceful, but life had long since departed from his body. Violet discovered a needle and syringe on the bedside cabinet, and Betty found the morphine kit and the needle marks on his left arm.

  ‘The duke must have found him asleep,’ she said, ‘and given him an overdose.’

  ‘How could you know--’ Violet began, but Betty quickly pointed to a single, fresh needle mark on his right arm.

  ‘William let the duke in, I suppose,’ I said. ‘They knew each other well enough. Perhaps the duke found Edgar in a morphine stupor, and decided to finish the job. I thought he had the look of an addict.’

  ‘But why would he kill Edgar when he wanted to find the scroll?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Betty, who had been kneeling beside the bed, ‘because he had already found it.’ She pulled out a small wooden lockbox from beneath it. The lock was smashed and the box was empty.

  ‘So now the duke has the scroll?’ Violet stared at the still body on the bed, and quickly glanced at the door to the kitchen, which the professor had thoughtfully closed. ‘Why would anyone do this? Just for some tatty old piece of paper?’ Her voice was shrill and I worried that she was on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘He has “a” scroll,’ Moretti said from the corner of the room, where he had been studying some paperwork on Edgar’s desk. ‘But I do not think that he has “the” scroll.’ He handed me a piece of paper that he had discovered.

  Receipt for –

  1 block sealing wax

  5 sheets fine parchment

  ‘It seems that Mr Wellington was keen to construct a counterfeit scroll,’ Moretti said, and I nodded, handing the paper to Grace and Violet. ‘Perhaps this is the one that the duke found.’

  ‘So the real scroll may still be here, somewhere,’ I said. ‘But where?’

  Suddenly Betty stood up, straightened her blouse, and headed for the stairs, a determined look on her face.

  ‘Betty?’ I said. ‘Do you know something?’

  She marched quickly down the stairs, followed by the rest of our bemused troupe, and walked towards a large stuffed bear.

  ‘There!’ she said.

  I thought she may have finally snap
ped, but Moretti, shrugging, walked forwards and produced a large knife from somewhere[23] and slit the bear from chin to belly. Quickly he and Betty began pulling large wads of stuffing from its guts, and within moments Betty exclaimed with triumph. She brandished a small, yellowed piece of parchment, wrapped up with ribbon and sealed with wax.

  ‘Is it the real one? How did you know where to- ?’ I asked. Betty winked at me infuriatingly.

  ‘You really should pay more attention to your surroundings, Neville,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you read your Conan Doyle?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Violet said. ‘We’ve got the scroll. Can we get out of here, now, please?’

  We all agreed that it would now be prudent to leave Lausanne as soon as possible. I returned to the hotel to retrieve our baggage, whilst the others headed directly for the station – all except Moretti, who stated enigmatically that he had ‘some things to attend to’, and that he would meet us there.

  And here we sit. The others are sleeping whilst we await the train, but I think it is sensible that one of us stays awake. Moretti has returned, but will not be drawn on what he was doing, saying that it would be safer if we did not know.

  Violet and Grace are frightened now. Their ‘holiday’ has taken a dark turn – and they are still unaware of Beddows’s awful fate. Perhaps Professor Smith was less of an old fool than I thought. What if his paranoid rants were real? Could anything else explain what happened to his servant, and to the Wellingtons?

  I fear we are getting into something far over our heads. Betty is as stubborn as a mule and will see this through to the end, I’m sure, but to have dragged the young ones along with us... I must speak to her. There may be time to dissuade her from taking this foolish trip any further, before something dreadful happens.