The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  The scroll is a rambling, insane document, in which events are not set down with any form or order, making it difficult to follow even in translation. It graphically details the torture and skinning of human captives of Sedefkar. A sample passage is included below.

  ‘I have seen the powers which stalk the night and strike fear in the hearts of all those that worship the false god. I know Him and I worship Him. The Skinless One has spoken to me. He whispered secret words into my heart of hearts and I know now what I must do. I have seen it in visions and It is all that my Lord said It was. In my dreams I have seen Its perfection striding above the ruins of cities. Kings and countries have fallen before It. Even the gods must fall before It. I recognised It the first time I beheld It as an object of power. Power that would bring the world to its knees. It glistened like the finest pearls. It woke when I flayed alive the wretch who sought to take my treasure from me. That night He came to me for the first time and told me what I should do. I meditated before Its glory. All praise to the One without Skin. I performed the seventeen devotions and opened It for the first time. Within the artefact was soft and smooth. As I ran my hand across Its inner surface it felt like the skin of a newborn babe. I offered four children as sacrifice to my Master. Then I used it for the first time. In His wisdom the Lord of Naked Flesh had made it to my height. In all modesty I believe it was made in my image. Blessed is the chosen of the Skinless One. I have been careful to keep it untarnished. The substance is the colour of purity and should not be tainted by that which is unclean.’

  End of part three

  Part Four – Milan

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Tuesday, November 3rd, 1925

  Dear Diary,

  The professor’s death has cast a dreadful pall over our trip. Auntie Betty is absolutely beside herself; locked in her room, refusing to come out (with, I suspect, a large bottle of brandy). Even Uncle Neville seems to be shaken.

  I must say, I am not really clear in my own mind what actually happened to the poor professor. It seems to have been a freak accident in the dining car where both he and a man that Auntie Betty had just met somehow caught fire. When Grace and I heard the commotion and rushed from our compartment, along with many other passengers, to the dining car, it was to find Auntie Betty and Uncle Neville standing distressed over... well, Professor Moretti. The train was pulling into the station at Milan at around the same time, and the staff of the Orient Express, impeccable as always, quickly cleared away the other passengers, and covered the more distressing sights with linen sheets whilst they summoned a doctor.

  Auntie was muttering and crying something about the ‘evil duke’, and how he had come to take revenge upon our friend. Thinking she was delirious with grief, I was surprised to see that Uncle Neville was nodding gravely. Apparently the duke somehow ‘arrived’ in the dining car demanding the scroll. The professor burned it in front of him... and that’s when the story becomes confusing. Auntie Betty swears that this other man, Colonel Herring, had already been burned – somehow by the duke setting him on fire. When the duke saw what Professor Moretti did to the scroll, he burned him too, in anger, and then left the carriage by means of dropping a loop of rope over his head.

  Uncle Neville’s story is similar, but he is less convinced that the duke had anything to do with the fire in either case, and didn’t see what happened to him afterwards as he was trying to help our friend.

  To me, it seems likely that Professor Moretti was trying to prove a point with the scroll, and started a fire that somehow got out of hand – a story which the Wagons-Lits staff agree with. It must have been a traumatic experience for Uncle Neville and Auntie Betty, and it is very easy to get confused in this sort of situation. As for the duke’s ‘mysterious’ disappearance – well, that sounds like some form of misdirection, distracting the audience’s attention with the rope. I’m sure Walter could puzzle that one out in moments. Oh, I wish he were here! He would do a far better job of comforting Auntie Betty than I am!

  In any case, a doctor soon arrived on the scene – apparently he had been waiting to board the train. He was a young English doctor who had been working in a hospital in Milan. I forget his name – Winstanlee, I think – but I’m afraid to say that his bedside manner left something to be desired. He was extremely jovial, seemingly unfazed by the sights before him. Perhaps he felt a cheerful outlook would help Auntie Betty, but it did rather the opposite. He examined the bodies and all too quickly pronounced them dead, to a fresh burst of tears from Auntie Betty. He patted her on the back, saying ‘Chin up old girl!’, and when he learned the dead colonel’s name he actually remarked ‘Oh dear, smoked Herring, eh?’

  If looks were bullets then I think that Uncle Neville would have shot him through the heart on the spot. The dining car staff took control of the situation and quickly ushered us to a private room in the station whilst arrangements were made to remove the bodies from the car.

  The rest of the day passed in something of a blur. I was pleased and surprised to discover that the opera singer, Caterina Cavollero, had left a message for us at the station that she had indeed been true to her word and booked us rooms at the Galleria Vitorio Emanuele. It hit me then, thinking of how overjoyed the professor would have been at this news, that he was gone. I took some time to compose myself, after which I realised that the stationmaster was trying to tell me something. It turns out that after leaving the station, Caterina had disappeared, and fears were growing for the diva’s safety.

  I was so dizzy with bad news that I took this one on the chin. After that, we received our luggage, caught a taxi to the Galleria, and tried to decide what on earth to do next.

  The Galleria, by the way – what a spectacle! I’ve never stayed anywhere like it! It could even compete with the Orient Express! It is built in the shape of a giant cross, covered over by a wondrous dome of steel and glass, three storeys high. The top floor is for the apartments, including our own, with a marvellous balcony overlooking... some square or other. I’m afraid that Grace doesn’t know the name of it, and Uncle Neville is in his room, trying to make sense of the professor’s notebooks (and from the amount of muttering and cursing coming from his door, not proceeding very well! Unfortunately it seems the professor kept his journals in Italian) but the sight is highly impressive. The square, and the Galleria, are packed with people. On the floors below ours are shops for clothes, jewellery, books, the finest leather goods, and marvellous cafés – none of which we have visited. Torture! I know we should mourn, but I don’t think the professor would want us to be unhappy, would he? Sitting here, knowing all those amazing clothes are being sold right below me – well, it’s like being taken around Harrod’s Food Hall with my mouth sewn up!

  The suite that was reserved for the diva, Caterina, lies empty and unoccupied across the way. Beautiful though it is, the apartment seems rather cold and depressing today. Grace and I will see to the elders for the rest of the day, and make sure they are all right, but tomorrow, well... we are sorely in need of some shopping to lighten our spirits (and I don’t mean the kind of spirits that Auntie Betty has taken to of late).

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Tuesday, November 3rd 1925

  I must be stronger.

  I realise now quite what we’re up against. The forces. The darkness. Alphonse would have wanted me to carry on. He would have wanted all of us to carry on. In a funny sort of way, I can still feel him, almost closer now than he was before the duke came. Perhaps I wasn’t taking things seriously enough before. I know Neville feels that I have brought us all into danger, but if Julius was right, then we are all in danger anyway.

  We must finish what we have started.

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Wednesday, November 4th, 1925

  Dear Diary,

  I don’t know if it’s the weather, or the time of year, or something else, but... there seems to be something terribly wrong with this city.

  I didn’t notice at first, so wrapped up in my own g
rief, but now we have had a chance to explore a little...

  Whenever the professor talked about his home city (which he did often) his eyes lit up and his whole body became animated, so that I would wonder why he ever left Milan in the first place. He talked of the vibrancy, the people, the feeling of the place, as if it was a living thing. Well, after today, one has to wonder quite how much life it has left.

  I am getting a little ahead of myself. Where to start? The day dawned grey, cold and miserable, which reflected the mood within our suite too. Auntie Betty refused to come out to breakfast, and remains locked in her room even now. Uncle Neville did appear, but looked terribly unkempt and red-eyed. I think he’d been up all night trying to make sense of the professor’s journals, but he hasn’t been able to get very far. He must have been in a bad mood because he did little more than poke suspiciously at his boiled egg and complain that ‘They just don’t do it right over here.’

  After breakfast, he said that he would try and talk some sense into Auntie Betty. I didn’t fancy his chances much (Grace muttered that she didn’t have all that much sense to begin with) but we agreed to leave him at the suite whilst Grace and I explored Milan. Uncle Neville said that he would start to make arrangements for the professor; see if he could track down any family, and talk to some funeral directors.

  After agreeing this plan, Grace and I made ourselves ready to go out into the city (I can’t bring myself to write what Grace was wearing! You’d think that she had learned nothing shopping with me in Paris. I suppose I must go back to basics with her) but as we approached the door to leave, Auntie Betty called from her room.

  ‘Remember the statue! We must find the piece in Milan! Remember!’ and other such nonsense. The last thing on my mind was tracking down another piece of that wretched object. I was hoping that Auntie had forgotten the whole stupid idea. Uncle Neville called reassuring things back through the doorway whilst we made our exit into the Galleria.

  The building is quite as spectacular as it appeared yesterday. Right opposite our suite is a huge, wondrous mural painted on the wall, something to do with ancient Egypt I think. I’m sure the professor could have told us more. Statues adorn all the Galleria’s walls, and the whole place is simply beautiful.

  Before we could descend into the Galleria proper, Grace rushed to the reception desk to see if we had received any messages. She looked rather excited when the clerk said that we had. He produced four tickets for the opening night of ‘Aida’ from a pigeonhole behind him, compliments of the still-missing diva, Caterina. Grace looked crestfallen and asked him to check again. Eventually I managed to drag her away but the incident put her in a foul mood for the rest of the morning, as she responded rather poorly to my fashion suggestions. Honestly, if she can’t learn how to dress properly after visiting Paris and Milan, then I don’t believe that there is any hope for her at all!

  We had coffee in a delightful place called ‘Biffi’s’, and it was whilst I was sitting there that I started to wonder if our grey mood was contagious. Everyone seemed listless, tired and uninterested, including our waitress – I had to repeat my request for more milk several times! The coffee itself was lovely, however, and I managed to track down an English copy of ‘Il Corriere della Sera’, a Milanese newspaper, for Uncle Neville to read when I returned. Perusing it whilst I drank my coffee, I noticed an article on the disappearance of Caterina. I was sad to think of such a lively, bright creature as her missing – she certainly would have brought some life to this place! I discussed the matter with Grace, and we decided (with some reluctance on Grace’s part) that we would make sure that we all attended the opera the following night, as it surely was what the professor would have wanted.

  This decided, we began to look around the Galleria. Apparently, the Milanese call this place ‘Milan’s Drawing Room’, because it is such a popular place for meeting and dining. And so many shops! They were spectacular, and the clothes were so beautiful it took my breath away - but it was hard to become too enthusiastic about them because the shop assistants were all so miserable you would think they were all in mourning themselves. In one of the bookshops I picked up a book in English about Teatro alla Scala, the famous opera house, as I thought it wouldn’t hurt to know a little about the place before we went there. Thumbing through it, I found little fashion advice other than the very obvious. The author of the book was more interested in relaying some of the legends of the place, such as the belief that singing along with an aria on the opening night can cause one’s fondest wish to be granted. Grace said that she hoped we could fix it so that we had never come on this ‘stupid trip’ in the first place. Ignoring her, I said it was time to leave the Galleria and explore Milan.

  The plague of apathy was, if anything, worse once we left the Galleria. Some places looked as if a bomb had hit them. Rubble lay in the streets, and grey dust covered everything. The people wandered the streets morosely. I’ve seen livelier bunches in a funeral home! I wonder if this has anything to do with the new government, and this ‘Il Duce’ fellow that Uncle Neville has been moaning about. The professor always spoke very highly of him however (when he spoke of him at all – the subject was generally avoided because it led to some blazing rows between the two old warhorses).

  It’s as if the whole city has come down with what the French would call ‘ennui’. It is certainly most frustrating when one is trying to find a dress for the opera! I’m almost glad that the professor did not live to see his home city in such a state.

  Well, by the time we had decided upon our dresses, as well as a delightful sky-blue outfit for Auntie Betty, it was beginning to get dark. Fashion can be very wearing, especially when you have to supervise everyone else’s dress sense too! Apparently there are other sights to see in Milan, but Grace and I both felt that we had seen more than enough cathedrals on this trip already, and decided to return to the Galleria. Auntie had still not emerged, but had apparently taken some food into her room. Uncle Neville was hopeful she would be feeling more like herself in the morning. He had failed to find any of Professor Moretti’s relatives, but had made arrangements with a local undertaker. The funeral was to take place the day after tomorrow, and Auntie had at least agreed to attend that.

  And as I write she has just unlocked her door and come out into the living area. More later.

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Wednesday, November 4th, 1925

  Dear Diary,

  Auntie Betty is certainly feeling better. After emerging from her room earlier she asked Uncle Neville how the arrangements for the professor’s funeral were coming along. She just about exploded when he told her the price. I tried suggesting to her that we didn’t really need to worry so much about money at the moment, and she looked at me as if I had suggested that it wouldn’t really have mattered if we lost the war - much more like her usual self.

  We ordered some tea and decided that we would head down into the Galleria in the evening to eat at a restaurant that the professor had been planning to take us to. Auntie looked sad, and her eyes were red and puffy, but nothing that a little make-up wouldn’t fix; I was just happy to see her out of her room. It’s not healthy for a woman of her age to spend a lot of time alone (especially when I know what ‘medicines’ she keeps in her little first aid box).

  Shortly after tea, Uncle Neville retired to his room to continue his study of the professor’s journals, whilst Grace and myself helped Auntie get ready for the meal. Auntie was very brave and trying not to get upset. I told her all that stiff-upper-lip rubbish might work well for Uncle Neville, but it wasn’t natural. It’s better to let things out, Walter always says, and the three of us sat in a little circle holding hands and crying like babies. Please forgive me, dear diary, if I am not writing much about the professor here, but I don’t want to set myself off again. After our outburst, we all felt much better, and made ourselves ready for dinner.

  Uncle Neville wore his dress uniform (as he always does, for formal occasions. Honestly, men really don
’t know how easy they have it!). We walked down the stairs to Savini, the restaurant attached to the Galleria that the professor had recommended. The hotel had made reservations for us, and it goes without saying that the food was superb. I don’t think I have had so many fine meals so close together in all my life. Uncle Neville was worried that it would be ‘all pasta’, but he looked very pleased with his saddle of lamb when it arrived. My dish was chicken baked in breadcrumb batter, with asparagus tips in cream – absolutely delicious - whilst Auntie’s trout grilled in butter, and Grace’s duckling in liqueur were second to none.

  I realise, diary, that I am starting to sound something like a food critic here! I think I am concentrating on the food because I don’t wish to write about the conversation that we had over this sumptuous meal, but if I am not honest with you, then who can I be honest with?

  The meal started well as we reminisced about the professor; the good times and adventures we shared together. Uncle Neville reminded us of the strange auction[28], and how the professor was the only one who worked out what was going on, whilst Auntie told us a story of a particular escapade in Cairo that I can scarcely repeat now[29]. All of us were laughing and relaxed, until Auntie brought up the subject of the Simulacrum.

  ‘So,’ she said, glass of Chateauneuf du Pape in her hand, turning to Grace and myself, ‘have you tracked it down, yet?’