by Nick Marsh
We didn’t need to ask what she meant. Uncle Neville rolled his eyes, while I tried to think of an answer.
‘Betty,’ Uncle Neville said, but she gave him a withering look.
‘Don’t ‘Betty’ me, Neville! Have you forgotten why we’re here? Have you all forgotten what he died for?’ This last was directed at Grace and me.
Grace muttered ‘No, Mrs Sunderland,’ whilst toying with her salad. I looked around the restaurant nervously, but no one else seemed even to have noticed Auntie’s raised voice. Aside from our party there were only a couple of other occupied tables.
‘Well, then,’ Auntie said, her voice quieter. ‘According to the notes, a piece of the statue was sold to a merchant here. Have you seen any sign of it in the city? Have you any clues?’
I didn’t really want to tell Auntie how long we had spent shopping for clothes – she certainly didn’t complain when she saw the delightful ball gown I had bought her – but I had to admit that we hadn’t really looked very hard.
Auntie frowned and went to pour herself another glass of wine, but the bottle was empty. She clicked her fingers for the waiter, but nothing happened. She practically had to shout to get service, and I felt rather sorry for the poor chap when he did eventually turn up. After administering a verbal thrashing to the man, she turned back to us.
‘Honestly, I’ve never had such poor service in my life! Even in Eastbourne. The food is excellent, but- ’
‘It’s not just here,’ I interrupted. ‘The whole city is like it. Everyone’s just wandering round like they’re in a daze.’
‘Bloody lazy foreigners,’ Uncle said, predictably. Grace and I both knew what was coming next so we chimed in together with ‘Would never have happened in my regiment,’ before he could say it. He raised his eyebrows but was momentarily stunned into silence. Then he muttered ‘Well, it wouldn’t have,’ before attacking his lamb once more.
‘The whole city?’ Auntie asked. ‘But the professor always said what a lively place it was.’
‘Well, something’s changed,’ I said. ‘They’re moping round like they’re all at a funeral.’ An unfortunate turn of phrase, but Auntie didn’t seem to notice. She was staring into her glass of wine, thoughtfully.
‘Honestly,’ I carried on, ‘If they’re always like this it’s a wonder they managed to build the city at all. I hope they put more effort into the opera tomorrow night! All that money on ball gowns would be wasted otherwise!’
I said this rather pointedly to Auntie, who hadn’t yet inquired how much her dress had cost, let alone make any indication that she was intending to pay for it.
‘It’s like the whole city is... well, it’s as if they’re all missing something.’
‘Do you remember,’ Auntie said, looking up from her wine finally, ‘Doctor Lehmann and his family? What was wrong with them, I mean?’
‘Wrong with them?’ I said. ‘Nothing, they were perfectly charming--’
‘Their arms!’ Grace interrupted. ‘They all had something wrong with their left arm, just like the statue!’
Auntie Betty nodded. I’m ashamed to say it hadn’t even occurred to me.
‘Pure coincidence, Betty, surely you can’t think that statue had anything to do with--’
Uncle Neville fell silent again when Auntie stared at him.
‘The feeling I get,’ she said, ‘From that... thing in the trunk. I’m sure you all feel it too. Isn’t it similar to the atmosphere in here, now?’ She looked around the silent restaurant. Despite our animated discussion, the other diners had barely looked up from their tables, but morosely ate their food like cows chewing the cud. She had a point.
‘Violet, you said yourself that it is as if the city is missing something. Something like its head?’
‘No,’ said Grace, suddenly, almost spitting out a mouthful of duckling. ‘Not its head. Its heart!’
Auntie Betty clicked her fingers. ‘That’s it! That’s what this place is missing! There’s something wrong with the heart of Milan! It can only mean one thing... the torso is here! The torso of the Sedefkar Simulacrum!’ Grace nodded slowly, though a little unsure, whilst Uncle Neville looked at me.
‘Well, there is definitely something wrong here, I wrote it in my diary,’ I said.
‘Oh, not you as well, Violet,’ Uncle Neville said. ‘I thought you were level-headed! Think what you’re saying! That this whole city is acting like death warmed up because of a piece of porcelain?’ He turned to Auntie. ‘It’s insane!’
She opened her mouth to speak, but he carried on.
‘Now listen, I know we’re all shocked and upset about what happened to Professor Moretti. But to suggest that a statue can... it doesn’t even make sense! If the arm was somehow having an effect on the Lehmanns, it was only the three of them. How can this torso be affecting the whole place? If it’s here, it’s been here for hundreds of years. Why is the city only miserable now?’
Auntie Betty frowned, unsure.
‘What if it’s on display, somewhere?’ Grace asked. ‘Somewhere public, like a museum? It would explain why so many people have been exposed to it, and if it’s a recent exhibit, that might be why it hasn’t happened before.’
‘That’s brilliant, Grace!’ Auntie said, and Grace smiled brightly. ‘Of course, that must be it! Well, we have all day tomorrow, don’t we? You’re right, Grace, it must be hiding in plain sight, it’s the only explanation that fits. Tomorrow, we’ll check all the museums and galleries in the city!’
The smile quickly disappeared from Grace’s face. I kicked her under the table and mouthed ‘thanks’, wishing that Auntie was still in her room, mourning.
We finished the rest of the meal more or less in silence, which if nothing else helped us fit in with the other patrons of the restaurant. When we returned to our rooms, a shock awaited us. As we passed the reception area, we saw several dark-shirted men talking to the clerk on the desk, and I didn’t need Professor Moretti there to tell me that they were policemen of some kind. The clerk saw us and said something to one of the men, who waved us over. The man, tall in a dark blue shirt with a severe expression and moustache, started talking quickly and rather aggressively in Italian at us. The clerk translated and, in a manner which I’m sure was much more congenial than the uniformed thug barking at us intended, explained apologetically that there had been a break in, and the policeman wished to know where we had been.
Auntie Betty quickly assumed her innocent, indignant and highly offended stance that she naturally chooses when accused of doing something illegal (which seems to happen more often than one would expect for an elderly Yorkshire widow) and gave as good as she got back to the tall man, all ‘visitors to your country, is this how you treat us?’ and so on. The officious young thug could see he wasn’t going to get very far and, after a derisory look over the rest of us, left us with the clerk, who explained what had happened.
We were naturally concerned that it had been our rooms which had been burgled (though, if I am honest, dear diary, I felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect that we might have lost the arm of the statue, and so would have to abandon our mission) but it turned out that it was the Diva’s reserved suite, opposite ours, which had been the scene of the crime. Someone had apparently picked the door lock and ransacked the place during the evening. Poor Caterina! Is it not enough that she had disappeared, that someone has to try and steal her possessions too? The clerk promised us that the security in the Galleria had been increased, and that there was no prospect of such an event occurring again. Not entirely reassured, we returned to our rooms. Auntie Betty began looking through her travel books, investigating which places would be best to visit in the morning, whilst Grace and I retired to our rooms.
So, tomorrow, a day of museums, galleries, churches, and probably even libraries. I’m sure they’ll find an excuse to drag me through every museum in Europe before this trip is done!
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Wednesday, November 4th, 1925
D
amn Moretti! Couldn’t he have seen fit to write his journals in English? He spoke the language well enough. Was he trying to hide something from all of us?
I am tired, and rather worried. I get irritable when I don’t get enough sleep, and I have spent most of the last couple of days trying to make some sense out of Moretti’s crabbed handwriting.
The loss has hit Betty as hard as I feared it would. She has always had a soft spot for Moretti, and I do admit he could be charming when he needed to be. Sadly, this hasn’t shaken one iota of her resolve. When I try to mention my concerns about bringing the children[30] with us, she shakes her head and mutters ‘nonsense, they can look after themselves’. Like the poor professor could? Stubborn old mule.
When I’m tired, I think about Lilly. She would have enjoyed these wonderful cities so much more than I; she always did have an eye for beauty. Heaven knows why she married me.
There, the melancholy. Comes with too little sleep. I was writing this to set down some scraps that I have managed to glean from Moretti’s journal.
The duke is mentioned many times towards the end. Moretti was obviously concerned about him as an enemy - rightly so as it transpired. There also seems to be mention of someone else – did Moretti think we had more than one enemy?
In either case, the burglary across the hall is a concern. What if it was nothing at all to do with Cavollero? What if it was intended for us? Undisciplined rabble are prone to mistakes, and it does not seem unlikely to me that they may simply have broken into the wrong room. We know that Professor Smith was assaulted in London, and it seems unlikely that this was the duke in person; therefore the duke must be part of a larger organisation. Could he have warned people in Milan that we were coming?
It doesn’t feel safe here.
I need to sleep.
From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Thursday, November 5th, 1925
Dear Diary,
I realise as I write this that it is Guy Fawkes’s Day back in England. I don’t suppose they celebrate that here. It’s probably for the best - fireworks are the last thing our little group needs just at the moment!
Well, what a day. If I see another painting, jar or Roman column I honestly think that I’ll scream! In my last entry I wrote that I thought that they’d drag me to every museum in Europe – well, it feels like they’ve done it all in one day.
To rub salt into the wound, Grace managed to wriggle out of the whole thing. At breakfast, Uncle Neville announced that he thought someone should stay behind to watch over our apartments, in case the burglars came back. It seemed unlikely to me but before I could think, Grace quickly volunteered to be our sentry. Auntie Betty agreed, much to the chagrin of both Uncle Neville and myself. Grace spent the rest of the breakfast trying not to look smug, and waved us goodbye happily whilst we traipsed off for one of the drearier adventures of my life.
It went on forever. Art museums, archaeology museums, museums full of stuffed animals (and I saw enough of those in Lausanne, thank you very much!), art galleries, art studios, and, as predicted, a great big cathedral, called Il Doomo or something. They should have called it Il Gloomo. We even went to see The Last Supper, that famous painting by Michelangelo (I think). I’m afraid I had run out of interest long before then.
Everywhere we went, we encountered apathy - this listlessness that hangs over the city like a rain cloud. I’m starting to suspect it was always like this, and Professor Moretti had simply been away from home too long to remember, but a half-crazy priest in the Cathedral latched onto us, telling us the gloom was a ‘punishment from God for the sins of the people’. Give me a plague of frogs any day. At least it would be something interesting to look at.
Neither Auntie nor Uncle Neville seem interested about the whereabouts of Caterina. They’re sorry, of course, but I’m sure the professor would rather we were trying to help find her than traipse around galleries looking at paintings all day.
What’s more, the day was a complete failure! Not a whisper of anything even remotely like the statue we’re looking for, and Auntie Betty has received so many questioning looks after asking people (slowly, and loudly, in English) whether they knew about any strange torsos, or if they had suffered from any chest infections recently, that I’m surprised we didn’t get arrested!
We returned to our apartments in the Galleria in the late afternoon, to find an unburgled apartment and an unmolested Grace, who I’m sure has had a much nicer day than I have. What a waste of time. Even Auntie Betty looks ready to throw in the towel. How do you find a torso in a whole city? We haven’t got anything to go on.
Well, it is the funeral tomorrow, and then we shall see what happens. Perhaps Auntie will finally admit defeat, but if there’s any more sightseeing, I have told Grace whose turn it is to look after the rooms.
The other three all tried saying that they were a little tired, and may give the opera a miss tonight. Well, I wasn’t having that. If there’s one thing I do know that the professor would want us to do, it would be to see Aida, even if it is without his beloved Caterina. We owe them both that, at least.
More later, diary. I must get ready.
Grace Murphy’s Private Notes, Thursday, November 5th, 1925
Violet really means it about the opera. She’s not taking no for an answer. There must be something in Mrs Sunderland’s medical kit... maybe an emetic?
From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Friday, November 6th, 1925
Dear Diary,
What a strange, disturbing evening it was last night. I’m not even sure that I entirely understood what was going on. Some sort of conjuring trick? All I can do is tell you what happened, and see if some sense emerges from the writing.
Aida was due to start at eight o’clock. La Scala is just on the other side of a large square called the Plaza della Scala, which my balcony overlooks, and as the hour approached a crowd gathered there. Most people were dressed in black, and they walked slowly and sombrely into the immense theatre building. I wouldn’t be very encouraged if people turned up to one of our magic shows like that!
My inspection of the growing crowd was interrupted by an unpleasant noise coming from the bathroom. Grace soon emerged, wiping her mouth and looking apologetic. Poor dear. It seems this rich Italian food doesn’t sit well in her stomach. Auntie Betty told her to stay behind, and I suppose it did make sense to have someone looking after the room, though quite what use she would be if someone did break in, I don’t know.
As we were making our final preparations, Uncle Neville emerged from his room, wearing his full dress uniform (it does make him look smart, but would it kill him to wear a dinner suit once in a while?). He approached me with a serious expression, and I must admit I jumped when I saw that he was carrying his service revolver. I raised my eyebrows, and Auntie Betty started to protest, but he interrupted, telling us that it was time we started taking this ‘bloody mission’ seriously. He said that we had already lost one friend, and that he was ‘damned’ if he was going to lose any more. Normally Uncle Neville doesn’t start using language like that until his second or third glass of whisky, so I knew he meant what he said. Auntie Betty asked him how he thought he was going to smuggle a pistol into an opera house, and Uncle Neville frowned and looked around the room until his eyes fell upon my muff.
A short argument ensued, but Uncle Neville was not to be dissuaded. And that, dear diary, is how I came to enter Italy’s most famous opera house armed with a pistol, and hoping that the staff wouldn’t decide to inspect my muff as we showed them our tickets.
I’m not normally someone who is impressed by fancy architecture, but I will admit that the opera house is spectacular. I don’t think I could describe the place well enough to express the thrill of excitement as we walked through the doors – you will just have to take my word for it, diary. The chandelier that hung in the auditorium (is that the right word for an opera house? It will have to do) was large enough that we could have held a dinner party for eight people within it.
/> The tickets which Caterina had procured for us were in an excellent position, right at the front and centre of the stage. I felt sorry for the people crammed into the galleries surrounding the central seating area. Everything about the place was perfect.
Everything, that is, except the audience. As we settled into our seats, there was none of the usual hubbub and chattering. It was as silent as a grave. You would think we were attending mass, if not for the huge velvet curtains in front of the enormous stage. Auntie Betty whispered to me that ‘I’ll bet those gather some dust’, and her voice echoed around the enormous theatre like a pebble landing at the bottom of a deep well. After that, we stayed as silent as everyone else, and my thoughts drifted to that remarkable night on the Orient Express, with Caterina’s heavenly voice. I couldn’t imagine how anything that we would see in La Scala, even in those incredible surroundings, could compare to it.
After what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only thirty minutes or so, the music began; a melody hauntingly familiar to me from the night on the train. The curtain bunched up, lifted, and revealed on stage a great hall – a scene from Ancient Egypt, I believe. Robed men stood with what looked like plaster lambs in front of a giant statue of some Egyptian God, and from that moment I was unable to make head nor tail of what was going on through the whole performance[31], but the young woman who had taken Caterina’s place had none of the vocal power and presence of the diva, and her performance left me quite unmoved. I could tell by Uncle Neville’s fidgeting and repeated unsubtle attempts to peer at his pocket watch that he felt the same.
Then, the aria began. The aria that Caterina sung to us on the train, the aria that, according to the book I read in the Galleria, granted you a wish if you sang along with it. Well, it seems that there were a lot of wishes in the auditorium last night. It began slowly, but gradually the people around us, deathly silent up until now, started to sing. Eventually the whole opera house began to hum with the resonance. Auntie Betty, Uncle Neville and I looked at each other. It was eerie, like being trapped in someone else’s dream. Then came the strangest part of all.