by Nick Marsh
Through the hum of voices, I noticed one in particular. It was loud, strident, and twisted, but after a while I had convinced myself that it belonged to none other than Caterina herself! She was somewhere in the auditorium, I was sure of it. It was different, perhaps a little strained, but I was certain. I wondered if she had developed a throat infection, and gone into hiding, ashamed, but couldn’t keep herself away from the opening night.
Sure that I had the explanation for the diva’s disappearance, I began searching for the source of the voice. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I finally located it. A tall, thin, man, balding and elderly, stood only a few seats behind us, his eyes closed and his face pale. As he moved his lips, the voice that spilled from that mouth was not that of an elderly man, but a terrible parody of Caterina’s voice. I stood in shock for a moment, unable to comprehend quite what I was seeing. Could this be some strange kind of ventriloquism? As I stared at the man, I noticed that he had a scar, about two inches long, along the side of his throat.
No one else in the crowd seemed to have noticed this extraordinary event. Even Auntie Betty and Uncle Neville didn’t seem able to grasp what I was trying to show them, but I was convinced. Somehow, the old man had stolen Caterina’s voice!
I wonder now if perhaps I had dozed off during the performance, and all of this was a dream. I normally don’t remember my dreams very well, and I stopped writing my dream diary several months ago, because... well, you know why, dear diary. But if that is the case, then I can’t explain what happened later, nor why we are in possession of...
I am getting ahead of myself. I just wanted to describe what happened, to see if it made any kind of sense. I’m not sure that it’s working so far, but I shall persevere.
The noise of the aria surrounded us, but that voice cut through all the others with ease. The man stood and sang clearly, his head towards the stage, and as I watched I saw tears glisten on his cheeks. I looked away, feeling that I was intruding on something private, and noticed the woman sitting next to him. She, too, was elderly, with grey hair and wrinkled features, but instead of looking towards the stage she was gazing disconsolately at the floor. Her face was also wet with tears. As I watched she glanced up at me. It was only for a second that our eyes locked but the pain and misery that they held was so deep that it almost moved me to cry as well. She looked down again but a shiver passed up my spine as I realised that there was something very familiar about this woman. I became convinced that I had met her before, although I couldn’t place her.
Eventually the aria came to a conclusion, and the tall, thin man sat down in his chair. I was wondering what to do when I felt Auntie Betty prod me sharply in the ribcage, and heard Uncle Neville mutter ‘My God,’ under his breath. Something was happening on the stage.
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, November 6th, 1925
I’m feeling much better after last night. The shock of losing the professor hit me deeply, I’m afraid. I’m never sure whether these things become harder or easier to come to terms with as one gets older. On the one hand, you almost become used to that dreadful feeling of emptiness that accompanies the loss of a dear friend. On the other, the cumulative effect can be very wearing. I’m tired, and not keen to dwell upon it. It is sad that we missed dear Alphonse’s funeral (especially considering the expense! The cost of the undertakers... surely that is what is really meant by ‘grave robbing[32]’!) but I know that he would have understood why we did so. At least he is buried in the city that he loved.
Now then, the opera. What a lot of fuss and nonsense about a musical. Why can’t some people just accept they’d like a good knees-up sing-along without getting all high-minded about it? That first half lasted forever. All that dreary posturing and melodrama, honestly, people should have better things to do. Bizarrely, Violet seemed to greatly enjoy it. I wouldn’t have thought it would be her thing at all, yet she looked rapt through the whole thing, even bashing me in the ribs quite hard during one dreadful racket, trying to point out someone in the crowd whom she was clearly impressed with. I was ready to suggest to Neville that we try and sneak out during the interval when, quite unexpectedly, the object of our quest was revealed to us.
The scene had changed behind the lead singer, dressed up like ancient Ethiopia – or, at least, some stage designer’s idea of it - but what caught my eye was a suit of armour on a dressmaker’s dummy that had been wheeled on to stage during the dirge; except that it wasn’t just a dressmaker’s dummy. Its surface glistened with a pearly sheen that we had all seen before. The torso of the Sedefkar Simulacrum, there, on the stage, in front of us! I should kick myself for not thinking of it before. The whole city was opera-crazy. Why didn’t it occur to me that the thing would be in the opera house itself?
I whispered to Violet that we would try and get backstage somehow in the interval, and grab the torso before anyone was any the wiser. I was relieved when she nodded, as I was half-expecting one of her lectures. Fortunately, there were only ten more minutes of tedium to endure.
The curtain fell and the interval finally arrived, and we jumped from our seats as quickly as we could. Sadly, not quickly enough. The people at the end of our row were not in such as hurry as we were, and it took us several minutes to fight our way into the aisle. As we stood, Violet pointed out an old gent with his wife and two younger, burly men. Quite why she had latched on to them I don’t know but they were certainly heading for the back of the auditorium at quite a pace – although the man’s wife seemed dazed or drunk, he dragged her out of the door well before we had managed to make it anywhere near the exit.
The foyer was teeming with people by the time we entered it, and none of us could see any sign of the old man or his party. I was wondering about the easiest way to get backstage - it would have been too obvious sneaking in from the foyer – when Neville grabbed my arm, saying ‘Come on, we’ll find a back door.’ He rushed to the entrance of the opera house, and we followed.
We experienced an odd feeling of relief as we left the building, a lightness of the chest, a sudden easement of breathing, even though I hadn’t even realised there had been anything wrong before. Violet looked at me for a moment, and I knew what she meant. She felt it too, and was silently imploring me once more to give up. But I had made a promise, a promise to two friends now, and I keep my promises.
We hurried around the side of the giant building, looking for fire escapes, or back entrances, but we did not have to search for long. As we ran, we heard raised voices and some shouting from behind the opera house. Neville looked grim, and grabbed Violet’s muff.
Around the corner, in front of a large door that must have been normally used for deliveries, a small group of people surrounded a bulky shape covered in cloth, with a thin metal rod on wheels poking out beneath it. The Simulacrum! They were shouting at each other, and jostling the shape backwards and forwards. Closest to us, we recognised the old man, his wife and the two burly men that Violet had pointed out to us. The younger men had a hand each on the cloth covering the torso. On the other side, four stage hands were shouting and yelling, also gripping the cloth as tightly as they could. The older man’s wife stood apart from the crowd, staring at the ground with her hand to her throat. I wondered if she had been injured.
‘We’ve got to get that thing,’ I said. ‘And quickly!’
Neville nodded, gripping his revolver. As we watched, one of the young men threw a punch at a stage hand, and he crumpled to the floor. His companions cried out in anger and surged at the pair. In the ensuing brawl, the torso was temporarily abandoned.
‘Now’s our chance!’ cried Violet. We rushed forwards, but the elderly man had seen the opportunity as well. He grabbed the thing at about the same time that we did.
‘Leave it!’ he snarled at us in English. ‘It’s mine! It’s mine!’ His eyes were wide and crazed, but his voice was surprisingly effeminate. Obviously he wasn’t a smoker. Neville tried to push him back but he clung to the thing like a limpet. Vi
olet and I tried pulling the torso but the old man had the strength of a lunatic - although we were making headway it was far too slow. Neville lifted his revolver, and pointed it at the old man.
‘Let go,’ he said, calmly. ‘Now.’
For a moment, the old man hesitated. But only for a moment. Then his lip curled into a snarl, and he cried ‘The Brothers of the Skin will not be denied their prize!’
He tensed, and made to leap at Neville. I wondered if Neville was bluffing, or whether he would actually shoot the man, but we never found out because at that instant, the old woman (who I had assumed was the man’s wife) came to life. She dropped her hand from her neck and stared at the man with hate in her eyes. I saw a long, jagged scar running down the length of her throat, and she suddenly croaked in a hideous, rasping voice:
‘You stole it! You took it from me! You took everything from me!’
As the old man turned in shock, she leapt upon him and dragged him to the ground, scratching at his face and his eyes. The torso was suddenly free, and Neville and I began to quickly pull it away from the scene. Violet stood staring as the old woman clawed at the thin man, who writhed and howled in pain.
‘Violet!’ I cried. ‘Come on! Come on!’
She turned, and joined us. Together we pulled the Simulacrum away from the theatre. Once we were free, Neville hailed a cab for the station, taking the torso with him (now removed from its wheels, and still covered in cloth) whilst we rushed back to the hotel to collect Grace and our other belongings.
And so we fled Milan. We seem to be making a habit of such escapes! I hope our exit from Venice is more dignified.
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Saturday, November 7th, 1925
And so we have a name. The Brothers of the Skin.
Presumably this is the same group that the duke was working for, the group responsible for the break in at the diva’s rooms, and likely the arson attack on Professor Smith and the murder of Beddows, too.
We know nothing of the group except for its name, but the agents in Milan seemed rather less competent than the duke. Perhaps we have less to fear than we thought.
Though perhaps not. This morning, in the English edition of Corriere della Sera, I found this article, accompanied by a photograph which closely resembled the old man we encountered in Milan.
End of Part Four
Interlude –Violet Davenport’s dream diary
Dreadful nightmares again. I almost woke Walter up with my screams. I think he is growing concerned about me. Still, I’ll tell him nothing. He has enough worries with arranging a trip to the Far East next year.
I saw the man again, the man I mentioned in my last dream. At least, I think it was him. If I hadn’t written it down I wouldn’t remember at all. Maybe it would have been better that way, but I feel I need to describe it to get it out of myself.
The first thing I remember is finding myself within that terrible mansion again. This time there was no gaiety or laughter. It was filled with flames and smoke, and people were running screaming from the doors in various states of undress - both men and women. Several men with muskets and in uniform – I think they must have been soldiers – stood at the gates of the mansion, gazing at the inferno. Between them something jumped, and cried, and screamed, its body so distorted with fear and dread that it took me a few moments to realise it was a man. I was drawn closer, involuntarily, to the scene. It took four of the soldiers to restrain the man, who howled at the fire like a wolf baying at the moon. His clothes were torn and burned in places, and his hair, lank and unkempt, swung around his head like a dark mane as he raved.
Several of the soldiers made the sign of the cross, at which the man hissed and spluttered. His face was blotchy and red, and he appeared more like a beast than a man as he twisted, writhing in the soldiers’ grip. Suddenly his screams intensified, and at the same time another group of soldiers emerged from the doorway of the mansion, dragging between them a strange statue that glistened like a pearl. At the sight of this, the man redoubled his efforts to escape, and two more had to grapple him to prevent this. Finally they began to drag him through the gates, to the road, where several carriages awaited them. The horses shied away from the screaming man but eventually the soldiers managed to wrestle him into one of the compartments, whereupon the carriage quickly set off along the road. The remaining soldiers now fell to arguing over the statue on the floor, which they appeared to have broken into pieces, but even over the roar of the fire I could hear the man in the carriage, still screaming. His voice penetrated my soul, and I became flooded with the man’s horror - such a black, terrible feeling of loss and fear that I began to scream in unison with the man-creature in the carriage. That is how I awoke. By some miracle Walter was still asleep. I thank God that it was just a dream.
It was just a dream.
Part Five – Venice
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, November 6th, 1925
Later... in Venice
I failed to mention some most exciting news in my previous entry – I was keen to document the details of our escape from Milan, but I should have at least said something about our new ally!
He was waiting for us when we alighted the train in Venice this afternoon. His name is Milos... something (I’m afraid I haven’t quite mastered writing - or even pronouncing - his surname; his first name is pronounced ‘Meelosh’), and he is a tall, Czechoslovakian gentleman, who would have been quite handsome, I’m sure, if it wasn’t for a nasty injury he received during the Great War. He approached our group as we stood on the platform, and asked us if we knew a Professor Moretti. I can only blame our tiredness for my lack of caution by quickly responding (tearfully) in the affirmative, but it turns out that I am very glad I did.
Alphonse had apparently cabled Milos from the station in Lausanne, and Milos was expecting to meet him in Venice. He was greatly distressed to hear of Alphonse’s fate. They knew each other rather well and had had several dealings with each other in previous years, so Milos had been very much looking forward to seeing him again.
Anyway, Alphonse must have thought that we may require more help on our mission. Apart from his scars (I’m not sure, quite, of the extent of them, as Milos wears a balaclava at all times, otherwise he would, as he puts it, ‘frighten the children’. I think he is saying this with a grin, but with the balaclava it is hard to be sure) he seems a thoroughly decent young man, and I’m pleased to have him with us. He is, he freely admits, an arms dealer – apparently his family business. Not the most noble of professions, in my opinion, and you’d think all that stuff in the trenches would have been enough to put him off armaments forever, but he is personable and charming. We would, of course, be wise to be cautious, but he has showed us the telegram Alphonse sent to him, and seems honest enough to me[33]. Not only this, he can speak Italian, Slovakian, German, Russian, and a smattering of French and Turkish, so with luck our communication problems are at an end. I suspect it will be some time before Neville feels he can trust him, but for myself I am satisfied. He knew Alphonse well enough, that much is clear.
Anyway, Venice! It was a delight to arrive in a city that seems to have some life in it! Despite the weather (foggy and chilly so far) the place has a vibrancy to it. There was a scuffle at the station – some black-shirted policemen dragged off a handsome young man who was accosting a frightened young lady dressed all in black – but Milos graciously escorted us around the trouble and found a porter from the hotel that he had arranged for us.
The hotel is... well, shall we say my shop in Soho will seem very small after the sights I’ve seen on this trip. The Gritti Palace is on the banks of the Grand Canal, the wide waterway that snakes all the way through Venice, and is opposite an amazing white domed building called the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, which certainly puts my childhood church in Ravenfield to shame.
Many of the Venetians travel the canal via the ‘vaporetti’ (I think it means ‘water bus’), which are large, steam-dr
iven boats with lots of seats, but the Wagons-Lits porter secured us a private gondola to take us and our cases to the hotel, the rooms of which are as amazing as anything else we’ve seen on this trip. The city is a marvel of human ingenuity. I suggested as much to Neville, thinking that he would admire the city as a feat of engineering if nothing else, but although he grudgingly conceded the fact he suggested it would have been a better idea ‘not to build the city in the middle of a swamp’, which made the girls snigger. I was hoping this trip would help broaden his mind, but it appears that while you can take Neville out of England, it is very difficult to remove England from Neville.
After (once again!) spending the night at the station, it is refreshing to look forward to a comfortable night’s sleep. By the time we arrived at our hotel it was late afternoon, and already growing dark. We sat on our balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, drinking wine and getting to know our new companion, whilst we watched the waterway light up below us. It was quite the most pleasant evening we’ve had since we lost our dear friend.
Milos is an enigmatic character, although that may just be the balaclava. It became apparent during our talks that not only was he a captain in the war (something that he respectfully asks we do not talk about - about the only subject upon which both he and Neville agree, even though Neville has muttered none too quietly on several occasions that Milos was on ‘the wrong bloody side anyway’) and a wealthy businessman working for his father’s munitions company, he is also a member of the aristocracy! A Margrave, no less, though he doesn’t seem to make much of it.