The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  I managed to subtly extract the fact that there is currently no Mrs Milos (I really must learn his surname), nor is there one on the horizon. I do hope Grace was paying attention! Perhaps I should cable her mother?[34]

  Anyway, we did our best to explain our predicament to Milos. It is impossible to read his expressions, for he has none, but he took it all in his stride. I suggested that we let him read Alphonse’s journals, as they would likely be the easiest way to bring him up to speed, but Neville coughed and spluttered so much at this that we agreed to allow him to do this at some later date. I suppose Neville is correct, we mustn’t be too trusting after all that has happened; but Milos seems a nice young man, and the telegram went some way to allaying Neville’s fears. Nevertheless, Milos has agreed to stay in the room opposite our suite rather than take one of the rooms within it, at Neville’s request.

  This decided, Milos stood and proposed a toast to Alphonse. There were tears in our eyes as we gazed out over the canal and thought of our dear, lost friend. Then Milos stiffly saluted, bade us goodnight in Czech (I think) and left us.

  I had meant to write a little more but I’m afraid the events of Milan (and possibly the wine) are rather catching up with me this evening. We will plan our next move over breakfast tomorrow.

  Milos Valinchek’s Personal Journal (translated from Czech) Friday, 6th Nov.

  It is a nasty shock to learn of Moretti’s death – I had honestly started to think that the old man had a plan for escaping that as well. So your adventures finally caught up with you? Goodbye, old friend.[35]

  As for the rest of them – a strange group. One has to wonder how they made it this far if they are being pursued by this cult (as the colonel says. I will perhaps understand more when I am able to read Moretti’s journal), and it is hard to see how they will make it much further in their peculiar quest for this statue.

  Grandma would have said that they had the ‘shadow of death’ upon them - but she always was the superstitious type. It doesn’t take a psychic to see that these people are in trouble, though, and I do not think they realise quite how much trouble. The story of this Simulacrum is plainly nonsense, but someone believes it – believes it enough to kill for the artefact. And if they were able to destroy Moretti, the others stand little chance.

  There may be more to them than meets the eye, however. Certainly this is true of Mrs Sunderland. She has the outward appearance of a dotty old bat, but I sense a steel in her – something not dissimilar to the Russians, and heaven knows those Russians are difficult enough to kill.

  The colonel is, on top of his natural xenophobia, highly suspicious of me, and rightly so. Perhaps the seriousness of their situation is finally becoming clear to him. As far as arrogant British ex-military men go, he seems likeable enough.

  I have great fears for Mrs Davenport’s safety. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, though perhaps somewhat coarse in her manner of speech, and I do not think that she should be exposed to such dangers.

  As for Grace... I have not yet made up my mind about her. In some ways she is similar to Mrs Sunderland, a core of steel, but in others... I am not sure. I find her intriguing.

  A strange group, as I say, and a nasty business to get mixed up in. If I was using an ounce of sense, I would leave this hotel now, and abandon them to their fate.

  But Moretti was my friend, and I owed him my life. I suppose I must see this through to whatever end it leads. It is possible that[36]

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, 6th November, 1925

  Later

  I had the strangest dream this evening. Alphonse came to me tonight. He looked calm, and very peaceful. For a moment, I forgot that he had left us at all.

  He told me that he had a different perspective now, and could see things as they really were. I asked him where he was, but he held up his hand and smiled when I spoke. He said that in his position it was impossible to bear grudges, because he could see the real meaning behind the events that had befallen us. He suggested that we may all have misjudged the duke, and that what happened on the train was just a terrible accident.

  It seems strange, writing that now, as if I am making excuses for that terrible man, but... well, in the dream, it made sense. Alphonse sat beside me on the bed, and held my hand. He looked into my eyes, and told me that there were far worse things in the world than the Duc d’Essientes. I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but at that point a dreadful scream echoed around the room and I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed. Alphonse was gone, and I wondered if the scream had been part of the dream too, but then I heard a voice crying ‘Morte! Morte!’ from somewhere outside.

  I quickly dressed, and rushed to the door of my room, to find Grace and Neville in the lounge, similarly dishevelled and confused. Neville rushed to the door of our suite. Milos was just emerging from his own room as Neville opened our door, and together they hurried downstairs to try and discover what all the fuss was about.

  Twenty minutes later, during which time we anxiously looked out over the balcony to try and work out what was going on, they returned. It seems that a young woman was walking down by the water when she saw what she thought was a body in the canal. When Milos and Neville arrived the police had already been called, and with them our friends searched but could find nothing out of the ordinary. The police assured Neville that such things are not unheard of in Venice, but the woman appeared inconsolable, crying ‘Morte, morte’ over and over until she was carted off to a hospital. Milos tells me, as I had guessed, that it is the Italian word for ‘death’.

  Well, after all the excitement I’m having the devil’s own job getting back to sleep. What a strange dream, and a peculiar start to our investigations in Venice. I hope it is not an omen.

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Saturday, 7th November 1925

  Dear Diary,

  Morning in Venice - a spectacular sight! Coffee and breakfast overlooking the Grand Canal - the mist has even cleared a little this morning (although the air is still very cold) and we could see right across to the other side and beyond.

  Over breakfast, Uncle Neville was talking some rubbish about too much luxury and indolence being bad for the soul, and bad for discipline. Milos said he agreed with him, but I think he was just humouring a grumpy old man. Our meal was delicious - cold meats and preserves with fresh baked bread - but Uncle kept complaining that he had been missing ‘good, old fashioned kippers’ since we had left London. Auntie Betty saved the day, however, by (and don’t ask me how, I’m only a magician’s assistant, not a mind-reader) convincing him that the thin-sliced ham they have here, Prosciutto di Parma, was the Italian equivalent of kippers, and made an excellent substitute.

  Somehow, Uncle Neville managed to swallow this enormous fib, and tucked into the ham with gusto, even pronouncing ‘Yes, yes, they even taste a lot like kippers’. I can see a lot of confused waiters on the rest of the trip when Uncle Neville requests ‘parma kippers’.

  Grace and Milos were rather quiet throughout this cabaret. I suppose Milos is still getting to know us, but was it my imagination or did Grace keep looking at him when she thought no one was watching her? I know that, for her, he might seem something of a catch, but I think she shouldn’t get too interested until she’s seen what’s under that balaclava of his.

  Our peaceful interlude over, pretty soon the elders wanted to get back to business. Auntie Betty had been looking over the notes that Professor Smith had given to us – the ones that started this wild goose chase in the first place – and announced that the piece of the statue here had been sold to an ‘Alvise de Gremanci’ when Napoleon’s soldiers invaded. Milos rubbed his balaclava thoughtfully and suggested that it must have been towards the end of the 18th century.

  I had a terrible premonition of where this was heading, and could sense the word ‘library’ sneaking towards the conversation, so I announced quickly that Grace and I wouldn’t be much use on the researching side of things, and that we would like to exp
lore a little of Venice ourselves. Grace looked dreadfully relieved, and winked at me. Auntie Betty looked a little taken aback, saying that she might need Grace to take notes, but Milos gracefully suggested that a dusty old record office was no place for two such beautiful women (without a catch in his voice! Very impressive, and very charitable to Grace, I must say), and he would be pleased to show us some of the sights of Venice. In any case, he said, he would feel unhappy with the two of us wandering the streets unprotected. Even Auntie Betty couldn’t argue with this point, which was fortunate because Grace was still too gobsmacked by the ‘beautiful’ comment to answer back.

  So, after breakfast Auntie Betty and Uncle Neville headed off to the library and public records office, to see what they could discover about this Gremanci chap, whilst we had a wonderful day looking around the markets, shops and even the occasional church, which I didn’t (gasp!) find too onerous. There were times through the day, I must admit, when I felt something of a gooseberry, as Grace took every opportunity to get as close to Milos as possible, but Milos himself was a gracious guide and a perfect gentleman the whole day. I’m almost ashamed to admit that I did feel safer with him around – it was a little like having Walter back for a day!

  The only thing that cast a slight pall on the expedition was the horrible stench that I kept noticing – usually when we were on or near the canal. The others didn’t seem to notice it when I pointed it out, though Milos’s nose is not in the best shape. It was... well, it is hard to describe... something between rotting flowers and the smell of those roses in the cellar at Poissy. When I smelled it, I felt on the edge of a memory, as one often does with strange scents, but I couldn’t for the life of me bring it to mind. Something from a dream, perhaps? It made me afraid, although I couldn’t say why.

  Anyway, the crowning point of the whole day came just a few minutes ago, after we returned to the Gritti Palace in the late afternoon. Auntie Betty and Uncle Neville returned from their fact-finding expedition demoralised and dispirited. Neville told us that there were hundreds and hundreds of Gremancis in Venice - apparently it is quite a common name - and they have found it quite impossible to track down the correct one.

  At this point, I (not too smugly, I hope) handed them a leaflet which I had found in the market square in the Piazza San Marco, in front of that (even I must admit) wonderful cathedral. The look on Auntie Betty and Uncle Neville’s faces as they read it will keep me warm all night!

  GREMANCI FAMILY DOLL WORKS

  Est. 1776, Conte Alvise de Gremanci

  Makers of fine dolls and children’s toys, hand carved by expert craftsmen

  Hundreds of years’ experience

  Special commissions offered at reasonable rates

  Also makers of fine prosthetic limbs

  Venice, Salizada S. Fosca, 1131

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Sunday, November 8th, 1925

  I didn’t sleep very well again last night, haven’t really since we arrived in Venice. I dreamt that Lilly was calling to me, that she desperately had something she wanted to tell me, but then I awoke and she was still gone. For a moment, I thought that I heard the echoes of a scream as we had the previous night, but I listened for a long time and didn’t hear anything else.

  We had a good evening. We dined in the restaurant of the Gritti palace, where they had the good grace to cook us up some proper English food for a change, and although it wasn’t quite like home it was certainly acceptable. Perhaps there is something to this idea that the Italians can cook, after all.

  After the ladies retired, Milos and I stayed up a while for brandy and cigars. I wanted to get the measure of the man – it was awfully convenient for him to just show up at the station looking for us. The telegram appears genuine but can we be sure that the man we met at the station is the real Milos Valinchek?

  We talked for a long time about his associations with the professor, and then about what Milos had done in the war. He was a captain, apparently. He spoke with regret about some of the things that the war had forced upon him – when the Bolsheviks revolted in ’17, some of his own men began to talk of such things too. Milos, being a noble, was forced to shoot the ringleaders as examples. It might be better not to mention such things to the ladies, but he talked quietly, the way men do when talking of things about which they had no choice. I believed him, and I understand.[37]

  He is a passionate man, who loves his country. He hates but respects the Russians, against whom he spent the bulk of his years in the war fighting. He loathes the Austrians (probably why Moretti liked him) – he believes they were largely responsible for the war, and that they dragged his beloved homeland into it to its ruin. He even – after several brandies – showed me what lay under his balaclava. His face is... well, I will not go into details, but the scars of a mustard gas attack are deep, and lifelong. He is lucky he was not blinded, and he knows it.

  I think it is fair to say that I like him, and I respect him – he reminds me of myself as a younger man – but I do not yet trust him. We shall see.

  We also briefly discussed the Simulacrum. I am cautious about telling him too much, although he already knows more than enough to betray us if that is his plan. Like me, he feels the whole thing is rot, but if there are people out there stupid enough to believe in it then we are all in danger.

  Strange. We have barely looked at the torso that we retrieved in Milan. It is almost as if none of us want to. We packed it in the trunk next to the arm, and as far as I know none of us have opened it since. I think perhaps the stories are starting to make us nervous. For instance, since Milan I have felt somewhat... heavy, in my chest, as if I can’t quite catch my breath. I haven’t said anything to the others – well, such things feed off the imagination, so I don’t need to give it any more encouragement. I just wish I knew more about what Moretti thought about the whole thing. Maybe it is time to ask Milos for some help with his journal?

  Breakfast was excellent this morning. I’m getting quite a taste for these parma kippers, or whatever they’re called. Quite remarkable. On the table next to us, two Italian women were jabbering excitedly (though everything in Italian sounds more dramatic; an unnecessarily flamboyant language) about something that they had heard. Milos, listening, told us that there was a murder last night. Apparently the body of a young man had been found impaled on a ten-foot spike on top of a museum, his throat torn out. I wish he hadn’t been quite so explicit in front of the ladies, but they would almost certainly have found out eventually. A nasty business.

  I can’t help thinking of that newspaper story about what happened to the Faccia fellow in Milan.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Sunday, 8th November, 1925

  Well, what a difference! I slept extremely well (though Violet said she is sure she heard screaming again last night; I’ll bet her imagination was fired after hearing those horrible stories over breakfast this morning). It is true that my good night was aided by the brandy I ordered to be brought up to the room after dinner (Neville does worry, so I thought it best for him not to know about it). Unfortunately I woke up with a slight headache this morning, but fortunately there was a little snifter left in my room from last night that soon helped to clear the cobwebs.

  After breakfast we discussed our options. Violet was very smug about her discovery of the doll maker’s yesterday, it really doesn’t suit her. We would have discovered it soon enough, I’m sure. Anyway, by chance she seemed to have stumbled upon the right place. It is Sunday, and we know the Italians can be very serious about their churches, but we decided that it would be worth trying to visit the factory anyway, if nothing else to get an idea of the lay of the land, as we had nothing else we wished to do.

  The Gremanci Doll Works was only a short gondola ride away – a mercy, really, because Violet continually complained about a strange smell coming from the water. I was about ready to throw her in for a closer look when we arrived at the large stone-built factory. The front door was locked, and we cou
ld see no signs of activity inside. I was just wondering whether it might be worth trying my hand at the door[38] when we heard the sounds of bolts being slid and tumblers turning. The door opened and a thin, dusty elderly gentleman stood blinking in the light.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, looking rather annoyed.

  I explained, through Milos, that we had heard many things about his marvellous doll works and that we had come hundreds of miles to see it. The old man, who introduced himself belatedly as Antonio Gremanci, was surprised, explaining that this was a working doll factory, not a tourist destination, and though he was flattered by the attention, I could see we weren’t getting very far so I span some yarn about my granddaughter being very ill and having her heart set on a doll from the Gremanci works, and that we would be willing to pay handsomely for a custom-crafted doll, if only we could take a look around. Milos managed to get this story across to the old man despite some dreadful eye-rolling from Grace and Violet. Those girls really need to learn something about the real world.

  Eventually the old man let us in, but explained that there was no doll making happening today, just he and his nephew running over some paperwork. At this point, his nephew, Sebastiano, appeared from the office. He was much younger, about my age, plump and jolly. Thankfully, he could also speak English, and he quickly agreed to give us a tour of the doll works, whilst the older man quietly returned to the office.

  Sebastiano was a delightful host, very friendly and sociable, showing us all aspects of the doll making business whilst we tried to appear interested. Eventually Neville began quizzing him on the history of the place, and about the mysterious Alvise de Gremanci.