The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  The men turned and greeted our party with obvious relief. One of the men stepped forwards and began to speak, quickly, in French. I understood the words ‘He is awake’ before the door shuddered and shook in its frame from a mighty blow. Again and again the door rattled. Dust shook from the hinges, but it held firm. The three men who had been present began to nervously back down the corridor, muttering to themselves in fear.

  The man who had been leading our group – a man dressed in white robes, with a long black cloak, wearing the black skullcap of a priest, I think – stepped forwards and called out one word.

  ‘Fenalik!’

  Abruptly, a face appeared at the barred window, and my soul shrivelled in horror. The face was, or at least had been, that of the dark-eyed nobleman who has haunted my dreams, but it was shrivelled. The flesh sagged over the sharp cheekbones, and his visage was contorted with such rage and bestial fury that all except the priest took a step backward.

  The creature at the window began to scream, howling something about a statue that had been stolen from him, demanding its return. Blood was smeared around his lips and across his face, and it was hard to believe that such a thing had once passed for human. As I stared, unable to turn away, I realised with a jolt what I had known all along – the nobleman and the terrible spider-creature I had seen on the wall of that burning city were one and the same.

  The priest ignored the clamour from the door, but spoke a few words to the three men who had been waiting for us. They gratefully scurried away. He gestured to the rest of the group, including myself, and nervously we walked forwards, approaching the door, where a pile of bricks and mortar awaited us. The thing at the door howled, and raged like a bottled demon. He yanked on the bars, and I could see that his hands were twisted as if with arthritis, although they ended in sharp claws.

  Our group continued the work of the previous party, and slowly the brick barrier in front of the wooden door grew, whilst the priest chanted in Latin and held rosary beads before him. None of this seemed to placate or calm the creature within, but as his prison neared completion he started to beg, making whimpering noises like a chastened dog. He asked again and again for the queen, saying that he knew her well, that she must understand what was happening to him. When this failed he offered us bribes, then finally began to plead for one more glance at the statue that had been taken from him. The priest ignored him, and our party did their best, until finally the wall grew level with the hole in the door.

  As I stood with another brick, the thing stared right into my eyes, and whispered ‘I’m coming.’ Then it smiled, and stayed staring at me as the bricks piled in front of it.

  Part Six – Trieste

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Tuesday, 10th November, 1925

  I wonder if this wretched wind was so strong when the Romans decided to pitch up here?

  Anyway, here we sit in the Moulin Bleu (another exceptional example of the Moulin chain of hotels) at the north-eastern edge of Italy – though it already feels as if we have moved to another country.

  Trieste hasn’t been part of Italy very long, only since the end of the Great War, and it feels rather different to Milan and Venice – apart from those horrible black-shirted policemen everywhere you look. I know Alphonse was a great supporter of ‘Il Duce’ and his cronies, but they look like thugs in uniform to me.

  The wind – they call it the bora – is very strong here. It comes down from the Slovak mountains, where (so the hotel staff tell me) it is even stronger. Apparently it is always at its peak in the winter, though it seems to be worse now than anyone can remember. One can barely stand up in the street outside! We haven’t managed to see any of the city yet. After we arrived at the station, we just bundled in a taxi and headed straight for the hotel. For a moment I thought that the trunk containing ‘it’ was going to blow into the sea, but Milos and Grace sat on it until we managed to wrestle it onto our cab. I was surprised at how relieved I was at the thought of the trunk disappearing under the surface of the Adriatic.

  I’ve been dreadfully on edge ever since Venice. Ever since I saw that... thing... in the clock tower. No one has spoken about it, but I’m certain that Milos and Neville saw it too, the way they searched around the square at the bottom of the clock tower like a dog missing a bone.

  I dreamt about Alphonse again last night, and he told me, as he did before, that there are darker, more terrible things in the world than the Duc d’Essientes. He told me that we had attracted their attention. It’s silly - I know it was just a dream, but it has started me thinking. What if the thing in the clock tower is one of those?

  There are sinister forces in the world. Dark clouds are gathering above us.

  I have done something. The others would be annoyed, particularly Neville. It may have been a foolish thing, so foolish that I daren’t even write about it here, but I am getting scared. Not so much for myself, but for the others. I think I may have dragged us into something bigger than all of us. They say it is better the devil you know...

  We shall see what comes of it. I had to try something.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Tuesday, November 10th, 1925

  I have the most dreadful headache since arriving in this city. I’m not normally a chap to complain, but it’s hard to concentrate - not sure if it’s the wind, the sea-breeze, the chill or all three, but the dashed pain is becoming something of a distraction. It seems to get a little better when I’m inside, out of the weather, so it must be something to do with that.

  It almost makes me wonder about that thing we saw in the tower; that perhaps I’ve got the beginnings of a cold and I imagined it. Except that Milos saw it too. This damn statue seems to attract trouble like dung attracts flies. And here we are looking for another part of it. Perhaps two pieces, according to Smith’s work.

  His notes, such as they are, suggest that we ask ‘Johann Winckelmann’, whoever that is. Milos is going to inquire at the front desk and see if anyone has heard of him – hopefully it won’t be another wild goose chase.

  Strange... I keep having to stop writing and check over my shoulder. I could have sworn I heard someone whispering. Can’t find it now. That bloody wind, rattling the windows, that’s what it is.

  Going to have to stop for the moment.

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Tuesday, 10th November 1925

  Well, dear diary, I’m sure you’ll never guess where Mr Winckelmann works!

  That’s quite right, he can be found in Trieste Museum. What a surprise. Am I at the centre of a conspiracy to improve my cultural education? I wouldn’t put it past Auntie Betty, she’s never quite approved of my profession. As if grubbing around in the dirt for ancient artefacts is any more dignified!

  There’s no prospect of anything interesting happening tonight. Uncle Neville is holed up in his room with a face like thunder - I have no idea what put him in such a mood but I’ve learned he’s best avoided when he’s got a lip on, as Auntie calls it. As for her, she says she’s ‘researching’, but it’s not so much books as bottles that she’s investigating closely. Even Grace and Milos are less fun to be around at the moment. Milos is always the perfect gentleman, of course, and would be quite charming I’m sure if he had any lips, but I can’t understand why he seems so taken with Grace. I know they say that beauty is only skin deep, and that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but just how else is one supposed to judge a book? By its spine? I suppose from that judgement Milos wins some points.

  I can’t even get a telegram to Walter at the moment, and I’ve read all my novels now. Oh, blow feeling like a gooseberry, I’m going to get Grace and Milos to play cards, or die trying!

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Wednesday, November 11th, 1925

  A completely wasted day, finishing off with a dead end. My head is pounding like there’s a ruddy parade marching through it, and to cap it all I can’t sleep. I can’t see how writing it all down is going to help but I must try somethin
g other than lying in the dark.

  The wind was easier when we left the hotel this morning; that is, we could stand up without being bowled over by the gusts. We took a cab to the Museo di Storia ed Arte – Milos told me what it means; I think ‘art and history’. It was next to a great cathedral and what looked like an ancient barracks at the top of a steep hill. Does nowhere in Europe have any flat ground that isn’t in the middle of a marsh?

  Milos explained to the chap at the front desk that we hadn’t come to look around the museum, but to see Mr Winckelmann. Unfortunately the clerk was a typical wop bureaucrat, and insisted that we pay the entrance fee. After we did so, he directed us ‘out in the garden’.

  The ‘garden’ turned out to be the Giardino Lapidario, attached to the museum but with, of course, a separate entrance fee. Perhaps, in the middle of summer, it would be a charming place to spend a lazy afternoon, but today a freezing wind roared between the statues and pillars, and the place was deserted. No sign of Mr Winckelmann, or anyone else. Violet looked at me pointedly as if to tell me exactly what she thought of this particular museum, and I must admit I felt much the same way. Betty stomped off to complain at the entrance whilst we looked around for some shelter amidst the antiquities.

  Nothing in the garden offered any protection from the icy blasts, but we could see just at the bottom of a slope there was a replica of a Roman temple, and we hurried towards it and huddled inside for warmth whilst we awaited Betty’s return.

  Although it was a relief to be out of the wind, I found that inside the temple my headache was worse than ever. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I began to make out a sarcophagus resting upon a marble base. Planning to lean against it for support, I walked towards it. On top of the stone coffin was a reclining figure; an angel, with long feathered wings stretching out behind him. I tripped on the uneven stone floor, and stumbled forward with my arm outstretched. Behind me, Grace gasped. Then a peculiar thing happened – the instant that my hand touched the cool marble of the statue, my vision cleared and my headache was gone. I looked down to see that I was touching the outstretched hand of the reclining figure, and it held in its palm the carved image of a medallion with a man’s head in profile. For some odd reason it gave me comfort to look upon it, and I stood there for a moment, staring.

  ‘Colonel, you found him! How did you know?’

  I looked up, confused. Grace, Violet and Milos were walking towards me, staring at the medallion. I felt an odd sense of outrage and I think, strange to recount now, that I almost lifted my fist, ready to fight them off, when I realised that they were not looking at the winged man, but at the inscription that was carved below it. I turned to look at it myself.

  IOHANNI WINCKELMANNO

  VIII .IVN . AD . M.DCC.LXVIII

  We had found Mr Winckelmann. He had been dead for one hundred and fifty-seven years.

  Later

  Still no sleep. That damn window is rattling as if it is about to blow through. Lilly used to have a way of holding my head, and massaging my temples, that could ease... but I do not like to think of her. Not whilst I am here. I shall save my memories for a happier place, when there is sunshine and laughter.

  Well, I suppose there is nothing for it but to describe the rest of our fruitless day.

  Betty was unimpressed when she learned that our contact in this city had been dust before she had even been born. She marched out again to complain at the clerk on the front desk, though I have no idea what she expected him to do about Mr Winckelmann’s condition. We followed her anyway, as there remained little to be gained by staying around the sarcophagus. As the others left, I turned to look one last time upon the carved medallion that seemed to have taken such an unnatural hold upon me. For a second I thought I saw it glitter in the darkness, like gold, but I shook my head against such nonsense and hurried back across the courtyard to rejoin the others. I was disappointed to discover that my headache returned almost immediately upon leaving the temple, though with none of the intensity of earlier in the day.

  At the front desk, Milos was trapped in the unenviable position of attempting to explain Betty’s angry rants to the alarmed clerk. Apparently the man had assumed that we must have known Mr Winckelmann was dead, because... well, everybody does. What would he be doing alive in a sarcophagus?

  Just a few minutes of watching this exchange left the rest of us feeling exhausted, and we decided to see if we could find a nearby café and have some tea – so long as we could sit inside. This we did, and although the proprietors didn’t seem to understand our requests for tea and forced coffee upon us instead, it was pleasant enough as we sat and watched the world go by – or, more accurately, get blown by.

  After half an hour we watched Milos and Betty exit the museum, and Violet waved them over. Betty was excitedly talking about some diary that the dead man had left behind, convinced that it would hold some clues as to where the pieces of the Simulacrum might be. I confess I felt too weary to argue with her, flush as she was with the success of procuring (by means of a slow war of attrition on the museum clerk’s patience) the address of the man whose family had bought it at auction many years previously. A certain Joseph Catorni – who, by coincidence lived very close to the museum itself. Apparently the curator of the museum had been attempting to purchase the diary for some time but Signor Catorni was not willing to sell.

  Betty was confident that she would succeed where the curator had failed. Violet and Grace were extremely sceptical on this point and looked to me for support, but my headache had worsened, and all I could do was mutter my disapproval. As ever, Betty’s sheer force of personality won the day, and we soon found ourselves standing before the large town house of Sig Catorni.

  Catorni was a small, moustachioed man in his late thirties, and quite unprepared for the onslaught he was about to face. His bleary-eyed look of confusion when he answered the door told me all I needed to know about who would be victorious in the upcoming battle of wits, and I almost felt sorry for the fellow. Blindsided. Ambushed. Seen the wogs use the same technique in Africa, with similar devastating results.

  Within half an hour we were leaving Sig Catorni’s town house with our prize, leaving him dazed, several British pounds richer and with an invitation to stay at Betty’s country-house in Yorkshire whenever he chose (which was unlikely to be often).

  The diary, written in Greek, is not quite complete but it covers Winckelmann’s stay in Trieste, as Betty discovered when she read it to us over dinner this evening.

  And so to the dead end that I talked about. Not a word about the Simulacrum. Not even a hint about any arms, or legs, or anything missing at all. The diary is just the ramblings of a deluded young man.

  So now what? We have no leads, no clue where the statue may be! All we have is a trunk half-full of limbs. Milos and I are starting to think the safest thing to do is chuck the whole thing into the sea.

  Headache getting worse. Can’t stop thinking about that sarcophagus. That funny medallion the angel was holding. Betty left the diary with me. I’m going to have another look at it. Can’t sleep anyway. There must be something!

  JOHNANN WINCKELMANN’S[42] DIARY 1764 (EXCERPT) (TRANSL. FROM GREEK)

  3rd May ... I am warned not to approach without the amulet, lest I be destroyed. The Things need it for some dark plan of their own. Apparently they make many such requests for artefacts.

  15th May I curse those Beasts, and myself for ever seeking them! Night after night the dreams return, and I get no peace. I do not know how to go on; the art which has been my life is dross, and my fellows but painted masks upon grinning skulls. I wear my mask too, and talk of ‘Art’, but beauty has gone from the world.

  I long to rid myself of the thing. It makes me think of chill winds, and cold, empty wastes, far to the north. The Beasts are welcome to it.

  1st June Arrived safely in Trieste. The dreams that have haunted me continue to lessen, but I fear I shall never fully recover. My one hope is that once I have delivered th
e amulet they will altogether cease. They use the dreams to draw you to them. They make it seem, at first, as if the idea - the compulsion - comes entirely from one’s own mind.

  2nd June Met a native, Archangeli, a handsome fellow who promises some diversion. More importantly, through certain signs and words he gave me to believe that he knows of the Things, and can guide me to their lair.

  3rd June The dreams have returned. I realise I cannot trust Archangeli. He has asked to see the amulet as a sign of my appointment as a courier, but his manner is sly, and I suspect he would prefer to carry it himself. I have stalled him, but without his help I cannot reach Them.

  6th June I have managed to give that rogue Archangeli the slip and have hidden the amulet. I am certain now that he intends to steal it, as I came upon him searching my room. I shall have to wait until I am no longer watched, and make my own way to the caverns at Postumia to deliver the amulet.

  7th June Archangeli continues to plague me, and I cannot recover the amulet without his notice. I have discovered that he has been corrupted by Them, and attempts to steal any arcane or occult item which passes this way, to make thereof offerings to please Them. I fear that he will find the amulet, denying me the opportunity to fulfil my appointed duty, and that these dreams will never cease!