by Nick Marsh
‘Good riddance,’ Betty shouted, as she swung the arm she was brandishing down onto the creature’s hand, ‘to bad rubbish!’
The thing howled and twisted, losing its grip of the side of the carriage, and landing sprawled on the track beside the train. Instantly, it was on its feet again, and for one terrible moment we looked into those dull red eyes, staring at us with indescribable hatred as Fenalik tensed to leap once more onto the train.
Then it stopped, looking at something behind us, and those dark red eyes grew wide. I began to turn my head to see what had drawn its attention, but with the suddenness of an explosion a huge dark shape sped roaring past the smashed window. The noise and shock of the moment stunned our blasted senses, and we all jumped back from the window to get away from the enormity of the sound. By the time my wits had returned, seconds later, the shape had gone, and so had Fenalik.
‘What... what happened?’ Grace asked, staring dazedly at the window.
‘The Orient Express... the other one, heading for Sofia,’ I said, grimly. ‘It must have been coming down the parallel track.’
‘Well,’ Betty said, sounding relieved. ‘If being hit by a locomotive doesn’t put an end to that thing, then I don’t know what will!’
We hurried to the bar to help Milos to his feet. Two conductors entered the salon car, shouting in surprise at the scene of destruction and death. As Betty began to explain, and Grace checked Milos over, I peered through the broken window, into the darkness, straining against the wind, but there remained no trace of the creature that had pursued us across a continent.
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Wednesday, 18th November, 1925
In this part of the world, explanations are easier to make with the judicious application of money. Despite it being clearly nonsense, the Wagons-Lits staff and the Turkish authorities are very ready to believe that the damage to the salon car, and the death of the unfortunate Doctor Hagge, were the work of a crazed Bulgarian communist, who somehow stowed away on the train with a machete or some such. Milos thoughtfully dropped his machine pistol out of the window after the attack, though he described the weapon he thought had done the damage to the Turkish police who investigated the matter when we arrived here.
Grace has also proved herself adept at manipulation. After our interview with the authorities on board the train, she entered my cabin holding a hat box. Reading my puzzled expression, she quickly opened it to reveal the smooth, solid head of a statue. The final piece of our quest.
‘Where on earth--?’ I asked. She explained that she suspected Fenalik must have hidden the head somewhere on the train. She had approached the brigadier-postier, who guards the fourgon, and explained with tears in her eyes that she needed to retrieve something very dear to Violet, something we had not found amongst her possessions in her cabin. The guard wouldn’t let her enter, but he agreed to search for the item itself, emerging some moments later with the head, explaining he had found it lodged underneath some piping in a corner of the van. Grace thanked the man profusely, and explained that it must somehow have fallen out of our trunk. The guard’s suspicions were allayed when Grace showed him the arm of the statue, and he saw the similarity in style. A slight risk, perhaps, but so many people seem to be aware of our whereabouts and our possession of the statue that Grace felt it was one worth taking.
So, unexpectedly, we have completed the first part of our task – we are now in possession of the entire Sedefkar Simulacrum, and we have managed to destroy that monstrous Fenalik creature – but at such a terrible price. Alphonse, Violet, poor Doctor Hagge; all have given their lives for this mission. We cannot fail now. The statue must be destroyed. In Constantinople, according to Julius’s notes, we should find the means to do so.
End of Part Seven
Part Eight – Constantinople
Milos Valinchek’s Personal Journal (translated from Czech) Wednesday, 18th November
Many things change, and many stay the same. The City, for example. Istanbul[47] has been through great upheaval in the years since my last visit. Mustafa Kemal is now in power, and The City of Mosques has fallen from favour. To him, the place reeks of corruption, of the old Sultanate, and of foreign influence. Ankara has been made the capital of his new Turkey, and the old ways are being dismantled.
And yet... Istanbul remains as I remember it, the greatest of the cities I have seen. Vast, beautiful, friendly, dangerous, ugly, alive! It is the most cosmopolitan of cities, and the only one to span two continents. The citizens have seen many emperors, many rulers. To them, Ataturk is simply the latest in a long line.
Although some have vanished, many of my old friends remain, and many favours are still owed to me. This is fortunate, for without them the Simulacrum would no longer be in our possession. After the incident on the train on the way here[48] we were in a desperate and dire situation; as far as we can tell from our limited information, the Cult of the Skin is based in Turkey, possibly even Istanbul itself. Thanks to Mrs Sunderland’s error of judgement, they knew we had the statue, they knew we were heading to the city; they even knew which train we were travelling upon.
And what did we have? Rumours, questions, wounds and dead friends! We had rid ourselves of one enemy, and arrived right on the doorstep of another. I did not expect to escape from the station alive.
Fortunately, the government came to our rescue. Whoever else may have been waiting for us at the station, the Turkish police beat them to it. Never have I been more pleased to see the authorities. We were escorted from the train to a police car and taken to the central police station for questioning. I persuaded[49] the officers to allow us to take our luggage with us, including a certain heavy trunk, as we still had not decided upon our accommodation in Istanbul.
Our interviews were wearisome, but by the end we remained in little trouble. All the Turks cared about was the so-called terrorist who had attacked us. They feared Greek insurgents, or some fool longing for the days of the Sultans. When it became clear that we were neither involved in anything such as this, nor were able to illuminate them any more about any perceived insurgency, they told us that we were free to go. However, I requested that my friends were allowed to stay at the station for a time whilst I arranged accommodation. Knowing that the police station was likely to be watched, I arranged to be let out of a concealed exit, and within a few hours had made contact with some old business associates of mine – associates whom I trust far more than the Turkish police or even the Orient Express staff. They booked rooms for us in a small hotel in Stamboul, close to the Golden Horn[50]. I returned to the party, and suggested that we leave our luggage with my associates for the time being. Now that the cult knew we were in the city they would stop at nothing to find us and their precious Simulacrum. As a group we would be easy to spot, and news travels fast in Istanbul. Colonel Goodenough was extremely uncomfortable with the idea of leaving it with ‘a load of bloody foreigners’, and suggested instead that we deposit our prize at the British Embassy. I explained my concern that we would have no way of delivering it there that was not extremely visible, and even if we trusted the ambassador (a man whom I had dealt with before in relation to several business deals - a pompous, xenophobic drunken buffoon, and as well suited to diplomacy as the ex-Kaiser was to the music hall stage) we could not vouch for his staff.
The colonel pointed out that the ambassador was an old drinking friend of his, and then, on reflection, conceded that my assessment of his character was accurate. I told them that they could trust my associates as far as they could trust myself, and although this did little to mollify the colonel it was clear that Grace and Mrs Sunderland felt that it was the right thing to do.
When the police asked us where we would be staying, I gave the name of a disreputable hotel in the northern district, and our diminished party left the station via the same quiet exit I had several hours before. We met my associates in an otherwise deserted warehouse, and delivered the trunk to them. I was surprised to feel a surge of loss which
almost bordered on panic as I watched them load the statue onto the roof of their car. I remembered the duke’s description of what happened to Fenalik after the Simulacrum was taken from him, and the question of how long exactly one has to be in possession of the thing before one is corrupted by its absence crossed my mind. Then the statue was gone, secure in the possession of my associates, and probably far safer than we were.
If the others are disappointed by the lack of luxury and comfort in our hotel, they do not complain. They understand the necessity for subterfuge now, and the death of Violet has shocked them all into realising the stakes for which we play.
Yesterday evening, after dinner, Grace came to me in my room, tears in her eyes over the loss of her friend. She spoke of Violet for a long time, and I listened and tried to help. Slowly, Grace drew close to me, and took my hand in hers. She looked into my eyes. I explained to her that it had been a very long time for me since I had held a woman; not since the mustard gas attack that took my face. Squeezing her hand gently, I placed it back in her lap.
‘Let us wait,’ I said, ‘until all this is done. You do not know your own mind tonight.’
Grace placed her hand on my leg. ‘No,’ she said firmly, tears on her cheeks. ‘No more waiting. Tonight. We may not have...’
She did not finish, but I understood.
Last night was ours.
Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Thursday, 19th November, 1925
Well, I have stayed in worse hotels. Not for a few years and certainly not on this trip, but needs must as the devil drives. And the devil is driving us hard, to be sure.
Constantinople is a vast, complex city, and Grace, Neville and I were very grateful to have Milos’s expertise yesterday. I think it may be possible that he saved our lives when we arrived. I do not know what the duke’s associates would have done with us after they took the statue, but I suspect they would not have been as civilised as he was in our communications.
They don’t trust me now, of course. I have tried to explain why I did it, but it’s hard to regain something lost so quickly. I keep repeating the maxim - keep your friends close and your enemies closer! We had seen the thing – Fenalik, as we know, now – and I was scared. And if I hadn’t contacted the duke, we may have all died on the train on Tuesday! Neville thinks I’m a silly old fool, and perhaps I am, but one of us had to do something. When all of this is over, I think they will understand.
We are in hot water at the moment, though. That wretched cult knows we are here, and that we have the statue. Milos is sure that they will be combing the city for us, and for once Neville and he are in agreement. None of us are to leave the hotel unaccompanied, and only then if we are doing something that directly relates to our quest. I feel like an outlaw, holed up in this shabby hotel, the ‘Golden Horn’; Milos picked it especially for its unimaginative name – there’s half a dozen Golden Horns in Stamboul alone.
I must admit, there’s something about the situation that gets the old blood pumping, a thrill of excitement, almost like Egypt. But thinking of Egypt makes me think of Alphonse, and then Violet, and all the adventure drains from me like a cracked wine bottle. Let us just get the job done.
The only one of us who doesn’t seem thoroughly miserable is Grace. Yesterday she came to breakfast with a glow in her cheeks that I can’t recall seeing since... well, ever, really. Perhaps the sea air is doing her some good.
We spent much of Wednesday recuperating. I wanted so much to telegraph Walter in China and Iris[51] back home, to let them know the news, but Neville said it was too dangerous. He was right, of course – not only might it give away our position, but the last thing I want to do is drag more of my friends into this awful mess. We couldn’t even contact the Wagons-Lits company, but I’m sure that in our absence they will arrange fitting services for Violet and Doctor Hagge. I’m very upset that we won’t be there, but as Neville pointed out, unless we want them to be arranging four further funerals then this is the wisest course of action.
In the afternoon, Neville and I visited a local library – we dare not visit the university library near the Grand Bazaar for fear of it being watched. Milos and Grace stayed at the hotel, at Grace’s suggestion, as we would be less recognisable as a pair than a quartet. Neville spent much of the morning checking and re-checking the scroll we recovered in Lausanne, and inspecting Alphonse’s notes, but found no mention of a ritual means of destroying the Simulacrum. References were made, however, to other scrolls, including the ‘Scroll of the Left Arm’, which apparently contains a ritual to ‘Balance the power of the artefact’, or some such arcane nonsense. Julius’s notes made mention of a ‘Shunned Mosque’ where more information would be kept.
Our afternoon of research was not wholly unproductive. In some literature about local archaeological finds and artefacts, I uncovered a reference to the ‘Sedefkar Scrolls’, which are apparently ancient documents held in a collection at the Topkapi Museum[52]. We can see the parks and minarets from our hotel.
If the cult members are watching anywhere at all in the city, they are watching the palace, but we have little choice. It is true that ‘Sedefkar’ could be referring to the man and not the statue, and the scrolls may be his shopping list for all we know, but the coincidence seems too great. We have resolved to head to the palace tomorrow, all four of us, to see if we could find something that would help us with our problem.
Neville searched the library for references to this ‘Shunned Mosque’ – and it seems to live up to its name, because he found not a word about it. He was as thorough as he could be, considering that there are over two thousand mosques in the city. He did find an oblique mention of a criminal cult rumoured to have ‘cannibalistic tendencies’ in a Greek-penned history of Constantinople written fifty years ago. This cult was said to gather at ‘the ruined mosque’, but no more details were given. Perhaps we will discover more at the palace.
I had planned to end this entry on a more upbeat note, about how we only faced one enemy now, and at least it was human. However, this morning, at breakfast, Neville turned pale as he read his morning paper (the Times being relatively easy to procure here). At first, I thought it was the tea. The Turkish have very strange ideas about tea – here, they drink it very hot, and very sweet. The first time they gave me some, I asked for milk. Well, you would think I’d asked for gravy with the look I got. I’d murder someone for a cup of Yorkshire tea, properly made.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the drink which had upset Neville’s digestion.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked as his frown deepened. Gravely, he handed me the paper and pointed to a story on the twelth page.
I read the story, a little confused.
‘But,’ I said, ‘Surely this is about Violet and Doctor Hagge? I know we asked the staff to be discreet, but some details must have leaked out--’
Neville shook his head. ‘No, Betty,’ he said, sadly. ‘I’m afraid not. Read the story again.’
Unsure of quite what he was getting at, I looked at the paper again.
‘I don’t see quite--’
Then I stopped, looking at the date of the story, and the destination. My heart felt like a lump of ice.
‘Sofia,’ I said. ‘On the same day that we arrived in Constantinople.’
‘Yes,’ Neville nodded. ‘The other train, heading back towards London.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Fenalik survived.’
Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Thursday, November 19th, 1925
Much of our recent time, when not being shot at or attacked by ancient creatures, seems to have been spent waiting for academics to make their mind up on whether we’re allowed to view some ancient artefact or other. One would think they would have been pleased that someone was taking an interest in their work, but they obviously feel it is an enormous imposition upon them. Typical of academics, I find. Too interested in their private little worlds to pay attention to the rest of it.
While not quite as impressive as Buck House, Top
kapi Palace has a grandeur to it that impresses somewhat. It stands on a hill overlooking the Bosphorus – although ‘sprawls’ would be nearer the mark. The place is immense; at its height it contained not only the Sultan’s residences, but also a mint, a mosque, a museum, bakeries, a hospital, a library and the imperial treasury. It’s a little gaudy for my tastes, but there’s no denying that the Ottomans knew how to create an impression. Unfortunately for us, the grandeur has swollen the heads of those working within it, including the director of the museum, Professor Azap. A portly, well-dressed Muslim with a neatly trimmed beard and large ears, he blustered on about the heritage of the Turks, and the power of the Ottoman Empire. Yes, he agreed, they did have a set of scrolls – four of them, to be precise, named the Sedefkar scrolls, although no one knew the origin of their name. No, they were not on general display, and absolutely no, we could not look at them.
Fortunately, I had come prepared.
‘Look here,’ I said, ignoring his indignant look as I interrupted him mid-flow. ‘We need to see the scrolls, possibly even borrow them. And in return, we can offer you the full set.’ As I spoke, I retrieved the Lausanne scroll from my coat.
The deal we suggested to Azap was this – we would look at the scrolls, and if the Scroll of the Left Arm was amongst them, we would either take it or study it at the palace. In return, we would hand over the Scroll of the Head for him to keep permanently. We also promised to explain to him what we understood about the scroll, and its associated artefact – after we had finished our current job, of course.
Torn between his distrust of us and his hunger for knowledge, Azap dithered, but hunger won in the end. A brief perusal of the Scroll of the Head convinced him it was genuine, and soon he was walking us through a dusty, underused part of the museum, to a large room filled with shelves of books, scrolls, and other relics from Constantinople’s long and varied history. Azap paused at one of the shelves, peering at a label, then picked up a large box and carried it to a nearby table.