The Express Diaries Read online

  The Express Diaries

  By Nick Marsh

  Illustrated by Eric Smith

  Innsmouth House Press

  2012

  The Express Diaries (eBook version)

  By Nick Marsh

  ©2012

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  The right of Nick Marsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Published in September 2012 by Innsmouth House Press by arrangement with the author

  Cover and Interior Art and Design by Eric Smith

  Map of Europe by Steffon J. Worthington

  Original art for Moulin Noir Flyer by Justin Burt

  Layout and editing by Paul Maclean

  Innsmouth House Press, PO Box 315, Shipley, BD18 9DB, United Kingdom

  www.InnsmouthHouse.com

  Editor’s Note

  The Orient Express was the most famous train ever to run along the rail tracks of Europe, luxurious even by the standards of the great Cunard liners. During its long history, throughout its various iterations, kings and queens, prime ministers and dictators, diplomats, spies and courtesans have all tasted its opulence and finery. Those grand carriages were witness to many events - some historic, some clandestine, some joyful, some mysterious - but they never saw anything stranger than the events that occurred on the train in the winter of nineteen twenty-five; the winter of Fenalik, and the Brothers of the Skin.

  The tale that is told within these pages did not give up its secrets lightly. The story of how the disparate parts were pieced together is one almost as fascinating as the story itself. From humble beginnings – the chance discovery of the journal of a Mrs Violet Davenport – it took almost a decade before my colleagues and I were able to unlock the final piece of the mystery, and view the story as a whole.

  And what a remarkable whole! In many ways this is an old-fashioned story – a story of love, and death, of ancient evil and hidden cults, of courage, betrayal and, of course, the Orient Express – but the warnings within resonate forwards to our own dark era, and maybe help to shine some light on our current predicament.

  For those interested in the story behind the story, how these astonishing facts were uncovered, collated, and verified where possible, look to our archives.

  For the rest of you – although you may be about to embark upon a journey into darkness, far from home, do not despair. At least you will be travelling first class.

  Archivist Johannsen.

  Introduction

  The bulk of the story is presented as we uncovered it – in the form of diaries, newspaper clippings, and other supplementary materials. As the diaries are, at first, merely the continuation of lives already in motion, little explanation of just who the writers are is found therein, and so interested readers may find the following brief biographical notes of our main protagonists in this tale of some use.

  Mrs Elisabeth (Betty) Sunderland

  - Widowed matriarch of the Yorkshire Sunderlands. An unusually entrepreneurial female of the age, having been variously an archaeologist, lecturer, and mother (of four). Currently owns a shop selling items of archaeological and occult interest in the Soho district of London.

  Mrs Violet Davenport

  - Wife and assistant to the famous magician, ‘The Marvellous Davenport’, as well as being a skilled illusionist in her own right. Niece of Betty Sunderland.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough

  - Patriarchal figure of the famous (eventually infamous) Goodenough family. Retired Royal Engineer, a veteran of both the Boer War and the First World War. Widower, father of three and grandfather of seven. A close friend of Betty Sunderland.

  Miss Grace Murphy

  - Young spinster, secretary to Betty Sunderland. Friends with Violet Davenport.

  Professor Alphonse Moretti

  - An emeritus professor in European history and languages at the Universities of Florence and Belarus; a rotund elderly Italian gentleman with a somewhat shady past. Close friends with Colonel Goodenough and Betty Sunderland.

  The Diaries

  Part one - London

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Sunday, October 18th, 1925

  There is nothing so terrible in this world, I think, as an interrupted game of cribbage. It is especially galling when one is doing so well in the game. Neville[1] and I were streaks ahead of Grace[2] and Violet[3], even though I did once or twice have to resort to my spare cards which I had concealed strategically around the room prior to our afternoon’s play – an unnecessary insurance, one could argue, but the youngsters do require constant reminders that they still have much to learn from their elders.

  Violet had, once again, started play with a five, making me question the necessity of my concealed cards. Really, she should have learned by now. With my score already over a hundred it was as if she was trying to let me win! Fortunately for her, she was spared further embarrassment by a knock on the door. Grace opened it almost before I’d had a chance to look up from my cards. As she did so, a hearty laugh and the unmistakable smell of Balkan tobacco announced the arrival of our old friend, Professor Julius Smith, much more effectively than Grace could.

  Grace took Julius’s hat and coat as he bustled into the room, smiling at each of us in turn. He had put on some weight, and his huge moustache had turned completely grey since we had seen him last (although it still conspired with his thick eyebrows to give him the appearance of a benign walrus), but he marched into the room as cheerful and smiling as ever. As he came over to greet us, one of his stout legs knocked into the cribbage board, knocking pegs and board sprawling onto the floor. That was the end of that.

  I hadn’t seen him since the Ausperg[4] affair several years ago, and it always does one good to reacquaint oneself with old friends – especially as there are so few of them left at our age! After the initial greetings, hugs and handshakes were out of the way, Julius pulled a chair from the dining table (which creaked in protest as he squeezed himself into it) and sat down, while Grace busied herself in the kitchen. Once tea and cakes had been served, he began to explain the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I’m not often in this neck of the woods, as you know, Betty,’ he said, puffing away on his pipe (seemingly unaware of Grace opening every window in a vain attempt to dissipate the smell from the wretched thing), ‘but I’ve been invited this year to speak at the Challenger Trust Banquet Lecture. Heard of it?’

  Neville had, at least, and made some approving noises from his end of the table, fortunately knowing me well enough not to produce his own pipe. For the rest of us, Julius explained that the banquet was a semi-formal affair, hosted by the trustees, who selected (in Julius’s words) gentlemen of ‘clear voice, sound mind and impeccable credentials’ to speak on a subject of their own choosing.

  ‘I’d be delighted if you could attend,’ Julius said, first looking at Neville and me, and then adding ‘All of you, of course,’ smiling at Grace and Violet.

  ‘Of course, Julius, we would all love to come,’ I said, quickly, ignoring Violet’s look of horror. Something has to keep her occupied whilst Walter is gallivanting around the Orient[5]. ‘Could I ask what topic you will be speaking on?’

  The professor smiled, his moustache almost merging with his bushy eyebrows. ‘Now that is something I would like to surprise you with on the night!’ Always had a fondness for the enigmatic, did Julius.

  Thusly agreed, we spent several hours reminiscing about past experiences. A
t four o’clock, Julius took his leave of us, thankfully taking his pipe with him. After he had gone, Violet had several things to say about the lecture, but I suggested to her it would do her good to broaden her mind whilst her husband was away, and though she pouted I could tell that she saw sense in my arguments. I told Walter I would look after her whilst he was away, and look after her I shall!

  Anyway, just as I suggested another game of cribbage, Violet announced that she was feeling a little tired. Neville offered to escort her home, and so the game was over. I am glad Violet and Neville came round, though. It does Grace good to meet other people from time to time.

  I wonder what the professor’s lecture will be about?

  Grace Murphy’s Private Notes, Monday, October 19th, 1925

  To-do list:

  Help Mrs Sunderland with ‘creative accounting’ for shop books;

  Exciting trip to London with Violet to help her shop for dress;

  Re-stock Mrs Sunderland’s port supply once again;

  Letter to Professor Moretti inviting him to Challenger Trust lecture.

  I am informed that I am going along to Professor Smith’s lecture too. Nice to be asked. Perhaps I can catch up on some of that ‘beauty sleep’ Mrs Sunderland is always suggesting I need.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Thursday, October 22nd, 1925

  A charming evening; I barely know where to start! Violet looked delightful in her purple dress. Neville frowned and turned a little red at the sight of the plunging neckline, but I told him not be such a prude. Times are changing!

  Neville looked wonderful himself, of course – he always does in his full dress uniform (though I do wish he wouldn’t insist upon strapping on his sabre too. At least two trays of hors d’oeuvres were threatened by the thing that I was aware of. Plus he informs me that it is the actual sabre he used at the battle of Talana[6]. I gave him one of my looks but he muttered something about not being properly dressed without it).

  Even Grace was presentable. Violet had given her a hand, and I know she tries so hard, bless her. She gets nervous at such events and I’m sure as she was getting ready I saw her hanging around near the wine cabinet. I really must consider changing the lock. I wouldn’t normally mind, but some of the wine is better than her uneducated palate can properly appreciate. It’s like feeding strawberries to a donkey.

  Alphonse[7] arrived with our cab, all smiles and charm as usual, smart in his tweed suit, and looking every inch the academic. I wasn’t definite that he was going to turn up, as he seemed a little cold to the idea at first. I wonder if he has ever been invited to speak at the Trust? Anyway, something must have changed his mind.

  The lecture was held in the main hall of Burlington House, where the Royal Society has been based for many years. The service, of course, was second to none. I knew only a smattering of the many people attending, although it was nice to see some faces from my university days. After a pleasant meal, Julius appeared for the lecture, and rather interesting it was; it concerned an artefact that I hadn’t been aware of in my archaeology work – something called the Sedefkar Simulacrum. I would write more details but I’m afraid the combination of the meal, the wine and the lowering of the lights meant that I missed some portion of the lecture. I’m certain that Neville did as well, although he would never admit it. From what I gathered later, Professor Smith has been tracking the tale of the Simulacrum - an elusive artefact that dates back to the time of the earliest Crusades - and believes that he may have uncovered some clues as to its current whereabouts. The history of the thing was dark and mysterious, but stories have a way of attaching themselves to such curiosities, and I was surprised the professor paid them any heed.

  After the lecture, Julius visited our table. Alphonse seemed interested in the artefact, but didn’t ask too many questions, remaining politely cordial. Violet was too busy looking after Grace to do much more than nod and smile, so it was left to Neville and I to make conversation. Despite my repose during the talk I successfully navigated the pleasantries without embarrassing myself.

  Yes, a good evening, all told. It does my old bones good to get dolled up from time to time, and get out of the house. It was nice for us all to be together again, although it was a shame Walter wasn’t there.

  Now, back to those accounts!

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Friday, October 23rd, 1925

  Although today started much as all the others since Lilly passed, the shocks of the afternoon put the quiet of the morning into such sharp contrast that I feel moved to write about it now.

  I’m unsure as to whether it is the colder air, or the older bones, but every morning it becomes more difficult to remove myself from my bed to watch the dawn. This morning was no exception, but I should feel older still if I didn’t make the effort.

  Hyde Park, as I looked over it, was still and silent, covered with a light blanket of frost. I know that Lilly would have loved the sight[8], and as ever my words are poor replacements for hers when I try to express the tranquillity of the scene. I feel closest to her memory on mornings like this, although Betty tells me it doesn’t do a man any good to dwell on such matters.

  I watched the silent park for half an hour, as the dawn light crept over it. The frost retreated, and the birds begin to waken and sing. It was peaceful enough that despite the cold, even the Wound[9] was silenced for a while. The house is so quiet these days, but it should not remain so for long. Neville is due to return from the Army for Christmas, as is Neville from the Air Force, and with their wives and grandchildren they will bring life back to the place[10]. I even received a card from young Bertie[11] in London, though he will, sadly, not be joining us.

  As I’ve said many times to the men, though, a maudlin man is a useless man. I found my coat, and headed to Betty’s flat above her shop for breakfast. It is seldom a wise idea to keep her waiting.

  The first shock of the day was finding that Betty’s door was answered by Grace, awake and alert, though looking far from happy about this. Considering her ‘emotional’ state last night I expected her to be resting in bed. She must be made of tougher stuff than many of my soldiers have been. She passed me through to the breakfast room, where the second shock awaited me in the form of Betty, clearly in some distress.

  ‘Oh, Neville!’ she cried, standing as I entered, and waving the morning’s edition of the Times at me. ‘Such a tragedy!’

  Betty is not a lady given to hysterics, and my first thought was that the Hun were at it again. Already regretting that I was now too old to play more than a token part in such an event, I took the paper from her, and unfolded it. The main article was entitled ‘MAN DIES THREE TIMES IN ONE NIGHT’ or some such nonsense. I scanned the article – a story about some foreign chap who had been found dead in the Chelsea Hotel, the peculiar thing being that two other foreigners had been found dead in the same room, all bearing identical identity papers.

  I couldn’t see what it was about this story that would have set Betty into such an uncharacteristic state of agitation. I looked up to question her but she practically pulled the paper out of my hands, muttering ‘Page nine, it’s on page nine!’

  Attempting to calm Betty I settled into my favourite chair by the window, sipped my tea which Grace had kindly poured for me, and turned to page nine.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Friday, October 23rd 1925 (Ctd.)

  I read, and then re-read, the story, then carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on my lap.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, whilst I pondered the matter.

  ‘Hmm?’ Betty exclaimed, looking to Grace for some support. ‘Hmm? Neville, that can’t be all you have to say! Poor Julius’s house, up in smoke! And whilst we were... resting during his lecture!’

  ‘Now then, Betty,’ I began, but she let me get no further.

  ‘Now then! Don’t you ‘now then’ me, Neville! What are we to do?’

  ‘That is a good question,’ I remarked. ‘What are we to do? We do
n’t have the slightest idea what happened. We don’t know where Julius is. There’s nothing we can do at the moment.’

  ‘Well,’ Betty said, a little deflated, ‘Shouldn’t we talk to the police?’

  ‘We haven’t got any information for them, Betty,’ I said. ‘We would most likely be wasting their time.’

  ‘The colonel’s right, Mrs Sunderland,’ Grace said, in what she seemed to feel was a soothing voice. ‘If the professor is all right, he will let us know, somehow. I expect he’ll come here to let us know in person.’

  I nodded at this, and the thought seemed to calm Betty as well.

  ‘He’s mostly likely fine,’ I said. ‘He probably wasn’t even there when it happened. He can barely have had time to make it home after the lecture, can he?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Betty, ‘you’re right, of course. It was just a shock, seeing it in the Times this morning. And poor Beddows, wanted for questioning by the Arson Division! Surely they can’t think--’

  ‘They’re just trying to understand what happened,’ I said. ‘More than likely, this whole affair will be cleared up by tomorrow.’

  It has been a long day, and I am tired. I will continue the narrative tomorrow.

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Saturday, October 24th 1925

  I stayed with Betty and Grace for the rest of the morning. In the afternoon, I had some errand to run – quite what it was escapes me now although it seemed to be important at the time. It was soon forgotten, however, because as I walked out of Betty’s shop, I spotted something lying on the doorstep. I glanced down at it, and was surprised to recognise Professor Smith’s calling card. I picked it up, and examined it. Written on the back of the card, in a hurried scrawl of letters, was: