Excerpt from the Unpublished Papers of Professor Julius Arthur Smith

(Written circa 1932, discovered among his effects at University College London)

It was Tuesday, the Twenty-Fourth of October, 1893.

That morning found my companions gathered once more in the dining room of the Oriental Club. The hour was early, yet the gaslights still burned low and amber against the grey October light that filtered through the leaded windows. Outside, London was a city of fog and churchbells; inside, silverware glinted on white linen, and the comforting aromas of eggs, kedgeree, and toast mingled with the faint scent of coal dust from Pall Mall.

It was there, over breakfast, that I informed them of the arrangements made for their journey. Through the generosity of my correspondent Baron von Hofler, their passage aboard the Wednesday Orient Express was secured. The Baron—an Austrian of considerable means and no small esoteric knowledge—was to join them at Vienna and accompany them thereafter to Constantinople. I had, of course, wished to travel with my friends myself, but past misadventures in the Ottoman capital rendered such a return impossible. Even from the safety of London, I confess I still felt the cold breath of Selim Makryat upon my neck.

The matter of the Fez pressed heavily upon us, and my companions wisely resolved to use their remaining day in London to investigate the circumstances surrounding poor Matthew Pook, whose fate had set the whole affair into motion. While I remained at the club to manage correspondence and to regain my own composure, they set out for the young man’s lodgings.

There, I am told, they discovered a scene of confrontation: a stout ruffian attempting to force entry into Pook’s rooms. Thanks to the combined efforts of Captain Barrington and Father Byrne, the villain—one Bentley Burnham—was subdued and delivered into police custody. Mr Fairfax’s good standing with the Metropolitan Police ensured Burnham would cool his heels in a cell for some time.

In Pook’s rooms they recovered his journal, a work of tragic prescience. Its pages detailed his final days, his fear, and his fateful entanglement with the man calling himself Mr Leeds—whom we now know to be Hieronymus Menkaph. The melancholy task of informing the Pook family fell to me, and I do not mind admitting that it weighed upon my heart.

Meanwhile, Miss Amelia Meadowcroft and Mr Sebastian Fairfax pursued another lead, travelling to Rotherhithe, where a noted collector of fezzes had been found murdered. Once again Fairfax’s good reputation gained them entry to the still-chaotic crime scene. There, through meticulous observation and deduction, they determined that the only item missing from the collector’s effects was a rare volume entitled “The Whispering Fez”—as well as a letter from Mr Leeds himself, attempting to purchase it.

The remaining members of the party ventured into Shoreditch, a district where even the fog seems to carry a hint of menace. Fortunately, Father Byrne’s reputation among the local urchins ensured their safe passage. Under the watchful eyes of his ragged entourage, they discovered that the address connected to Menkaph belonged, unbelievably, to none other than Bentley Burnham, now locked away. Among his possessions they found a rail ticket for the very same Orient Express my companions were soon to board, and a note arranging a meeting with Menkaph aboard the train itself.

We reconvened at the Club that evening for a sober dinner—each of us, I think, acutely aware that London’s familiar comforts would soon be behind them. Their departure was set: 10 o’clock on Wednesday morning from Victoria Station. A train to Dover, a steamer to Calais, and then the line toward Châlons-sur-Marne, where at 10:26 that night, the great iron serpent of Europe—the Orient Express—would receive them into its lacquered belly.

What followed upon their boarding of that storied train chills me even now to recall. My friends had scarcely settled into the Salon Car, its lamps glowing warmly and silverware trembling with the rhythm of the wheels, when they found themselves face to face with Menkaph himself.

He greeted them with the politeness of a gentleman, though I am told his eyes betrayed something altogether more sinister. After a brief exchange of courtesies, Miss Meadowcroft feigned weariness and withdrew. Ever the gallant officer, Captain Barrington escorted her to her carriage.

Menkaph watched them go. Then, glancing at his pocket watch, he allowed himself a thin smile before turning his full attention upon Fairfax, Holt, and Father Byrne.

Thus did the next chapter of their ordeal begin—not in the shadows of London, but beneath the sleek lamps of the Orient Express, where civility and menace rode side by side through the darkened heart of Europe.