Excerpt from the Unpublished Papers of Professor Julius Arthur Smith

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

What follows I record only imperfectly, for I was not present to witness the full extent of those dreadful hours. What knowledge I possess has been gathered from the accounts of my companions, from official statements rendered with admirable economy, and from certain silences which no man willingly fills. Yet I believe the outline to be accurate, and the implications—God help us—only too clear.

It was near to midnight when Miss Meadowcroft and Captain Barrington took their leave of the Salon Car. The hour itself is uncertain, for time aboard that train seemed strangely malleable, as though the wheels carried not only bodies eastward but the very fabric of the night with them.

As they passed the stateroom of Mr and Mrs Meyers, something emerged—not a form, but the absence of form: a distortion of shadow that swallowed the lamplight and pressed inward upon the mind. Miss Meadowcroft, possessed of keen intellect and iron nerve, nonetheless suffered a rupture of her reason at the sight. Yet within that madness there appeared an unexpected clarity. She became fixed—obsessively, salvationally—upon light itself. Lamps. Reflections. The certainty of illumination. And by that fixation, the oppressive darkness was, if not banished, then at least driven back.

When the others arrived moments later, they found Captain Barrington attempting to console her, while the corridor itself seemed bruised by something unseen. It was quickly understood that Hieronymus Menkaph lay at the heart of this manifestation, and that the night would not pass without further trial. A watch was set, and the hours crawled toward dawn beneath the steady thrum of the rails.

Morning brought no true relief. Before breakfast, Father Byrne said Mass for such passengers and staff as wished to attend—a quiet moment of grace amid the clatter of cups and cutlery that followed. When the party reconvened in the dining car, they found Menkaph present, seated beside the visibly distressed Mrs Meyers. It was there, amid silver service and polite murmurs, that a plan was conceived—one bold enough to succeed, and perilous enough to fail catastrophically.

Father Byrne and Miss Meadowcroft would remain with Mrs Meyers, while Captain Barrington, Mr Fairfax, and Professor Worth sought entry to Menkaph’s compartment—and, if possible, to the Meyers’ stateroom as well. Menkaph lingered only briefly, dispatching his immense bodyguard, Kapok, to observe them.

Fairfax knocked upon Menkaph’s door. It was answered not by the man himself, but by one of his associates—wearing another of those abominable crimson fezzes. With characteristic composure, Fairfax contrived a moment’s distraction by dropping a counterfeit headpiece at the man’s feet. The ambush that followed was swift and decisive.

In the corridor beyond, Captain Barrington faced Kapok in a brutal contest of strength. Professor Worth positioned himself at the carriage entrance, fully aware that Menkaph would return at speed—and that someone must delay him.

Menkaph did indeed come, his fury unrestrained. He struck Professor Worth down with his cane, inflicting a grievous wound, and surged into the carriage beyond. As Worth lost consciousness, he heard two gunshots in rapid succession. Moments later, the bodies of Kapok and the fez-wearing henchman fell lifeless to the floor, the Blood-Red Fez rolling free between them.

Menkaph’s rage carried him back down the corridor—straight into the unblinking aim of Sebastian Fairfax. A warning was given. It was ignored. One shot ended Menkaph’s flight forever.

In the aftermath, the companions searched the compartments. In Menkaph’s room they found the cursed volume known as The Whispering Fez. In the Meyers’ stateroom, they discovered Mr Meyers, grievously ill, his vitality being leeched away by yet another of the crimson headpieces. Drawing upon knowledge acquired in London at no small cost to himself, Fairfax performed the ritual necessary to arrest the decline—surrendering a portion of his own life force to preserve another’s.

The conductor, Henri, arrived swiftly and proved admirably equal to the moment. At the next station, the authorities were summoned. With commendable German efficiency—and aided by Mr Fairfax’s considerable reputation—the bodies were removed, statements taken, and thanks offered. The incident was officially attributed to the thwarting of a terrorist outrage. One shudders to consider how near the truth that explanation came without ever touching it.

That afternoon, as the train drew into Vienna, Baron von Hofler joined the party. Fairfax observed him bidding farewell to his daughter upon the platform—only to notice, moments later, the presence of a lady in a kimono boarding the train. The disguise did not withstand scrutiny. She revealed herself as the Baron’s daughter, anxious for her father’s safety and deeply concerned by his obsession with the Fez. She confessed to a plan to incapacitate him and had arranged for the family physician to meet her at Belgrade. Captain Barrington agreed, with characteristic decisiveness, to assist.

And so the train pressed on—through Belgrade, toward Constantinople, and toward Professor Demir, whose wisdom they so desperately required.

From the safety of my study in London, I can confess now what I dared not then: that even after the horrors of the Orient Express, my friends still journeyed toward trials far greater than any they had yet endured.