Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“Don’t listen to them,” Aaron said. “They’re just . . . well, they’re supposed to be helping, but I’m undecided. No one’s accusing you of anything. Except lock-picking, I suppose.”

Brooke looked at her shoes. The color bungee-jumped back into her cheeks.

“He gave you a key,” I surmised. McTavish had told Brooke that morning it was a shame he’d had to drink his expensive whiskey alone, a hint to an invitation declined. “Last night.”

The tiniest of nods. “I wasn’t going to go. I wouldn’t.”

“Why take it then?” Royce asked. It was becoming abundantly clear that he was only able to consider female suspects based on a singular motive—sex—and didn’t understand that consent could be given and revoked.

“Henry McTavish was my hero,” Brooke said. “So, yeah, I was a little butterfly-y when he came up to me last night. That is what I wanted to happen. But I wanted it to be as a reader, as a fan. For us to bond over his books, and what they’d given me.”

I recalled her question at the panel: puzzling to me but painstakingly crafted to impress McTavish. Simone had said you had to speak to him in riddles and puzzles. Archie Bench. She’d come all this way to get the chance to say I understand your books better than anyone. It wasn’t so shallow as a crush or a seduction.

Her lip quivered as she continued, “And then he comes over, and I’m thinking this is the moment I’ve waited for. And he leans in—his breath reeks of alcohol—and he presses his room key into my hand. Doesn’t say anything. Just the key. The look on his face, like this was some kind of prize. Like I’d earned it.” She gagged a little at the memory. “I froze. By the time I’d recovered enough to really process what had just happened, he’d already started walking away. And I’d curled my hand around the key so tightly it almost cut my palm.”

“Nice performance, love.” Royce gave a slow clap. While he may have had some usefulness in forensics, his psychological insight was lacking: I needed S. F. Majors for that.

“So you didn’t come here last night?” I asked, thinking of Royce’s female voice behind the door. He’d only thought it was Lisa, he’d never actually seen her.

“Absolutely not. I slept in my own room.”

“Which is?” I asked, so I could sketch it later.

“The guest carriage.”

I waited for more specifics, but she hesitated. I realized I’d just told her there might be a killer on the train. She had every right to be cautious about a stranger asking where she slept.

“N, ah, 1,” she said eventually. “Look, I was going to talk to him after the panel. I didn’t sleep well. I was worried maybe I’d misread things. I wanted to clear the air with the benefit of sobriety and sunrise. At the very least I had to give him back the key. So I went to the Q and A. But that publisher guy stopped me.”

I remembered Wyatt brushing her aside, telling her there’d be signatures after the session.

“And then he had that heart attack and I thought”—her eyes flickered to the side, her first clear lie—“I’d put the key back myself.” She straightened, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this is an interrogation.”

None of us said anything. Aaron scratched the back of his calf with his toe.

“Oh. My. God.” She burst out laughing. “This is an interrogation. You think you’re actual detectives. Oh wow. That’s too good. Tell me, which one’s Holmes and which one’s Watson? Wait, let me guess.” She pointed at Royce, then wrinkled her nose. “Sidekick.”

Royce took a step toward her, but Aaron put an arm out. “I thought we were here to confirm cause of death. Not to hassle the guests.”

With the fear that our permission to poke around was about to be revoked, Royce and I launched into a great act of demonstratively looking for clues: bent backs and stroked chins. I inspected the waste bin, which had a wad of bloody tissues in it and a little white card that said From an admirer. Brooke’s words echoed: McTavish was my hero.

Extending from the lounge was a hallway not dissimilar to the regular accommodation halls, leading to four separate cabins. Two of these appeared untouched. The third was set up as a miniature office: a proper writing desk in front of the seat, a lone felt-tip pen sitting on it. The largest room was at the end: McTavish’s bedroom, more than double the size of a regular cabin and furnished with an unmade double bed in the middle of the room, a separate armchair facing the window, and McTavish’s suitcase open on the floor, tongues of jacket sleeves licking the carpet.

“Where’s his typewriter?” I asked, looking around.

“Huh?” Royce shrugged, then lifted the mattress: a predictable place to hide drugs. It was clean.

“McTavish,” I said. “Doesn’t he write all his manuscripts on a typewriter? He’s got the writing desk set up in the other room. No typewriter. No ink.”