Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“Well, he’s got a pen, doesn’t he?” Royce dropped the mattress, then got on his knees and tried to look under the bed. He fossicked about for a minute, then hauled himself back up, dusting his chest like he’d been exploring a haunted attic and not a five-star train carriage. “The tissues in the bin could indicate a nasal hemorrhage, which is not uncommon among heroin users.”

I knew he was lying. There’s no way Royce, no matter how long out of the profession he was, could have missed the purpling bridge of McTavish’s nose. I’d seen it even before he’d died. Those tissues in the bin hadn’t been from using. Someone had given him a bloody nose last night.

But that lie I could stomach. It was the same one Royce had told Aaron back in L1; he wanted Aaron to believe our nosiness was useful, and he also didn’t want anyone to steal his limelight. The lie I couldn’t abide was that, when Royce stood up, I saw a flash of paper disappear into his pocket. He’d found something under the bed.

Now, destroying evidence is par for the course for a guilty party, and it crossed my mind that Royce had secreted something self-incriminating. But Royce, unlike his books, was also a pretty easy read. I was sure Brooke’s needling of him as my sidekick had bruised his ego and he wanted to prove himself the Holmes to my Watson, not the other way around. I suspected he was stealing the evidence merely to beat me to the solution.

We locked eyes for a second and it was clear our marriage of convenience had reached a hasty divorce. I’m sorry to those who love a trope: no bromance here.

“I still need to see the flask,” Royce said to Aaron. “It might have trace.”

Aaron unclipped the walkie-talkie on his belt and radioed into it. “Cynthia. Any chance you’ve got the flask that our poor fella was drinking out of?”

“Yeah,” Cynthia crackled back.

“Could you hang on to it? Reckon we might need some forensics.”

“Forensics? You think—”

“I don’t know. But better safe than sorry.”

“Sorry, boss. I washed it.” Her voice was ditzy, almost deliberately so. I could picture her twirling a strand of hair around a finger. “Was I not supposed to or something?”

Royce rolled his eyes. I’ll note that Cynthia was also the one to wash the carpet where the flask spilled out, and given I’ve already mentioned destroying evidence is worth keeping an eye on, we can consider her a suspect. But I also thought it a bit rich of Royce to criticize her when he had evidence in his pocket. So I’m just pointing that out, because, you know: fair play.

“You’re a moron,” Royce said, leaning into Aaron’s radio. “You’ve jeopardized the whole investigation.”

“I have to press the button for her to hear,” Aaron said. “Like this.”

“You’re a . . . oh, forget it.” Royce sighed. Anger is hard to summon twice. “Thank you, Cynthia.”

“Who was that?” Cynthia crackled through.

“Alan Royce,” Aaron said.

“The jerk?”

“This is a speaker, Cynthia.”

It was turning farcical, so I mentioned I was going to take another look at the lounge. Alan wanted to search the two untouched bedrooms again, and I gladly headed back on my own. Brooke was still sitting on the couch. I wasn’t sure if Aaron had told her to wait or if she’d just stayed out of curiosity, but I considered it a win: if Royce could hide evidence from me, I could hide an interview from him.

“It’s not a good look,” I said, picking up some of the papers from the table. “You know that, surely?”

She scratched her right arm, which had a trucker’s tan—sunburned on one arm only—from sitting by the window in her cabin too long, I assumed. “I didn’t know it was a murder until ten minutes ago.”

I studied the papers in my hands. McTavish’s notes had barely any substance to them, and his handwriting was so varied it was possible to chart at which points he was sober and at which he was drunk depending on the legibility. One page said decapitation—survival? Research in massive letters. Another: Morbund. Film meeting. Hugh Jackman. Is this a musical? Ryan Reynolds. Is this a comedy?

“Come on,” I said, tapping the pages on the table. “That’s not why you were here.”

“Are you playing wannabe detective?” She pointed at me, drew a finger up and down my figure. Pursed her lips.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“What do you want me to say? I told you the truth.”

“You didn’t. And I’m not accusing you of murder, by the way. But he’s your favorite author, and he’s just finished off a series with your favorite character. And now he’s really finished with the series. So I’m thinking about what I would do, as a fan, to get one last piece.”

“Okay, fine. Well done.” She threw a bunch of papers onto the table. One fluttered to the carpet. “I came for a souvenir, okay? Just something, anything, he’d written.”