Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

You know how these grand reveals tend to work. According to my writing schematic—which the events of the last few days have been keeping scarily close to—we’ve just crossed the “All is lost” moment (I almost died, twice!) and that means it’s time for it all to come out.

So I thought I’d pause here and give you, you know, one last chance to put your guesses in. This page is the last page where you get to brag about figuring it all out before I do. If you want to grab a pen and paper and have one more crack at Archie Bench, this is the spot for that too.

Also, I want you to know that, over the next couple of chapters, six people are going to use the phrase “I didn’t kill anybody.” Such repetition is not a fault of my creativity, it’s just what happened. I told my editor, who wondered if I could mix it up, that she could raise her concerns directly with the people who spoke those words, but I don’t think she was all that interested in hunting down everyone involved, let alone visiting a jail cell and a morgue.

Okay, back into it.

No more stops. Express to Adelaide.

– Henry McTavish: 337

– Alan Royce: 246

– Lisa Fulton: 149

– Wyatt Lloyd: 138

– S. F. Majors: 106

– Simone Morrison: 106

– Wolfgang: 94

– Aaron: 80

– Brooke: 71

– Jasper Murdoch: 63

– Harriet Murdoch: 53

– Douglas Parsons: 37

– Cynthia: 31

– Book Club/Veronica Blythe/Beehive: 29

– Archibald Bench: 26

– Erica Mathison: 12

– MongrelWrangler22: 8

– Troy Firth: 4

– Juliette: EXEMPT

– Noah Witrock: EXEMPT

– Detective Hatch: EXEMPT

Literary

Chapter 32

Now it was my turn to bash on the doors, rousing the writers and several of the guests. Mysteries tend to have a lot of waiting around for everyone except the detective, and everyone was in various states of lazing, counting the minutes to Adelaide. Majors was listening to a podcast. I had to wake Royce. Jasper and Harriet were playing Travel Scrabble. Douglas was not in his room. Wolfgang was writing in a Moleskine notebook and was skeptical when I asked him to meet us in the bar, muttering that he’d seen this already on this trip. Simone was marking up a contract. She scanned my bloodied, dirt-caked self and then patted me on the shoulder and said, “Perilous third act, I see.”

Brooke flung her arms around her mother, before seeing me and dropping them, concocting some stammering half story about how they were friends and she’d been waiting in the room.

“Jig’s up,” Lisa said, and hugged her back. “He knows. It’s okay.”

Brooke eyed me warily, untrusting.

“I solved Archie Bench,” I said, as a peace offering.

“Well, aren’t you clever,” Brooke said, taking off toward the bar. “This will be fun.”

Everyone was either curious or bored enough to follow me. Even Aaron had given up objecting. The only guests I didn’t retrieve were the three women in the Erica Mathison book club, Veronica Blythe and her two friends. Not because they weren’t important—they are—but because I didn’t need them there in person.

Inside the bar carriage, Cynthia was wiping down the coffee machine, and Detective Hatch was, conveniently, interviewing Douglas. Hatch stood as we all entered. “Hold it!” His protesting was futile against our advance into the room. “I am still conducting interviews. I require you all to stay in your rooms.”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said. “This is a writers’ festival. We’ve actually got one last speaking event. I’m announcing my new book. It’s called Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect.”

Simone gave a little fairy clap of excitement.

“The festival is canceled,” Hatch interrupted, indignant. “No more panels.”

“I’m the festival’s director,” Majors said firmly. “And I say we have another session planned. Right now. Festival’s back on.”

Hatch flopped back into his chair. Waved a hand as if to say, Get on with it.

“Actually,” I said, “don’t kick back too quickly. I am going to need your help a little.”

Hatch sighed. “What?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No. Taser.”

“Okay. How many pairs of handcuffs do you have?” I pointed to his backpack.

“Two.”

“That’ll have to do.” I thought for a second. “First things first, I need you to arrest Alan Royce.”

The Seven Deductions of Ernest Cunningham

Chapter 33

“I didn’t kill anybody!” Royce protested.

“I’m not cuffing anyone simply because you say so,” Hatch said.

“I didn’t say arrest him for murder,” I said. “I think it’s got a technical name. Obstruction of justice? Evidence tampering?” I addressed everyone now. “Henry McTavish committed a vile crime, and Wyatt Lloyd and Alan Royce helped him cover it up.”

The color vanished from Royce’s cheeks. People were staring at him now, trying to figure out what he’d done. S. F. Majors looked at the floor. I turned to Lisa. I didn’t want this to be any more painful for the Fultons than it needed to be, but they deserved justice for what Royce had done to them, and that meant laying out all the facts. “May I?”