A burst of laughter escaped her. ‘Me? And Dylan Quinn? As if! No, I’ve just been on the train with him before, that’s all.’ She glanced out the window. Daylight was beginning to creep its way through the clouds. Her alert expression increased, and she gave me a tight smile and turned back to her magazine.
I looked back down at my e-reader, trying to find some other way to calm down. I mean, so what if that man in black just happened to finish off a song that I was only singing in my mind? It was probably just a weird coincidence. Right?
The train stopped a few times; no one got off but three more people got on. As the morning wore on and the light grew stronger, Gretel suddenly sat up and tapped the man she’d called Dylan on the arm.
‘Wake up, dummy,’ she said. ‘It’s light out.’
He jerked in his seat, then sat up. After a moment or two, he pulled off his glasses, his hat, his scarf and his gloves. And while he took it all off, I … well, I stared.
I mentioned that my attraction to that long-haired guy in the carriage was bizarre, considering he was not my type – and clearly a creep. But this man … I gulped. This man was definitely my type. As he pulled off his hooded sweater, I could see just how closely the T-shirt he wore beneath was moulded to his torso. His hair was as black as coal, and his eyes were very nearly black, too. His lips were so deeply coloured that I wondered if he was wearing make-up.
He wiped his eyes, looked my way, and gave me a little grunt that I guess could have been a greeting. Then he folded his arms and slumped back down.
‘Do not go back to sleep, Dylan,’ Gretel said, tapping him on the arm again.
‘Oh, for the goddess’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why shouldn’t I go back to sleep? I’m tired after all that prodding and poking at the hospital.’
Gretel’s eyes narrowed, and she nudged her head in my direction while she stared at Dylan. ‘This is the new reporter,’ she said, emphasising every single word. ‘You know – Arnold’s latest.’
Dylan’s eyes shot open and he looked me up and down. I watched a vein pulse in his neck, and a hungry look entered his eyes. Oh my.
‘Hi. It’s em … it’s nice to meet you,’ he said, licking his lips.
‘And this,’ said Gretel to me, ‘is Detective Dylan Quinn. He works out of Riddler’s Edge garda station. And right now, he’s about to head off to the dining car and grab himself a nice smoothie. Aren’t you, Dylan?’
His eyes didn’t leave my face, but he stood up and shuffled out past the comic-reading kid. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I think I really need my smoothie.’
As soon as he was gone, Gretel’s whole demeanour relaxed. ‘Sorry about him,’ she said. ‘He’s not too keen on having to get the early morning train.’ She seemed about to say more, when we heard the detective’s voice booming from the dining car.
‘Hurry it up, will you Gunnar?’ he was barking.
Gretel stood up. ‘Actually, you know what? I think I’ll just go and get myself something, too.’
As I watched her walk away, I noticed that she had a truncheon hanging off her belt. I peered more closely. It was definitely a truncheon. Maybe she was a garda, too. The train lurched, and she tripped over. Over what, I wasn’t sure. It seemed like she’d fallen over her own feet.
As she’d fallen, though, the truncheon had flown off her belt. It bounced along the floor of the carriage, and landed at my feet. I picked it up and was about to bring it over to her, when I noticed it wasn’t as similar to a garda truncheon as I’d first thought. It had more of a taper to it. My hand tingled, and the truncheon began to waver in front of my eyes. I closed my lids, and opened them again. The truncheon wasn’t wavering, not exactly. It was just doing that thing that objects seemed to do when I suffered one of my migraines – it was as if I was looking at it through a kaleidoscope.
‘Ash?’ Gretel was standing beside me, reaching out for her truncheon. ‘Are you all right?’
I handed it back to her. ‘Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second. Don’t mind me.’
She looked at me for a moment more, but the detective’s voice bellowed out of the dining car again, so she turned tail and ran.
I was just about to sit back and pretend to read my book again, when I heard a blood-curdling scream, followed by someone crying out, ‘She’s dead! Someone’s poisoned Bathsheba Brookes!’
4. There Has Most Definitely Not Been a Murder on the Riddler’s Express
I sat up, staring in the direction of the scream. The Amazonian woman was barging through the door into the dining carriage, so I did what any nosey reporter would – I leapt out of my seat and followed.
The dining carriage was deathly quiet, while people stared down at Bathsheba’s body. Dylan Quinn and Gretel were closest, and they both seemed to be examining the body whilst the others kept a respectful distance. It made sense for Dylan to be there, seeing as Gretel had told me he was a detective. But what about Gretel? I was sure her truncheon wasn’t garda issue.
I edged my way closer. The old lady’s body was covered with a rash, and boils were everywhere. She looked like she’d been exposed to something toxic. She’d removed her sunglasses and gloves at some point, and done so willingly, because they were sitting neatly on top of the table where she and I had been sitting.
‘Has back-up been called?’ I asked, sinking to my knees to take a closer look. I’d seen plenty of poisonings during my time at the Daily Dubliner, but none where the body looked like this. But the person who shouted out that Bathsheba had been poisoned sounded certain of the fact. ‘Her coffee flask will need to be tested,’ I said. ‘And she had something called a red smoothie to drink, so that’ll need to be looked into, too.’
Gretel looked at Dylan, her perfect brows lifted in question. He let out a low growl of irritation. ‘Deal with her,’ he said to Gretel.
Gretel stood up and dropped something she was holding – a long, black gadget with a green flashing light. As she stooped to pick it up, the detective gave her a tense smile and handed it to her.
Gretel took it quickly, then shoved it into a pocket and out of sight. Seeing as she had been happily brandishing it a moment ago, it seemed like she was hiding it from me rather than the others in the carriage. But why?
She cleared her throat and looked pointedly at me. ‘Civilians need to keep away from the body,’ she said. ‘Nothing personal, Ash. You should go back to your seat. We’ll be pulling into the station in a few minutes.’
I looked around the carriage. ‘Why should I go back to my seat? Nobody else is.’
‘They are.’ Gretel pushed open the door into the adjoining carriage. ‘See.’ She nodded towards an old woman, sitting in a seat at the centre of the carriage, happily knitting away as though nothing was happening. ‘Hi Norma! Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Gretel gave the woman a wave.
Norma looked up from her knitting. ‘Beautiful. Another dead one, dearie?’
Gretel shrugged her shoulders. ‘Probably just an allergic reaction, same as last time.’
Norma nodded, seeming entirely satisfied with that explanation. ‘Isn’t it always?’ she said, and turned her attention back to the green scarf she was crafting.
I eyed Gretel warily. ‘What are you? An undercover garda or something?’
‘Or something,’ she said. ‘Just sit down and enjoy the rest of the journey. Detective Quinn has everything in hand.’
I stood on my tiptoes, peering over her shoulder. The detective looked so different than when he first awoke. Now, he was alert and organised. He held a notebook open in his hands, and was questioning the people in the dining carriage. But wait one cotton picking minute! There was a newcomer in there, a stout man on his knees beside Bathsheba’s body. He must be a doctor, I supposed. And he wasn’t the only sudden arrival. There were three other newcomers, all wearing the same strange get-up as Gretel.
I was just about to ask what the hell was going on, when the train lurched to a stop, knocking me against the door, the back
of my head hitting it with a thud as I fell. But I wasn’t about to let a case of possible concussion stop me. I stood up, rubbing my head and pointing into the dining carriage. ‘When did they get on?’ I asked. ‘How did they get on?’
Gretel gave me an innocent shrug. ‘Just now, of course. The second the train stopped. And seeing as we’ve pulled into the station, you’re probably okay to go.’ She glanced back at Detective Quinn. ‘She and Norma can head off now, can’t they, Dylan?’
He glanced up at me, then looked away. ‘Yeah, get them out of here. Everyone else stays on.’
I stood my ground. ‘Look,’ I said, ignoring the dizziness that had come on after the knock to the head. ‘I spoke with Bathsheba when I first got on the train. Surely someone ought to interview me, at least.’
‘All in good time.’ Gretel forced a smile while she reached into the luggage area and pulled out my suitcase. ‘They’ll be expecting you at the Vander Inn.’ She placed my case in my hands, and slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, while I stood there, mutely. ‘Well, have a lovely stay in Riddler’s Edge.’
5. The Vander Inn
I stood on the platform, watching Norma stride across a bridge that stretched above the tracks. She was wearing her work-in-progress, knitting the green scarf and using it to keep warm at the same time. She was humming happily as she knitted, as if gruesome death was an everyday occurrence here in Riddler’s Edge. Although, given the conversation she’d had with Gretel, maybe it was. What was it Norma had said? ‘Another dead one, dearie?’
The station itself was yet another oddity in an oddity-filled morning. It was just as ancient as the train, although not nearly as well-kept. There was an empty ticket booth, a toilet I wouldn’t pee in if you paid me, and a bench outside covered by a rotten wooden awning. Even though the morning was dead still, every part of the building creaked.
I looked down at Arnold’s instructions:
A room has been reserved for you at the Vander Inn, directly across from the train station at Riddler’s Edge. Cross the railway bridge and turn right. You can’t miss it.
Gretel had mentioned the place I was to be staying. Even Bathsheba had known who I was when I boarded the train. No doubt the people at the Vander Inn would know my blood type, dress size and favourite colour.
I looked across the bridge. Norma was off in the distance now, turning to the left, towards a modern-looking building. From the back, it looked like a convenience store. There were a few other buildings along the same road, and they were an odd mixture of modern and ancient. Was it too much to hope that the Vander Inn would be one of the newer places?
I sighed. Yeah, yeah it was definitely too much to hope for. Even though I still hadn’t set foot on the bridge, I already knew which one the Vander Inn was. It was the one that looked Victorian, creepy, and – although I couldn’t tell this simply from the back of the three storey house – it kind of looked like it might be lacking in indoor plumbing, too.
As I neared the opposite side of the bridge, I spied the sign swaying in the stillness – The Vander Inn. Hot and cold running water available. I gulped. Hot and cold running water should not be something you needed to advertise on a sign. It should be a given.
I hovered on the spot, wondering if now would be a good time to just turn tail and run. Maybe that was what my predecessors had done. Maybe they hadn’t even made it past day one of the week-long trial.
But whatever about the other reporters, none of this should be fazing me the way it was. I mean, I was a girl who had lived with over a dozen foster families. And the elephant trainer wasn’t even the worst of the bunch.
There had been the family of stunt people who sent me back to the orphanage when I baulked at jumping a horse through a flaming hoop. There had been the family of bankers who washed their hands of me when I spent my pocket money on sweets and magazines instead of depositing it in a high-interest savings account. There was the foster-father who couldn’t understand why I didn’t declare him the One True God the way his other children did, or the amateur astronomer foster-mam who believed her alien lover had given her the blueprints for three of her telescopes. Actually, I’d liked her, and she seemed to like me too. I’d only returned to the orphanage because she disappeared in a blinding flash of light one night.
Hmm, maybe I should wait a while before I reveal information like that. I realise that, when I list these things out, one after the other, the events of my life can sound a little on the farcical side. But that kind of life can have its upsides. Like today, for instance. Sure, I wanted to run back to my tiny, unhomely flat. And yeah, my job in the Daily Dubliner’s basement was suddenly looking like a wonderful position. But I’d been through worse than this.
I squared my shoulders, sang Row, Row, Row Your Boat inside my mind (my voice was far less screechy that way) and walked towards my lodging house.
When I pushed the gate open, it let out a high-pitched squeal that I’m sure people could hear all the way back in Dublin. There was an ornate porch above an elegant red door, and one of those bells you pull was hanging next to the door. Like the door itself, the bell was in surprisingly good nick. In fact, now that I was no longer looking at the house from a fearful distance, the whole place appeared a great deal nicer than I’d expected. There were daffodils and ferns in little pots, and a doormat with the word Welcome spelled out in pretty scrolled writing.
I reached for the doorbell, and tugged.
Oh dear. Forget what I said about this place being nicer closer up. It wasn’t nicer. In fact, it was about a hundred times scarier. Because the tune that the doorbell played was Row, Row, Row Your Boat.
A moment after the disturbing ditty finished, the door was pulled open by a woman who looked close to my age. She was wearing jeans and a gypsy shirt, and had silver jewellery draping off just about every body part it could. She wore vivid make-up, and had long black hair, reaching almost to her waist.
She squinted a little, then stood back in the shadows. ‘You must be Aisling Smith,’ she said, extending a hand laden with more rings than she had fingers. One of them stood out in particular. The stone was an odd shade of green, a shade that made me feel a little dizzy. ‘I’m Pru. Come on in.’
I followed Pru into a wide, stunning hallway. The tiles on the floor were black and white, and the walls were painted a calm shade of cream. There were portraits and ornaments everywhere, but the hall was so large that it didn’t seem claustrophobic.
‘My mother runs the establishment,’ she told me. ‘But I help out now and then, when I’m not too busy with my fortune-telling work. Would you like some breakfast, or would you rather see your room first of all?’
My stomach began to growl. It was almost nine, and usually I’d have wolfed down some porridge at six-thirty and be searching for a snack right about now. ‘Breakfast would be wonderful,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Just leave your bags there. The housegh– the em, the houseboy will bring them up to your room.’
She led the way into a dining room that reminded me of the dining car on the train – tablecloths, vases, the whole shebang. The smell coming from the kitchen was divine, and there was one resident finishing off his meal.
His skin was paper-thin, but despite his age he kept himself looking well. His suit was neatly pressed and elegant, and his shoes were gleaming. He was eating a plate of what looked like black pudding, and sipping at a coffee. As soon as I entered the room, he placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate and turned.
‘You’ve been on the train,’ he said, gazing at me with watery eyes. ‘Somebody died.’
I blinked. ‘I … how did you know that?’
Pru patted his arm. ‘Hush now, Donald. Let her settle in.’
‘But you can smell it just as well as I can, Pru. And Bathsheba should have been here by now.’
While I stared down at the doily-strewn tablecloth, wondering how the hell to field that one, Pru gave him a sympathetic look, patting his arm again. ‘Go on now, Do
nald. Go on and go up to bed for the day, and I’ll let you know as soon as Bathsheba returns.’
As the old man walked away, Pru sat down across from me. ‘She died, didn’t she? Bathsheba died on that train.’
I swallowed. ‘I … yes. A woman called Bathsheba died in the dining car. How did you know?’
She sat back and folded her arms. ‘My bedroom looks out onto the platform. I saw you and Norma get off, and no one else. They only keep people on the train when there’s been a murder.’
I was trying to decide how to digest that when another woman walked in. She didn’t look much older than Pru, but Pru looked up at her and said, ‘Hello, Mam. This is Aisling Smith. Aisling, this is my mother, Nollaig.’
Her mother gave me a warm smile. ‘Of course, of course. Now, I wasn’t told if you have any dietary preferences.’ She gave me an odd sniff. ‘Oh, you’ll probably just want the usual sort of breakfast, then. Sausages and eggs and the like?’
‘That’d be great,’ I said, my stomach letting out another rumble.
She and Pru rushed off to the kitchen. There was only a door separating it from the dining room, and I could hear them whispering back and forth. Arnold’s name was mentioned a lot. Mine was mentioned almost as much. But what was said about Arnold and me, I couldn’t quite work out. After a couple of minutes they walked back in, Nollaig carrying a plate piled high with food, while Pru carried a pot of coffee and some toast.
‘Did you both know Bathsheba, then?’
Nollaig sat down and sighed. As soon as she was sitting across from me, I noticed she was wearing the same green-stoned ring as her daughter. ‘Bathsheba has been with us a few weeks. She’s been having treatment in Dublin, and it helps her to be close to the station. She and Donald have a home in another town nearby.’
I looked down at my food, wanting to eat but also feeling so sorry for him. Pretty soon, someone would be giving him the bad news. I hoped for his sake that it wasn’t Detective Quinn. The man didn’t seem like the sympathetic sort.
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