said Rosemary. “I don’t know the magical part, but you’re the mystery, and then there’s ‘tour.’ Here we can tour mysteries. If you’re the Mystery Man, and mystery is your life, then this train must be full of mysteries!”
The Mystery Man clapped like balloons breaking. “I know you haven’t read many of my books, Rosemary,” he said, “but I knew you’d do well. You have a strong mind, and a strong intuition. A formidable combination.”
Rosemary blushed.
“There are mysteries all over this train?” asked Peter. “Can we see them?”
“What do you think?” said the man.
“That wasn’t a question, that was a request,” said Peter.
“Ah.” The Mystery Man chuckled. He stepped around them to the compartment door. “Follow me. Every compartment on this train does indeed have a mystery afoot. Even this one, if you look hard enough. Let me show you some others.”
They followed his footprints into the corridor, walking in single file as the countryside streamed past. They stopped at the next compartment, peering through the glass partition.
One woman was slumped in her seat, crying. Three other adults, two men and one younger woman, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. All were dressed in the same style as Peter and Rosemary.
Standing in the middle of the compartment were two teenagers, a boy and a girl. They were blond and dimpled and dressed to match; they looked like salt and pepper shakers. They were questioning the younger woman, pointing accusing fingers as she protested her innocence.
“What do you think happened here?” asked the Mystery Man.
“Um ... nobody’s happy,” said Peter. “I don’t know —”
“The crying woman’s lost her necklace,” said Rosemary.
The Mystery Man turned to her. “How do you know?”
“Both women are wearing lots of jewellery,” said Rosemary, “but the one who’s crying doesn’t have a necklace. I — I think she accused the others of stealing it.”
“Very good,” said the Mystery Man. “What do you think has happened to the necklace?”
“That’s what the two detectives are trying to find out,” said Rosemary.
“Aren’t they a little young to be detectives?” said Peter.
“Well, I’ve read plenty of books about young detect—” Rosemary stopped short and took another look inside the compartment. Then she pulled open the door and burst in. “Nicholas! Eleanor! Tell her to look in her luggage again!”
The two teenagers looked at her in astonishment. Then the boy’s face brightened in recognition. “Rosemary? Is that you?”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Rosemary? How many years has it been?”
“Never mind that,” said Rosemary. “The luggage. Have her look!”
The crying woman hauled her suitcase from beneath her seat. “All right, I’ll have another look, but I’m telling you —” She stopped short. “Here it is! It must have fallen out of its case! Thank you!” She hugged first the boy and then the girl before putting the necklace on. To the adults, she said, “I am sorry I accused you of stealing. No hard feelings?”
Nicholas and Eleanor followed Rosemary out into the corridor. “You know these two?” Peter asked Rosemary.
“Yes,” said Rosemary. “Peter, Puck, meet Nicholas and Eleanor Jung, the Jung detectives!”
Nicholas and Eleanor greeted everybody with warm handshakes. When they were all introduced, Nicholas gave the Mystery Man a sour look. “You said we’d have a real mystery.”
“Wasn’t that a mystery?” asked the Mystery Man. “Didn’t you find the missing necklace?”
“You call that a mystery?” said Eleanor. “We want something more serious!”
“More exciting!” said Nicholas.
“With bodies!” said Eleanor.
“What do you mean?” asked Rosemary.
“We didn’t solve a murder, prevent blackmail, foil burglars, or anything,” said Nicholas. “We haven’t had a real mystery. We never have real mysteries!”
“But what about the Dashenberg Diamond?” asked Rosemary. “You solved the Mystery of the Wailing Catacombs!”
“A racoon with an eye for shiny things! A lost cat in an empty crypt!” said Eleanor.
“Still mysteries,” said the Mystery Man. “You find a question and, through research and investigation, you answer it. Archeologists are among the best detectives in the world, and they lead quiet lives — most of them.”
“And what of life’s mysteries?” said Puck. “Who are we and how came we to be here? Solving those questions will bring you no fame.”
“We know we can solve mysteries,” said Eleanor sourly. “We’ve solved twenty-three cases, but we want excitement too! We want a thriller! We want bodies!”
“Why would you want such a thing?” asked Puck.
“We get all the boring stuff because we’re children,” said Nicholas.
“Everybody else has bodies,” said Eleanor. “Look.” She motioned them to the next compartment.
Rosemary looked in through the glass partition. She covered her mouth.
Inside, a body lay in the centre of the compartment, laced with stab wounds, some glancing, some deep. His dead eyes stared and his mouth lolled open. Around him, four people shifted in their seats as a bald, roundheaded detective fiddled with his handkerchief before launching into his theory of how the murder happened.
“We can solve mysteries as well as the grown-ups,” said Eleanor. She cast a glance inside. “If you want my opinion on this one, all of them did it. But do we get asked? No. And why? Because we don’t have foreign accents or smoke pipes, and why should we? We’re from Kennebunkport and our parents won’t let us take up smoking!”
“It’s a filthy habit anyway,” said Nicholas.
“All of them did do it,” said Rosemary under her breath.
“What?” Everybody looked at her.
“Well, yes,” said Eleanor. “If you look at the wounds, you will see that the knife blows came from different angles, some left-handed, some right. Of course most people would think there was only one murderer, but once you get past that, you will see that they might all have killed him together —”
“They did,” said Rosemary. “They hated him. He did bad things to them. They wanted revenge, and they got it.” She shivered.
The others stared at her.
“Yes,” said the Mystery Man finally. “Most interesting, Rosemary.” He took her hand gently. “Come have a look at this.” He led her to the next compartment. Rosemary looked inside and gasped.
Two women in Edwardian dresses sat in the compartment. One woman, pale-skinned and dark-haired, was clearly upset. She was being questioned by a police officer in an old-style London uniform. A man in a deerstalker hat lounged in the corner, watching everything but saying nothing.
The other woman, with darker skin and flaming red hair, was dead. Blood trickled down from a hole just above her right temple. The left part of her head was —
Rosemary’s hand flew to her mouth. She turned away from the compartment window.
Nicholas peered in, frowning. “The policeman’s on the wrong track. He’s accusing her of the murder. Just because you see the one suspect doesn’t mean