Death on a Scottish Train (Scottish Isle Mysteries #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

We were at the end of tourist season in the small town of Sea Isle, Scotland, and with the increase of tourist injuring themselves in surfing and boating accidents, it was the busiest time of year for the practice.

Guilt edged its way into my brain. I’d promised my friends I’d be there for them, and I didn’t want to let them down. That, and I had spent a small fortune on my outfit.

Come on, Em. Let’s do this.

After dressing and taking a quick look in the mirror, I went downstairs. I lived and worked in a 400-year-old church and while it had its quirks, I’d grown to love it.

I headed to the kitchen to make myself a quick espresso. Nothing like a jolt of caffeine to get me through the evening.

My phone dinged with a message from my bestie, Mara. She ran the Pig he looked after Abigail and Tommy like they were family. He and I butted heads more often than not, but even I had to admit he was a decent guy. And he cared about the people in Sea Isle like they were all related.

“We should get to the pub,” she said.

I picked up a lacy shawl that matched my silver dress. Even though it was summer, Scotland nights were chilly.

Sea Isle had two parts of the town. There were the beachside pubs and stores, and then up the mountain a mile or so, was another quaint part of the town with more shops and restaurants.

I’d grown to love the place and the people, even though the winter had been harsher than anything I could have imagined. Everyone promised I’d become accustomed to the constant grayness and bone-chilling cold. That hadn’t happened yet.

By the time we made it down the half-block to the shuttle, the van was nearly full.

“Yay, you’re here,” Mara said as she checked our names off a clipboard.

“You look gorgeous,” I said. She was dressed in a red fringed dress that was more 1920s than 1930s, but it fit her figure perfectly.

“Same to you, my friend. What is it you Americans say? We clean up well.”

I nodded.

After a short ride up the mountain, we arrived at the quaint station.

“It’s like something out of a storybook,” Abigail whispered beside me. The outside of the station was an Italianate style with elaborate woodworking details on the roof, handrails, and door.

I nodded in agreement.

“You all did a fabulous job,” I said to Mara as we exited the shuttle.

“It was a huge group effort,” she said. “I’m just the bossy one who keeps things running. Though, after all this work, I’m glad it’s done, and I can hand everything over to the station master.”

She was a force to be reckoned with and gave a great deal to the town of Sea Isle. Like Ewan, she never complained about any of it.

I’d come from Seattle and never experienced the kind of community pride people here had. It was lovely to live in a place where the residents genuinely cared for one another.

The station was a mix of old stone with ornate trim and fixtures. Most of the buildings in town were several hundred years old, and this was no exception. Lights had been put up to show off the intricate architecture.

“It’s so pretty,” Abigail whispered beside me.

“The committee worked very hard on making it feel like something out of a storybook,” Mara said.

“It’s absolutely that,” I added.

“You two go on, I have to check off the guests as they come in and make sure we have our storytellers.”

The building was cozy inside and had been beautifully decorated with ornate wooden benches. There were maps of Scotland on the walls, along with various train memorabilia.

A ticket window was on the right side of the entry and a small coffee and tea cart in another corner. Tonight, a server was handing out flutes filled with champagne.

I took one and mingled a bit with the other guests, many of whom were patients of mine. After about a half-hour I followed the crowd through the other set of doors to the train.

The locomotive had been completely refurbished and was dark hunter’s green, with cream trim, and gold lettering on the side that read: The Scottish Storyteller’s Train.

It reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the Orient Express.

Traveling on that train was on my bucket list. But this beautiful train, at least from the outside, would give it a run for its money when it came to beauty.

What made this train different than any others in the world were the volunteer storytellers.

Tonight, there would be several—one in each car.

But on regular trips, there would be one volunteer, whose voice would be piped through the train.

On each trip back and forth, they would regale the passengers with a bit of Scottish history and folklore.

As we stepped onto the train, I nearly gasped. It really did remind me of pictures I’d seen of the Orient Express. The woodwork had intricate detailing, and the interior fabrics, in shades of green and cream, were incredibly plush.

The chairs were luxurious loungers. A pair of them sat on each side of beautiful ebony tables. On each table was a small Tiffany-styled lamp, and there were electric sconces in between the huge windows.

“Wow,” I said.

“It’s a movie set,” Abigail said.

“You took the words right out of my mouth. I had no idea it would be this fancy.”

“I’m glad we are dressed up, or I would feel out of place,” she said.

I put my arm through hers and squeezed. “You always look beautiful.”

She shook her head. “You’re being kind, but thank you.”

“Oh, Abigail. Someday you’ll see yourself the way the rest of us see you. Come on, let’s check out the rest of the train.”

There were four passenger cars and a dining one, each one fancier than the last. It wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. The committee had outdone themselves.

After grabbing some hors d’oeuvres from the dining car, we found our assigned table. The program we’d been handed when we boarded said that we would stay put, and the storytellers would change every half hour or so.

It wasn’t long before the train lurched into movement, and Mara and our favorite baker, Jasper, sat down across from us.

“Em and Abigail, you look beautiful,” he said. “Isn’t this exciting?”

Now that I was here, I was eager to see what came next. “It is, and you are adorable in your chef’s whites,” I said.

He did a fake bow, and we laughed.

The first storyteller began to speak: “I’m Elspeth Bell, and my story tonight is about the haunted moor where the Elfin Knight wanders through eternity.” Her tale involved missing people who were believed to be captured by the Knight, most of them never to be heard of again.

She was lively and fun and kept the audience at the edge of their seats. One of the things Mara had done was to audition the storytellers, and if Elspeth was any indication, she’d done a fabulous job.

When Elspeth finished her yarn, she received a standing ovation from the crowd.

Not long after, a new storyteller came in, and a woman I didn’t recognize came up to Mara and whispered something.

She frowned, and then pulled out her clipboard.

“But he signed in at the station,” Mara said to the woman.

The woman shrugged. “We cannot find him anywhere.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m missing one of my storytellers,” she said. “I have him checked off, so I know he was at the station, but Sheila says they’ve hunted throughout the train, and they can’t find him anywhere.”

“We’ll help you look,” I said. “Is there someone who can take his place for now?”

“Yes, Grandad is helping out in case someone was sick. But I cannot imagine what must have happened.”

“Maybe he’s in the loo?” Abigail offered.

“They checked there first,” Mara said. “The train isn’t that big. There aren’t many places to hide. Not that he’s hiding, but maybe he has stage fright or something.”

“OK, let’s check methodically, car by car. What’s his name?”

“Donald Jacks,” she said. Then she pointed to his picture in the program. He was older and slightly balding. He glared at the photographer as if he didn’t know what a smile might be.

“OK. Let’s do this,” I said.

She and Abigail nodded. We started with the engine cab at the front of the train. Everything had been converted to electric so there were only two engineers. There was a storeroom for luggage just behind them, and we searched throughout.

So that we didn’t disturb the storytellers, we waited to search each part of the train until after they’d finished and there was a short five-minute break for people to move around, and grab snacks and drinks.

An hour later, by the time we’d reached Edinburgh, the man was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t understand,” Mara said. “I remember seeing him at the station. He was on the shuttle with us. I checked him off.” She held up her clipboard and pointed to the man’s name.

“Maybe, you’re right about the stage fright, and he never boarded the train.”

She huffed. “Even so, that’s so unprofessional of him. The very least he could do was let me know.”

“Is there anyone at the station you can call? Maybe he just missed the train,” I said.

“No. We locked up and everyone boarded the train. He’s just missing.”

I don’t know why, but I had a bad feeling about this.

My stomach churned and that was never a good sign.

Had someone thrown the man off the train?