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 that no more exist.”
“The dead woman killed herself.” Rosemary’s voice shook. “She thought the other woman was having an affair with her husband. She’s trying to frame the other woman for a murder! She tied a gun to a rock or something so she could shoot herself in the head and it would fly out the window.”
Eleanor looked into the compartment. “Good theory! The other woman would have to be pretty stupid to leave herself as the only suspect.”
The man in the deerstalker hat raised his head and looked at Rosemary. She drew her arms around herself and quaked.
“What’s going on?” Peter whispered to Puck. “She couldn’t figure out the Mystery Man, but she’s solved every mystery she’s looked at. How does she know all this?”
Puck grinned. “It’s a mystery!”
“Yes, I said there was a mystery in every compartment,” said the Mystery Man. “Even yours. Rosemary is that mystery.”
“Rosemary, what’s wrong?” said Nicholas. “You’re as white as a sheet!”
“Have you thought about taking up sleuthing?” asked Eleanor. “Assuming the Mystery Man considers you old enough for bodies, of course.”
“Stop it!” Rosemary burst into tears. “Don’t you care about these people? Don’t you have any idea how they suffered?”
Peter frowned. “Rosemary, they’re just characters!”
“There is nothing ‘just’ about being a character!” Rosemary yelled. “Characters are born, they grow old, they fall in love, and they die! We are born, we grow old, we fall in love, and we die! What’s the difference?”
“B-but Rosemary,” said Peter, “they’re not people!”
“To me they are! I can feel them!”
Puck took Rosemary’s hand gently and pulled her away from the compartment. “I have always wondered why Rosemary could not finish most of her books,” he said. “And now I know. Sage Rosemary, how did you forgive me for turning Bottom’s head into that of an ass?”
Rosemary smiled wanly. “He was an ass,” she said. “And I knew that it wasn’t going to be permanent.”
“No one gets hurt in A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” said Peter. “In a couple of years we’ll have Romeo and Juliet. I think that’s going to be a problem. But I don’t understand; if Rosemary hates to see these characters suffer, why are they attacking her?”
“Just get me out of here,” Rosemary muttered. “Please?”
The Mystery Man nodded, his transparent hat brim shimmering the air. “She can’t stay on this train. It would be too much for her.”
“Come on,” said Peter, taking her by the shoulders and leading her back to their compartment. There, he slid open the door.
Rosemary stepped inside, looked up, and screamed.
A girl’s body dangled from the ceiling. “Oh, my God!” Peter pulled Rosemary out into the corridor. “Puck! There’s a body in our compartment!”
Nicholas and Eleanor perked up. “A body in their compartment?” They glanced at each other and broke into grins. “There’s a body in their compartment!” They rushed forward, but stopped short at the compartment door. They looked up and went pale.
Nicholas fainted. Gagging, Eleanor ran for the bathroom, holding her mouth closed.
Peter and Puck stared up at a girl very like Rosemary, her head lolling above a noose. She swung gently in time to the clickity-clack of the wheels over the rails.
Rosemary covered her eyes. She leaned against the opposite wall.
The Mystery Man stepped inside the compartment, looking up at the body. “This isn’t supposed to be here.”
“Look!” Peter inched past the dangling feet and peered out the window.
Puck followed him in. “Peter, what do you see?”
Peter was glued to the window. “That Zeppelin is back.”
Behind their backs, the hanging corpse raised its head and glared at Rosemary through its horn-rimmed glasses.
“You’re next,” the dead girl mouthed.
Puck pointed. “Wait. That shadow, by our own; that does not belong to the skyship.”
Peter craned his neck up. “There’s another Zeppelin.”
The window shattered inward. Peter scrambled back. A grapple slid into the compartment, grabbing at the air like a three-fingered claw.
The train shook. The door slid closed.
The man in the deerstalker hat leapt into the passageway and grabbed Rosemary from behind.
