Winston Walberry PI and the Great Train Twister

“Tickets, please,” said the ticket inspector, dully.

“Of course, just a moment,” said Mrs Walberry, digging around in her purse, “I’ve got it here somewhere.”

She nudged the sleeping man beside her, who was taking up a little too much room in the seat.

“Winston, dear, wake up. You’ve got to present your ticket.”

He woke with a snort, the hairs from his moustache tickling his lips. He instinctively wiped his top lip. When did I grow a moustache, he thought.

“There we go,” said Mrs Walberry, presenting her ticket to the inspector. She gestured toward her husband, “This is my husband, inspector, I’m sure you’ve heard of him, of course,” she spoke proudly, dusting her husband’s collar with her hands as if she were polishing a trophy, “The honourable detective, Winston Walberry.”

“Certainly, maam,” said the inspector robotically.

“He’s never left a case unsolved, He’s always caught the suspect,” Mrs Walberry paused, “Well, except that one time.”

“And your ticket, Mr Walberry?” interrupted the inspector.

Winston stared blankly at the inspector. “I’m sorry?”

“He needs your ticket, dear,” said Mrs Walberry.

“I don’t have a ticket,” replied Winston.

“What do you mean you don’t have a ticket?” cried Mrs Walberry, “I handed it to you on the platform only fifteen minutes ago.” She shook her head, digging into her purse for a second time. “Honestly, Winston, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“Excuse me a moment, I must use the loo,” said Winston, uneasily. He stood up, squeezing past his now displeased wife, which was harder than it looked due to the size of his well-fed stomach. As he shuffled down the aisle he heard his wife whisper to the inspector, “You think for a famed detective he’d be able to find his ticket.”

Winston shut the lavatory door behind him and stared into the small, square mirror above the sink. He thought he was going to faint. And he might have, too, if it weren’t for the cramped interior making it impossible for a man his size to fall down even if he needed to. He stared at his reflection. The grey hair, the moustache, the natural redness on his plump cheeks, he felt like he was seeing this face for the first time. He gripped the edge of the sink, steeling himself for what came next.

There were three things he knew with absolute certainty. One, that he was not Winston Walberry; two, that he was somehow, by some unknown force, currently residing in the body of Winston Walberry; and, three, he couldn’t for the life of him remember who he actually was. He took a deep breath. And another. And another. Without knowing what was happening, he supposed there was really not much he could do. He would return to his seat as Winston, and wait until he magically plopped back into his own body, whomever that may be.

The train windows were shrouded in darkness as Winston made his way back to his seat.

“It’s just a tunnel, Henry,” he overheard a young mother assuring her worried son, “We’ll be back in the open in just a moment.”

Winston noticed the stares of the other passengers as he walked past. At first he thought it might be his above average waistline that was garnering the attention, but then he recalled what his wife had said, famous detective, or something. He shuffled past a man in a three-piece suit who, upon catching Winston’s eye, immediately looked away, embarrassed he had been caught staring.

“It’s an honour, sir,” said a peculiar man in a feather cap, grabbing Winston’s hand and shaking it, “the name’s Mr Peabody, but you can call me Frank.”

It seemed Winston might be a bit of a celebrity. There could be some perks to this situation, he mused.

With a sharp snap, the lights in the carriage clicked off, blanketing the passengers in darkness. Winston reached out for something to grab onto as he tried to steady himself. Without warning, the carriage jolted, hurling Winston forward. He landed on all fours, a sharp pain shot through his palms and up his elbows. He felt passengers scuffle around him, voices in the dark crying out, reassuring each other the lights would switch back on at any moment. He crawled forward on all fours down the aisle, trying to find a vacant seat to lift himself up. Seconds passed, as he waited for the lights to return.

1, 2, 3, 4…

20, 21, 22, 23…

Then, just as quickly as it began, the train emerged from the tunnel, flooding the carriage with light. Winston sighed in relief, pulling himself up on his feet. Then he heard the scream.

Ahhhhhhhh!

It was the young mother.

“He’s dead,” she cried out, pointing across the aisle.

There, laying face down and slumped across the seat, was the lifeless body of poor Mr Peabody.

The train guard appeared at the front of the carriage.

“What appears to be the matter?” he said, gruffly.

“See for yourself” said the man in the three-piece suit, gesturing towards the body, “The poor chap's been killed.”

“Hold on a second,” interrupted an expensive-looking woman draped in pearls, “If he’s dead, that means somebody onboard this train is a murderer.”

There was a collective gasp among the passengers.

“Oh, dear,” said the train guard, uselessly, “Well, I guess we ought to, ah, I’m not quite sure, really–”

Winston had been standing back, away from the huddle of people around the dead body, not wanting to get involved. Until a familiar voice piped up.

“We have a detective onboard,” shouted Mrs Walberry.

Winston felt all eyes turn on him as Mrs Walberry excitedly pointed in his direction.

“Of course,” said the train guard, noticeably relieved, “Say, Detective Walberry, we could really use your skills. Will you help us solve this case?”

Winston didn’t know the first thing about solving a murder. He couldn’t even remember his own name for goodness sake. But he did feel an odd sense of duty towards the detective, and while he was occupying his body he supposed he better play the part or else end up in the psych ward. He would have to solve this case, one way or another.

“Of course, I will,” he said, to the cheers of the other passengers.

“Where do we start?” asked the train guard.

That’s a good question, thought Winston.

“Wait,” yelled Mrs Walberry, rushing forward, her left hand disappearing into her handbag, “Wait just a minute. Winnie, your cap.”

Mrs Walberry pulled out a green paperboy cap with gold trim and placed it hastily on Winston’s head. “You can’t solve a murder without your signature cap, dear,” she smiled.

“Right,” said Winston, the scratchy green cap now firmly on his large head. “Where were we?”

“You were about to inspect the body,” prompted Mrs Walberry.

“Right, of course.”

Winston peered down at the body of Mr Peabody.

“I think he was stabbed,” said the train guard.

“I don’t see a murder weapon,” said the man in the three-piece suit. Winston turned toward him and he held out his hand.

“Thomas Blake, detective,” said the man in the suit, shaking Winston’s hand.

“You were sitting across the aisle from Mr Peabody when the murder occurred. Did you see anything?” asked Winston to Mr Blake.

“I’m afraid I saw nothing on account of the blackout,” replied Mr Blake, “But I do remember you were in between us in the aisle right before the lights went out.”

The other passengers shot suspicious looks at Winston.

“What are you implying?” asked Winston.

“Nothing, of course,” said Mr Blake lightly, “Just recounting what I saw.”

“What is going on here?”

A woman appeared at the front of the carriage. She wore a long black dress which matched her black hair that was cut in a short, sharp bob. She wore a long chain around her neck with a large locket dangling from the end of it.

“Who are you?” asked the train guard.

“My name is Trudy,” replied the woman, “I was in the next carriage along but you kept making a lot of noise so I thought I’d see what all the fun is about.”

“Come in and take a seat, Trudy,” replied the train guard, “We’re currently in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“Oh, how exciting,” replied Trudy, sliding into the seat in front of the rich lady with the pearl necklaces.

“I’m Mrs Pearl,” she said to Trudy.

“Nice to meet you.”

Winston looked around at the other passengers. He had become acquainted with all but one of them. A man with a goatee wearing a polo shirt with a cigar sticking out the top pocket was seemingly hiding in the back row. The man noticed Winston staring at him.

“The name’s Falcon. Mr Falcon,” he said to Winston from across the carriage.

If there was one passenger who seemed the most suspicious at first glance, it would have been Mr Falcon, thought Winston. It was also suspicious that he didn’t seem the least bit phased about a murder taking place only a few metres away from him.

“Do you know who did it, yet?” asked the young mother.

“No,” replied Winston, “But what I do know is that out of the ten passengers in this carriage, one of us is a murderer,” he said. The silence hung heavily in the air.

“Miss Trudy, you weren’t here when the murder occurred so I think it’s safe to rule you out,” said Winston. Trudy responded with a smile.

He approached the young mother and her son, Henry, “I’m also inclined to rule the both of you out. Somehow, I just can’t see you committing murder with a child on your hip.”

“Thank you, sir,” responded the young mother, “It wasn’t us.”

Winston turned to the remaining passengers, “That leaves Thomas Blake, Mrs Pearl, Mr Falcon, and –” Winston paused, unsure about adding his last name, “-- Mrs Walberry.”

His wife gasped. “I am your wife,” she spat, “Not a suspect.” She grabbed her bag and flung it over her head, smacking Winston on the arm.

“Ouch, okay,” he replied, rubbing his arm, “I was only trying to be fair to the other passengers, dear.”

Mrs Walberry stomped back to her seat, muttering angrily to herself, “My own husband… I just can’t believe it.”

“I’d like to interview everyone here,” said Winston. He wasn’t sure if this was the way the real Winston would go about solving a case but he wasn’t sure where else to begin, “Mr Blake, I’ll start with you. Would you care to join me in the next carriage?”

Mr Blake smiled, “Lead the way.”

“Mr Blake, what do you do for a living?” asked Winston.

“I run a gentlemen’s club in Monaco,” replied Mr Blake, coolly.

“And what brings you on this train today?”

“I’m visiting my sister. She’s poorly,” he replied.

“Right, well–” Winston wasn’t sure what other questions to ask. He stared blankly at Mr Blake, who returned his gaze with a subtle smile. Thankfully, he was interrupted by a scream.

Ahhhhh!

The train guard burst through the doors.

“COME QUICK,” he yelled, “There’s been another murder.”

Winston followed the train guard to the lavatory. There, slumped over the toilet was the body of Mrs Pearl.

“Oh, dear,” said Winston, looking away, “Do we know what killed her?”

“She was frothing around the mouth, detective, so I’d say perhaps she was poisoned,” replied the train guard.

“I need a minute,” said Winston, returning to his seat. As he sat down, he overheard his wife talking to the young mother.

“Don’t worry your mind, love. My husband has caught every murderer in every case he’s solved. All except for one. Do you remember the golden fox killer?” she asked the young mother, who shook her head in response. “He was all over the news a year ago. Committed a string of murders across Copenhagen. His calling card was a golden fox - they found one at every murder scene. Winston caught him, of course. But then there was a mix up with the authorities and he ended up getting away. Been on the run ever since, I suppose.”

Winston felt a headache coming on. This all felt impossible. He had thought perhaps Mr Blake might have been the killer due to his proximity to the first murder, but he was with Mr Blake when Mrs Pearl was killed, and the chances of there being two murderers onboard were unlikely. That left Mr Falcon as the primary suspect.

“What brings you on this train today, Mr Falcon,” asked Winston.

“Business,” he replied slyly, “and perhaps a little pleasure.”

Mr Blake hurried down the aisle toward them.

“It’s you, isn’t you,” he said to Mr Falcon, “you killed them. There’s no one else here that it could be.” He gestured toward the train guard, “I think you need to arrest this man for murder.”

“Sit down, boy, I’ve never killed anyone,” said Mr Falcon.

“Who are you calling ‘boy’,” replied Mr Blake angrily. He lunged forward, grabbing Mr Falcon by the collar. He swung a fist and landed it right on Mr Falcon’s cheek.

“Whoa, hey now, stop that,” yelled Winston. He grabbed Mr Blake by the arm and pulled hard, ripping his sleeve open and exposing a tattoo underneath. Mr Blake looked quickly at Winston and then let go, using his other hand to cover up his arm.

“Opposite ends of the carriage, you two,” said the train guard, to Mr Blake and Mr Falcon.

As the scuffle died down, Winston approached his wife. Something just didn’t quite add up.

“Dear, I heard you talking earlier about the case I didn’t solve, the golden fox?” asked Winston.

“Well it’s not that you didn’t solve it, you know that, dear. You caught the killer, it was the police who stuffed up.” she replied.

“Remind me, dear, how did the police stuff up?” asked Winston.

Mrs Walberry looked at him oddly. “Well they let him get away, didn’t they? I guess it’s not their fault entirely, we didn’t know that he had an accomplice–”

“-- an accomplice?” interrupted Winston.

“Yes, his sister,” replied Mrs Walberry, “Are you feeling okay, Winnie? I know you don’t like talking about this.”

Winston felt the world close in on him. His head was spinning. It all made sense now. He knew who the killer was.

“Mr Blake,” said Winston loudly, “Or is that even your real name?”

Mr Blake stared back at him with a slight smile. “Finally caught up, have you, detective?”

“You killed Mr Peabody, didn’t you, Mr Blake?” said Winston, “But you didn’t mean to. You weren’t aiming for Mr Peabody. You were aiming for me.”

There was a collective gasp amongst the other passengers.

“You said it yourself, Mr Blake, I was in the aisle between the both of you when the blackout occurred. You were trying to kill me, only I fell over and had to crawl my way along the aisle, which meant poor Mr Peabody got in the way of your weapon.”

Mr Blake smiled. “But I was with you when the second murder occurred, how could I possibly have killed Mrs Pearl?”

“I never said you killed Mrs Pearl.”

“Are you saying there is more than one murderer onboard?” asked the train guard.

“Yes,” replied Winston, “Mr Blake you mentioned you were travelling today to visit your sister, but there’s one thing you didn’t mention.”

“And what is that?”

“That your sister is already onboard.”

“It all made sense when I saw your tattoo. A golden fox,” revealed Winston, “We’ve met before haven’t we, Mr Blake? In Copenhagen. Let me guess, you were looking for revenge? It just took me a while to recognise you.”

Winston thought it best to leave out the part about him not recognising the golden fox killer due to the fact that he wasn’t really Winston Walberry.

“Your sister helped you escape the authorities in Copenhagen, and I believe she’s helped you today as well. Your sister poisoned Mrs Pearl. And she’s right here in this very carriage.”

“Trudy, or can we call you Trudy Blake? You killed Mrs Pearl. And I’d bet that locket around your neck was concealing the vial of poison,” said Winston.

“Oh my goodness,” cried the young mother, clutching her son to her chest like a life jacket.

“I’m calling the police,” declared the train guard, “Good work, detective.”

“You solved it,” cried Mrs Walberry, “Well done, Winnie. But don’t forget to say the thing.”

“What thing?” replied Winston, confused.

“You know, your catchphrase,” whispered Mrs Walberry, “You say it every time you solve a case.

Winston stared blankly at her.

“By Juniper, the truth always comes out in the end,” whispered Mrs Walberry.

“Oh, okay then,” Winston felt a little silly, “Ah, by Juniper, the truth always, ah, comes out in the end,” he said weakly.

“No, not like that, dear,” said Mrs Walberry, “Louder, more direct.”

Winston repeated the phrase loudly, “By Juniper, the truth always comes out at the end.”

“That’s the way,” cheered Mrs Walberry.

“I’ve had it with you sticking your fat nose where it doesn’t belong,” said Thomas Blake to Winston, “It’s time you get a taste of your own medicine.”

“Thomas, don’t say anything,” whispered Trudy.

“No, Trudy,” said Thomas, furiously, “If we’re going down, he’s coming with us.”

Thomas shoved the train guard out of the way and made a beeline for Winston. He turned and bolted into the next carriage, moving as fast as his plump body would allow.

There was nowhere to go. He was standing in the last carriage. The only way off the train was the door at the end of the carriage that opened straight onto the train tracks, but the train showed no signs of slowing down.

“We could’ve got away with it, you know,” said Thomas Blake, appearing behind him as he locked the door to the carriage separating the two of them from the other passengers.

Winston spun to face him. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that we don’t always get what we want.” He was doing his best to disguise the fear in his voice. The real Winston Walberry wouldn’t show signs of fear so neither would he.

“Well, I know one thing I can do,” said Thomas, cracking his knuckles, a menacing look in his eyes, “I think it’s time you met your end.”

Winston knew he couldn’t fight Thomas and win. His body didn’t allow for fast movement or strength. His only other choice was to open the door and jump. He quickly weighed up his options. He could stay and fight Thomas and most certainly die. Or he could jump off a moving train and most likely die but also perhaps survive. He did have some extra padding around his waist that may help break the fall, after all. He had to make a decision.

“I think I’ll take my own chances,” he said, pushing down on the handle. The door flung open, bringing in the wind and exposing the steel tracks racing by underneath. The train felt like it was moving faster than ever.

“You’re not getting away that easy,” cried Thomas, launching towards him.

There was no time to waste. Winston had made up his mind. With the fearlessness of a seasoned sleuth, of which he was sure he was not, the man posing as Winston Walberry jumped from the speeding train.

*****

Norman woke as the train pulled into the station. He felt something fall from his lap. Reaching down, he picked up the paperback he had been reading that was propped open at his feet. Winston Walberry, PI and the Great Train Twister by P. E. Jennings. He rubbed his temples, a small ache had formed at the front of his forehead. What a strange dream, he thought.

“Come on, Norman, the grandkids will be waiting,” said his wife, as she hoisted an overnight bag onto her shoulder. She paused, looking at him oddly, “Wherever did you get that silly hat from?” She shook her head and joined the queue of passengers waiting to disembark, leaving her husband sitting there alone.

Norman reached up and pulled the hat off his head. It wasn’t like him to wear a hat. He found they usually irritated his scalp. But this wasn’t just any hat, he observed. This was a dark green paperboy cap with gold trim.

“By Juniper,” he muttered quietly to himself, “The truth always comes out in the end.”