Unwritten Books 1 - Unwritten Girl Page 9

  They burst through the back doors. Puck carried Rosemary out into the thunderstorm.

  Behind them, steady in the buffeting winds, the Zeppelin hovered over the house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

  “No, don’t hurt her!”

  — Theo Watson

  Rosemary dreamt of chrome and Zeppelins, of three children drinking cocoa from melamine cups.

  ***

  “What if we could travel at the speed of thought?” Marjorie pushed her horn-rimmed glasses further up on her nose. “Wouldn’t it be great? We could go anywhere, see all the planets, and not have to worry about spacesuits, rocket ships, and stuff.”

  “Yeah, right,” snorted her brother, John. “You know, Marjorie, your flights of fancy are probably the reason the other kids think you’re so weird.”

  “I don’t think that’s weird,” said Andrew. “They used to think flying was impossible, or travelling around the world. Who knows? Maybe we could travel at the speed of thought in the future.”

  “Why not now?” said Marjorie.

  Andrew looked at her. “Okay, maybe that is a little weird.”

  Marjorie scowled at him.

  ***

  Rosemary’s dream faded into a distant train whistle.

  “Marjorie,” murmured Rosemary. A light rocking and a whispered clickity-clack brought her slowly back to consciousness. She felt weak and warm. Somebody had covered her with a coat. She kept her eyes closed because she knew the world would tilt and reel the moment she opened them. Around her, voices whispered.

  “Why did they attack us like that?” Peter’s voice came from just over her head.

  “To send us a message,” said Puck, further off, “that they are angry.”

  Peter gave a hollow laugh. “That came through loud and clear.”

  “Angry enough they care not for the rules,” Puck muttered. Then he perked up. “You seem troubled, young Peter.”

  “They tried to kill us!” “

  It is more than that.”

  “Well ...” Peter said nothing for a moment. Rosemary realized that she was on her back on a cot or a long seat. Peter was sitting by her head. Finally, Peter said, “I — I think the Fearmonger was right.”

  “How so?”

  “You saw how I ran when the Black Knight charged me! You saw how I was about to run when I saw that fake ghost! Some ‘lady’s champion’ I turned out to be. I shouldn’t even be here.”

  “And yet, when you saw Sage Rosemary threatened, you defended her without thought to your own safety.”

  “That’s different. Rosemary was in trouble —”

  “And you were not?”

  Peter sat silent.

  After a while, Puck said, “Fear, like strong medicine, is good in small doses. Running from the Black Knight was not cowardice, but common sense. What you did in the hall of mirrors, however, was true bravery.”

  “Well ... I ...” Peter glanced down at Rosemary. “I think she’s coming around.”

  Rosemary opened her eyes. Her headache had disappeared and the world did not twirl around her. Much. “Where are we?”

  “On a train.” Peter helped her to sit up. A grey coat that had been over her like a blanket slipped to the floor. Rosemary found herself wearing a loose, straight dress of yellow silk with fringe on its knee-length hem. She kicked off the high-heeled shoes.

  Peter’s charcoal-coloured pants matched the coat and he had on a white pressed shirt. Puck wore the matching fedora cocked on his head; the bruise on his temple was not quite lost in its shadow.

  Rosemary rubbed the last of the dizziness from her eyes. “Another challenge?” She looked around the compartment. There was a door on one side, its window opening onto the train car’s corridor. On the other side, the countryside clattered past, scrubby fields rolling into the distance. “Where are we going?”

  “Further into the story,” Puck began.

  “I’m talking about this train, not the story,” snapped Rosemary.

  “We didn’t have time to ask,” said Peter. “The characters were still chasing us. We saw this train and just piled on board.”

  “You don’t know where we’re going?” said Rosemary.

  “The conductor said something about a Magical Mystery Tour.”

  “Magical Mystery Tour?” Rosemary raised both eyebrows.

  “I know,” said Peter. “We didn’t get to ask him, and he hasn’t come back to collect our tickets — which is actually good ’cause we don’t have any.”

  Rosemary rubbed the back of her head, and then her sore neck. She winced at the sudden jab of pain and stopped rubbing. “Peter, do I have paper cuts ...” She mimed grabbing her own throat.

  Peter didn’t meet her eyes. He nodded. She let her hand drop.

  At the head of the train, the steam engine whistled again. Then they were in the darkness of a tunnel.

  There was a sliding sound.

  “Was that our compartment door?” asked Peter.

  The train continued in the darkness.

  “Peter,” said Rosemary. “What’s your hand doing on my knee?”

  “My hand isn’t on your knee.”

  The train chugged on. There was silence for a minute. Then, “Puck?”

  “Yes?” His voice was across the compartment. Not beside her.

  Beside Rosemary, somebody let out a baritone laugh.

  Pandemonium broke loose.

  “There’s someone here with us!” Rosemary shouted.

  “Get away!” shouted Peter.

  The intruder laughed again.

  “He’s choking me!” Peter croaked.

  “I got him!” shouted Rosemary. “I got him by the neck!”

  “Help!” Peter gurgled.

  The train emerged from the tunnel. The sudden light revealed Puck standing up, staring, as Rosemary held Peter in a headlock. She dropped him, and he stumbled to his feet. They looked around at the otherwise empty compartment.

  “I don’t get it,” said Peter. “Was somebody here?”

  “Maybe,” said a voice.

  Peter and Rosemary jumped. They looked around frantically, but could see no one. “Who’s there?” Rosemary’s voice shook. “Where are you?”

  “Who indeed?” said the voice. “Where do you think?”

  Then movement caught her eye and she found herself staring at the window. The light twisted atop the seat, and she could just make out the shape of a tall man made out of clear glass. She gripped Peter’s wrist and pointed. The two backed into Puck.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” said Peter.

  The transparent figure turned. They could see the shape of his hat brim as it bent the light from the window. “Don’t you know?” They couldn’t see if his lips had moved or not.

  Puck put a protective hand on Peter’s and Rosemary’s shoulders. “Will you not answer the children’s questions?”

  The figure folded his invisible arms. “Can’t they figure things out for themselves?”

  “No,” said Rosemary. “We’ve never seen you before — we can hardly see you at all! We don’t know who you are or what you want! Do you have to be so mysterious?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Wait,” said Peter. “You have to be so mysterious.”

  The man stood up. “Yes, that’s right, Peter. It’s my nature. I am made of mystery. I am the Mystery Man!”

  Rosemary and Peter looked at each other. “So, what are you doing here?” asked Rosemary.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t want to think!” Rosemary shouted. “I’m too tired to think! I just want answers!”

  “You are here to help us, though,” said Peter.

  The Mystery Man cocked his head, causing the wood panelling behind him to ripple. “What makes you think so?”

  “Well,” said Peter. He eased out of Puck’s protective grip and stepped forward. “You haven’t attacked us. Scared us, yes, and confused us, but you have
n’t tried to hurt us.”

  “That is thin evidence,” said the Mystery Man, “but evidence enough to form a theory. Well done, Peter. You’re starting to use your mind.”

  Rosemary scowled. “If you’re here to help, why don’t you just say so?”

  Puck tapped her shoulder. “Be easy, Rosemary. Peter has found a pattern. Use it, and you can talk to this man.”

  She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I think I understand,” said Peter. “Let me try again.” He turned to the transparent figure. “You want to help us, but ... you can’t give much away. We have to figure things out ourselves through the clues you provide.”

  “And your evidence?” said the Mystery Man.

  “You never answer our questions,” said Peter. “You make us guess, and only tell us if we’re right or wrong.”

  “Very good.”

  “You’re the reason why they called this train the Magical Mystery Tour,” said Rosemary, brightening.

  “Very good, Rosemary,” said the man. “It isn’t too hard, once you get started, to use your mind.”

  “But why would you be here on a train?” she asked.

  “Why do you think?”

  Rosemary clenched her fists and growled.

  “There’s something special about this train,” said Peter. “Something to do with mysteries.”

  “Trains can offer glamorous and contained settings, a limited number of suspects, and a time limit for the mystery to be solved. I am very much at home on a train.”

  “The Magical Mystery Tour,” 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. “Mos
t 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?”