Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: Well, it just so happens that over on the Gull's Way Board (yahoo), This Week's Episode is "Something's Going On On This Train", in which Hardcastle accepts an invitation to take a ride on what is purportedly an anniversary trip for the Casper Arrow. Once aboard and underway, the assorted passengers begin to die, one by one, Mark (who's along by mistake) and the judge try and figure out who the murderer is. At one point, Mark (who's had bad luck with lavatories in this episode) persuades Hardcastle to escort him to the john. While they're out, the mystery murderer enters their sleeper compartment and puts a scorpion under Hardcastle's sheets. The scene cuts immediately to the next morning, with the judge is playing possum in his bunk, soon to join the rest of the corpses in the baggage cart in the hopes of trapping the killer.
But what happened that night?
Death, Where is Thy Sting?
by L.M. Lewis
Of course the only time he'd arranged for an escort to the washroom, nothing happened. Well, not exactly nothing. Hardcastle bitched and complained the whole time, and came very near being pitched off the train by his sorely tried sidekick.
"I just think we should stick together from now on," Mark said sensibly, and the judge couldn't very well argue with that.
That didn't stop Hardcastle from uttering one last grumble, but then he added, as they let themselves back into the sleeper compartment, "Just make sure you give me a nudge if you get up in the middle of the night."
"Aw, you're worried," Mark grinned, shutting the door behind them.
The older man growled. "It's just if you're gonna be careless enough to get thrown off the train again, I wanna know which state to start looking in."
Mark edged past him, heading for the top bunk. Between the aches and pains, and the long day, he thought he'd be able to sleep even if a serial killer was stalking the train. He climbed up wearily as the judge crawled into the lower bunk.
But Mark's head had barely touched the pillow before he was startled back up again.
"Ow!" It was Hardcase.
Mark stuck his head over the side of the bunk, just in time to see the man sit bolt upright and throw back his covers.
"What happened?"
"Wasp or something. My toe." The judge had his right foot in his hands and was trying to inspect it. "Damn. Hurts."
Mark scrambled down. "Wait a sec." He was looking closely at the covers, hastily jumbled on the far end of the bed. "A wasp on a train car? Does that make any sense?" He picked up the edge of the covers gingerly and lifted them. Both men saw it, something dark and multi-legged, scuttling back into what was left of the crevasse of sheet.
"What the hell—?"
"A scorpion," Hardcastle answered. "They hide in cracks. I must've scared the heck out of it—big foot coming at it out of nowhere. They don't attack unless they feel threatened."
"They don't, huh?" Mark looked at him disbelievingly. "Well, neither do I, but I feel a little threatened with it on the loose in here."
He turned toward the shelf where two empty water glasses sat, and picked one up. This time he grasped the edge of the sheet firmly and whipped it back in a quick movement. The inverted glass descended on the fleeing scorpion, trapping him on the mattress.
"Okay, now what?" Mark studied the rampant beast. "You got a shirt cardboard or something in your luggage?"
Hardcastle gave his toe one last rub, then stood, tentatively, wincing. "Manila folder in my suitcase—the Quillerman file—I brought it along."
"Some vacation." Mark sighed. "You bring files along for the dull moments. You ought to know by now there aren't going to be any dull moments."
The judge had fetched it, now empty of its contents. Mark slid it into position beneath the glass, the creature frantically waving its pincers, tail up and ready.
"There." He looked around. "Maybe in the toilet? No." He shook his head hastily.
"You having one of those St. Francis moments?" Hardcastle asked.
"Hell, no, it's evidence. This has got too many legs to rate any sympathy." He deposited his burden on the small desk table, the only flat accommodating surface available.
"Evidence? It's a scorpion; we're in the southwest."
"Wait a sec, Judge. Here we are on the Death Train, and you're thinking National Geographic special? It's evidence." He backed away from the desk, still watching the trapped animal. Then suddenly his attention was diverted back to Hardcastle.
"And it stung you." His expression had gone worried. "What are we supposed to do? How do you feel?"
"Stupid, mostly." Hardcastle shook his head. "I used to go fishing with a guy who said never hop in under the covers without checking first to see if you weren't alone—that and shake your boots out every morning."
"We're on a train," Mark said.
"They can get in luggage. They like nooks and crannies." Hardcastle sighed, and went back to rubbing his toe. "Anyway, there's lots of scorpions and only a few of 'em are really dangerous. And around these parts the dangerous kind are light colored, not black like that one." He nodded toward his assailant.
"You're sure?" Mark said quietly. "I didn't know you were a scorpion expert."
"That guy I went fishing with, like I said . . . kinda tingles and burns," he added, fingering his toe gently.
"Okay, Mark said, "Move over to the chair."
"Why?" Hardcastle looked out-of-sorts.
"Because, like the man said, we're not hopping in under the covers until we're sure Sting over there doesn't have any buddies."
The move was made with only mild grumbling. The sheets were stripped with all due care, and the mattresses were shifted. No further visitors were found.
"You still feeling okay?" Mark asked over his shoulder as he remade the lower bunk.
"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted. "Tired, maybe," and then, at Mark's hastily concerned look, "but that's just because it's been a long day."
"Yeah," Mark agreed wearily as he spread the sheet on the upper bunk and tucked it in haphazardly. "You really think this was an accident?"
"Well," Hardcastle gave his toe one last desultory rub, "it's pretty sloppy as attempted murders go, but I suppose if it barks like a dog . . .." He got to his feet and hobbled toward the bed.
Mark looked thoughtfully at the jar. He finally lifted file folder, jar, and contents and placed them carefully in the far corner of the little room. He rummaged quickly in Hardcastle's pile of discarded clothes and retrieved a t-shirt, tossing it onto the jar, then arranging it carefully for maximum coverage.
"What are you doing?"
"Hiding the evidence."
"Ah," Hardcastle nodded sagely, "finally something you're good at."
Mark grimaced at him, then stood up, admiring his camo job. "Whaddaya think?"
"Looks like a pile of dirty laundry, just don't go forgetting and picking the whole thing up in the morning."
"Oh, nah," Mark smiled, "nothing like that. In the morning it'll be showtime." The smile broadened as Hardcastle stared at him in bemusement. "Yeah," Mark grinned, "just think of it—your very own way way off-Broadway death scene." His hands were up, as if framing the letters on the marquee. "Milton C. Hardcastle starring as Victim Number Three in 'Casper the Ghost Train'."
The older man grimaced.
"Okay," Mark said, "I get these attacks of bad taste when I'm staring death in the face but, seriously, you don't have to do Hamlet—just hold your breath. You'll already be dead when the curtain goes up. I'll have the tough role: trying to look grief stricken over your prostrate corpse."
The judge stared at him in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Mark let out an impatient sigh. "I'm talking about making our mystery killer believe he succeeded."
"Yeah, that I get. But what the hell good does it do us? I'll be back there in the luggage car freezing my buns off and you'll be up here. I thought we'd decided to stick together on this one."
"Oh, but see?" Mark sat down on the chair. "Your being dead is only Act I. We carry you back to the baggage car, me weeping and moaning—"
"And me holding my breath the whole time," Hardcastle interjected dubiously.
"Okay, I'll throw a blanket over you and you can breathe shallowly. Didn't I show you that yoga meditation thing one time? "
"It looked goofy."
Mark sniffed. "You hardly have to breathe at all. Breathing is vastly overrated."
"Okay, so I'm back in the baggage car, then what?"
"Act II—the curtain rises on our former happy home." He gestured to the compartment around them. "Only it's in disarray. Up for grabs. I'm making a mess out of it."
"This is type-casting."
"Hah, well, I've got the suspects in here; they want to know what the hell I'm doing. I tell them you—the all-knowing, all-seeing Hardcase Hardcastle--figured it all out."
"And I didn't tell you?"
"'Course not, if you'd done that the play would be over."
"And you're turning the place upside down looking for the clue that I wrote down on a matchbook cover." Hardcastle scratched his head. "You read too much Agatha Christie . . . okay, so, you don't find the laundry receipt, or the matchbook cover or anything, and then the murderer goes to look in the one place that hasn't been searched."
"Precisely, my good Watson." Mark sat back with a grin. "And then you get your big scene."
"I can stop holding my breath?"
"Hell, you can even bite him if you want. But you should definitely have the element of surprise."
The judge sat quietly for a moment. It stretched out to several moments. He cocked his head, eyes slightly narrowed as though he were figuring some of the angles.
Mark started to look worried. He finally ventured a cautious, "Whaddaya think?"
The expression on the older man's face suddenly unfolded into a grin that might have been described as lupine. "So," he said expansively, "what's my motivation?"