Page 18 of Death on a Scottish Train

I was lucky that Abigail was OCD when it came to neatness, she kept the practice and my house tidy. Even though, I’d offered more than once to have cleaners come in and take care of it. She had acted offended, and I had given up trying to help out. She didn’t like the way I loaded the dishwasher or hung my clothes in the closet either. It was easier to let her do things her way.

As I went through the deceased man’s bathroom, I was surprised by just how clean it was. The medicine cabinet was empty, except for someshaving cream, the tree tea oil, and toothpaste. He didn’t have any prescriptions. Nor did he have an epi pen.

I found that odd. Most people with that sort of allergy would keep one nearby and on their person.

“Henry?”

“Yes, Doc?”

“Were there any medications in the cabinet in the bathroom?”

“No, ma’am. There were some vitamins, though. I have them bagged for Abigail. They are in a box in the entry with the loo label.”

I went to find the box. He was right. There were no prescriptions.

I needed to speak to his physician to make certain about the allergies and to find out if he’d had any other illnesses.

I found several items including the lip balms. There were vitamins sometimes used to treat anxiety and depression. Which made me wonder if he’d been having some kind of trouble with his mental state.

Most people were these days. Or at least, we were all a bit more open about mental health. Even the stubborn Scots who did not like to show any sort of weakness.

“I’ll search the database to see if I can find out who his primary doctor was.”

“Sounds good, Doc.”

After putting the lid back on the box, I went in search of Ewan. He was in the main bedroom, of which there were two.

“Find anything interesting?”

He shrugged. “The bed was made.”

“He seemed like a tidy sort if the rest of the house is any indication.”

There was a neat stack of books, most of them historical fiction, on his bedside. Some of them were about Scottish lore, and there were a couple of detective novels. They were from the 1940s or so, which I remembered were the kind of stories he was supposed to tell on the train.

“Hmmm.”

“What?” Ewan asked as he perused the closet.

“Nothing much. I just remembered that Mara said he was going to tell old-fashioned detective stories on the train. Some of the books on his bedside are exactly that. The sort of thing Humphrey Bogart might star in back in the day.

“I thought it odd that he’d choose that subject when there is so much Scottish folklore around here,” I said. “Maybe he liked the idea of the costume.”

Ewan shrugged. “Mara wanted to interest all sorts of people to ride the train,” he said. “I sat in on one of the committee meetings a few months ago. They were trying to round up an eclectic group.”

“True. I remember her saying that. He was a fastidious man, who used a lot of lip balm and was worried about his dry skin. That isn’t much for us to go by.”

“And he was an accountant, who also worked as an investment counselor. Could be one of his clients wasn’t happy about his work. People can be strange when it comes to their money.”

“Quite true. Money is one of the main reasons for murder.”

“When we finish here, I’m heading to his office.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

The victim lived a very tidy and clean life. But murder was messy, and there was almost always a motive.

We just had to find what instigated this one.