Page 2 of Death on a Scottish Train

I nodded.

After a short ride up the mountain, we arrived at the quaint station.

“It’s like something out of a storybook,” Abigail whispered beside me. The outside of the station was an Italianate style with elaborate woodworking details on the roof, handrails, and door.

I nodded in agreement.

“You all did a fabulous job,” I said to Mara as we exited the shuttle.

“It was a huge group effort,” she said. “I’m just the bossy one who keeps things running. Though, after all this work, I’m glad it’s done, and I can hand everything over to the station master.”

She was a force to be reckoned with and gave a great deal to the town of Sea Isle. Like Ewan, she never complained about any of it.

I’d come from Seattle and never experienced the kind of community pride people here had. It was lovely to live in a place where the residents genuinely cared for one another.

The station was a mix of old stone with ornate trim and fixtures. Most of the buildings in town were several hundred years old, and this was no exception. Lights had been put up to show off the intricate architecture.

“It’s so pretty,” Abigail whispered beside me.

“The committee worked very hard on making it feel like something out of a storybook,” Mara said.

“It’s absolutely that,” I added.

“You two go on, I have to check off the guests as they come in and make sure we have our storytellers.”

The building was cozy inside and had been beautifully decorated with ornate wooden benches. There were maps of Scotland on the walls, along with various train memorabilia.

A ticket window was on the right side of the entry and a small coffee and tea cart in another corner. Tonight, a server was handing out flutes filled with champagne.

I took one and mingled a bit with the other guests, many of whom were patients of mine. After about a half-hour I followed the crowd through the other set of doors to the train.

The locomotive had been completely refurbished and was dark hunter’s green, with cream trim, and gold lettering on the side that read: The Scottish Storyteller’s Train. It reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the Orient Express. Traveling on that train was on my bucket list. But this beautiful train, at least from the outside, would give it a run for its money when it came to beauty.

What made this train different than any others in the world were the volunteer storytellers. Tonight, there would be several—one in each car. But on regular trips, there would be one volunteer, whose voice would be piped through the train. On each trip back and forth, they would regale the passengers with a bit of Scottish history and folklore.

As we stepped onto the train, I nearly gasped. It really did remind me of pictures I’d seen of the Orient Express. The woodwork had intricate detailing, and the interior fabrics, in shades of green and cream, were incredibly plush.

The chairs were luxurious loungers. A pair of them sat on each side of beautiful ebony tables. On each table was a small Tiffany-styled lamp, and there were electric sconces in between the huge windows.

“Wow,” I said.

“It’s a movie set,” Abigail said.

“You took the words right out of my mouth. I had no idea it would be this fancy.”

“I’m glad we are dressed up, or I would feel out of place,” she said.

I put my arm through hers and squeezed. “You always look beautiful.”

She shook her head. “You’re being kind, but thank you.”

“Oh, Abigail. Someday you’ll see yourself the way the rest of us see you. Come on, let’s check out the rest of the train.”

There were four passenger cars and a dining one, each one fancier than the last. It wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. The committee had outdone themselves.

After grabbing some hors d’oeuvres from the dining car, we found our assigned table. The program we’d been handed when we boarded said that we would stay put, and the storytellers would change every half hour or so.

It wasn’t long before the train lurched into movement, and Mara and our favorite baker, Jasper, sat down across from us.