I gave my mom an Edward Gorey datebook that has tear-out postcards. She sent me this one and wrote on the back how fun it would be to read the mystery. Of course, Mr. Gorey made it all up so there isn’t one. Till now.

The Dustwrapper Secret

Chapter I: The Only Chapter

Just as her perfect bow of a mouth drew in a considerable gulp of air—“Oh!”—the draft from the corridor blew her turquoise silk scarf in with it. She found she had no breath to spat it out. Her kohl-ringed eyes were wide with the shock at seeing the bowler-hatted gentleman dozing in the next compartment. She braced herself with a matching turquoise silk-gloved hand on the smudged glass, then wondered at the suddenness of a desire to reach through it to touch him.

Could it be, she thought, is this my husband? The gentleman’s chin was sunk into the thickness of a raised collar and his forehead obscured by dark brown felt. She gazed intently at what was visible—the nose, the clean-shaven cheeks. Her mind raced as she worked equally hard to tear the scarf out of her mouth. Oh, dear, there’s lipstick on it now, she paused to note. The gentleman slept on, oblivious of the turmoil in the corridor, all stillness, a book balanced under a gloved hand on his knee.

Ah, what’s this he’s reading? She squinted at the up-side-down text. I should try harder to remember what my husband likes. But the lettering was caught in the glare of the overhead lamp and she could not tease it out. Ah, another clue, she smiled. He has on those lovely Italian slippers, as though he has just come from a dance. And with white-kid spats. He must have been out all night, she decided, satisfied, and that is why he is sleeping now. But, she frowned, how strange to be wearing an ordinary, though quite nicely-tailored, charcoal grey wool overcoat with black velvet cuffs and collar. And, her frown intensifying, did her husband go to dances anymore? She certainly did and she thought she had gone to one the night before and that she had not seen him there. She knit her brows. More proof would be to know what this gentleman is wearing underneath. Then she flushed at her temerity and the scarf sensibly stuck itself to the rosy glow upon her cheeks. She had never before wondered what her husband wore underneath. Something very sensible and hardly fashionable. She forced her attention to the gentleman’s bowler. She blew the scarf away and admitted that her comprehension of hats was only of the feminine variety. Did her husband even have a bowler? Or was it a trilby? Surely not a deerstalker. Well, she thought, growing impatient at the effort to swat away so many questions, I do know he has a top hat. And that it is not resting there upon the red velvet cushion.

She sighed. She went back to the nose. The shape, the color, the texture—all quite similar to her husband’s. She watched as the gentleman’s nostrils flared ever so slightly with each breath. Do my husband’s flare in quite the same way? She cocked her head. Ah ha! I do not see a moustache! But, if I remember correctly, my husband has one. She blinked at a wild thought. Surely my husband doesn’t put on and off a moustache like I put on and off rouge. She was pretty certain the last time she saw him, he had his on. And she had never seen it off on his bedside table.

Yet, there is something about this gentleman. Who is like my husband and not like my husband. Who has no idea I’m off to town on the train, which is like my husband. And who is going the same direction I am going, which is not like my husband. Who has a fine long nose, which is like my husband. Who is missing his moustache, which is not like my husband. Who is dozing over a book, which is like my husband. Who is reading—“Oh!”—she could see it perfectly now: the portrait photograph on the back of the dustwrapper! He is reading the latest Agatha Christie, which is definitely not like my husband! And with that, the mists finally cleared and she remembered that she had left her husband napping in the garden and that she herself had only moments before set off down the corridor to find the dining carriage and charm someone into mixing her up a not-too-tiny before-luncheon gin fizz.

THE END

(I wrote this. Honest. I really did. Then I sent it to my mom who was completely taken in. It was very fun. )