Summer reissue: Alex Casey goes on a killer journey aboard the Tormore Express.

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It was a dark and stormy night, and I had never seen so many fedoras in my life. Christchurch’s Addington Station was bustling with guests dressed to the nines – or should I say the nineteen-thirty-nines – fizzing harder than their complimentary glass of Sherwood Estate Cuvee. What awaited us all was a five-hour immersive murder mystery experience, set to take place on the Tormore Express in the midst of a high society 1930s wedding party. 

My esteemed guest for the evening was my long-suffering husband Joe, who enthusiastically described the idea of being in a sealed vessel with over one hundred costumed strangers for five hours as his “exact version of hell”. Consider it a sort of revenge date for when he took me to see noise artist Merzbow early on in our relationship and I nearly politely soiled myself due to the combination of unusual frequencies and incessant clanging. 

Inside the station, many of the guests’ outfits were so impressive that it was impossible to tell who was actually part of the show. A woman with pincurls and a dead fox over her shoulder peered around demurely, and an older gent in cream who looked exactly like Colonel Sanders held court with a group of Al Capones. I was almost certain the fellow in a Sherlock Holmes hat and Tatua Co-operative Dairy Company puffer vest wasn’t core cast, but it was too early to say. 

I recognised two of the Court Jesters – the infamous Christchurch improv troupe lending their skills to the evenings proceedings – and approached. “Is there trouble afoot,” I blurted out, before instantly realising that nobody had been murdered yet and I had created an Interstellar rip in the timeline. Ever professional, they “yes, anded” my blunder and introduced themselves in thick American accents as movie star Rex Cable (Dan Allan) and film director Donald R. De Miles (Jeff Clark). 

They told me about the chaos of planning a wedding in just a few weeks. Shotgun wedding perhaps? Seemed suspicious. Even more so when they immediately ignored my questions about the short time frame and moved right on to the man standing behind us, who was wearing a boldly anachronistic outfit of bright red, orange and green psychedelic 70s swirls. “Oh, if we made films in colour that would be spectacular on screen,” De Miles said of the ensemble. 

Once they had left, I asked Mr Swirls for his thoughts. “They all seem bloody suspicious to me,” he mused. “Especially that minister.” Indeed, the dodgy priest character (Ciarán Searle) had been milling about nervously in the crowd, quickly becoming the talk of the town. “It will be too obvious if it’s the groom,” a man with a cravat told me in the line for canapes. “Funnily enough, we’re watching a murder mystery on UKTV at the moment,” his wife whispered conspiratorially, “… and the vicar did it.” 

We were gathered for speeches from the newlyweds and their associates, each one deftly peppered with inconsistencies and possible motives. The Duchess mother-in-law (Kirsty Gillespie) hates the movie business. The bride has a temper. Someone had also stabbed the wedding cake, which seemed like a pretty bad omen. Clues were thrown out into the crowd as Lady Arabella (Riley Harter), gushed and thanked everyone for coming to her dream wedding, where “not a single thing will go wrong”. 

“That’s kind of why we are here,” japed Al Capone #1 behind me. 

“Yeah, we’re here for the tragedy, love,” added Al Capone #2. 

We boarded the train and found our seats opposite a very nice couple from Sweden who love watching murder mysteries, especially Only Murders in the Building. Around us were a few set dressing flourishes – a dinky lantern here, heart confetti there, and a copy of the Silver Screen Weekly, laden with clues. Not quite as lavishly rendered as The Court Theatre’s jaw-dropping set design for Murder on the Orient Express earlier this year, but then that wasn’t performed on a working train. 

As the Tormore Express left the station, the characters moved through the carriages performing a series of fun establishing scenes, trailed by a man in a black turtleneck who was either the director of the show or the murderer all along. The priest misquoted the bible at one stage, and I thought of the UKTV fans, who would likely be having kittens at the slip-up. Suddenly, audio rang through the carriage as we heard the victim being shot, and then nothing but the howling wind. 

“They’re going to the toilet!” someone behind us cackled when they heard the swirling noise, buoyed by that specific sort of confidence that comes with a couple of warm wines and a Look Sharp costume. “Definitely the toilet! Number twos!” The table erupted in laughter. 

From that moment, a manic energy was unleashed. Not only was there a murder to solve, but the food and wine was flowing with ease, thanks to an extremely well-choreographed wait staff (as much the stars of the show as the Jesters themselves). The vibe shifted to that of a booze cruise reaching international waters, where anyone could be anything (but most people were Al Capone) and anyone could say anything (but most people were saying toilet and/or dick jokes). 

Between the scenes and courses, audience attention often transferred to whoever got up to use the toilet – the aisle had become the stage, after all. “YOU’RE THE MURDERER” a punter in a Hallensteins fedora shouted at a stately older gentleman wearing a cummerbund as he shuffled to the bog. Others were clapped down the aisle, some got an impromptu “happy birthday”. I am much too anxious for this kind of banter, and spent the first hour petrified to use the toilet. It was shaping up to be a Merzbow soiling all over again. 

Despite my aching bladder, the intricate story revealed many clever twists and turns and the Jesters provided much relief from the more punishing audience members, ironically hellbent on murdering every scene. For example, anytime a character mentioned “Rex”, some bloke would crow something about “sex”. Another became obsessed with making jokes about a character’s testicles, repeatedly inviting him to “drop a nut.” A beet red man in a waistcoat demanded he see one actress’s ankles anytime he saw her.

“I don’t think anyone is interested in solving the mystery,” sighed the Swede. 

That was apart from my dear sweet Joe, who had come alive as the surprise lead detective of our table. He scribbled notes next to the character bios, underlined evidence in newspaper articles and letters, and quizzed cast members as they came past about their favourite books, movies and other curious details from their careers. I could only muster the occasional “sorry for your loss” as most of my focus remained firmly on not pissing myself in front of a bloke in a bow tie. 

As a palate cleanser of mango sorbet arrived, the novelty course consumed the attention of the carriage and I seized the opportunity to arise and visit the royal chambers. In the no-mans land toilet zone, I encountered the turtle-necked director Brendon Bennetts (the real director, not the fake director) watching a scene in the next carriage. He nodded to the actors gesticulating silently behind the sliding doors as they moved towards us. “I’d wanna watch this if I were you.” 

With my dastardly plot foiled, I returned to my seat to hear more confuddling testimony and shady confessions from the characters. But the biggest revelation of all was that the train was no longer moving – we peered out into the darkness and had no idea where we were. While this added to the overall spooky atmosphere of being totally detached from time and space, I expect the upcoming December journeys will provide a much more fruitful view out the window thanks to longer daylight hours. 

“Drop a nut!” an audience member once again yelled at one of the performers. 

“I am not going to drop a nut, thank you very much,” he replied coolly. 

As the mains were being served – lamb for the meat eaters, gnocchi, mushrooms and pesto for the vegetarians, gnocchi and mushrooms for the vegans – I bravely ran the gauntlet to the loo. A man in a bronze brocade waistcoat looked utterly confuddled as he opened the toilet door to a whizzing line of waiters balancing plates of lamb. Through the door, I heard more hard-hitting questions from guests, including “mate, what colour underwear was she wearing?”

That is always the risk with these sorts of events – there’s always going to be a few battlers who think they are funnier than the professional comedians. Or, perhaps even worse, those fallen soldiers who give up on the performance entirely. “You’ve lost interest in the murder, you’re more interested in the rugby,” one of the actors joked to an audience member, who had assumedly paid $380 to be there, watching the All Blacks game on his phone. “Who is getting murdered out there, then?”

But there was no more impressive save from the performers than during the climactic scene of the entire show. We had all been invited to fill out a Warrant of Arrest form and, when it came time for the murderer to be revealed, they called upon an audience member who had guessed correctly to deliver the dramatic J’ACCUSE moment. Problem was, the selected audience member appeared to have completely forgotten who he wrote, and bamboozedly bellowed the wrong name entirely. 

Without giving it away, a deft moment of improvisation from Jeff Clark cut off our drunken detective and arguably saved the whole show, right in time for our return into Addington station. As we filed off the train, collecting ourselves after a whopper five hour journey of mushrooms and murder, sorbet and suspicion, I read some of the unfiled warrants for arrest that lay strewn on the tables. Someone had boldly written, in capitals, their own name as the murderer, crossed it out, and then torn it up. 

Room for a sequel, perhaps? 

The writer was invited to Murder on the Tormore Express as a guest of Great Journeys NZ. First published August 20, 2024.