The Edge

'Speaking.'

'I mean… Mrs Baudelaire senior.'

'Any Mrs Baudelaire who is senior to me is in her grave,' she announced. 'Who are you?'

'Tor Kelsey.'

'Oh yes,' she replied instantly. 'The invisible man.'

I half laughed.

'How do you do it?' she asked. 'I'm dying to know.'

'Seriously?'

'Of course, seriously.'

'Well… say if someone serves you fairly often in a shop, you recognize them when you're in the shop, but if you meet them somewhere quite different, like at the races, you can't remember who they are.'

'Quite right. It's happened to me often.'

'To be easily recognized,' I said, 'you have to be in your usual environment. So the trick about invisibility is not to have a usual environment.'

There was a pause, then she said, 'Thank you. It must be lonely.'

I couldn't think of an answer to that, but was astounded by her perception.

'The interesting thing is,' I said, 'that it's quite different for the people who work in the shop. When they get to know their customers, they recognize them easily anywhere in the world. So the racing people I know, I recognize everywhere. They don't know that I exist… and that's invisibility.'

'You are,' she said, 'an extraordinary young man.'

She stumped me again.

'But Bill knew you existed,' she said, 'and he told me he didn't recognize you face to face.'

'He was looking for the environment he knew… straight hair, no sunglasses, a good grey suit, collar and tie.'

'Yes,' she said. 'If I meet you, will I know you?'

'I'll tell you.'

'Pact.'

This, I thought with relief and enjoyment, was some carrier pigeon.

'Would you give Bill some messages?' I asked.

'Fire away. I'll write them down.'

'The train reaches Winnipeg tomorrow evening at about seven-thirty, and everyone disembarks to go to hotels. Please would you tell Bill I will not be staying at the same hotel as the owners, and that I will again not be going to the President's lunch, but that I will be at the races, even if he doesn't see me.'

I paused. She repeated what I'd said.

'Great,' I said. 'And would you ask him some questions?'

'Fire away.'

'Ask him for general information on a Mr and Mrs Young who own a horse called Sparrowgrass.'

'It's on the train,' she said.

'Yes, that's right.' I was surprised, but she said Bill had given her a list to be a help with messages.

'Ask him,' I said, 'if Sheridan Lorrimore has ever been in any trouble that he knows of, apart from assaulting an actor at Toronto, that should have resulted in Sheridan going to jail.'

'Gracious me. The Lorrimores don't go to jail.'

'So I gathered,' I said dryly, 'and would you also ask which horses are running at Winnipeg and which at Vancouver, and which in Bill's opinion is the really best horse on the train, not necessarily on form, and which has the best chance of winning either race.'

'I don't need to ask Bill the first question, I can answer that for you right away, it's on this list. Nearly all the eleven horses, nine to be exact, are running at Vancouver. Only Upper Gumtree and Flokati run at Winnipeg. As for the second, in my own opinion neither Upper Gumtree nor Flokati will win at Winnipeg because Mercer Lorrimore is shipping his great horse Premiere by horse-van.'

'Um…' I said. 'You follow racing quite a bit?'

'My dear young man, didn't Bill tell you? His father and I owned and ran the Ontario Raceworld magazine for years before we sold it to a conglomerate.'

'I see,' I said faintly.

'And as for the Vancouver race,' she went on blithely, 'Laurentide Ice might as well melt right now, but Sparrowgrass and Voting Right are both in with a good chance. Sparrowgrass will probably start favourite as his form is consistently good, but as you ask, very likely the best horse, the one with most potential for the future, is Mercer Lorrimore's Voting Right, and I would give that one the edge.'

'Mrs Baudelaire,' I said, 'you are a gem.'

'Beyond the price of rubies,' she agreed. 'Anything else?'

'Nothing, except… I hope you are well.'

'No, not very. You're kind to ask. Goodbye, young man. I'm always here.'

She put the receiver down quickly as if to stop me from asking anything else about her illness, and it reminded me sharply of my Aunt Viv, bright, spirited and horse mad to the end.

I went back to the dining car to find Oliver and Cathy lying the tables for dinner, and I helped them automatically, although they said I needn't. The job done, we repaired to the kitchen door to see literally what was cooking and to take the printed menus from Angus to put on the tables.

Blinis with caviar, we read, followed by rack of lamb or cold poached salmon, then chocolate mousse with cream.

'There won't be any over,' Cathy sighed, and she was right as far as the blinis went, though we all ate lamb in the end.

With ovens and gas burners roaring away, it was wiltingly hot even at the dining-room end of the kitchen. Down where the chef worked, a temperature gauge on the wall stood at 102° Fahrenheit, but tall willowy Angus, whose high hat nearly brushed the ceiling, looked cool and unperturbed.

'Don't you have air-conditioning?' I asked.

Angus said, 'In summer, I dare say. October is however officially winter, even though it's been warm this year. The air-conditioning needs freon gas which has all leaked away, and it won't be topped up again until spring. So Simone tells me.'

Simone, a good foot shorter and with sweat trickling down her temples, mutely nodded.

The passengers came straggling back shedding overcoats and saying it was cold outside, and again the dining car filled up. The Lorrimores this time were all sitting together. The Youngs were with the Unwins from Australia and Filmer and Daffodil shared a table with a pair Nell later identified to me as the American owners of the horse called Flokati.

Filmer, extremely smooth in a dark suit and grey tie, solicitously removed Daffodil's chinchillas and hung them over the back of her chair. She shimmered in a figure-hugging black dress, diamonds sparkling whenever she moved, easily outstripping the rest of the company (even Mavis Bricknell) in conspicuous expenditure.

The train made its smooth inconspicuous departure and I did my stuff with water and breadsticks.

Bambi Lorrimore put her hand arrestingly on my arm as I passed. She was wearing a mink jacket and struggling to get out of it.

'Take this back into our private car, will you?' she said. 'It's too hot in here. Put it in the saloon, not the bedroom.'

'Certainly, madam,' I agreed, helping her with alacrity. 'I'd be glad to.'

Mercer produced a key and gave it to me, explaining that I would come to a locked door.

'Lock it again when you come back.'

'Yes, sir.'

He nodded and, carrying the coat away over my arm, I went back through the dome car and with a great deal of interest into the private quarters of the Lorrimores.

There were lights on everywhere. I came first to a small unoccupied sleeping space, then a galley, cold and lifeless. Provision for private food and private crew, but no food, no crew. Beyond that was the locked door, and beyond that a small handsome dining room to seat eight. Through there, down a corridor, there were three bedrooms, two with the doors open. I took a quick peek inside: bed, drawers, small bathroom with shower. One was clearly Xanthe's, the other by inference Sheridan 's. I didn't go into the parents' room but went on beyond it to find myself in the rear part of the carriage, at the very end of the train.It was a comfortable drawing room with a television set and abundant upholstered armchairs in pastel blues and greens. I went over to the rear door and looked out, seeing a little open boarding platform with a polished brass-topped balustrade and, beyond, the Canadian Pacific's single pair of rails streaming away into darkness. The railroad across