Carrying the booty, I thanked her for her kindness in answering our questions, and helping, and George and I retreated.
'What do you think?' he said, as we started back through the train.
'I think she now isn't as sure as she says she is.'
He chuckled 'She'll be doubly careful from now on.'
'As long as it's not already too late '
He looked as if it were a huge joke 'We could get the tank emptied, scrubbed and refilled at Winnipeg,' he said.
'Too late If there's anything in it, it was there before Thunder Bay, and the horses will have drunk some of it.
Some horses drink a lot of water… but they're a bit fussy. They won't touch it if they don't like the smell If there's traces of soap in it, for instance, or oil. They'd only drink doped water if it smelled all right to them
'You know a lot about it,' George commented
'I've spent most of my life near horses, one way and another '
We reached his office where he said he had some paperwork to complete before we stopped fairly soon for ten minutes at Kenora. We would be there at five-twenty, he said. We were running thirty minutes behind the Canadian. There were places the race train didn't really need to stop, he said, except to keep pace with the Canadian. We needed always to stop where the trains were serviced for water, trash and fuel.
I had nowhere on our journey to and from the horse car seen the man with the gaunt face George had pointed someone out to me in the dayniter, but he was not the right person grey haired, but too ill-looking, too old The man I was looking for, I thought, was fifty-something, maybe less, still powerful; not in decline.
In a vague way, I thought, he had reminded me of Derry Welfram. Less bulky than the dead frightener, and not as smooth, but the same stamp of man. The sort Filmer seemed to seek out naturally.
I sat for an hour in my roomette looking out at the unvarying scenery and trying to imagine anything else that Filmer might have paid to have done. It was all the wrong way round, I thought' it was more usual to know the crime and seek the criminal, than to know the criminal and seek his crime.
The four sample bottles of water stood in their plastic carrier on my roomette floor. To have introduced something noxious into that tank, gaunt-face would certainly have to have bribed a groom. He wasn't one of the grooms himself, though perhaps he had been one, somewhere, some time. The grooms on the train were all younger, thinner and from what I'd seen of them in their uniform T-shirts less positive. I couldn't imagine any of them having the nerve to stand up to Filmer and demand their money.
I spent the brief stop at the small town of Kenora hanging out of the open doorway past George's office, watching him, on the station side of the train, walk a good way up and down outside while he checked that all looked well. The Lorrimores' car, it appeared, was still firmly tacked on. Up behind the engine, two baggage handlers were loading a small pile of boxes. I hung out of the door on the other side of the train for a while, but no one was moving out there at all.
George climbed back on board and closed the doors, and presently we set off again our last stop before Winnipeg.
I wished intensely that I had the power to see into Filmer's mind. I ached to foresee what he was planning. I felt blind, and longed for second sight. Failing such superhuman qualities, however, there was only as usual ordinary observation and patience, and they both seemed inadequate and tame.
I went along to the dining car where I found that Zak had already positioned some of the actors at the tables for the cocktail-hour double-length scene. He and Nell were agreeing that after the scene the actors would leave again (all except Giles-the-murderer), even though they didn't like being banished all the time and were complaining about it.
Emil, laying tablecloths, said that wine alone was included in the fare, all other cocktails having to be paid for, and perhaps I'd better just serve the wine; he and Oliver and Cathy would do the rest. Fine by me, I said, distributing ashtrays and bud vases. I could set the wine glasses also, Emil said. Glasses for red wine and for white at each place.
The passengers drifted in from their rooms and the dome car and fell into by now predictable patterns of seating. Even though to my mind Bambi Lorrimore and Daffodil Quentin were as compatible as salt and strawberries, the two women were again positioned opposite each other, bound there by the attraction between their men. When I put the wine glasses on their table, Mercer and Filmer were discussing world-wide breeding in terms of exchange rates.
Daffodil told Bambi there was a darling little jewellery store in Winnipeg.
Xanthe was still clinging to Mrs Young. Mr Young looked exceedingly bored.
Sheridan had struck up an acquaintanceship with the actor-murderer Giles, a slightly bizarre eventuality which might have odd consequences.
The Upper Gumtree Unwins and the Flokati couple seemed locked in common interest: whether the instant friendship would wither after their mutual race would be Wednesday evening's news.
Most of the other passengers I knew only vaguely, by face more than by name. I'd learned their names only to the extent that they owned horses in the horse car or had touched bases with Filmer, which came to only about half. They were all in general pleasant enough, although one of the men sent nearly everything back to the kitchen to be reheated, and one of the women pushed the exceptional food backwards and forwards across her plate with flicking movements of her fork, sternly remarking that plain fare was all anyone needed for godliness. What she was doing among the racing fraternity, I never found out.
Zak's long scene began with impressive fireworks as soon as everyone in the dining car had been served with a drink.
A tall man dressed in the full scarlet traditional uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police strode into the dining car and in a conversation-stopping voice said he had some serious information for us. He had come aboard at Kenora, he said, because the body of a groom from this train called Ricky had been found lying beside the railway lines near Thunder Bay. He had been wearing his Race Train T-shirt, and he had identification in his pocket.
The passengers looked horrified. The Mountie's impressive presence dominated the whole place and he sounded undoubtedly authentic. He understood, he said, that the groom had been attacked earlier, in Toronto, when he foiled the kidnapping of a horse, but he had insisted on making the journey nevertheless, having been bandaged by a Miss Richmond. Was that correct?
Nell demurely said that it was.
Among the actual owners of the horses, disbelief had set in the quickest Mercer Lorrimore enjoyed the joke Mounties, when investigating, didn't nowadays go around dressed for parades
'But we are in Manitoba,' Mercer could be heard saying in a lull, 'they've got that right. We passed the boundary with Ontario a moment ago. The Mounted Police's territory starts right there '
'You seem to know all about it,' our Mountie said. 'What do you know about this dead groom?'
'Nothing,' Mercer said cheerfully.
I glanced briefly at Filmer. His face was hard, his neck rigid, his eyes narrow, and I though in a flash of Paul Shacklebury, the lad dead in his ditch. Stable lads in England… grooms in Canada same job. What had Paul Shacklebury known about Filmer… same old unanswerable question.