'That's everyone,' Nell said finally. She looked towards the rear of the train. 'Except the Lorrimores, of course. I'd better go and help them.'

I stepped back on board to collect my gear and through the window watched the little solemn party pass by outside: Mercer, head up, looking sad, Bambi expressionless, Xanthe caring, Nell concerned.

Some way after them I walked forward through the train. It was quiet and empty, the racegoers having flooded away, the surly cook gone from the centre diner, the dayniter no longer alive with singing, the doors of the empty bedrooms standing open, the Chinese cook vanished with his grin. I climbed down again and went on forward, past the baggage car where I collected my suitcase from the handler, and past the horse car, where Leslie Brown was leaning out of the window, still a dragon.

'Bye, 'I said.

She looked at me, as if puzzled for a second, and then recognized me: Calgary and Lenny Higgs were three days back.

'Oh, yes… goodbye.'

The train was due to shunt out backwards, to take the horses and the grooms to a siding, from where they would go by road to Exhibition Park. Ms Brown was going with them, it seemed.

'Good luck at the races,' I said.

'I never bet.'

'Well… have a good time.'

She looked as if that were an unthinkable suggestion. I waved to her, the stalwart custodian, and went on past the engine where the engineer was a shadowy figure high up beyond his impossibly small window, went on into the station.

The Lorrimores had been interrupted by people with notebooks, cameras and deadlines. Mercer was being civil. Nell extricated the family and ushered them to their car, and herself climbed into the long bus with the owners. I hung back until they'd all gone, then travelled in a taxi, booked in at the Hyatt and telephoned England.

The Brigadier wasn't at home in Newmarket. I could try his club in London, a voice said, giving me the familiar number, and I got connected to the bar of the Hobbs Sandwich where the Brigadier, I was relieved to hear, was at that moment receiving his first-of-the-evening well-watered Scotch.

'Tor!' he said. 'Where are you?'

'Vancouver.' I could hear the clink of the glasses and the murmurings in the background. I pictured the dark oak walls with the gentlemen in the pictures with side-whiskers, big pads and little caps, and it all seemed far back in time, not just in distance.

'Um,' I said. 'Can I phone you again when you're alone? This is going to take some time. I mean, soon, really.'

'Urgent?'

'Fairly.'

'Hold on. I'll go upstairs to my bedroom and get them to transfer the call. Don't go away.'

I waited through a few clicks until his voice came quietly on the line again without sound effects.

'Right. What's happened?'

I talked for what seemed a very long time. He punctuated my pauses with grunts to let me know he was still listening, and at the end he said, 'You don't ask much, do you? Just for miracles.'

'There's an Air Canada flight from Heathrow at three tomorrow afternoon,' I said, 'and they'll have all day and all Tuesday to find the information, because when it's only eleven in the morning in Vancouver on Tuesday, it'll be seven in the evening in England. And they could send it by fax.'

'Always supposing,' he said dryly, 'that there's a fax machine in the Jockey Club in Exhibition Park.'

'I'll check,' I said. 'If there isn't, I'll get one.'

'What does Bill Baudelaire think of all this?' he asked.

'I haven't talked to him yet. I had to get your reaction first.'

'What's your phone number?' he asked. 'I'll think it over and ring you back in ten minutes.'

'Thought before action?'

'You can't fault it, if there's time.'

He thought for twice ten minutes, until I was itchy. When the bell rang, I took a deep breath and answered.

'We'll attempt it,' he said, 'as long as Bill Baudelaire agrees, of course. If we can't find the information in the time available, we may have to abort.'

'All right.'

'Apart from that,' he said, 'well done.'

'Good staff work,' I said.

He laughed. 'Flattery will get you no promotion.'

Chapter Twenty

I was looking forward to talking to Mrs Baudelaire. I dialled her number and Bill himself answered.

'Hello,' I said, surprised. 'It's Tor Kelsey. How's your mother?'

There was a long, awful pause.

'She's ill,' I said with anxiety.

'She… er… she died… early this morning.'

'Oh… no.' She couldn't have, I thought. It couldn't be true. 'I talked to her yesterday,' I said.

'We knew… she knew… it would only be weeks. But yesterday evening there was a crisis.'

I was silent. I felt her loss as if she'd been Aunt Viv restored to me and snatched away. I'd wanted so very much to meet her.

'Tor?' Bill's voice said.

I swallowed. 'Your mother… was great.'

He would hear the smothered tears in my voice, I thought. He would think me crazy.

'If it's of any use to you,' he said, 'she felt like that about you, too. You made her last week a good one. She wanted to live to find out what happened. One of the last things she said was… "I don't want to go before the end of the story. I want to see that invisible young man… " She was slipping away… all the time.'

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day:

Rage, rage against the dying of the light…

'Tor?' Bill said.

'I'm so very sorry,' I said with more control. 'So sorry.'

'Thank you.'

'I don't suppose…' I said, and paused, feeling helpless.

'You suppose wrong,' he replied instantly. 'I've been waiting here for you to phone. We would both fail her if we didn't go straight on. I've had hours to think this out. The last thing she would want would be for us to give up. So I'll start things off by telling you we've had a telex from Filmer announcing that he is the sole owner of Laurentide Ice, but we are going to inform him that the Ontario Racing Commission are rescinding his licence to own horses. We're also telling him he won't be admitted to the President's lunch at Exhibition Park.'

'I'd… er… like to do it differently,' I said.

'How do you mean?'

I sighed deeply and talked to him also for a long time. He listened as the Brigadier had, with intermittent throat noises, and at the end he said simply, 'I do wish she'd been alive to hear all this.'

'Yes, so do I.'

'Well,' he paused. 'I'll go along with it. The real problem is time.'

'Mm.'

'You'd better talk to Mercer Lorrimore yourself.'

'But…'

'No buts. You're there. I can't get there until tomorrow late afternoon, not with all you want me to do here. Talk to Mercer without delay, you don't want him coming back to Toronto.'

I said with reluctance, 'All right.' But I had known that I would have to.

'Good. Use all the authority you need. Val and I will back you.'

Thank you… very much.'

'See you tomorrow,' he said.

I put the receiver down slowly. Death could be colossally unfair, one knew that, but rage, rage… I felt anger for' her as much as grief. Do not go gentle into that good night… I thought it probable, if I remembered right, that the last word she'd said to me was 'Good night'. Good night dear, dear Mrs Baudelaire. Go gentle. Go sweetly into that good night.

I sat for a while without energy, feeling the lack of sleep, feeling the nagging pain, feeling the despondency her death had opened the door to: feeling unequal to the next two days, even though I'd set them up myself.

With an effort, after an age I got through to the Four Seasons Hotel and asked for Mercer, but found myself talking to Nell.

'All the calls are being rerouted to me,' she said. 'Bambi is lying down. Mercer and Xanthe are on their way to Hope in the helicopter, which was reordered for him, so that he can identify Sheridan's body which is being taken there by road.'