Xanthe was still sitting across from Mrs Young, now rejoined by her husband. Sheridan, as far as I could see, was absent. Giles-the-murderer was present, sitting with the Youngs and Xanthe, being nice.

Emil, Oliver, Cathy and I went round the tables pouring wine, tea or coffee into glasses or cups on small trays with small movements, and when that was done Zak bounded into the midst of things, vibrating with fresh energy, to get on with the mystery.

I didn't listen in detail to it all, but it revolved round Pierre and Donna, and Raoul the racehorse trainer who wanted to marry her money. Zak had got round the pre-empted Pierre-hitting-Raoul-to-the-ground routine by having Donna slap Raoul's face instead, which she did with a gusto that brought gasps from the audience. Donna was clearly established as the wittering Bricknells' besotted daughter, with Raoul obviously Mavis's favourite, and Pierre despised as a no-good compulsive gambler. Mother and daughter went into a sharp slanging match, with Walter fussing and trying to stop them. Mavis, in the end, started crying.

I looked at the passenger's faces. Even though they knew this lot were all actors, they were transfixed. Soap opera had come to life within touching distance. Racing people, I'd always thought, were among the most cynical in the world, yet here some of the most experienced of them were moved and involved despite themselves.

Zak, keeping up the tension, said that at the last of our brief stops at minor stations he had been handed a telex about Angelica's missing friend Steve. Was Angelica present' Everyone looked around, and no, she wasn't. Never mind, Zak said, would someone please tell her that she must telephone Steve from Sudbury, as he had serious news for her.

A lot of people nodded. It was amazing.

Dressed in silk and ablaze with jewellery, apparently to prove that Donna's inheritance was no myth, Mavis Bricknell stumbled off towards the toilet room at the dome car's entrance saying she must repair the ravages to her face, and presently she came back, screaming loudly.

Angelica, it appeared, was lying on the lavatory floor, extremely dead. Zak naturally bustled to investigate, followed by a sizeable section of the audience. Some of them soon came back smiling weakly and looking unsettled.

'She can't really be dead,' someone said solemnly. 'But she certainly looks it.'

There was a lot of 'blood' all over the small compartment, it appeared, with Angelica's battered head in shadow beyond the essential facility Angelica's eyes were just visible staring at the wall, unblinking. 'How can she do that?'' several said.

Zak came back, looked around him, and beckoned to me.

'Stand in front of that door, will you, and don't let anyone go in?'

I nodded and went through the crowd towards the dome car. Zak himself was calling everyone back into the dining room, saying they should all stay together until we reached Sudbury, which would be soon. I could hear Nell's voice announcing calmly that everyone had time for another drink. There would be an hour's stop in Sudbury for everyone to stretch their legs if they wanted to, and dinner would be served as soon as the rain started again.

I went across the clattering, windy linkage space between the dining and dome cars and stood outside the toilet room. I wasn't actually pleased with Zak as I didn't want to risk being identified as an actor, but that, I supposed, would be a great deal better than the truth.It was boring in the passage but also, it proved, necessary, as one or two passengers came back for a look at the corpse. They were good humoured enough when turned away. Meanwhile the corpse, who must have had to blink in the end, could be heard flushing water within.

When we began to slow down I knocked on the door. 'Message from Zak,' I said.

The door opened a fraction. Angelica's greasepaint make-up was a pale bluish grey, her hair a mass of tomato ketchup.

'Lock the door,' I said. 'Zak will be along. When you hear his voice outside, unlock it.'

'Right,' she said, sounding cheerfully alive. 'Have a nice trip.'

Angelica left the train on a stretcher in the dusk under bright station lights, her tomato head half covered by a blanket, and one lifeless hand, with red fingernails and sparkling rings, artistically drooping out of concealment on the side where the train's passengers were able to look on with fascination.

I watched the scene through the window of George Burley's office while I talked to Bill Baudelaire's mother on the telephone.

The conversation had been a surprise from the beginning, when a light young female voice had answered my call.

'Could I speak to Mrs Baudelaire, please?' I said.

'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.'