Dick Francis - The Edge

'Sorry,' she said contritely, going on her way.'

'It's OK.'

It was difficult always to pass in the swaying aisle without touching. Couldn't be helped.

Filmer came into the dining room and sat at the table nearest to the kitchen, normally the least favourite with the passengers. He looked as if he'd spent a bad night. 'Here, you,' he said abruptly at my approach, having apparently abandoned the mister-nice-guy image.

'Yes, sir?' I said.

'Coffee,' he said.

'Yes, sir.'

'Now.'

'Yes, sir.'

I gave Xanthe's order to Simone who was stiffly laying a baking sheet of sausages in the oven in silent protest at life in general, and I took the coffee pot, on a tray, to Filmer.

'Why did we stop in the night?' he demanded.

'I believe it was to fix the radio, sir.'

'We stopped twice,' he said accusingly. 'Why?'

'I don't know, sir. I expect the Conductor could tell you.'

I wondered what he'd do if I said, 'Your man Johnson nearly succeeded in wrecking the train with you in it.' It struck me then that perhaps his enquiry was actually anxiety: that he wanted to be told that nothing dangerous had happened. He did seem marginally relieved by my answer and I resisted the temptation of wiping out all that relief by telling him that the radio had been sabotaged, because the people at the next table were listening also. Spreading general gloom and fright was not in my brief. Selective gloom, selective fright… sure.

Others, it seemed, had noticed the long stops in the night, but no one seriously complained. No one minded letting the Canadian go on in front. The general good humour and the party atmosphere prevailed and excused everything. The train ride might be coming to an end, but meanwhile there was the spectacular gorge outside to be exclaimed over, the city of Vancouver to be looked forward to, the final race to promise a sunburst of a conclusion. The Great Transcontinental Race Train, they were saying, had been just that: great.

After half an hour or so, I went back to the Lorrimores' car to fetch the tray of tea cups. I knocked on the door, but as there was no answer I went anyway along to the saloon.

Mercer was standing there looking bewildered.

Looking haggard. Stricken with shock.

'Sir?' I said.

His eyes focused on me vaguely.

'My son,' he said.

'Sir?'

Sheridan wasn't in the saloon. Mercer was alone.

'Stop the train,' he said. 'We must go back.'

Oh God, I thought.

'He went out… on to the platform… to look at the river…' Mercer could hardly speak. 'When I looked up… he wasn't there.'

The door to the platform was closed. I went past Mercer, opened the door and went out. There was no one on the platform, as he'd said.

There was wind in plenty. The polished brass top of the railings ran round at waist height, with both of the exit gates still firmly bolted.

Over the right-hand side, from time to time, there were places which offered a straight unimpeded hundred-foot drop to the fearsome frothing rocky river below. Death beckoned there. A quick death.

I went into the saloon and closed the door.

Mercer was swaying with more than the movement of the train.

'Sit down, sir,' I said, taking his arm. 'I'll tell the Conductor. He'll know what to do.'

'We must go back.' He sat down with buckling legs. 'He went out… and when I looked…'

'Will you be all right while I go to the Conductor?'

He nodded dully. 'Yes. Hurry.'

I hurried, myself feeling much of Mercer's bewildered shock, if not his complicated grief. Half an hour earlier, Sheridan hadn't looked like someone about to jump off a cliff; but then I supposed that I'd never seen anyone else at that point, so how would I know? Perhaps the blank look, I thought, had been a sign, if anyone could have read it.

I hurried everywhere except through the dining car, so as not to be alarming, and when I reached George's room I found the door still shut. I knocked. No reply. I knocked again harder and called his name with urgency. 'George!'

There was a grunt from inside. I opened the door without more ado and found him still lying on the bed in his clothes, waking from a deep sleep.

I closed his door behind me and sat on the edge of his bed, and told him we'd lost a passenger.

'Into Fraser Canyon,' he repeated. He shunted himself up into a sitting position and put both hands to his head, wincing. 'When?'

'About ten minutes ago, I should think.'

He stretched out a hand to the radio, looking out of the window to get his bearings. 'It's no use going back, you know. Not if he went into the water from this height. And the river's bitter cold, and you can see how fast it is… and there's a whirlpool.'

'His father will go, though.'

'Of course.'

The despatcher he got through to this time was in Vancouver. He explained that Mercer Lorrimore's son-that was right, the Mercer Lorrimore-his twenty-year-old son had fallen from the rear of the race train into Fraser Canyon somewhere between Hell's Gate and a mile or two south of Yale. Mercer Lorrimore wanted the train stopped so that he could go back to find his son. He, George Burley, wanted instructions from Montreal. The despatcher, sounding glazed, told him to hang on.

There was no chance now, I thought, of reaching Vancouver without a disaster. Sheridan was a disaster of major proportions, and the Press would be at Vancouver station for all the wrong reasons.

'I think I'd better go back to Mercer,' I said.

George nodded gingerly. 'Tell him I'll come to talk to him when I get instructions from Montreal, eh?' He rubbed a hand over his chin. 'He'll have to put up with stubble.'

I returned to the dining car and found Nell still sitting beside Xanthe. I said into Nell's ear, 'Bring Xanthe into the private car.'

She looked enquiringly into my face and saw nothing comforting, but she got Xanthe to move without alarming her. I led the way through the dome car and through the join into the rear car, knocking again on the unlocked door.

Mercer came out of his and Bambi's bedroom further up the corridor looking grey and hollow eyed, a face of unmistakable calamity.

'Daddy!' Xanthe said, pushing past me. 'What's the matter?'

He folded his arms round her and hugged her, and took her with him towards the saloon. Neither Nell nor I heard the words he murmured to her, but we both heard her say sharply, 'No! He couldn't!'

'Couldn't what?' Nell said to me quietly.

'Sheridan went off the back platform into the canyon.'

'Do you mean…' she was horrified '… that he's dead?'

'I would think so.'

'Oh shit, 'Nell said.

My feelings exactly, I thought.

We went on into the saloon. Mercer said almost mechanically, 'Why don't we stop? We have to go back.' He no longer sounded, I thought, as if he expected or even hoped to find Sheridan alive.

'Sir, the Conductor is radioing for instructions,' I said.

He nodded. He was a reasonable man in most circumstances. He had only to look out of the window to know that going back wouldn't help. He knew that it was practically impossible for anyone to fall off the platform by accident. He certainly believed, from his demeanour, that Sheridan had jumped.

Mercer sat on the sofa, his arm around Xanthe beside him, her head on his shoulder. Xanthe wasn't crying. She looked serious, but calm. The tragedy for Xanthe hadn't happened within that half hour, it had been happening all her life. Her brother had been lost to her even when alive.

Nell said, 'Shall we go, Mr Lorrimore?', meaning herself and me. 'Can I do anything for Mrs Lorrimore?'

'No, no,' he said. 'Stay.' He swallowed. 'You'll have to know what's decided… what to tell everyone…' He shook his head helplessly. 'We must make some decisions.'