The Buffet Car became suddenly empty. Bargis lept off his stool and made a rapid exit. Even Father Fergus had moved away from the bar. Morse was puzzled. "That priest looks like he was practically born at the bar. Why has he moved? And why am I talking to myself?"
Just then it hit him. The smell! It was the worst he had ever encountered. What on earth was it? "Pardon me, is this seat free?" A rather nervous looking man in an ill-fitting suit stood beside Morse. "My name's Lowton. I'm on my way to a pickled egg convention at Chernobyl. I'm president of the British Society of Pickled Egg Fanciers. Actually, I'm the only member. PHARRRP!! Oh pardon me. A bit eggy, that one."
Morse walked back to his compartment. He was sat reading Enoch Powell's 'Commentary on Herodotus' when there was a knock at the door. "Hi, I'm next door. The name's Dr Vic. I've just been appointed personal physician to Vladimir Putin." Morse let his new neighbour in. There was something bothering him about Dr Vic. "I thought you guys travelled with your special doctor's bag. Where's all your equipment?" he asked. "This is all I need" replied Dr Vic, and he produced a rubber glove and a tube of lubricant. "I think I can cure most problems with this. How's your health, by the way?" "Thanks, but I'm regular" said Morse showing the Dr out.
Morse reflected on events so far. A rubber johnny salesman, a drunk Irish priest, a (deservedly) lonely pickled egg fanatic and a crazed Dr with a very scary bedside manner. It surely couldn't get any worse.....
A further knock at the door. "Excuse me peeps. I needs hiding out for a littles while. I once ruler of Bolivia, but the peeps they revolution and I go on the runs. I am Juan!" Morse knew that this was indeed a right Juan. So now Morse had a deposed military dictator hiding under his bunk. "Next time they can send Bergerac."
The whistle blew. At last the journey was to begin. Morse planned to wander the train. Anything to avoid Juan.