The word «bathroom» floated unexpectedly across the field.
He looked up again at the lorry in the distant comer. There was a man in a dark blue uniform explaining something to a man in rough working clothes, who seemed a little disgruntled about whatever it was.
The words «until we trace the owner» and «completely batty, of course» were gusted over on the wind. The man in the working clothes clearly agreed to accept the situation, but with bad grace.
A few moments later, a horse was led out of the back of the lorry and into the field. The Monk blinked. His circuits thrilled and surged with astonishment. Now here at last was something he could believe in, a truly miraculous event, a reward at last for his unstinting if rather promiscuous devotion.
The horse walked with a patient, uncomplaining gait. It had long grown used to being wherever it was put, but for once it felt it didn't mind this. Here, it thought, was a pleasant field. Here was grass. Here was a hedge it could look at. There was enough space that it could go for a trot later on if it felt the urge. The humans drove off and left it to its own devices, to which it was quite content to be left. It went for a little amble, and then, just for the hell of it, stopped ambling. It could do what it liked.
What pleasure.
What very great and unaccustomed pleasure.
It slowly surveyed the whole field, and then decided to plan out a nice relaxed day for itself. A little trot later on, it thought, maybe around threeish. After that a bit of a lie down over on the east side of the field where the grass was thicker. It looked like a suitable spot to think about supper in.
Lunch, it rather fancied, could be taken at the south end of the field where a small stream ran. Lunch by a stream, for heaven's sake.
This was bliss.
It also quite liked the notion of spending half an hour walking alternately a little bit to the left and then a little bit to the right, for no apparent reason. It didn't know whether the time between two and three would be best spent swishing its tail or mulling things over.
Of course, it could always do both, if it so wished, and go for its trot a little later. And it had just spotted what looked like a fine piece of hedge for watching things over, and that would easily while away a pleasant pre-prandial hour or two.
Good.
An excellent plan.
And the best thing about it was that having made it the horse could now completely and utterly ignore it. It went instead for a leisurely stand under the only tree in the field.
From out of its branches the Electric Monk dropped on to the horse's back, with a cry which sounded suspiciously like «Geronimo».
CHAPTER 18
Dirk Gently briefly ran over the salient facts once more while Richard MacDuff's world crashed slowly and silently into a dark, freezing sea which he hadn't even known was there, waiting inches beneath his feet. When Dirk had finished for the second time the room fell quiet while Richard stared fixedly at his face.
«Where did you hear this?» said Richard at last.
«The radio,» said Dirk, with a slight shrug, «at least the main points. It's all over the news of course. The details? Well, discreet enquiries among contacts here and there. There are one or two people I got to know at Cambridge police station, for reasons which may occur to you.»
«I don't even know whether to believe you,» said Richard quietly.
«May I use the phone?»
Dirk courteously picked a telephone receiver out of the wastepaper bin and handed it to him. Richard dialled Susan's number.
The phone was answered almost immediately and a frightened voice said, «Hello?»
«Susan, it's Ri» —
«Richard! Where are you? For God's sake, where are you? Are you all right?»
«Don't tell her where you are,» said Dirk.
«Susan, what's happened?»
«Don't you —?»
«Somebody told me that something's happened to Gordon, but…»
«Something's happened —? He's dead, Richard, he's been murdered» —
«Hang up,» said Dirk.
«Susan, listen. I» —
«Hang up,» repeated Dirk, and then leaned forward to the phone and cut him off.
«The police will probably have a trace on the line,» he explained.
He took the receiver and chucked it back in the bin.
«But I have to go to the police,» Richard exclaimed.
«Go to the police?»
«What else can I do? I have to go to the police and tell them that it wasn't me.»
«Tell them that it wasn't you?» said Dirk incredulously. «Well I expect that will probably make it all right, then. Pity Dr Crippen didn't think of that. Would have saved him a lot of bother.»
«Yes, but he was guilty!»
«Yes, so it would appear. And so it would appear, at the moment, are you.»
«But I didn't do it, for God's sake!»
«You are talking to someone who has spent time in prison for something he didn't do, remember. I told you that coincidences are strange and dangerous things. Believe me, it is a great deal better to find cast-iron proof that you're innocent, than to languish in a cell hoping that the police — who already think you're guilty — will find it for you.»
«I can't think straight,» said Richard, with his hand to his forehead. «Just stop for a moment and let me think this out» —
«If I may» —
«Let me think —!»
Dirk shrugged and turned his attention back to his cigarette, which seemed to be bothering him.
«It's no good,» said Richard shaking his head after a few moments, «I can't take it in. It's like trying to do trigonometry when someone's kicking your head. OK, tell me what you think I should do.»
«Hypnotism.»
«What?»
«It is hardly surprising in the circumstances that you should be unable to gather your thoughts clearly. However, it is vital that somebody gathers them. It will be much simpler for both of us if you will allow me to hypnotise you. I strongly suspect that there is a very great deal of information jumbled up in your head that will not emerge while you are shaking it up so — that might not emerge at all because you do not realise its significance. With your permission we can shortcut all that.»
«Well, that's decided then,» said Richard, standing up, «I'm going to the police.»
«Very well,» said Dirk, leaning back and spreading his palms on the desk, «I wish you the very best of luck. Perhaps on your way out you would be kind enough to ask my secretary to get me some matches.»
«You haven't got a secretary,» said Richard, and left.
Dirk sat and brooded for a few seconds, made a valiant but vain attempt to fold the sadly empty pizza box into the wastepaper bin, and then went to look in the cupboard for a metronome.
Richard emerged blinking into the daylight. He stood on the top step rocking slightly, then plunged off down the street with an odd kind of dancing walk which reflected the whirling dance of his mind. On the one hand he simply couldn't believe that the evidence wouldn't show perfectly clearly that he couldn't have committed the murder; on the other hand he had to admit that it all looked remarkably odd.
He found it impossible to think clearly or rationally about it. The idea that Gordon had been murdered kept blowing up in his mind and throwing all other thoughts into total confusion and disruption.
It occurred to him for a moment that whoever did it must have been a damn fast shot to get the trigger pulled before being totally overwhelmed by waves of guilt, but instantly he regretted the thought.
In fact he was a little appalled by the general quality of the thoughts that sprang into his mind. They seemed inappropriate and unworthy and mostly had to do with how it would affect his projects in the company.