the tree would provide.
Well, it had provided.
It had provided twigs.
Monks did not eat twigs.
In fact, now he came to think of it, he felt a little uncomfortable about some of the things he had believed last night and had found some of the results a little confusing. He had been quite clearly instructed to 'shoot off' and had felt strangely compelled to obey but perhaps he had made a mistake in acting so precipitately on an instruction given in a language he had learned only two minutes before. Certainly the reaction of the person he had shot off at had seemed a little extreme.
In his own world when people were shot at like that they came back next week for another episode, but he didn't think this person would be doing that.
A gust of wind blew through the tree, making it sway giddily. He climbed down a little way. The first part was reasonably easy, since the branches were all fairly close together. It was the last bit that appeared to be an insuperable obstacle - a sheer drop which could cause him severe internal damage or rupture and might in turn cause him to start believing things that were seriously strange.
The sound of voices over in a distant corner of the field suddenly caught his attention. A lorry had pulled up by the side of the road. He watched carefully for a moment, but couldn't see anything particular to believe in and so returned to his introspection.
There was, he remembered, an odd function call he had had last night, which he hadn't encountered before, but he had a feeling that it might be something he'd heard of called remorse. He hadn't felt at all comfortable about the way the person he had shot at had just lain there, and after initially walking away the Monk had returned to have another look. There was definitely an expression on the person's face which seemed to suggest that something was up, that this didn't fit in with the scheme of things. The Monk worried that he might have badly spoiled his evening.
Still, he reflected, so long as you did what you believed to be right, that was the main thing.
The next thing he had believed to be right was that having spoiled this person's evening he should at least convey him to his home, and a quick search of his pockets had produced an address, some maps and some keys. The trip had been an arduous one, but he had been sustained on the way by his faith.
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!'
