"Cream tea,” he stated flatly, that hint of menace sharpening his tone just a trifle. “I don't suppose the place was set up to entertain ducks."
"Actually, the shop had a fountain, and there were ducks entertaining themselves in the fountain's pond. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, but who can say? Ducks are so inscrutable.” I glanced at him to see if he was properly steamed, but he was onto me.
His bill was open as he emitted a low laugh. “You're one of those people who believe that life is a test, aren't you?"
"How did you find your old roommate, Archie? Different?"
His demeanor grew serious. “You notice how Archie kept referring to me as Don even after I told him my name was Guy? He's in some kind of weird zone."
"I'm afraid your old roommate's gone a bit native, Shad. He said his mate has cubs on the way, and you should've heard his paean to a plump warm mouse. He said something strange to me—"
"You mean other than liking Mickey sushi?"
"He was telling me what was important to him. He ended by saying, ‘The game is all.’ Does that mean anything to you?"
"The game is what we used to call live theater.” Shad thought for a moment. “That's what he's doing now, isn't it? Live theater?"
"He's not after money. In fact, Bowman's death jeopardizes everything Archie Quartermain currently holds dear, doesn't it?"
"The same could be said for Lady Iva, boss. Miles might have been getting a little on the side from Sabrina Depp, but take my word for it, Sabrina had to have been only the latest in a long string of honeys. That's the way Miles always was. Anyway, if you are Lady Iva and want to protect hearth and home against a homewrecker, who do you kill?"
"The other woman,” I answered. “And, if you want to get revenge on a rich, philandering husband,” I continued, “who do you see? A hit man or a lawyer?"
"Ninety-seven point three percent of prospective vengeance wreakers go for the court shark,” responded Shad. He looked at me. “It's time to see a horse about a man—a dead man."
"I agree."
After leaving the cruiser in an unused loading dock, Shad and I were standing in the antechamber to the complex, a space reminiscent of the hanger deck of an aircraft carrier. Very big, very white, with technical, mechanical, and horsy looking personages hurrying this way and that at the direction of automated panels festooned with blinking lights and glowing indicator bars. The air in the space carried trace scents of paint, prepared foods, hot electrical boards, polished leather, hay, and horse manure. Directional signs pointed to various wings in the structure. In one, tally-hovers were being repaired, cleaned, polished, stocked with refreshments, and stored for the next hunt. In another wing were the vid studios sectioned into units that operated and repaired vid and sound systems, viewed, edited, and “supplemented” vids with complete sound stages and computer animation facilities. There was a third wing in which mechs of animals and other appliances were programmed and maintained—it seemed a significant portion of the birds singing in the treetops, as well as bunnies munching leaves along the paths, were mechs. There was a complete hospital wing capable of handling most human and animal illnesses, both natural and bio. The last wing was where the operation kept horses, with stalls for two hundred of Houndtor Down's horses and another three hundred guest-leased stalls. There were two barn-sized rooms attached to the wing for feed and other supplies, and a third barn-sized area that contained offices, tack rooms, employee lockers, and changing rooms, and a full-sized indoor riding paddock. The hounds, we were informed, had their own separate kennel complex. All of this because at some point back in prehistory, some farmer got fed up with foxes eating his chickens.
Diana Weatherly, Huntsman to Houndtor Down Hunts, joined us in her office, which was richly appointed with a walnut desk, brown leather overstuffed chairs, and liquid crystal walls that currently showed striking views from the top of Hound Tor, but on a sunny day. Weatherly was in her middle forties, good-looking in a sturdy sort of way, and gave the impression of being quite fit. As she sat in one of the overstuffed chairs facing us, she was wearing a buff suede jacket over a black blouse and black skintight lowers, the cuffs tucked into highly polished brown riding boots. From the records we knew that Weatherly had been Master of Horsham Hunts out of Manaton, a much smaller and much less successful operation than Houndtor. When they were starting up Houndtor Down, Miles Bowman and his fox of a partner sold Archie Quartermain's old self and used the proceeds to make a down payment to buy out Horsham Hunts. Once they closed, Bowman, Quartermain, and Weatherly moved the entire operation to Houndtor Down, Diana Weatherly becoming the operation's Huntsman, responsible during the hunt for controlling the hounds through three whippers-in, the lead whipper-in being Thomas Flock.
"Didn't Bowman run you out of business?” the duck pressed.
She actually held her hand to her mouth as she giggled. “You're a queer duck."
He stared at her for two seconds. “Nevertheless."
"If you insist, ducks.” She then laughed out loud with sufficient zeal and abandon to raise her exhibition to the level of wanton guffawing. Calling a duck “ducks” somehow struck her as the absolute zenith of wordplay wit. Once she regained control of herself, she said, “When I was the Master of Horsham Hunts, ducky, I was up to my ears in debt, only a step ahead of my creditors, and literally didn't know from where my next meal was coming. Thanks to Miles and Archie, I ride to the hounds at least three times a week, drive a Steel Gazelle, vacation wherever I want, live in my family's ancestral home—all taxes and debts paid—and I'm earning per year sixteen times the amount I earned the best year I ever had at Horsham. I haven't even mentioned the stock sharing plan, which brings in as much as my earnings. I wouldn't have to be ungrateful to resent Miles. I'd have to be insane.” She glanced at me, a bored expression on her face. “Anything else?"
"Could we see Champion?” I asked.
"I'd say it was about time,” she said coolly as she stood.
We followed Diana Weatherly out of her office and the duck said to me out of the corner of his bill, “'Horse Throws Rider.’”
"For money, ducks?” I asked with a smile.
Shad glanced in my direction, studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “You're being sneaky. What do you know that I don't?"
"Five dimensions to a case, Shad."
"Left-right, up-down, in-out, time, and ... what?” he asked. “What's DI Jaggers's fifth dimension?"
"The fifth dimension, dear fellow, is this: chances are the murderer—if indeed a murderer there is—has looked at and considered the other four dimensions much longer than the investigators, and with a lot more at risk."
"Staged?” whispered Shad as we entered the cavernous hall of the operation-owned horse stables. “You think there's a killer, and the killer staged this to make it look like the horse did it?"
I pointed toward Diana Weatherly's rapidly receding back. “Let's see the horse and find out."
Miss Weatherly left us inside Champion's spacious stall with instructions to call one of the grooms or attendants in the area if we needed anything. The horse was a largish, glossy, black Arabian. He had a handsome face with a pure white patch in the center of his forehead. The source of the hair and blood from Champion found on the tree at the scene was a deep scrape high on Champion's left shoulder. “I'll check him over, Shad. While I'm doing that, give Champion a scan and see if you can access his memory."
I passed the analyzer over the horse's body and legs, checking principally for blood. I found a good bit of medium-velocity spatter on his chest and the front of his neck. The analyzer matched it to Miles Bowman.