Ngaio Marsh - Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh

“Including the pom?”

“He’s all right. Very experienced.”

“With me, we’d be five,” Wingfield said.

“For you to say.”

“She’ll be right, then.”

“One more thing,” said Bob. “What’s the action when we get him out? What do we do with him?”

They debated this. It was decided, subject to Solomon Gosse’s and Clive’s agreement, that the body should be carried to a clearing near the big beech and left there in a ground sheet from his tent. It would be a decent distance from the camp.

“We could build a bit of a windbreak round it,” Bob said.

“Sure.”

“That’s his tent, is it? Other side of the creek?”

“Yeah. Beyond the bridge.”

“I didn’t see any bridge.”

“You must have,” said Wingfield, “if you came that way. It’s where the creek runs through a twenty-foot-deep gutter. Couldn’t miss it.”

“Got swept away, it might have.”

“Has the creek flooded its banks, then? Up there?”

“No. No, that’s right. It couldn’t have carried away. What sort of bridge is it?”

Wingfield described the bridge. “Light but solid,” he said. “He made a job of it.”

“Funny,” said Bob.

“Yeah. I’ll go up and collect the ground sheet from his tent. And take a look.”

“We’d better get this job over, hadn’t we? What about the wife?”

“Sol Gosse and the boy are with her. She’s O.K.”

“Not likely to come out?”

“Not a chance.”

“Fair enough,” said Bob.

So Wingfield walked up to Caley Bridgeman’s tent to collect his ground sheet.

When he returned, the others had taken off their packs and laid out a coil of climbers’ rope. They gathered round Bob, who gave the instructions. Presently the line of five men was ready to move out into the sliding flood above the dam.

Solomon Gosse appeared. Bob suggested that he take the end of the rope, turn it round a tree trunk and stand by to pay it out or take it up as needed.

And in this way and with great difficulty Caley Bridgeman’s body was brought ashore, where Dr. Mark examined it. It was much battered. They wrapped it in the ground sheet and tied it round with twine. Solomon Gosse stood guard over it while the others changed into dry clothes.

The morning was well advanced and sunny when they carried Bridgeman through the bush to the foot of the bank below that tree which was visited nightly by a more-pork. Then they cut manuka scrub.

It was now that Bob Johnson, chopping through a stand of brushwood, came upon the wire, an insulated line, newly laid, running underneath the manuka and well hidden. They traced its course: up the bank under hanging creeper to the tree, up the tree to the tape recorder. They could see the parabolic microphone much farther up.

Wingfield said, “So that’s what he was up to.”

Solomon Gosse didn’t answer at once, and when he did, spoke more to himself than to Wingfield. “What a weird bloke he was,” he said.

“Recording bird song, was he?” asked Dr. Mark.

“That’s right.”

“A hobby?” said Curtis-Vane.

“Passion, more like. He’s got quite a reputation for it.”

Bob Johnson said, “Will we dismantle it?”

“I think perhaps we should,” said Wingfield. “It was up there through the storm. It’s a very high-class job—cost the earth. We could dry it off.”

So they climbed the tree, in single file, dismantled the microphone and recorder and handed them down from one to another. Dr. Mark, who seemed to know, said he did not think much damage had been done.

And then they laid a rough barrier of brushwood over the body and came away. When they returned to camp, Wingfield produced a bottle of whisky and enamel mugs.

They moved down to the Land-Rovers and sat on their heels, letting the whiskey glow through them.

There had been no sign of Clive or his mother.

Curtis-Vane asked if there was any guessing how long it would take for the rivers to go down and the New Zealanders said, “No way.” It could be up for days. A week, even.

“And there’s no way out?” Curtis-Vane asked. “Not if you followed down the Wainui on this side, till it empties into the Rangitata?”

“The going’s too tough. Even for one of these jobs.” Bob indicated the Land-Rovers. “You’d never make it.”

There was a long pause.

“Unpleasant,” said Curtis-Vane. “Especially for Mrs. Bridgeman.”

Another pause. “It is, indeed,” said Solomon Gosse.

“Well,” said McHaffey, seeming to relish the idea. “If it does last hot, it won’t be very nice.”

“Cut it out, Mac,” said Bob.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

Curtis-Vane said, “I’ve no idea of the required procedure in New Zealand for accidents of this sort.”

“Same as in England, I believe,” said Solomon. “Report to the police as soon as possible.”

“Inquest?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes. You’re one of us, aren’t you? A barrister?” asked Curtis-Vane.

“And solicitor. We’re both in this country.”

“Yes, I know.”

A shadow fell across the group. Young Clive had come down from the camp.

“How is she?” Wingfield and Gosse said together.

“O.K.,” said Clive. “She wants to be left. She wants me to thank you,” he said awkwardly, and glanced at Curtis-Vane, “for helping.”

“Not a bit. We were glad to do what we could.”

Another pause.

“There’s a matter,” Bob Johnson said, “that I reckon ought to be considered.”

He stood up.

Neither he nor Wingfield had spoken beyond the obligatory mutter over the first drink. Now there was in his manner something that caught them up in a stillness. He did not look at any of them but straight in front of him and at nothing.

“After we’d finished up there I went over,” he said, “to the place where the bridge had been. The bridge that you” — he indicated Wingfield — “talked about. It’s down below, jammed between rocks, half out of the stream.”

He waited. Wingfield said, “I saw it. When I collected the gear.” And he, too, got to his feet.

“Did you notice the banks? Where the ends of the bridge had rested?”

“Yes.”

Solomon Gosse scrambled up awkwardly. “Look here,” he said. “What is all this?”

“They’d overlaid the bank by a good two feet at either end. They’ve left deep ruts,” said Bob.

Dr. Mark said, “What about it, Bob? What are you trying to tell us?”

For the first time Bob looked directly at Wingfield.

“Yes,” Wingfield said. “I noticed.”

“Noticed what , for God’s sake!” Dr. Mark demanded. He had been sitting by Solomon, but now moved over to Bob Johnson. “Come on, Bob,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’d been shifted. Pushed or hauled,” said Bob. “So that the end on this bank of the creek rested on the extreme edge. It’s carried away taking some of the bank with it and scraping down the face of the gulch. You can’t miss it.”

Clive broke the long silence. “You mean — he stepped on the bridge and fell with it into the gorge? And was washed down by the flood? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what it looks like,” said Bob Johnson.

Not deliberately, but as if by some kind of instinctive compulsion, the men had moved into their original groups. The campers: Wingfield, Gosse and Clive; the deer-stalkers: Bob, Curtis-Vane, Dr. Mark and McHaffey.

Clive suddenly shouted at Wingfield, “What are you getting at! You’re suggesting there’s something crook about this? What the hell do you mean?”

“Shut up, Clive,” said Solomon mildly.

“I won’t bloody shut up. If there’s something wrong I’ve a right to know what it is. She’s my mother and he was—” He caught himself. “If there’s something funny about this,” he said, “we’ve a right to know. Is there something funny?” he demanded. “Come on. Is there?”