Ngaio Marsh - Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh

Wingfield said, “O.K. You’ve heard what’s been suggested. If the bridge was deliberately moved—manhandled —the police will want to know who did it and why. And I’d have thought,” added Wingfield, “you’d want to know yourself.”

Clive glared at him. His face reddened and his mouth trembled. He broke out again: “Want to know! Haven’t I said I want to know! What the hell are you trying to get at!”

Dr. Mark said, “The truth, presumably.”

“Exactly,” said Wingfield.

“Ah, stuff it,” said Clive. “Like your bloody birds,” he added, and gave a snort of miserable laughter.

“What can you mean?” Curtis-Vane wondered.

“I’m a taxidermist,” said Wingfield.

“It was a flash of wit,” said Dr. Mark.

“I see.”

“You all think you’re bloody clever,” Clive began at the top of his voice, and stopped short. His mother had come through the trees and into the clearing.

She was lovely enough, always, to make an impressive entrance and would have been in sackcloth and ashes if she had taken it into her head to wear them. Now, in her camper’s gear with a scarf round her head, she might have been ready for some lucky press photographer.

“Clive darling,” she said, “what’s the matter? I heard you shouting.” Without waiting for his answer, she looked at the deer-stalkers, seemed to settle for Curtis-Vane, and offered her hand. “You’ve been very kind,” she said. “All of you.”

“We’re all very sorry,” he said.

“There’s something more, isn’t there? What is it?”

Her own men were tongue-tied. Clive, still fuming, merely glowered. Wingfield looked uncomfortable and Solomon Gosse seemed to hover on the edge of utterance and then draw back.

“Please tell me,” she said, and turned to Dr. Mark. “Are you the doctor?” she asked.

Somehow, among them, they did tell her. She turned very white but was perfectly composed.

“I see,” she said. “You think one of us laid a trap for my husband. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Curtis-Vane said, “Not exactly that.”

“No?”

“No. It’s just that Bob Johnson here and Wingfield do think there’s been some interference.”

“That sounds like another way of saying the same thing.”

Solomon Gosse said. “Sue, if it has happened—”

“And it has,” said Wingfield.

“—it may well have b-been some gang of yobs. They do get out into the hills, you know. Shooting the b-birds. Wounding deer. Vandals.”

“That’s right,” said Bob Johnson.

“Yes,” she said, grasping at it. “Yes, of course. It may be that.”

“The point is,” said Bob, “whether something ought to be done about it.”

“Like?”

“Reporting it, Mrs. Bridgeman.”

“Who to?” Nobody answered. “Report it where?”

“To the police,” said Bob Johnson flatly.

“Oh no! No !”

“It needn’t worry you, Mrs. Bridgeman. This is a national park. A reserve. We want to crack down on these characters.”

Dr. Mark said, “Did any of you see or hear anybody about the place?” Nobody answered.

“They’d keep clear of the tents,” said Clive at last. “Those blokes would.”

“You know,” Curtis-Vane said, “I don’t think this is any of our business. I think we’d better take ourselves off.”

“No!” Susan Bridgeman said. “I want to know if you believe this about vandals.” She looked at the deer-stalkers. “Or will you go away thinking one of us laid a trap for my husband? Might one of you go to the police and say so? Does it mean that?” She turned on Dr. Mark. “Does it?”

Solomon said, “Susan, my dear, no ,” and took her arm.

“I want an answer.”

Dr. Mark looked at his hands. “I can only speak for myself,” he said. “I would need to have something much more positive before coming to any decision.”

“And if you go away, what will you all do? I can tell you. Talk and talk and talk.” She turned on her own men. “And so, I suppose, will we. Or won’t we? And if we’re penned up here for days and days and he’s up there, wherever you’ve put him, not buried, not—”

She clenched her hands and jerked to and fro, beating the ground with her foot like a performer in a rock group. Her face crumpled. She turned blindly to Clive.

“I won’t ,” she said. “I won’t break down. Why should I? I won’t.”

He put his arms round her. “Don’t you, Mum,” he muttered. “You’ll be all right. It’s going to be all right.”

Curtis-Vane said, “How about it?” and the deer-stalkers began to collect their gear.

“No!” said David Wingfield loudly. “No! I reckon we’ve got to thrash it out and you lot had better hear it.”

“We’ll only b-bitch it all up and it’ll get out of hand,” Solomon objected.

“No, it won’t,” Clive shouted. “Dave’s right. Get it sorted out like they would at an inquest. Yeah! That’s right. Make it an inquest. We’ve got a couple of lawyers, haven’t we? They can keep it in order, can’t they? Well, can’t they?”

Solomon and Curtis-Vane exchanged glances. “I really don’t think—” Curtis-Vane began, when unexpectedly McHaffey cut in.

“I’m in favour,” he said importantly. “We’ll be called on to give an account of the recovery of the body and that could lead to quite a lot of questions. How I look at it.”

“Use your loaf, Mac,” said Bob. “All you have to say is what you know. Facts. All the same,” he said, “if it’ll help to clear up the picture, I’m not against the suggestion. What about you, Doc?”

“At the inquest I’ll be asked to speak as to” — Dr. Mark glanced at Susan — “as to the medical findings. I’ve no objection to giving them now, but I can’t think that it can help in any way.”

“Well,” said Bob Johnson, “it looks like there’s no objections. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of talk and it might as well be kept in order.” He looked round. “ Are there any objections?” he asked. “Mrs. Bridgeman?”

She had got herself under control. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and said, “None.”

“Fair enough,” said Bob. “All right. I propose we appoint Mr. Curtis-Vane as—I don’t know whether chairman’s the right thing, but — well—”

“How about coroner?” Solomon suggested, and it would have been hard to say whether he spoke ironically or not.

“Well, C.-V.,” said Dr. Mark, “what do you say about it?”

“I don’t know what to say, and that’s the truth. I — it’s an extraordinary suggestion,” said Curtis-Vane, and rubbed his head. “Your findings, if indeed you arrive at any, would, of course, have no relevance in any legal proceedings that might follow.”

“Precisely,” said Solomon.

“We appreciate that,” said Bob.

McHaffey had gone into a sulk and said nothing.

“I second the proposal,” said Wingfield.

“Any further objections?” asked Bob.

None, it appeared.

“Good. It’s over to Mr. Curtis-Vane.”

“My dear Bob,” said Curtis-Vane, “what’s over to me, for pity’s sake?”

“Set up the program. How we function, like.”

Curtis-Vane and Solomon Gosse stared at each other. “Rather you than me,” said Solomon dryly.

“I suppose,” Curtis-Vane said dubiously, “if it meets with general approval, we could consult about procedure?”

“Fair go,” said Bob and Wingfield together, and Dr. Mark said, “By all means. Leave it to the legal minds.”

McHaffey raised his eyebrows and continued to huff.

It was agreed that they should break up: the deer-stalkers would move downstream to a sheltered glade, where they would get their own food and spend the night in pup tents; Susan Bridgeman and her three would return to camp. They would all meet again, in the campers’ large communal tent, after an early meal.