Ngaio Marsh - Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh

When they had withdrawn, Curtis-Vane said, “That young man — the son — is behaving very oddly.”

Dr. Mark said, “Oedipus complex, if ever I saw it. Or Hamlet, which is much the same thing.”

There was a trestle table in the tent and on either side of it the campers had knocked together two green-wood benches of great discomfort. These were made more tolerable by the introduction of bush mattresses—scrim ticking filled with brushwood and dry fern.

An acetylene lamp had been placed in readiness halfway down the table, but at the time the company assembled there was still enough daylight to serve.

At the head of the table was a folding camp stool for Curtis-Vane, and at the foot, a canvas chair for Susan Bridgeman. Without any discussion, the rest seated themselves in their groups: Wingfield, Clive and Solomon on one side; Bob Johnson, Dr. Mark and McHaffey on the other.

There was no pretence at conversation. They waited for Curtis-Vane.

He said, “Yes, well. Gosse and I have talked this over. It seemed to us that the first thing we must do is to define the purpose of the discussion. We have arrived at this conclusion: We hope to determine whether Mr. Caley Bridgeman’s death was brought about by accident or by malpractice. To this end we propose to examine the circumstances preceding his death. In order to keep the proceedings as orderly as possible, Gosse suggests that I lead the inquiry. He also feels that as a member of the camping party, he himself cannot, with propriety, act with me. We both think that statements should be given without interruption and that questions arising out of them should be put with the same decorum. Are there any objections?” He waited. “No?” he said. “Then I’ll proceed.”

He took a pad of writing paper from his pocket, laid a pen beside it and put on his spectacles. It was remarkable how vividly he had established a courtroom atmosphere. One almost saw a wig on his neatly groomed head.

“I would suggest,” he said, “that the members of my own party”—he turned to his left—“may be said to enact, however informally, the function of a coroner’s jury.”

Dr. Mark pulled a deprecating grimace, Bob Johnson looked wooden and McHaffey self-important.

“And I, if you like, an ersatz coroner,” Curtis-Vane concluded. “In which capacity I put my first question. When was Mr. Bridgeman last seen by his fellow campers? Mrs. Bridgeman? Would you tell us?”

“I’m not sure, exactly,” she said. “The day he moved to his tent—that was three days ago—I saw him leave the camp. It was in the morning.”

“Thank you. Why did he make this move?”

“To record native bird song. He said it was too noisy down here.”

“Ah, yes. And was it after he moved that he rigged the recording gear in the tree?”

She stared at him. “Which tree?” she said at last.

Solomon Gosse said, “Across the creek from his tent, Sue. The big beech tree.”

“Oh. I didn’t know,” she said faintly.

Wingfield cut in. “Can I say something? Bridgeman was very cagey about recording. Because of people getting curious and butting in. It’d got to be a bit of an obsession.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Bridgeman, are you sure you’re up to this? I’m afraid—”

“Perfectly sure,” she said loudly. She was ashen white.

Curtis-Vane glanced at Dr. Mark. “If you’re quite sure. Shall we go on, then?” he said. “Mr. Gosse?”

Solomon said he, too, had watched Bridgeman take his final load away from the camp and had not seen him again. Clive, in turn, gave a similar account.

Curtis-Vane asked, “Did he give any indication of his plans?”

“Not to me,” said Gosse. “I wasn’t in his good b-books, I’m afraid.”

“No?”

“No. He’d left some of his gear on the ground and I stumbled over it. I’ve got a dicky knee. I didn’t do any harm, b-but he wasn’t amused.”

David Wingfield said, “He was like that. It didn’t amount to anything.”

“What about you, Mr. Wingfield? You saw him leave, did you?”

“Yes. Without comment.”

Curtis-Vane was writing. “So you are all agreed that this was the last time any of you saw him?”

Clive said, “Here! Hold on. You saw him again, Dave. You know. Yesterday.”

“That’s right,” Solomon agreed. “You told us at lunch, Dave.”

“So I did. I’d forgotten. I ran across him—or rather he ran across me—below the Bald Hill.”

“What were you doing up there?” Curtis-Vane asked pleasantly.

“My own brand of bird-watching. As I told you, I’m a taxidermist.”

“And did you have any talk with him?”

“Not to mention. It didn’t amount to anything.”

His friends shifted slightly on their uneasy bench.

“Any questions?” asked Curtis-Vane.

None. They discussed the bridge. It had been built some three weeks before and was light but strong. It was agreed among the men that it had been shifted and that it would be just possible for one man to lever or push it into the lethal position that was indicated by the state of the ground. Bob Johnson added that he thought the bank might have been dug back underneath the bridge. At this point McHaffey was aroused. He said loftily, “I am not prepared to give an opinion. I should require a closer inspection. But there’s a point that has been overlooked, Mr. Chairman,” he added with considerable relish. “Has anything been done about footprints?”

They gazed at him.

“About footprints?” Curtis-Vane wondered. “There’s scarcely been time, has there?”

“I’m not conversant with the correct procedure,” McHaffey haughtily acknowledged. “I should have to look it up. But I do know they come into it early on or they go off colour. It requires plaster of Paris.”

Dr. Mark coughed. Curtis-Vane’s hand trembled. He blew his nose. Gosse and Wingfield gazed resignedly at McHaffey. Bob Johnson turned upon him. “Cut it out, Mac,” he said wearily, and cast up his eyes.

Curtis-Vane said insecurely, “I’m afraid plaster of Paris is not at the moment available. Mr. Wingfield, on your return to camp, did you cross by the bridge?”

“I didn’t use the bridge. You can take it on a jump. He built it because of carrying his gear to and fro. It was in place.”

“Anybody else see it later in the day?”

“I did,” said Clive loudly. As usual, his manner was hostile and he seemed to be on the edge of some sort of demonstration. He looked miserable. He said that yesterday morning he had gone for a walk through the bush and up the creek without crossing it. The bridge had been in position. He had returned at midday, passing through a patch of bush close to the giant beech. He had not noticed the recording gear in the tree.

“I looked down at the ground,” he said, and stared at his mother, “not up.”

This was said in such an odd manner that it seemed to invite comment. Curtis-Vane asked casually, as a barrister might at a tricky point of cross-examination: “Was there something remarkable about the ground?”

Silence. Curtis-Vane looked up. Clive’s hand was in his pocket. He withdrew it. The gesture was reminiscent of a conjurer’s: a square of magenta-and-green silk had been produced.

“Only this,” Clive said, as if the words choked him. “On the ground. In the bush behind the tree.”

His mother’s hand had moved, but she checked it and an uneven blush flooded her face. “Is that where it was!” she said. “It must have caught in the bushes when I walked up there the other day. Thank you, Clive.”

He opened his hand and the scarf dropped on the table. “It was on the ground,” he said, “on a bed of cut fern.”

“It would be right, then,” Curtis-Vane asked, “to say that yesterday morning when Mr. Wingfield met Mr. Bridgeman below the Bald Hill, you were taking your walk through the bush?”