Ngaio Marsh - Color Scheme

“You’d been to Pohutukawa Bay?”

“I’m telling you I went there.”

“To see the trees in flower?”

“My God, why shouldn’t I go to see the pootacows! It’s a great sight isn’t it? Hundreds of people go don’t they? If you must know I thought it would be a nice little run for Mr. Gaunt. I thought I’d take a look-see if they were in full bloom before suggesting he went over there.”

“But you must have heard that there is no bloom this year on the pohutukawas . Everybody’s talking about it.”

For some inexplicable reason Questing looked pleased. “I hadn’t heard,” he said quickly. “I was astonished when I got there. It’s very, very disappointing. Just too bad.”

Dr. Ackrington, also, looked pleased. He got up and stood with his back to Questing, his eyes fixed triumphantly on his brother-in-law.

“Yes, but I don’t know what the devil you’re getting at both of you,” Colonel Claire complained. “I’ve been — ”

“Do me the extraordinary kindness to hold your tongue, Edward.”

“Look here, James!”

“Cut it out, Dad,” said Simon. He looked at his uncle. “I reckon I’m satisfied,” he said roughly.

“I am obliged to you. Thank you, Mr. Questing. I fancy we need detain, you no longer.”

Questing drew at his cigar, exhaled a long dribble of smoke and remained where he was. “ Wait a bit, wait a bit,” he said, speaking in the best tradition of the cinema boss. “You’re satisfied, huh? O.K. That’s fine. That’s swell. What about me? Just because I’ve got an instinct about the right way to behave when we’ve distinguished guests among us, you think you can get away with dynamite. I’ve tried to save Mr. Gaunt the embarrassment of this scene. I apologize to Mr. Gaunt. I’d like him to know that when I’ve taken over this joint the resemblance to a giggle-house will fade out automatically.” He walked to the door. “But we must have an exit line,” Gaunt muttered. Questing turned. “And just in case you didn’t hear me, Claire,” he said magnificently, “I said when and not if . Good evening.”

He did his best to slam the door but true to the tradition of the house it jammed half-way and he wisely made no second attempt. He walked slowly past the windows with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, making much of his hour.

As soon as he had passed out of earshot, Colonel Claire raised a piteous cry of protest. He hadn’t understood. He would never understand. What was all this about Pohutukawa Bay? Nobody had told him anything about it. On the contrary —

With extraordinary complacency, Dr. Ackrington cut in: “Nobody told you it was a bad year for pohutukawas , my good Edward, for the conclusive reason that it is a phenomenonally good year. The Bay is ablaze with blossom. I laid for your friend Questing, Edward, and, as Simon’s intolerable jargon would have it — did he fall!” iv

After the party in the dining-room had broken up, Gaunt suggested that he and Dikon should go for a stroll before night set in. Dikon proposed the path leading past the Springs and round the shoulder of the hill that separated them from the native settlement. Their departure was hindered by Mrs. Claire, who hurried from the house, full of warnings about boiling mud. “But you can’t miss your way, really,” she added. “There are little flags, white for safe and red for boiling mud. But you will take care of him, Mr. Bell, won’t you? Come back before dark. One would never forgive oneself if after all this…” The sentence died away as a doubt arose in Mrs. Claire’s mind about the propriety of saying that death by boiling mud would be a poor sequel to an evening of social solecisms. She looked very earnestly at Gaunt and repeated: “So you will take care, won’t you? Such a horrid place, really. When one thinks of our dear old English lanes…”

They reassured her and set off. Soon after their arrival Gaunt had taken his first step in the Elfin Pool. Whether through the agency of free sulphuric acid, or through the stimulus provided by the scene they had just witnessed, his leg was less painful than it had been for some time, and he was in good spirits. “I’ve always adored scenes,” he said, “and this was a princely one. They can’t keep it up, of course, but really, Dikon, if this is anything like a fair sample, I shall do very nicely at Wai-ata-tapu. How right you were to urge me to come.”

“I’m glad you’ve been entertained,” Dikon rejoined, “but honestly, sir, I regard the whole affair as an exceedingly sinister set-up. I mean, why did Questing lie like a flat-fish?”

“Several most satisfactory theories present themselves. I am inclined to think that Miss Claire is the key figure.”

Dikon, who was leading the way, stopped so suddenly that Gaunt walked into him. “What can you mean, sir!” Dikon cried. “How can Questing’s relations with Smith have any possible connection with Barbara Claire?”

“I may be wrong of course, but there is no doubt that he has his eye on her. Didn’t you notice that? All that frightful line of stuff with the Maori waitress was undoubtedly directed at Barbara Claire. A display of really most unpalatable oomph. I must say she didn’t seem to care for it. Always the young gentlewoman, of course.” They walked on in silence for a minute, and then Gaunt said lightly: “Surely you can’t have fallen for her?”

Without turning his head Dikon said crossly: “What in the name of high fantasy could have put that antic notion into your head?”

“The back of your neck has bristled like a hedgehog ever since I mentioned her. And it’s not such an antic notion. There are possibilities. She’s got eyes and a profile and a figure. Submerged it is true in dressy floral ninon , but there nevertheless.” And with a touch of the malice with which Dikon was only too familiar, Gaunt added: “Barbara Claire. It’s a charming name, isn’t it? You must teach her not to hoot.”

Dikon had never liked his employer less than he did at that moment. When Gaunt prodded him in the back with his stick, Dikon pretended not to notice, but cursed softly to himself.

“I apologize,” said Gaunt, “in fourteen different positions.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Then don’t prance along at such a rate. Stop a moment. I’m exhausted. What’s that noise?”

They had rounded the flank of the hill and now came in sight of the native settlement. The swift northern dusk had fallen upon the countryside with no suggestion of density. The darkening of the air seemed merely to be a change in translucence. It was very still, and as they stood listening Dikon became aware of a curious sound. It was as if a giant somewhere close at hand were blowing thick bubbles very slowly and complacently; or as if, over the brink of the hill, a vast porridge pot had just come to boiling point. The sounds were irregular, each one mounting to its point of explosion. Plop. Plop-plop… Plop.

They moved forward and reached a point where the scrub and grass came to an end and the path descended a steep bank to traverse a region of solidified blue mud, sinter mounds, hot pools and geysers. The sulphurous smell was very strong. The track, defined at intervals by stakes to which pieces of white rag had been tied, went forward over naked hillocks towards the hip-roofs of the native settlement.

“Shall we go further?” asked Dikon.

“It’s a detestable place, but I think we must see this infernal brew.”

“We must keep to the track, then. Shall I go first?”

They walked on and presently, through the soles of their feet, received a strange experience. The ground beneath them was unsteady, quivering a little, telling them that, after all, there was no stability in the earth by which we symbolize stability. They moved across a skin and the organism beneath it was restless.