Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh

by Ngaio Marsh

  “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.

  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?”

  “Yes,” said Clive.

  “How d’you know that?” Wingfield demanded.

  “I heard you. I was quite close.”

  “Rot.”

  “Well—not you so much as him. Shouting. He said he’d ruin you,” said Clive.

  Solomon Gosse intervened. “May I speak? Only to say that it’s important for you all to know that B-B-Bridgeman habitually b-behaved in a most intemperate manner. He would fly into a rage over a chipped saucer.”

  “Thank you,” said Wingfield.

  Curtis-Vane said, “Why was he cross with you, Mr. Wingfield?”

>   “He took exception to my work.”

  “Taxidermy?” asked Dr. Mark.

  “Yes. The bird aspect.”

  “I may be wrong,” McHaffey said, and clearly considered it unlikely, “but I thought we’d met to determine when the deceased was last seen alive.”

  “And you are perfectly right,” Curtis-Vane assured him. “I’ll put the question. Did any of you see Mr. Bridgeman after noon yesterday?” He waited and had no reply. “Then I’ve a suggestion to make. If he was alive last evening there’s a chance of proving it. You said when we found the apparatus in the tree that he was determined to record the call of the morepork. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Solomon. “It comes to that tree every night.”

  “If, then, there is a recording of the morepork, he had switched the recorder on. If there is no recording, of course nothing is proved. It might simply mean that for some reason he didn’t make one. Can any of you remember if the morepork called last night? And when?”

  “I do. I heard it. Before the storm blew up,” said Clive. “I was reading in bed by torchlight. It was about ten o’clock. It went on for some time and another one, further away, answered it.”

  “In your opinion,” Curtis-Vane asked the deer-stalkers, “should we hear the recording—if there is one?”

  Susan Bridgeman said, “I would rather it wasn’t played.’

  “But why?”

  “It — it would be — painful. He always announced his recordings. He gave the date and place and the scientific name. He did that before he set the thing up. To hear his voice — I — I couldn’t bear it.”

  “You needn’t listen,” said her son brutally.

  Solomon Gosse said, “If Susan feels like that about it, I don’t think we should play it.”

  Wingfield said, “But I don’t see—” and stopped short. “All right, then,” he said. “You needn’t listen, Sue. You can go along to your tent, can’t you?” And to Curtis-Vane: “I’ll get the recorder.”

  McHaffey said, “Point of order, Mr. Chairman. The equipment should be handled by a neutral agent.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Wingfield exclaimed.

  “I reckon he’s right, though,” said Bob Johnson.