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?”
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.