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?”