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.”