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.

Curtis-Vane asked Susan Bridgeman, very formally, if she would prefer to leave them.

“No. I don’t know. If you must do it—” she said, and made no move.

“I don’t think we’ve any right to play it if you don’t want us to,” Solomon said.

“That,” said McHaffey pleasurably, “is a legal point. I should have to—”

“Mr. McHaffey,” said Curtis-Vane, “there’s nothing ‘legal’ about these proceedings. They are completely informal. If Mrs. Bridgeman does not wish us to play the record, we shall, of course, not play it.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman,” said McHaffey, in high dudgeon. “That is your ruling. We shall draw our own conclusions. Personally, I consider Mrs. Bridgeman’s attitude surprising. However—”

“Oh!” she burst out. “Play it, play it, play it. Who cares! I don’t. Play it.”

So Bob Johnson fetched the tape recorder. He put it on the table. “It may have got damaged in the storm,” he said. “But it looks O.K. He’d rigged a bit of a waterproof shelter over it. Anyone familiar with the type?”

Dr. Mark said, “It’s a superb model. With that parabolic mike, it’d pick up a whisper at ten yards. More than I could ever afford, but I think I understand it.”

“Over to you, then, Doc.”

It was remarkable how the tension following Susan Bridgeman’s behaviour was relaxed by the male homage paid to a complicated mechanism. Even Clive, in his private fury, whatever it was, watched the opening up of the recorder. Wingfield leaned over the table to get a better view. Only Solomon remembered the woman and went to sit beside her. She paid no attention.

“The tape’s run out,” said Dr. Mark. “That looks promising. One moment; I’ll rewind it.”

There broke out the manic gibber of a reversed tape played at speed. This was followed by intervals punctuated with sharp dots of sound and another outburst of gibberish.

“Now,” said Dr. Mark.

And Caley Bridgeman’s voice, loud and pedantic, filled the tent.

“Ninox novaeseelandiae. Ruru. Commonly known as Morepork. Tenth January, 1977. Ten-twelve p.m. Beech bush. Parson’s Nose Range. Southern Alps. Regarded by the Maori people as a harbinger of death.”