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  The Claires fidgeted. Simon, who seemed to be unable to speak in any mode but a truculent roar, said that he reckoned he was going to ask Questing what the hell he thought he was up to. “It’s crook, that’s what it is,” Simon shouted angrily. “By cripey, I reckon it’s crook. I’m going to ask him flat out — ”

  “You will ask him nothing, if you’ll be so good,” his uncle said briskly, “and I shall be obliged if you will suffer me to finish.”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Simon, please,” his mother implored.

  “I was about to ask,” Dr. Ackrington went on, “that you allow me to speak to Mr. Questing when he arrives. I have a specific reason for making this suggestion.”

  “I thought perhaps,” said Mrs. Claire unhappily, “Edward might take him to his study.”

  “Is Edward’s study the Ark of the Tabernacle of the Lord,” cried Dr. Ackrington in a fury, “that Questing should be subdued in it? Why this perpetual itch to herd people together in Edward’s study, which, when all’s said and done, is no bigger than a lavatory and rather less comfortable? Will you listen to me? Will you indulge me so far as to keep quiet while I speak to Questing, here, openly, in the presence of you all?”

  Dikon’s attention was momentarily diverted by Gaunt, who said in a fierce whisper: “If you forget a syllable of that speech I shall sack you.”

  The Claires were all speaking together again but their expostulations died out when Dr. Ackrington cast himself back in his chair, turned up his eyes and began to whistle through his teeth. After an uncomfortable silence Mrs. Claire said timidly: “I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

  “Indeed?” said her brother. “Do you mean that Questing miscalculated and that Smith has no right to be alive?”

  “No, dear.”

  “What was Smith saying about lights?” asked Colonel Claire suddenly. “I didn’t catch all that about lights.”

  “Will someone explain to Edward about railway signals?” Dr. Ackrington asked dangerously, but Colonel Claire went on in a high complaining voice. “I mean, suppose Questing didn’t happen to notice the signals.”

  “You, Edward,” his brother-in-law interrupted, “are the only person of my acquaintance from whom I can conceive such a display of negligence, but even you could scarcely fail to glance at a signal some twenty-two yards in front of your nose before inviting a man to risk his life on a single-track railway bridge. I find it impossible to believe that Questing didn’t act deliberately and I have good reason to believe that he did.”

  There was another silence broken unexpectedly by Geoffrey Gaunt. “In fact, Dr. Ackrington,” said Gaunt, “you think we have a potential murderer among us?”

  “I do.”

  “Strange. I’ve never thought of a murderer being an insufferable bore.”

  Barbara gave a yelp of unhappy laughter.

  “Wait on!” said Simon. “Listen!”

  They all heard Questing’s car come down the drive. He drove past the windows and round the house to the garages.

  “He’ll come in here!” Barbara whispered.

  “I implore you to leave him to me, Edward.”

  Colonel Claire threw up his hands. “Shall Barbie and I—?” Mrs. Claire began, but her brother silenced her with an angry flap of his hand. After that nobody spoke and Questing’s footfall sounded loud as he came round the house and along the verandah.

  Perhaps Dikon had anticipated, subconsciously, a sinister change in Questing. Undoubtedly he experienced a shock of anticlimax when he heard the familiar and detestable inquiry.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mr. Questing, beaming in the doorway, “how’s tricks? Any dinner left for a little feller? Am I hungry or am I hungry! Good evening, Mr. Gaunt. And how’s the young gentleman?”

  He sat down at his own table, rubbed his hands together, and shouted: “Where’s the Glamour Girl? Come on, Beautiful. Let’s have a slant at the me-and-you.”

  It was at this moment that Dikon, to his unspeakable horror, discovered in himself a liking for Mr. Questing.

  To Dikon’s surprise, Dr. Ackrington did not go at once into the attack. Huia brought Mr. Questing’s first course and received an offensive leer with a toss of her head. Mrs. Claire murmured something to Barbara and they went out together. With an air of secret exultation, Gaunt began to make theatrical conversation with Dikon. The other three men did not utter a word. To Dikon, the tension in the room seemed almost ponderable, but Questing did not appear to notice it. He ate a colossal dinner, became increasingly playful with Huia, and, on her final withdrawal, leant back in his chair, sucked his teeth, produced a cigar case and was about to offer it to Gaunt when at last Dr. Ackrington spoke.

  “You did not bring Smith back with you, Mr. Questing?”

  Questing turned indolently and looked at him. “Smith?” he said. “By gum, I meant to ask you about Smith. Hasn’t he come in?”

  “He’s in bed. He’s knocked about and is suffering from shock.”

  “Is that so?” said Questing very earnestly. “By gum, now, I’m sorry to hear that. Suffering from shock, eh? So he would be. So he would be.”

  Dr. Ackrington drew in his breath with a sharp whistle and by this manoeuvre seemed to gain control of himself.

  “I bet that chap’s annoyed with me,” Questing added cheerfully, “and I don’t blame him. So would I be in his place. It’s the kind of thing that would annoy you, you know. Isn’t it?”

  “Smith appears to find attempted murder distinctly irritating,” agreed Dr. Ackrington.

  “Attempted murder?” said Questing, opening his eyes very wide. “That’s not a very nice way to put it, Doctor. We all of us make mistakes.”

  Dr. Ackrington uttered a loud oath.

  “Now, now, now,” Questing chided, “what’s biting you? You come out on the verandah, Doc, and we’ll have a little chat.”

  Dr. Ackrington beat his fist on the table and began to stutter. Dikon thought they were in for a tirade, but with a really terrifying effort at self-control Dr. Ackrington pulled himself up, gripped the edge of the table and at last addressed Questing coherently and with a kind of calmness. He outlined the story of Smith’s escape, adding several details that he had evidently gleaned after leaving the dining-room. At first Questing listened with the air of a connoisseur, but as Dr. Ackrington went on he began to get restless. He attempted several interjections but was ruthlessly talked down. Finally, however, when his inquisitor enlarged upon his abominable behaviour in deserting a man who might have been fatally injured, Questing raised a cry of protest. “Fatally injured, my foot! He came charging up the bank like a horse, don’t you worry. It was me that looked like getting a fatal injury.”

  “So you turned tail and bolted?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t want a lot of unpleasantness, that’s all. I wasn’t deserting the chap. There was another chap there to look after him. He came bowling down the hill after it had happened. A chap in a blue shirt. And the train stopped. I didn’t want a lot of humbug with the engine driver. Smith was all right. I could see he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Mr. Questing, did you or did you not look at the signal before you beckoned Smith to cross the bridge?”

  For the first time, Questing looked acutely uncomfortable. He turned very red in the face and said: “Look, Doctor, we’ve got a very, very distinguished guest. We don’t need to trouble Mr. Gaunt—”

  “Not at all,” said Gaunt. “I’m enormously interested.”

  “Will you answer me?” Dr. Ackrington shouted. “Knowing that the evening train was due, and seeing the fellow hesitated to cross the railway bridge, did you or did you not look at the signal before waving him on?”

  “Of course I looked at it.” Questing examined the end of his cigar, glanced up from under his eyebrows and added in a curiously flat voice: “It wasn’t working.”

  Dikon experienced that wave of personal shame with which an amateur reciter at close quarters can embarrass his au
dience. It was such a bad lie. It was so clearly false. Questing so obviously knew that he was not believed. Even Dr. Ackrington seemed deflated and found nothing to say. After a moment Questing mumbled: “Well, I didn’t see it, anyway. They ought to have a wig-wag there.”

  “A red light some ten inches in diameter and you didn’t see it.”

  “I said it wasn’t working.”

  “We can check up on that,” said Simon.

  Questing turned on him. “You mind your own business,” he said, but his voice missed the note of anger, and it seemed to Dikon that there was something he could not bring himself to say.

  “Do you mind telling us where you had been?” Dr. Ackrington continued.

  “Pohutukawa Bay.”

  “But you were on the Peak road.”

  “I know I was. I thought I’d just take a run along the Peak road before I came home.”

  “You’d been to Pohutukawa Bay?”

  “I’m telling you I went there.”

  “To see the trees in flower?”

  “My God, why shouldn’t I go to see the pootacows! It’s a great sight isn’t it? Hundreds of people go don’t they? If you must know I thought it would be a nice little run for Mr. Gaunt. I thought I’d take a look-see if they were in full bloom before suggesting he went over there.”

  “But you must have heard that there is no bloom this year on the pohutukawas. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  For some inexplicable reason Questing looked pleased. “I hadn’t heard,” he said quickly. “I was astonished when I got there. It’s very, very disappointing. Just too bad.”

  Dr. Ackrington, also, looked pleased. He got up and stood with his back to Questing, his eyes fixed triumphantly on his brother-in-law.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what the devil you’re getting at both of you,” Colonel Claire complained. “I’ve been — ”

  “Do me the extraordinary kindness to hold your tongue, Edward.”

  “Look here, James!”

  “Cut it out, Dad,” said Simon. He looked at his uncle. “I reckon I’m satisfied,” he said roughly.

  “I am obliged to you. Thank you, Mr. Questing. I fancy we need detain, you no longer.”

  Questing drew at his cigar, exhaled a long dribble of smoke and remained where he was. “Wait a bit, wait a bit,” he said, speaking in the best tradition of the cinema boss. “You’re satisfied, huh? O.K. That’s fine. That’s swell. What about me? Just because I’ve got an instinct about the right way to behave when we’ve distinguished guests among us, you think you can get away with dynamite. I’ve tried to save Mr. Gaunt the embarrassment of this scene. I apologize to Mr. Gaunt. I’d like him to know that when I’ve taken over this joint the resemblance to a giggle-house will fade out automatically.” He walked to the door. “But we must have an exit line,” Gaunt muttered. Questing turned. “And just in case you didn’t hear me, Claire,” he said magnificently, “I said when and not if. Good evening.”

  He did his best to slam the door but true to the tradition of the house it jammed half-way and he wisely made no second attempt. He walked slowly past the windows with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, making much of his hour.

  As soon as he had passed out of earshot, Colonel Claire raised a piteous cry of protest. He hadn’t understood. He would never understand. What was all this about Pohutukawa Bay? Nobody had told him anything about it. On the contrary —

  With extraordinary complacency, Dr. Ackrington cut in: “Nobody told you it was a bad year for pohutukawas, my good Edward, for the conclusive reason that it is a phenomenonally good year. The Bay is ablaze with blossom. I laid for your friend Questing, Edward, and, as Simon’s intolerable jargon would have it — did he fall!” iv

  After the party in the dining-room had broken up, Gaunt suggested that he and Dikon should go for a stroll before night set in. Dikon proposed the path leading past the Springs and round the shoulder of the hill that separated them from the native settlement. Their departure was hindered by Mrs. Claire, who hurried from the house, full of warnings about boiling mud. “But you can’t miss your way, really,” she added. “There are little flags, white for safe and red for boiling mud. But you will take care of him, Mr. Bell, won’t you? Come back before dark. One would never forgive oneself if after all this…” The sentence died away as a doubt arose in Mrs. Claire’s mind about the propriety of saying that death by boiling mud would be a poor sequel to an evening of social solecisms. She looked very earnestly at Gaunt and repeated: “So you will take care, won’t you? Such a horrid place, really. When one thinks of our dear old English lanes…”

  They reassured her and set off. Soon after their arrival Gaunt had taken his first step in the Elfin Pool. Whether through the agency of free sulphuric acid, or through the stimulus provided by the scene they had just witnessed, his leg was less painful than it had been for some time, and he was in good spirits. “I’ve always adored scenes,” he said, “and this was a princely one. They can’t keep it up, of course, but really, Dikon, if this is anything like a fair sample, I shall do very nicely at Wai-ata-tapu. How right you were to urge me to come.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been entertained,” Dikon rejoined, “but honestly, sir, I regard the whole affair as an exceedingly sinister set-up. I mean, why did Questing lie like a flat-fish?”

  “Several most satisfactory theories present themselves. I am inclined to think that Miss Claire is the key figure.”

  Dikon, who was leading the way, stopped so suddenly that Gaunt walked into him. “What can you mean, sir!” Dikon cried. “How can Questing’s relations with Smith have any possible connection with Barbara Claire?”

  “I may be wrong of course, but there is no doubt that he has his eye on her. Didn’t you notice that? All that frightful line of stuff with the Maori waitress was undoubtedly directed at Barbara Claire. A display of really most unpalatable oomph. I must say she didn’t seem to care for it. Always the young gentlewoman, of course.” They walked on in silence for a minute, and then Gaunt said lightly: “Surely you can’t have fallen for her?”

  Without turning his head Dikon said crossly: “What in the name of high fantasy could have put that antic notion into your head?”

  “The back of your neck has bristled like a hedgehog ever since I mentioned her. And it’s not such an antic notion. There are possibilities. She’s got eyes and a profile and a figure. Submerged it is true in dressy floral ninon, but there nevertheless.” And with a touch of the malice with which Dikon was only too familiar, Gaunt added: “Barbara Claire. It’s a charming name, isn’t it? You must teach her not to hoot.”

  Dikon had never liked his employer less than he did at that moment. When Gaunt prodded him in the back with his stick, Dikon pretended not to notice, but cursed softly to himself.

  “I apologize,” said Gaunt, “in fourteen different positions.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Then don’t prance along at such a rate. Stop a moment. I’m exhausted. What’s that noise?”

  They had rounded the flank of the hill and now came in sight of the native settlement. The swift northern dusk had fallen upon the countryside with no suggestion of density. The darkening of the air seemed merely to be a change in translucence. It was very still, and as they stood listening Dikon became aware of a curious sound. It was as if a giant somewhere close at hand were blowing thick bubbles very slowly and complacently; or as if, over the brink of the hill, a vast porridge pot had just come to boiling point. The sounds were irregular, each one mounting to its point of explosion. Plop. Plop-plop… Plop.

  They moved forward and reached a point where the scrub and grass came to an end and the path descended a steep bank to traverse a region of solidified blue mud, sinter mounds, hot pools and geysers. The sulphurous smell was very strong. The track, defined at intervals by stakes to which pieces of white rag had been tied, went forward over naked hillocks towards the hip-roofs of the native settlement.

  “Shall we
go further?” asked Dikon.

  “It’s a detestable place, but I think we must see this infernal brew.”

  “We must keep to the track, then. Shall I go first?”

  They walked on and presently, through the soles of their feet, received a strange experience. The ground beneath them was unsteady, quivering a little, telling them that, after all, there was no stability in the earth by which we symbolize stability. They moved across a skin and the organism beneath it was restless.

  “This is abominable,” said Gaunt. “The whole place works secretly. It’s alive.”

  “Look to your right,” said Dikon. They had come to a hillock; the path divided, and, where it turned to the right, was marked by red flags.

  “They told me you used to be able to walk along there,” Dikon explained, “but it’s not safe now. Taupo-tapu is encroaching.”

  They followed the white flags, climbed steeply, and at last, from the top of the hillock, looked down on Taupo-tapu.

  It was perhaps fifteen feet across, dun-coloured and glistening, a working ulcer in the body of the earth. Great bubbles of mud formed themselves deliberately, swelled, and broke with the sounds which they had noticed a few minutes before and which were now loud and insistent. With each eruption unctuous rings momentarily creased the surface of the brew. It was impossible to escape the notion that Taupo-tapu had some idiotic purpose of its own.

  For perhaps two minutes Gaunt looked at it in silence. “Quite obscene, isn’t it?” he said at last. “If you know anything about it, don’t tell me.”

  “The only story I’ve heard,” Dikon said, “is not a pretty one. I won’t.”

  Gaunt’s reply was unexpected. “I should prefer to hear it from a Maori,” he said.

  “You can see where the thing has eaten into the old path,” Dikon pointed out. “The red flags begin again on the other side and rejoin our track just below us. Just as well. It would be an unpleasant error to mistake the paths, wouldn’t it?”