‘Tapu? Taboo. Sacred. Forbidden. Untouchable. I don’t suppose the Maori people ever climb up the Peak nowadays. No admittance to the pakeha, of course; it would be much too tempting a hunting ground. They used to bury the chiefs’ weapons with them. There is a certain adze inherited by the chief Rewi who died about a hundred years ago and was buried on the Peak. This adze, his favourite weapon, was hidden up there. It had featured prominently and bloodily in the Maori wars, and had been spoken of in their oral schools of learning for generations before that. Rewi’s toki-poutangata. It has a secret mark on it, and was said to be invested with supernatural power by the god Tane. There it is, they say, a collector’s plum if ever there was one, somewhere on the Peak. The whole place belongs to the Maori people. It’s forbidden territory to the white hunter.’

‘How far away is it?’

‘About eight miles.’

‘It looks less than three in this uncanny atmosphere.’

‘Kind of black, sir, isn’t it?’ said Colly.

‘Black and clear,’ said Gaunt. ‘A marvellous back-drop.’ They drove on in silence for some time. The flowing hills moved slowly about as if in a contrapuntal measure determined by the progress of the car. Dikon began to recognize landmarks. He felt extremely apprehensive.

‘Hullo,’ said Gaunt. ‘What’s that affair down on the right? A sort of doss-house, one would think.’

Dikon said nothing, but turned in at a ramshackle gate.

‘You don’t dare to tell me that we have arrived,’ Gaunt demanded in a loud voice.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My God, Dikon, you’ll writhe for this. Look at it. Smell it. Colly, we are betrayed.’

‘Mr Bell warned you, sir,’ Colly said. ‘I daresay it’s very comfortable.’

‘If anything,’ said Dikon, ‘it’s less comfortable than it looks. Those are the Springs.’

‘Those reeking puddles?’

‘Yes. And there, on the verandah, I see the Claires assembled. You are expected, sir,’ said Dikon. Out of the tail of his eyes he saw Gaunt’s gloved fingers go first to his tie and then to his hat. He thought suddenly: ‘He looks terribly like a famous actor.’

The car rocked down the last stretch of the drive and shot across the pumice sweep. Dikon pulled up at the verandah steps. He got out, and taking off his hat approached the expectant Claires. He felt nervous and absurd. The Claires were grouped after the manner of an Edwardian family portrait that had taken an eccentric turn. Mrs Claire and the Colonel were in deck chairs, Barbara sat on the steps grasping a reluctant dog. Dikon guessed that they wore their best clothes. Simon, obviously under duress, stood behind his mother’s chair looking murderous. All that was lacking, one felt, was the native equivalent of a gillie holding a couple of staghounds in leash. As Dikon approached, Dr Ackrington came out of his room.