“Did it occur to you to mention them?” Bell asked patiently.

“Figured he had his case with Mrs. Frost being the witness.”

“Is there anyone who could show me where the shooting occurred?”

To Bell’s surprise, Hodge sprang from his chair. He circled his desk, wooden leg clumping the floor. “I’ll take you. We better stop at the general store for a bunch of stogies. Shoo away the blackflies.”

Puffing clouds of cigar smoke beneath their hat brims, the North River constable and the tall detective drove up the mountain in Hodge’s Model A Ford. When they ran out of road, Hodge attached a circle of wood to his peg so he didn’t sink into the mud, and they continued on foot. They climbed deer trails for an hour until the thick stands of fir trees and birch opened onto a wide meadow of matted winter-browned grass.

“By this here tree is where I found the shell casings. Clear shot across to the lip of the gorge where Mrs. Frost saw Celere fall off.”

Bell nodded. The cliff was a hundred and fifty yards across the meadow from the trees. An easy shot with a Marlin, even without a telescopic sight.

“What do you suppose Celere was doing out on the rim?”

“Scouting. The butler told me they went out for bear.”

“So to go ahead like that, Celere must have trusted Frost?”

“Folks said Mr. Frost was buying airplanes for his wife. I guess he’d trust a good customer.”

“Did you find Celere’s rifle?” Bell asked.

“Nope.”

“What do you suppose happened to it?”

“Bottom of the river.”

“And the same for his field glasses?”

“If he had ’em.”

They walked out to the edge of the gorge. Isaac Bell walked along it, aware that he was not likely to see any signs of an event that occurred before winter snows had fallen and melted. At a point near a single tree that stood lonely sentinel with its roots clinging to the rim, he noticed a narrow shelf immediately below. It thrust out like a second cliff, six feet down and barely four feet wide. A falling body would have to clear it to plummet to the river. Gripping the roots where erosion had exposed them, he lowered himself to it and looked around. No rusty rifle. No field glasses. He peered over the side. It was a long way down to the glint of water at the bottom.

He hauled himself back up to the meadow. As he stood, resting his hand on the tree for balance, he felt a hole in the bark. He looked more closely. “Constable Hodge? May I borrow your hunting knife?”

Hodge unsheathed a strong blade that had been fashioned by honing a steel file. “Whatcha got there?”