Duck Season Death (7 page)

“What nonsense!” said the doctor testily. “Motherwell, it is up to you. I've given you my opinion as a medical man, but yours is the final word.”

The policeman said with ponderous dignity, “I can only presume that Mr Carmichael's imagination is running away with him. I shall put in a full report concerning this distressing affair; naturally there will be an inquest. Mr Carmichael need have no fear that this business will not be wound up entirely to the satisfaction of unbiased authority. But such wild talk of murder cannot be condoned. I must request you, sir, not to voice such fantastic beliefs.”

“I haven't got that much imagination,” said Charles irritably. “Otherwise I would write books instead of reviewing them. And my beliefs are not fantastic but feasible. My uncle had some trouble on his mind. I don't say he realised his life was in danger, but he was a changed man—and what is more I can produce witnesses to back me up in that statement.”

There was a pause; then the doctor said thoughtfully, “What sort of books do you review, Mr Carmichael? Ah, yes! You are associated with Mr Sefton in the production called
Culture and Critic.”

“Detective novels,” replied Charles defiantly. “But that has nothing to do with the matter in hand.”

“Ah,” said the policeman, his tone of voice indicating that all was now clear. He lost some of his hostility, and a slightly tolerant gleam came into his eye.

Dr Spenser gave an amused shrug. “My dear fellow, I'm an ardent detective novel fan myself—in fact, I follow your reviews in the choice of my reading matter—but I don't go round applying the principles of fiction to my everyday life.”

Motherwell laughed. “Otherwise I'd have to keep my eye on you, Doctor. They say in books that the best persons qualified to commit murder are of the medical profession.”

“Mind you,” said the doctor, now quite jocular with Charles, as though he were a mental defective to be coaxed into reasonable behaviour, “I don't say I wouldn't like to do so with some of my patients.”

“I could name one or two,” said the policeman, entering into the spirit of things.

“I can only think,” said Charles coldly, “that you do not want to get to the bottom of this affair. Tell me, Doctor, you probably met Athol here some season or other—how did you get on with him?”

Dr Spenser raised supercilious brows. “Yes, I knew him. He consulted me last year about some fibrositis trouble he was having. He was not the type of man to take to, as a rule.”

“What you mean is, you disliked him heartily. Don't worry—most people did. But just the same that's very interesting. Tell me again, Doctor,” he asked, with deceptive smoothness, “are you a shooter too?”

After a short pause, during which his brows lowered themselves into a frown, Dr Spenser said abruptly, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Ah!” said Charles, as the policeman had made the ejaculation.

“Well, I think we have wasted enough time on fruitless discussion,” said the doctor briskly, throwing Charles a glance of unbridled dislike. “I'll take Mr Sefton's body back to the surgery for a fuller examination, Motherwell, and write out my report for you. Do you want a lift back to the hotel, Carmichael?”

Charles refused the perfunctory offer stiffly. He waited until the car was out of sight, then made his way through the moist, stunted undergrowth to the lagoon. The chestnut-breasted teal Athol had brought down still lay in the bottom of the boat. He picked it up and stood for a moment, thoughtfully surveying the surrounding countryside. The sun was climbing steadily; what had
been grey-green and vague outlines were now sparkling highlights and deep shadows. He could see now that the lagoon deepened into a wide sweep away to the right. Across the water from where Athol had stood upright to take aim was a narrow arm of land covered by low trees. Behind it, not so far distant, was the shape of Campbell's Hill.

Still carrying the bird by the legs, and further encumbered by the guns, Charles skirted the edge of the lagoon and made for the peninsula. It was a trying walk through prickly bush with the ground uncertain under his feet; once or twice he sank ankle-deep in mud. Flies, attracted by the dead bird, tormented him, and he brushed them away irritably.

But when he reached the clump of trees all regret of the unpleasant trip was forgotten in the triumph of his surmise being correct. There were faint marks of footprints between the trees and a particularly clear one near the water's edge, where the quick-drying sun had made a cast of it in mud. A man's shoe, he decided after studying it, with rubber treads on the sole.

III

Back at the Duck and Dog, the guests were just starting breakfast. In the kitchen, Miss Bryce was panting from table to stove to sink, spearing sausages, cracking eggs and swooping down on the electric toaster with cries of triumph as she managed to catch the bread before it incinerated. Shelagh moved in and out of her wild sorties with cool, effortless grace, looking collected and superior as she cut grapefruit into artistic shapes and rolled butter into neat dewy curls.

“Porridge for Major and Mrs Dougall—is your father up yet, Shelagh? I am sure I never knew such a—that American person will probably want orange juice, but he'll have to take grapefruit or lump it—though I'm sure he's a very pleasant man. He certainly
took Mr Sefton's nastiness very well last night. Porridge for the Turners. Mr Sefton didn't make much headway there, I noticed. What did he expect when she's on her honeymoon? I thought Mrs Turner managed very well, poor little thing—her husband seemed put out and I don't blame him. I do wish your father wouldn't let Mr Sefton come. Look at the way Jerry went on over that model creature. I do believe he delights in making trouble—just as your father delights in looking on.”

“Well, he won't be coming again,” said Shelagh, turning to put food at the servery window.

“How are you so certain this is Mr Sefton's last season?”

“Because he's dead,” returned Shelagh off-handedly. “Do watch what you're doing—you're dropping porridge on the floor.”

“What did you say?” asked Miss Bryce incredulously.

Shelagh took the saucepan from her hand and poured neat islands into the willow-pattern bowls. “Mr Sefton was shot dead while out duck-shooting this morning.”

“How do you know this? Does your father—why didn't you tell me before?”

The girl shrugged. “It's nothing to do with us. It happened over at Teal Lagoon. Charles Carmichael was with him and came rushing back to tell Father. I rang up Tom Motherwell and Dr Spenser. I suppose they're out there inspecting the body. There's no need to get agitated about things, Aunt.”

Miss Bryce was looking aghast. “Nothing to do with us! I should hope not. Dear, dear—what a dreadful—whatever happened, I wonder?”

“I understand Athol came into someone else's range of fire,” said Shelagh, backing through the wing door to the dining room, and leaving her aunt, who could never stop once she started, to address her remarks to the boiling kettle.

“I just loathe firearms—something always goes wrong sooner or later—that man who was killed two years back—and then that boy who tripped over his gun climbing through a fence.”

Charles came in as Shelagh was placing porridge on the Dougalls' table. He looked dishevelled and cross, and still carried by the tips of his fingers the duck Athol had shot.

“What do I do with this thing?” he demanded, going up to her.

Major Dougall let drop his table napkin, which he had been holding to protect his worn regimental tie from porridge splashes, and gave a harrumph. “Where the deuce did you get that bird?” he demanded in his strangulated voice.

“Athol shot it,” said Charles shortly.

“Just put it in the kitchen,” said Shelagh. “Your breakfast is ready if you'll sit down.”

“The fellah had no business to go shooting this morning,” said Major Dougall, addressing his wife. “What's more that's a—”

“I want a word with you,” Charles murmured to Shelagh, following her to the kitchen.

Miss Bryce pounced on him. “Oh, Mr Carmichael, Shelagh told me—I was never so shocked—I suppose you'll be leaving now. Oh, dear, that makes two rooms empty. Ellis never seems to care, but the season is most important to us financially and now Mr Sefton—”

“Then at least you're one person who did not wish Athol dead,” Charles cut in suddenly.

Shelagh, who had been pouring water into tea and coffee pots, said quickly. “Here, Aunt! Coffee for the Dougalls, tea for the Turners. You take them—I want to squeeze oranges for Mr Jeffrey.”

“I told you so,” Miss Bryce said accusingly, taking the tray to the dining room.

“Thanks for getting rid of her,” said Charles.

“I don't think you should say things like that to Aunt Grace,” returned the girl coldly, “or to anyone else, for that matter.”

“Sorry. Blame official obtuseness. That fool of a Motherwell says Athol was shot by accident—some unknown and careless sportsman. Did you ever know such a blithering idiot?” Charles thrust his hands into his pockets and strode restlessly around the kitchen. “Of course that pompous old horse, Spenser, called the
tune. Just because something like this happened two years ago, they assume Athol was killed by accident. Can you believe it!”

“Yes, I can,” said Shelagh deliberately. “Of course it was an accident if Tom and Dr Spenser say so. The trouble with you is that you are letting your imagination—”

Charles threw out a hand. “Don't! Please don't say that. No one is more anxious than I that Athol's death should be accidental. As well as for reasons of kinship, I have no ambition to figure in a real-life murder case. In fact, the idea fairly revolts me. So just disabuse yourself of the notion that I am savouring this situation academically.”

“If that's how you feel,” said the girl practically, “then you should be relieved by their opinion.”

“I should,” he agreed, “but would you stand by when you knew there was more to things than met the eye? Now look, I've told those two asses that I can produce witnesses to say that Athol was a changed man with something weighing on his mind. I want you to tell them that you thought he was different too. It is my considered opinion that he was being deliberately tormented as a prelude to being murdered.”

The girl glanced away. “If you talked like this to Dr Spenser and Tom, I don't blame them for snubbing you.”

Charles stared at her. “I received the impression earlier that you thought there was a possibility of Athol having been murdered.”

She shrugged and did not answer.

“What has altered you? Is it because murder is something that might upset your well-ordered life? You're frightened of becoming involved in something for which you have no yardstick of behaviour?”

“You're not only absurd, but rude. There has been no murder.”

“So careful—so discreet! Athol's murder is none of your business, so you just ignore it as an unpleasant interlude, or—” he stopped, searching for a way in which to shake her aggravating equanimity, “or are you falling into line because you're frightened
of becoming too involved? By jove, I hadn't thought of that. I've been visualising the murderer as a vague figure who had stalked Athol to this district. I hadn't seriously considered that it might be someone from here in this—this contrived setting. I'm grateful to you for having pointed out the suspects.”

But Shelagh was not to be goaded. “Would you mind going to your breakfast now? It holds us up if people are late for meals.”

“I'm not having breakfast until I get this business fixed up,” said Charles sulkily.

“You'll feel a lot better when you've eaten something,” she said reasonably. “And goodness knows what Aunt Grace is saying in there.”

IV

Wearing the shocked face which she kept for deaths, seductions and exorbitant butchers' bills, Miss Bryce had spread the news of Athol Sefton's death. She was now lecturing the guests on the proven foolhardiness of having anything to do with firearms and the care they must take in the next few days if the season was not to end up a liability to the Duck and Dog.

Adelaide Dougall sat watching her parents plough purposefully through their meal. If anything the news had served to stimulate their appetites, already sharpened by months of privation at their cheap boarding house. Not even they would have dreamed of the thoughts passing through their daughter's mind—unbidden thoughts that Adelaide was incapable of banishing now. They had come to her the previous evening and all through the night she had kept waking up with them, her heart pounding with fear, excitement and triumph. She had shown little shock at the news of Athol Sefton's death.

Mrs Dougall summoned Charles peremptorily, as she had been wont to summon her husband's junior officers. Her large, commanding figure was dressed in a suit the colour and texture of sacking, the skirt of which would retain a bulge for quite some time after she stood up. She had a parade-ground voice and about as much sensibility as a tank. “Well, young man!” she boomed, staring at Charles with pale protruding eyes. “What's this shocking business we hear about your uncle?”