Duck Season Death

by June Wright

  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 T
om 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?”

  Charles, annoyed with himself for obeying her summons and with the soundness of Shelagh’s advice about having something to eat, was betrayed into rash utterance. “More shocking than you think. It is my opinion that Athol was not shot accidentally but murdered.”

  He turned his back on her, dragged out a chair from the adjoining table, and reached for the nearest thing to eat, which was toast from Wilson’s rack. Shelagh brought him some coffee, putting the cup and saucer down with a near approach to a bang. He did not even thank her, but went on eating wolfishly, rejoicing in his sudden madness and the gratifying stunned silence about him. Even the mellowing influence of bacon and eggs did not bring about remorse, for the way the room cleared silently convinced him that he had not only shocked but frightened the other guests.

  Beside him, Wilson slid out of his chair, then paused uncertainly, trying to speak. Charles looked at him challengingly. “Well, what is it?”

  “D—did you f—?”

  “For heavens’ sake, what?”

  “Fire your gun?”

  “If you are asking—did I shoot Athol—no! He was killed by someone fifty yards or more away—using a rifle. A bullet killed him, not shot.”

  Wilson shook his head and started to mouth again.

  “Oh, this is impossible,” Charles muttered, glancing up as Ellis Bryce came sauntering into the room.

  He was wearing sandals, ancient flannels and a bright yellow pullover over his pyjama jacket. “Shelagh, my dear, breakfast! Now don’t reproach me about being late. You should know that I consider it quite beneath me to follow the herd and be on time for meals. Ah, good morning, Mr Wilson. Charles, I have greeted earlier. Judging from the expostulatory remarks passing my door, I gather you have announced poor Athol’s untimely decease. I also gather by a certain moroseness in your demeanour that our good but mentally lacking friends, Spenser and Motherwell, did not appeal to you. Ah, thank you, Shelagh! Where is Jerry this morning? Grace, I can hear dropping saucepans.”

  “Still in bed, I suppose,” said the girl off-handedly, uncovering the fried egg and sausage she had been keeping hot.

  Ellis shook his head. “He wasn’t five minutes ago, when I went to get this pullover.” He had a habit of borrowing clothes he fancied. “Now if Athol were here—how I miss the bad fellow, already, Charles—he would immediately ask if I had looked in Margot’s room. What was that, Mr Wilson?”

  The little man blinked and mouthed, “I s-saw him g-g-”

  “You saw him go out? Dear me, how unlike my son to be abroad before breakfast.”

  “Jerry often goes for a walk before breakfast,” said Shelagh, clearing plates from the Dougalls’ table.

  Charles glanced at her, then at Ellis who met his eyes blandly. “Ah quite, my dear, I forgot. And his walk always takes him in the opposite direction from Teal Lagoon. Nota bene, Charles.”

  “Have you finished, Mr Wilson?” asked Shelagh, adding more plates to her tray.

  He leapt aside, but remained nearby, hovering and uncertain. Suddenly he put a hand into a pocket and produced a card which he put on the table in front of Charles. “I’ll h-have to con- con-”

  Ellis picked up the card. “Confiscate your gun. Well, well! Not an anthropologist, after all. A field inspector from Fisheries and Game. I must tell Grace.”

  “Oh, so that’s who you are. Athol thought he’d seen you before. Sorry to upset your ill-timed officialism, Mr Wilson, but my gun hasn’t been used. You may inspect it if you wish.”

  “Mr Sefton’s is the one you want,” said Ellis helpfully, “though how that penalises Athol now, I can’t see.”

  Charles said truculently, “I bet if Athol were here, he wouldn’t allow anyone to lay a finger on it. You’ll find both guns in the hall rack.” He waited until Wilson had gone, then added, “I’m not sure that Greenet doesn’t belong to me now.”

  Ellis, spreading marmalade thickly, raised his brows. “Is that so, indeed? Athol’s beneficiary. Congratulations.”

  “Athol wouldn’t have much to leave. But there should be my aunt’s money.”

  Ellis licked his forefinger delicately. “What an invidious position that places you in—almost as bad as my tempestuous son’s habit of
not taking a walk before breakfast. Ah, the number of detective stories that feature that solitary pointless walk. I gather from Shelagh’s praiseworthy attempt that, although she does not approve of your ideas how Athol met his death, she does not altogether discredit them.”

  “Your idea originally,” conceded Charles, thinking he had an ally in Ellis. “I confess I thought it in poor taste at first.”

  “You mustn’t let the notion obsess you. There is no one more tedious than a person with an idée fixe. To be quite frank, I find myself already losing interest in the subject. Before it wanes completely, tell me of the sufferings you endured from our worthy medico.”

  Charles paused in the act of lighting a cigarette to make an eloquent face.

  “You found him pompous, oppressed with the dignity and power of his profession and entirely brainless?”

  “Entirely. Motherwell likewise. Any suggestion on my part that further investigation into what they insisted could only be an accident was regarded as unwarranted. I shall take great pleasure in showing up their criminal stupidity.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” asked Ellis, smothering a yawn as he helped himself to one of Charles’s cigarettes.

  “I need your co-operation.”

  Ellis looked startled. “My dear fellow, what can you mean?”

  “I want your support in this business. It was your notion in the first place that Athol was murdered. You must help me.”

  “My dear chap, you don’t want to take any notice of what I say before breakfast. What’s more I take as much as a dozen notions a day. My latest is that Athol committed suicide. As for co-operating with anyone, I wouldn’t know how. No really, Charles, I couldn’t possibly mix on the same lowly plane as Motherwell.”

  Charles took a deep, exasperated breath. “Tell me, do you or do you not seriously consider Athol was murdered?”

  Before Ellis could start saying that he never thought seriously about anything, certainly not immediately after breakfast, the door opened and Margot Stainsbury entered.