by June Wright
V
She was wearing black matador pants and a white shirt with pushed-up sleeves. There was a chunky gold bracelet on one slim arm and dangling rings in her small ears. Her eyes were round and innocent, her mouth a little open in a smile of studied childishness. She addressed Shelagh who had appeared at the kitchen door with a face so expressionless that Charles could only guess what she was thinking of the latecomer.
“So drefful sowwy! But such a ghastly night I had. I felt so haggish I simply had to have a little more sleepy-bye.”
Charles remembered Margot’s bouts of baby-talk of old. “Just some fruit and black coffee like an angel—oh, and a teeny piece of toast, very thin and crisp. Can do?”
She pirouetted on one flat shoe and said in the same breath, “And they say the country is quiet, Chas! All those frightful bird and animal noises—did they keep you awake too?” She flashed a smile at Ellis. “Aren’t we city people just too dismal!”
“Devastatingly so,” agreed Ellis. “I trust that is the right reply. This bucolic specimen is not up on the latest phraseology. Do please sit down opposite where I can gaze on your deliciously haggish countenance.”
She sank into a chair and rested her chin on the back of one delicate hand. “I absolutely adore the things you say. Do you mind if I call you Ellis?”
“Not in the least, but Jerry might.”
“Oh—Jerry!” she smiled tolerantly. “I’m furious with him. He behaved so badly last night. I told him I was going straight back to town today.”
Ellis murmured to Charles, “Now I come to think of it, Shelagh was partly right. I seem to recall Jerry tramping the countryside last year too.”
“Of course Athol can be an absolute swine,” stated Margot. “I could have simply murdered him myself. In fact—what are you making such faces for, Chas? Are you ill, darling?”
Ellis scraped back his chair, took another of Charles’s cigarettes and yawned. “You must forgive me if I leave now. I cannot abide reiteration. Furthermore, I offered in a misguided moment last night to give the herd some target practice in preparation for tomorrow’s blaze away.”
Shelagh came in with Margot’s breakfast. “Jerry’s having his in the kitchen,” she informed the room at large. “And he did go in the opposite direction from Teal Lagoon.”
“So yah! The pair of us!” said Ellis from the doorway as he slopped out.
“What in the world is the matter with them?” asked Margot. “Jerry can have breakfast in the fowl yard for all I care. Such a trying boy, Chas. What makes me take up with neurotics? Oh sorry, darling—present company excepted of course. Anyway you were never really in love with me.” She put out a hand to pat his.
Charles caught hold of it. “Margot, something terrible has happened. Athol is dead.”
Her scarlet nails pressed slowly into his skin. “Charles!” she put up her free hand to her cheek in a shocked gesture. “Oh, poor Athol! How—why—”
“I don’t know exactly yet, but he didn’t die naturally.”
Her large eyes were fixed on his face. “What do you mean?”
“He was shot. We went out early this morning after duck, to that place they call Teal Lagoon. It is my theory that someone followed us there and took up a position waiting to kill Athol.”
Margot gave a horrified gasp. “Charles, do you know what you’re saying!”
“Yes, I know. Now don’t get into a flap like a good girl. I know you were fond of Athol, but you’re as tough as they come actually.”
“But Chas, this is absurd, frightful, I don’t know which. You should have broken it more gently. You always were a clumsy-tongued creature.” She put both her hands over her face for a moment, but not too roughly so as to disturb her skilful make-up, then emerged looking dewy-eyed. “Charles, they don’t really think Athol was murdered, do they?”
He deplored the loose pronoun. “If by ‘they’ you mean the local authorities—no, they don’t. They think Athol was killed accidentally by another duck-shooter. For several reasons to which they refused to listen, I think Athol was murdered. You know one of those reasons yourself, Margot.”
She looked startled. “No, I don’t. Now Charles, don’t be silly. I told you before you made too much of a thing of this detective business. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I can also recall the occasion when you issued that rebuke. At a cocktail party when you were talking to me about Athol’s odd behaviour in Sydney, and how you thought he was haunted.”
“Did I say that?” she asked lightly, after an almost imperceptible pause. “I can’t recall exactly, but if you say so, darling, I won’t deny it.”
“You’d better not deny it,” he said good-humouredly, hoping to coax away the slightly guarded look that had come over her face. “I want you to tell Sergeant Motherwell that you had also noticed a change in Athol and about that mysterious phone call he received while lunching with you at Manonetta’s. You wouldn’t want the person who killed Athol to get away with it, would you? Imagine, Margot—someone was deliberately playing on his nerves before finally murdering him!”
She lit a cigarette, inserting it in her long, tortoise-shell holder with fingers that trembled slightly. “Damn, I’m as nervy as a cat. I feel ghastly over this, Chas. I simply can’t believe that Athol was actually murdered. What I mean is—who would have done such a thing?”
“Someone staying here at the Duck and Dog.”
She stared at him for a moment, then her lids lowered and a little smile played around her mouth. He knew that expression of old. You could go so far with Margot, but when she chose to stop there was no forcing her on. “Oh now, Chas!” she said in an amused voice. “You can’t really mean what you say. It just doesn’t make sense. I know quite a few people hated poor Athol, but no one would actually murder him. Darling, you’re trying to complicate something which is quite simple. You know, dear,” she went on, changing to earnestness, “I don’t think you’ve looked a bit well lately. All that writing about detective novels—you’ve got murder on your mind.”
Next she’ll be telling me I need a holiday, thought Charles.
She got up and came round to put an affectionate arm around his shoulders. “Believe me, Charles, I know just how you feel. Just as soon as this dreadful business is wound up, you must get away from everything—take a trip somewhere.”
“I’ve taken a trip,” said Charles. “I came here—and here I am going to stay until I find out who killed Athol.”
“Darling, do be reasonable! You can’t go round poking and prying. Goodness knows what you’ll turn up.”
“Which is precisely what I hope will happen. Someone here hated Athol with more than the usual animosity he aroused—enough to murder him.”
“You are going to make yourself terribly disliked,” she said on a sigh.
“I can bear it. Why the sudden anxiety for my feelings?”
“Because I’m fond of you, Chas. I always have been. It hurts me to see you making a fool of yourself.”
“It doesn’t hurt you another way, does it? I find the reluctance of people to believe me somewhat strange.”
“Well, darling, you can’t expect them to. Frankly, I don’t. I think you’re just crazy. And I am very sorry, Charles, but I utterly refuse to be any party to this mad idea of yours.”
“In other words you don’t intend to tell Motherwell about that phone call at Manonetta’s. All right, then,” Charles shook off her arm and got up.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve told you—find out who killed Athol. And I warn you, Margot, that your refusal to help me means that you automatically join the list of suspects.”
“I adored Athol,” she declared indignantly.
He gazed at her speculatively with half-closed eyes, as though seeing her in another way. “No, you didn’t—not always anyway. Last night you loathed him. You said only a while back that you could have murdered him. It could have been you who was tormenting h
im with threatening messages and phone calls. Perhaps you made a point of telling me about his strange change merely to cover yourself. You knew he was going out early this morning. You could have got out of the house unseen and followed us, then—”
“Margot did not shoot Sefton,” said a vibrant voice behind them. They swung round. Jerry Bryce stood at the kitchen doorway. “She knows nothing. I killed him.”
For a long moment they stared at him while he glared back with dark burning eyes. He was an incredibly handsome young man with highly combustible moods and a complete lack of humour. It was a small wonder that Athol had found him such easy bait.
“Margot did not shoot Sefton,” he said again. He knew the value of repetition, for although he called himself a playwright, his main livelihood was derived from writing radio serials of the soap-opera variety.
Charles, torn between exasperation and amusement, let out a moan. “Oh no, I will not have someone confessing to the crime. It’s against all the rules.”
“Of course I didn’t shoot Athol,” Margot snapped. “I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”
“That’s what you say,” said Charles provokingly.
Jerry came forward, head up and fists clenched. “Are you calling Miss Stainsbury a liar?”
“Not on this occasion—yet. But I’ve known her to tell the biggest whoppers ever when it suited her.”
“Oh, Chas! Now Jerry dear, don’t get intense. It’s frightfully sweet of you to be chivalrous, but honestly there’s no need—is there, Charles?”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” said Charles musingly.
“Absolutely no need,” repeated Margot, shooting him a kindling glance, “because, of course, poor Athol was not murdered. The police say he was shot accidentally.”
“Stop calling him poor Athol,” said Charles peevishly, who was feeling a championship for him in death that he had never had in life.
Jerry looked from one to the other, nonplussed. “Well, actually I didn’t kill him,” he admitted, “though I could have done so. I went out for a walk and no one saw me and I loathed Sefton’s guts. What’s more, although I’m not a frightfully good shot, Father has a couple of rifles in the gunroom.”
“I’ll put you right at the top of the suspect list,” said Charles in admiration. “Your confession was a fake—a put-up arrangement between you and Margot—but I shan’t allow it to put me off the scent.”
“Charles, will you stop acting the fool over this ghastly affair?”
“I’m perfectly serious. Jerry is the first one I’ve found ready to face up to reality. The reluctance of everyone else to do the same encourages my belief that Athol was deliberately murdered.”
“If you say once more that Athol was murdered,” said Margot in high tones, “I’ll scream.” As a sudden volley of gun-shot sounded close at hand at this juncture, she unwittingly carried out her threat.
VI
Ellis had once had the brilliant notion of constructing a shooting range for the amusement and improvement of the Duck and Dog guests. That was five years ago and the targets of the practice ground, which was a paddock just the other side of the rickety corrugated iron construction called the garages, had not advanced beyond a few cans scattered around and a couple of fortuitous tree stumps on which to place them.
Major and Mrs Dougall were blazing away at these with all the prodigal enthusiasm of gunsmen supplied with free ammunition. Mrs Dougall had a cartridge belt strapped athwart her mighty bosom and the Major was wearing a tweed hat to match his suit, which was already decorated with bedraggled-looking feathers as camouflage for the following day. Ellis, propped lazily against the wall of the shed, was keeping up a satiric conversation with the American, who was examining the group of shotguns brought out from the gunroom for practice firing.
“In this country we don’t go in for all the elaborate specialisation that you people seem to devote to the sport. When I’m feeling equal to the strain of listening—you may remind me this evening in the bar—you must give the assembly an account of your various organisations.”
“I didn’t know we had any,” said Jeffrey, squinting down the barrel of a rusty Purdie and flicking the bolt. “Too bad you’ve let these guns go—if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I don’t mind in the least,” replied Ellis amiably. “I have frequently deplored their state myself. Unfortunately my sister Grace flatly refuses to handle firearms, unloaded or not. Perhaps if I were to deplore more vehemently in my son’s hearing? Here he comes now with the incomparable Margot and the bereaved Charles.” He waited for them to come near. “Mr Jeffrey says the guns should be kept clean and oiled. He may not have heard of Ducks Unlimited, but he does know guns.”
His eyes moved from Jerry’s scowling face to Charles’s quick look of interest, then to Margot who appeared a little dazed. “Ah! I see you have been told about Athol. Don’t think we are not showing respect for the dead, my dear. As people always say when they wish to suit themselves—I am sure poor Athol would have wanted us to carry on just as usual. Pukka and Memsahib, as you can see and hear, are illustrating the point.”
“That’s my sweater you’ve got on,” announced Jerry truculently.
“It is. I’m so relieved you won’t want to wear it this morning as I find myself quite attached to it. Fair Margot, you must permit me to give you your first lesson in how to handle a gun.” He calmly took the one Jeffrey was handling and loaded it from an open cartridge box nearby. Jerry followed them with an aggressive tread.
Left alone, the American said to Charles, “He sure is a funny guy. I’ve never met that type of wise-cracking before.” There was a grin on his face, but Charles thought he detected an uneasiness about him.
“He is certainly inimitable. Have you been in this country long, Mr Jeffrey?”
“Four, five weeks.”
“Business, or with the idea of settling?”
“Business. I made some contacts here during the war.”
“What type of business would that be?”
The American squatted down and began to inspect another gun. One of the dogs rose, stretched itself and ambled up to nose at his hands. “Oh—just agencies for this and that.”
“Was my uncle one of your contacts?”
“You mean the guy who was killed this morning? No, I never met him before last evening.” He looked up as he spoke, one hand holding the gun across his knees, the other fingering the dog’s ears.
“This is a rather out-of-the-way place for you to be, isn’t it?” asked Charles.
“It was recommended as a good place for hunting wild-fowl. Perhaps you’d like to come and watch me tomorrow morning?”
“No, thanks, I’ve had a stomach full of duck-shooting already.”
The American got to his feet leisurely. “Any more questions?” he drawled.
Charles met his gaze. “Not at the moment.”
“Then I guess I’ll go and start getting my eye in.” He picked up a gun and went across the paddock to where Margot was being prettily clumsy and Ellis was deriving more delight from annoying Jerry than in showing her how to handle a gun.
Charles watched the play, wondering if Margot was merely acting the part of novice. But when her first round went dangerously close to Major Dougall, causing him to turn into a pop-eyed lobster with indignation and fright, he was inclined to consider her manoeuvres genuine.
“Mr Carmichael!” said a soft deep voice. He turned and found Frances Turner gazing up at him earnestly. She was wearing neat jodhpurs and an open-necked shirt, and carried two shotguns under her arm, their barrels pointing to the ground. “Did you really mean what you said this morning? About Mr Sefton having been murdered?”
“Yes, I meant it,” returned Charles. “Have you come to support the general attitude that I am making capital out of a situation that is my hobby?”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “I know who you are, of course. My sister was a subscriber to Culture and Critic for years, and I al
ways read your reviews though I don’t care for detective novels for reading. I just wanted to say how sorry I—that is, Andy and I both are. It must be frightful having a relation whom you think was murdered.”
He was amused by the naive way in which she expressed herself, and more than a little flattered by the admiring awe in which she apparently held him. “Then you don’t think it so extraordinary that my uncle was murdered?”
“Well, it’s not for me to give an opinion,” she replied hesitantly. “Especially as the police, so I understand, consider it was an accident, but—”
“But?” Charles prompted, touched by her simplicity after the complexity of the others he had spoken to.
She looked at the ground. “I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but—but he wasn’t a very nice person, was he? I mean—well, neither Andy nor I cared much for him even at first meeting last night.”
“He didn’t impress you then, as a person who would improve upon acquaintance? You’re right—he wasn’t. But people don’t go around murdering unlikeable men as a general rule. What I have to find is someone who hated Athol enough to torment him before finally killing him. Such hate is, I should say, rather rare.”
Frances stared at him uncomprehendingly. He smiled. “I was only thinking aloud. I’m sorry Athol embarrassed you last night. He only did it to tease.”
She nodded. “That’s what I told Andy. I’m afraid he was furious though.” She paused, as though to pluck up courage to ask an important question. “Are you going to find out who did it, Mr Carmichael?”
“I hope to,” he replied guardedly. “But I’m not progressing very rapidly. You see, I have to prove murder first, and the persons I counted on to help have backed out.”
“What a shame!” she declared warmly.
Again he was amused. “Well, you can’t blame them entirely. They’re scared of being suspected of the crime.”
Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. You mean that someone—one of us here—?”
“Precisely, Mrs Turner. I believe that someone came here with the primary purpose of shooting, not ducks, but Athol.”