Duck Season Death

by June Wright

  “Nonsense!” she gave Charles a disparaging appraisal. “I can’t see much to be afraid of.”

  “It’s fear of exertion that is Father’s worry,” declared Jerry, with unfilial contempt. “He doesn’t care what happens as long as you all make fools of yourselves and keep him amused. And that includes you, Charles.”

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about,” stated Mrs Dougall flatly. “Jumbo! Will you kindly make a stand in this matter?”

  The Major gulped down the rest of his whisky and soda, touched his wiry moustache and squared his shoulders with a harrumph.

  “Gad, sir!” muttered Jerry derisively, and turned to glare balefully at Jeffrey who was alleviating Margot’s boredom with the discussion.

  “Mr Carmichael,” began the Major, forcefully enough. “We all realise that your uncle’s death has been a great shock—”

  “Just a minute,” interrupted Charles. “You knew Athol fairly well, did you not?”

  “I have been acquainted with him over a period of years. But that is beside the point. The assembled gathering here—”

  “I understand the acquaintanceship extended beyond a mutual antipathy at the Duck and Dog?”

  “I had a certain business acquaintance with him,” admitted the Major stiffly. “Though how that affects the present issue I fail to understand.”

  “I often think people who use the phrase ‘I fail to understand’, understand only too well,” put in Ellis musingly from the corner, where he had retired to watch proceedings.

  “I agree with you,” said Charles. “I understand quite well, Major Dougall, that you once went to Athol for advice on investing money, and that his advice was unfortunately not as sound as it should have been.”

  The Major’s colour rose with his voice. “I resent this inquisition, sir. What have my financial matters to do with you?”

  “No doubt you bore my uncle a certain grudge over the failure of his advice?” persisted Charles.

  “I repeat, sir,” the other shouted, “that is none of your business. You are an undisciplined young cub, and your uncle was nothing short of a rogue.”

  “Jumbo!” said Mrs Dougall sharply.

  “I’m afraid I can’t apologise to you yet, Major,” said Charles smoothly, and made an ironic bow towards Mrs Dougall.

  “I think that perhaps Mr Jeffrey has the right idea,” announced Mrs Dougall, giving the American the slight gracious bow she used to keep for young up-and-coming officers. “We will all of us disregard this—er—exceedingly difficult young man.”

  VII

  After lunch Charles took his car from the garage and drove into Dunbavin. He had no difficulty in locating the police station, but quite a deal in raising Sergeant Motherwell who, with his report on Athol Sefton’s death all written up ready for the inquest the following day, was enjoying a well-earned siesta. He lay stretched out on the leather-covered bench in his office under the ferocious hirsute gazes of by-gone custodians of law and order in Dunbavin.

  His dreams were slightly troubled by a subconscious thought of the cocky young chap who seemed bent on disrupting the smooth procedure of his official duties. Perhaps this was because of the telephone call from the Duck and Dog which had interrupted his meal just as his mother had placed before him a large serving of suet roll oozing jam. He dreamed that young Carmichael was attacking him with his own baton and raining down blows on his head. Although he felt no pain, he could hear the sounds of the blows and they sounded so much like wood upon wood that he awakened indignantly, at first blaming the pudding and then becoming conscious of someone knocking at the front door.

  Hurriedly, he pulled on his boots, gave a tug to his tunic and went to answer the summons. “Oh, it’s you!” he said, not in the least surprised to see Charles. The aura of his dream was still with him and he eyed Charles carefully. A baton was no crazier than the pair of muddy laced brogues that the young fellow carried in one hand.

  “Evidence,” announced Charles, lifting them up. “And I think I’ve found the murder weapon—at least, not found it precisely but one of Ellis Bryce’s Wildings is missing.”

  Sergeant Motherwell shook his head, trying to clear away that heaviness. “Now then, what’s all this about?” he demanded.

  Unwillingly he led the way to the office and seated himself at the desk on which lay his report, neatly but laboriously typed that morning. He gave a palpable wince when Charles placed Athol’s shoes on top of it, moving them ostentatiously to one side and regarding them with no less distaste when he heard the explanation of their presence.

  He listened phlegmatically to Charles’s theories, then pointed out that the sole design could be a common one. As for the footprint he had found near Teal Lagoon, it could undoubtedly belong to the person who shot Sefton—accidentally.

  “Then, even if it was not someone from the Duck and Dog who wore these shoes, are you going to do nothing about finding your so-called careless shooter?” asked Charles angrily.

  “That will be for the Coroner to decide,” was the reply. As to the missing Wilding—had not Bryce stated that he must have lent it to someone?

  “Who told you that?”

  “A gentleman called Dougall rang to complain about you,” said the sergeant severely. “He said you were making everyone’s life a misery out at Bryce’s. Now see here, Mr Carmichael, if you can’t behave like a reasonable man and stop making a nuisance of yourself, I’ll have to find some way in which to make you.”

  Charles closed his lips on an angry retort. He realised he had aroused too much prejudice already and that his best course now was to play down his convictions, at least until the inquest. After enquiring more quietly when this would be, he took himself off.

  Sergeant Motherwell saw him go with relief, and after congratulating himself on his diplomatic handling of a hot-headed young crank, went back to his interrupted slumber.

  Dr Spenser was another Dunbavinite who believed in an after-luncheon nap on Sundays. His slumber was guarded by that excellent help-mate, Mrs Spenser, who early in marriage had constituted herself as a sort of bull-dog between the noble profession of her husband and that heedless, inconsiderate conglomerate of persons known as patients.

  She did not, however, take into account a visitor such as Charles. Seeing a sign above the side door marked ‘Surgery’, he stalked straight in without ringing or knocking, thus surprising the doctor with his shoes off and his open mouth showing the slipped upper plate of his dentures.

  Charles awakened him by rapping on the desk. He sat up hurriedly, just managing to shut his mouth before the upper plate fell out.

  “Hullo, young fellow!” he said irritably. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Sorry if I disturbed you. I wanted to know what you’ve done with Athol.”

  “I had the undertaker over. Do you want to make arrangements about a funeral?”

  “Yes, I suppose I’d better do something about that. Tell me, did you succeed in getting the bullet out?”

  “Naturally,” said the doctor testily, feeling about for his shoes.

  “Where is it? Do you mind if I have a look?”

  “No, I don’t mind, I suppose. But I can’t remember where I put it precisely.”

  “What!” ejaculated Charles. “You don’t remember where you put an important piece of evidence like the bullet!”

  The doctor put on his rimless spectacles in order to increase the haughtiness of his stare. “I don’t like your tone, young man. The bullet is superfluous. All that is necessary is contained in my report.”

  “I must find it,” said Charles fretfully, slapping his hand over the desk in case it was under papers. “For heaven’s sake will you try to remember what you did with it?”

  “Kindly stop touching my belongings and get out of here. I didn’t ask you in to start with, and to finish I don’t like you—or your uncle.”

  “Which is why you’ve hidden the bullet,” accused Charles wildly.

&n
bsp; “Hidden? Why should I—now, look here, young man, have you gone mad?”

  “I’m the one sane person in this whole crazy affair,” retorted Charles. “The only one with enough honesty and common sense to realise that Athol was murdered, not shot by accident.”

  “Are you still clinging to that ludicrous notion? I advise you to watch your step.”

  “I’m watching it—and others’ as well. Did you put it down somewhere carefully or throw it out?”

  The doctor said coldly, “If you mean the bullet, it’s probably in the swab bucket in the other room. If you just stay quietly for a moment I’ll take a look.” With a last wary glance, he went out. After a few minutes he came back. “Here you are!”

  “I note that you found it pretty quickly when you saw I was in earnest. Tell me, what sort of gun would you say this fitted?”

  The doctor’s face quivered with dislike, but he replied equably, “Probably a Wilding—like that one of mine in the corner.”

  Charles swung round. “You own a Wilding?”

  “Certainly. Why do you ask?”

  “The inference is obvious, I’d say,” retorted Charles and took his leave.

  VIII

  The duck season opened officially at five a.m. on Monday, March the second. All over the State of Victoria, sportsmen (and women) waited at swamps, lakes and rivers for the chilly dawn to break. Quite a few opened up before the set time, thus spoiling the fun for others. But at Teal Lagoon near the Duck and Dog, the party was kept strictly to schedule under the frosty eye of Major Dougall. He had set his watch by Eastern Standard Time the previous night and checked off the minutes in a voice of mounting tension as though planning a surprise assault on the Khyber Pass. As Margot stated to Charles later—the pukka sahib made it sound exciting even though it was the most boring affair she had ever been at.

  In the glorious blaze-away which followed, the unpleasant affairs of the day before were forgotten. The only contretemps which marred proceedings was the claiming of a bird which both Jerry Bryce and the American insisted they had brought down. This developed into a three-sided contest when Wilson announced that the bird was a shoveller and they should not have shot it anyway. The disclosure of the field inspector’s identity reduced Charles’s position on the scale of unpopularity, and they were still arguing hotly as to who should pay the fine when they returned to the hotel for breakfast.

  Nothing was said about attending the inquest on Athol Sefton, but there was a general casual leaning towards the idea of taking a jaunt into the town. When Charles set off later in the morning he smiled grimly at the reflection of a string of cars in his rear-vision mirror.

  The Mechanics Institute was crowded with people who had heard curious rumours concerning the Sunday accident. There were whispers and pointings as Charles entered. He glared about him in annoyance and the stares—all except one—were averted. A thickset man in a blue suit seated at the back of the hall kept looking at him in a speculative, laconic way, refusing to be shamed into glancing away.

  Charles’s heart sank when he saw that the gathering was only a formal enquiry. No jury had been summoned so the verdict was to rest on the summing up of the coroner, a local tradesman with a face like one of the pigs’ heads adorning his own shop window.

  Proceedings opened with Sergeant Motherwell reciting his report. This was followed by Dr Spenser’s medical findings, impressively couched in professional terms. The whole affair would have been wound up circumspectly with a homily from the butcher on the criminal carelessness of shooters in general and the reprehensible conduct of one in particular who, not only culpable of shooting out of season, was also the cause of this shocking accident, when Charles leapt to his feet.

  “This is an absolute travesty!” he shouted, stammering slightly in his indignation. “I demand that further action be taken in order to find that person.”

  There was an excited stir among the people in the body of the hall, but the three men at the table on the platform did not seem surprised. Annoyed but resigned, they were expecting something like this. The coroner had been warned about Charles, so he was able to address him by name. He did so at first genially, as though Charles were a prospective customer crossing his sawdust threshold, then more austerely as he recalled his present role.

  “I assure you, Mr Carmichael, that Sergeant Motherwell—ah—assures me that no stone will be left unturned, but—” he waved his podgy pink hand to the upturned faces, “with so many visitors swelling our community the task is a considerable one. For the present we can only pass our strongest censure on the coldblooded person who does not see fit to come forward with abject apologies—”

  “I don’t want apologies,” said Charles. “I want justice. Athol Sefton was not shot accidentally. He—”

  “Mr Carmichael,” interrupted the butcher loudly, who had also been warned of what Charles might say, “I must ask you to restrain yourself. I am sure you would not wish to make wild accusations in the heat of the moment, which I am—ah—sure you will regret later.”

  Charles swallowed. “Mr Coroner,” he said in quieter tones, “I have no intention of making wild accusations, but in my opinion there is some sort of conspiracy afoot in order to keep me from uttering what I believe sincerely to be the truth. If you would allow me to bring certain matters to your attention—”

  The coroner shook his porcine head. “Are these the same matters which I understand you brought to the attention of Sergeant Motherwell?”

  “Er—yes, I suppose so. But the fool—I mean Sergeant Motherwell—”

  “Then in that case, Mr Carmichael, I cannot allow you to continue. Furthermore, I would like to utter a word of warning.” He consulted a sheet of paper on which he had written it in advance. “I understand your profession is that of—ah—editor and literary critic, and that the main type of fiction that you review is detective—ah—stories.”

  Charles closed his eyes as the butcher rambled on about making tolerant allowances because of his work and relationship to the deceased, but promising all sorts of dire penalties if he allowed his imagination to run away with him. “Won’t any of you come forward to substantiate my beliefs?”

  The coroner banged loudly on the table. “Mr Carmichael! I cannot permit you to behave in this unorthodox fashion. The enquiry is closed!” He got up quickly and left the platform with Dr Spenser and Sergeant Motherwell.

  Charles slumped down in his place waiting for the hall to clear. Presently a chair scraped in the hollow emptiness and the last remaining spectator—the man in the blue suit—got up and advanced leisurely. Charles watched his approach sullenly.

  Then the stranger spoke, a humorous inflection in his deep, deliberate voice. “What you need, boy, is a drink.”

  “I don’t know who the hell you are,” Charles told him slowly, “but I think you’re right. Not one, but several drinks. Will you join me?”

  “I’d be delighted. There’s a pub just over the way.”

  They strolled out together, Charles with his hands in his pockets scowling at the ground, the other man stepping lightly and whistling tunelessly under his breath.

  “Round one,” he announced cheerfully, as they placed a foot each on the bar rung. “What’ll it be?”

  “Whisky and soda.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrow again and gave the order. “Beer for me.”

  They drank the first round in silence, Charles facing the counter with his left forearm resting on it, the other standing sideways with his glass in his hand.

  “Round two,” said Charles. “Repeat performance?”

  The stranger nodded. “The name’s McGrath.”

  “Delighted to know you, Mr McGrath. Carmichael is mine—as I suppose you heard back at that circus.”

  “You think there was a certain amount of hoop-holding?”

  “You can say that again!”

  “The coroner didn’t let you say much. I gather you weren’t in agreement with him?”

  Char
les drained his glass again and pushed it across the counter. He glanced around, then beckoned McGrath nearer. “Mustn’t say it too loud, but the whole thing was a travesty.”

  “So you said back in the hall—way out loud. Why a travesty?”

  “Because my uncle was murdered. Poor old Athol was deliberately and cold-bloodedly shot. Poor old Athol! Here’s to him.”

  “Poor old Athol!” the other echoed gravely, raising his glass and lowering it again without drinking.

  Charles leaned his other arm on the counter. “He was a great chap, Athol. A genius! And now he’s dead. A genius one minute, then pouf! A corpse! A poor bloody corpse for a fool like Spenser to cut up. It was a privilege to know Athol. Did you know him?” he asked abruptly, turning his head and blinking McGrath into focus.

  The other shook his head. “No, but as a matter of fact, I came here hoping to make his acquaintance.”

  “You did? You came to this damn awful place just to meet Athol?” A clouded thought eddied in Charles’s mind which he tried to catch and clarify. “Are you a friend or foe?”

  “Exactly what do you mean by that, Mr Carmichael?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Wait for it!” He pondered for a moment, then said triumphantly, “Hah! I know what I meant. Did you come here to murder Athol?”

  “No, I didn’t come here to murder him. To be honest, I particularly wanted him alive.”

  Charles stared at him fixedly. “I believe you,” he said at last. “I don’t quite follow, but I believe you. Here, you’re not drinking. I want to drink to you, Mr McGrath, because you’re Athol’s friend, and you didn’t come to Dunbavin to murder him.”

  “Why, thanks. But I can hardly drink a toast to myself.”

  Charles nodded his head wisely and raised his glass. “True, very true. Here’s to you, Mr McGrath. The only friend poor old Athol has.” He pulled himself erect as he spoke and then lurched against McGrath. “I think I’d better sit down somewhere,” he declared simply. He made careful progress to a bench in the corner.