by June Wright
“Shut up, Ellis! Please go on, Jeffrey.”
“Yes, I fell in love with an Aussie girl like so many of our chaps did. I wanted to marry her, but she wanted to wait until the war finished. She said she had to be sure—she did not want to be tied down until things were more settled. She was a Sydney girl, working as a typist with some public relations outfit. She used to tell me about her job and the chap she was working for, a man called—Athol Sefton.” He paused before going on. “Well, the time came when we were sent away from Sydney and up to the Islands. I didn’t know when I’d see Barbie again, but she promised she’d wait. She said not to worry about her going around with other chaps, because her job didn’t give her much time anyway. That was all right, but on the transport going north I happened to overhear her boss being discussed. Some of our officers had been entertained by Sefton in Sydney and the way they talked about him made me a bit uneasy about Barbie. I kept thinking about a pretty kid like her being in close contact with such a wolf, and had made up my mind to write asking her to take another job when I had a letter from her brother.” Jeffrey paused again, tossed off his drink and went to refill his glass.
“Jeffrey, I’m sorry,” said Charles quietly. “I saw that letter. I was snooping through the bedrooms and came across it.”
The American looked across at him impersonally. “Then you know what happened. Bryce’s guess was right in part. What he doesn’t know is that I was blamed for Barbie’s death. I never told the brother of what I suspected—that Athol Sefton was to blame. I kept quiet on purpose because almost at once I made up my mind to kill Sefton. Someday, somehow, I was going to make him pay for what he had done to Barbie and me. I didn’t care how long it took. Time wasn’t going to lessen my hate. Even now, when he’s dead, I still loathe him as much as I did all those years ago.
“After the war I was sent straight back to the States. I saved until I knew I had enough money for my purpose. First of all I had to find proof of Sefton’s guilt. For that I got in touch with a private detective agency in Sydney who managed to find out a few damning details to write me in America. Then I flew over here and got them to trace Sefton’s whereabouts and future movements. I got a final report from their Melbourne representative. Sefton was going duck-shooting at a place called Dunbavin. The set-up seemed almost too good to be true. I even had a chance to get a look at this man I had sworn to kill for years. I saw you too,” he added to Charles, “at that store where you were buying guns. The agent told me to go there. I think he was hinting I might see Sefton there.”
“So it was you who left that note for Athol! And those phone calls in Sydney and the other messages—were they your doing?”
Jeffrey shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re quite certain of that? But you did come here to kill Athol.”
The American paced up and down the room jerkily. There was a film of perspiration on his face. He looked from Charles to Ellis and back again. “Yes, that’s what the Luger was for,” he said quietly, “but I didn’t get a chance to use it. Someone must have hated Sefton as much as I did and got in first.”
“What a sense of anti-climax you must have felt!” said Ellis smoothly. “All that hate which you had been carefully nursing for years gone to waste—not to mention the elaborate plans and ensuing expenditure.”
“You mean you don’t believe me?”
“Let’s say I don’t disbelieve you. But I would be singularly guileless if I fell completely for your sob story. Have I the phraseology correct?”
Charles, who had been inclined to believe the American, said hastily, “Quite so. Just because you have confessed to planning to murder Athol does not clear you. While everyone here had an equal opportunity, yours is the strongest motive so far.”
“Well, what about Bryce?” asked Jeffrey, an edge to his voice. “Why don’t you start snooping in his private affairs? Maybe the reason he’s being so helpful is to throw dust in your eyes.”
Ellis blinked. “If I committed a murder there would be no need to throw dust, I assure you. But do go on. I can see Charles looking at me with new eyes.”
“Okay, I will,” said Jeffrey savagely. “You seem to think you’re someone set apart from the rest of the world. All that talk last night about being able to spot the killer—you meant yourself! It’s just the sort of gag you’d pull and then sit back to think what a smart guy you’d been. I think you gave Jerry back his sweater on purpose this morning and then shot at him yourself.”
“Yes, I could have done all that,” Ellis agreed meditatively. “But do tell us what you consider was my motive in murdering Athol?”
Jeffrey looked at him contemptuously. “That’s easy—jealousy!”
Ellis sat bolt upright. “Jealousy? Now, come, come! I admit I enjoyed a little dalliance once, but—”
“I’m not talking about women. That’s not the sort of rivalry you had with Sefton. I mean that the pair of you were alike in so many ways and you couldn’t take it. You can’t bear not to hold the centre of the stage and neither could he. I thought the first night that you were a pair of conceited wind-bags.”
“How very rude of you!” remarked Ellis gently, but there was a note in his voice that caused Charles to glance at him sharply. “If rivalry was the case, then I consider it far more likely that Athol would have attempted to murder me. However, if Charles likes to adopt your motive I’ll be happy to sacrifice my self-esteem—if only to be amused by his ever-growing confusion.”
“Perhaps I am confused,” Charles retorted, “but Jeffrey’s suggestion is both feasible and interesting.”
“Then you must tell your friend Mr McGrath about it. I’m sure he’d be delighted to advise you.”
“Now, what does he mean by that crack?” asked the American, but Charles was spared the necessity of replying by the tempestuous entrance of Jerry Bryce.
“I was looking for you, Carmichael! What the hell do you mean by telling everyone I shot Athol?”
XIV
Charles backed away from Jerry’s fiery gaze, bumping into Wilson who had edged aimlessly into the room. “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about,” he retorted testily.
“Do try and be explicit, my son,” Ellis exhorted. “Charles is in a sad state of chaos already.”
Jerry continued his menacing advance. “That chap McGrath said you said that I said I shot Athol.”
“Wonderful!” applauded Ellis. “As succinct a summary as you could wish for.”
“Well, so you did say—I mean, you confessed right at the start, before I even mentioned the possibility of Athol having been murdered.”
“That was only because I thought you were accusing Margot.”
“I realised that at the time and told you you were making an unnecessary fool of yourself. But now I’m not so sure. People have made ridiculous confessions before this in order to avert suspicion.”
“Oh, Charles!” murmured Ellis sadly.
Jerry, thrown off stride, turned on him. “What do you mean—‘Oh, Charles’? Are you going to sit back and let this fellow bleat to every stranger that I’m a killer?”
“Don’t vent your tantrum on me,” begged his father. “Nothing tires me more. Keep aiming at Charles.”
“You’d be far better off if you stuck to your crazy confession,” Jeffrey put in. “Carmichael’s out to make trouble again, and the more of us who are likely to have murdered Sefton, the safer we are. He can’t have the lot of us arrested.”
“There are motives converging on poor Charles from all quarters,” nodded Ellis. “He doesn’t know whom to suspect most. As Mr Jeffrey suggests, we are covered by a sort of insurance as long as we maintain the same rating of motive.”
“Your sudden community spirit intrigues me, Ellis,” said Charles grimly.
“I can barely recognise myself,” the other agreed, “which reminds me—we must do something about Mr Wilson here. I am sure he is too low down on the list
for his own safety. Tell me, Mr Wilson, did you have a nice strong motive for murdering Athol Sefton?”
The little field inspector gave a weak smile, as though uncertain of the propriety of a particular parlour game, and shook his head.
“No?” exclaimed Ellis in shocked tones. “Then we must find you one. Let me see now. Neither my motive nor Mr Jeffery’s would suit you, I hardly think. What do you suggest, Charles?”
“I suggest you leave Wilson alone,” said Charles angrily.
“With your speculative eye on him? Credit me with more feeling for my less fortunate fellow man.”
“Didn’t Athol once lose you a job or something?” Jerry asked Wilson dispassionately.
“My son!” exclaimed Ellis in fond wonderment. “There is hope for you yet. And after all these years in which I have regarded you as one of those regrettable accidents which befall a man of genius!”
“You’d better not go,” advised Jerry, as Wilson, with a sickly smile on his face, moved towards the door. “My father can make up the most ingenious stories. He just can’t help himself. In fact, I gave up being ashamed of him years ago.”
“A filial blow for a paternal strike! I’ll allow it to you, Jerry, to mark this occasion of your sudden evidence of intelligence. Tell us more about Athol’s spite against Mr Wilson.”
“Actually it was Margot who mentioned it. Wilson was telling her his life’s story.”
“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” demanded Charles. “Well, Wilson? Is it true that you had some sort of grudge against my uncle?”
The little field inspector, who had been staring unhappily at the floor, looked up. His eyes moved around the circle in a hunted expression and his tongue came out to moisten his lips. He nodded and seemed about to burst into tears. “My wife was sick—dying. I had a p-p-part-time job in a hotel as a drink w-w-”
“Waiter,” supplied Ellis wearily, “and you spilled a particularly sticky liqueur all over Athol.”
Wilson shook his head violently as though protesting against such a heinous accusation. He made a supreme effort to control his impediment. “I wanted extra m-m-money for my wife. The pay wasn’t much, but I thought the tips would be. I used to serve Sefton night after night—big and rich and always with a woman—but he never left anything on the tray. One night I said something to him—my wife had been in great pain that day—told him how much I needed money. But he said that it wasn’t anything to do with him and that he never tipped on principle. Then he turned to the blonde tart beside him and winked.
“I was overwrought, thinking of my wife and myself and then of those two so uncaring and well-fed. If he hadn’t winked like that—I lifted the tray up and banged it down on his head.”
“By jove, I remember the incident now!” said Charles. “It was in one of the Sydney dailies—the only one Athol couldn’t stop from publishing the story. It made him look such a fool. They called you the Grand Slammer.”
Wilson nodded again. “The name followed me around. People pulled my leg about it. I didn’t feel like laughing at the time. You see, my wife died a few days later.” He turned aside abruptly, as the emotion overcame him. In the awkward silence which followed, Jerry poured out a drink and pushed it into his hand.
Wilson gulped at it with an averted face, then blew his nose. “Sorry to m-m-make a f-f-” he began, his stammer back.
“Fool of yourself,” finished Ellis. “Not at all. A most affecting story—even better than Mr Jeffery’s. I like the subtle psychology of it. Though Athol—the unfeeling fellow—was not responsible for Mrs Wilson’s death, he is, in Wilson’s mind, irrevocably bound up with her sufferings. Well, Charles—I think that accounts for everyone’s motive. The Dougalls you dealt with early in the piece—Athol lost them money, the unprincipled cad! Both Adelaide and Margot may be herded into the crime passionnel group.”
Charles ignored him and addressed Wilson. “You came into your present job with the idea of—ah—renewing acquaintance with Athol?”
“No, it was a coincidence,” Jerry interposed, “or so he told Margot. He had no idea he would meet Athol until he saw his name on Aunt Grace’s guest list.”
“Grace!” exclaimed Ellis. “Charles, what about my sister?”
“Thank you, Ellis, but I’m more interested in Mr Wilson at the moment.”
“My dear fellow, what’s holding your interest now we know he could also have murdered Athol? Do let us concentrate on Grace. Somebody must fetch her at once. It doesn’t matter if the lunch is spoiled.”
“I’ll go,” offered Wilson, making good his escape.
“Damn you, Ellis!” said Charles furiously. “Will you stop making a fool of me!”
“I refuse to reply with the inevitable commonplace.”
“The inference your clowning leads me to draw is also inevitable. You are trying to stop my dwelling on your motive.”
“I’m with you there, pal,” Jeffrey put in.
“Oh, have you found a motive for my father?” asked Jerry, with dispassionate interest. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have murdered Athol, but let me tell you that unless he wants you to know, you’ll never find out definitely.”
“Your quaint proclamation of loyalty moves me, Jerry. And here is Grace! Let’s see if she can uphold the Bryce motto of Keeping Them Guessing.”
Miss Bryce had an oven cloth in her hand and a harassed expression on her face. “Ellis, what is all this nonsense? That little man told me—you know I haven’t time to be—what did you want to see me about?”
“Father says we all had an equal motive and opportunity to kill Athol Sefton,” explained Jerry. “He’s not being as crazy as he usually is. He wants to find out if you wanted to murder Athol so that you will be safe.”
“No, Grace, don’t protest in horror,” said Ellis quickly, raising his voice to smother her shocked indrawn breath. “You know perfectly well that you couldn’t bear Athol—so rude and always making trouble and how you wished he wouldn’t come to the Duck and Dog were some of your very words, my dear.”
“I don’t deny them,” she returned tartly, “but how does—”
“And you were worried about Jerry behaving rashly with him or Shelagh falling in love—”
“My worry is that she never falls in love, though what that has to do—”
“We’ll fix a better motive up for Shelagh presently. I feel sure that if Shelagh considered Athol should be murdered, then she would do so efficiently and competently.”
“That’s a shocking thing for a father to say about his own daughter,” said Miss Bryce indignantly. “Whatever are you—”
“Don’t get rattled, Aunt,” advised Jerry. “It’s far better if Charles thinks Shelagh was capable of it.”
Charles groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Miss Bryce suddenly rounded on him. “This is all your fault. You shouldn’t have started this dreadful story about Mr Sefton being murdered. Like uncle—like nephew—always making trouble!”
“Splendid!” applauded Ellis. “You couldn’t have given a worse impression, my dear. Might I add to the record, Charles, that although Grace occasionally pretends to be womanly about firearms, she is no mean shot. Also—”
Charles started up. “I don’t want to hear any more,” he shouted. “I’m sick and tired of the whole business and the whole lot of you. As far as I’m concerned you can all go and jump into Teal Lagoon. But I’m still going to find out who killed Athol!”
PART THREE
The Impossible Remainder
I
Although she had, early in her marriage with Dr Spenser, reluctantly resigned herself to life in a small country town, Mrs Spenser had resolved never to let herself go. This ambiguous phrase covered not only things like good foundation garments and never being caught in an apron by callers, but also the intellectual side of life.
In Dunbavin her social stocks were high and, being a worthy and energetic citizen, she had built up a continuous round of activity to preven
t others from letting themselves go. There was the Reading Circle, the Arts and Crafts Group, the Dunbavin Dramatic Society and the Choral Club. Mrs Spenser was either the president or the chief patroness of them all, but the one nearest her heart was the Reading Circle.
The programme of the Reading Circle consisted of discussion of the latest books and talks by the members on subjects like ‘My favourite novel and why’ or ‘The influence of the Gold Rush on Australian literature’. Occasionally a guest speaker was invited to add to the literary feast, but this was rare and the only Dunbavinites interested in books or lecturing on abstruse subjects were already in the Circle. For this reason, Mrs Spenser always looked forward to the duck season, regarding it as a source of possible speakers.
Surveying the programme she had arranged with the help of the Duck and Dog guests, she felt pleased with the variety it offered. The pièce de résistance, she considered, was Charles Carmichael. It was not so much what he was going to lecture on, but what he represented that Mrs Spenser regarded as her own personal triumph.
Every member of the Circle was a subscriber to Culture and Critic—in fact, but for the magazine their own culture would have been in a critical way. To the Dunbavin audience that afternoon, Charles was going to be a figurehead of the world of letters.
Dr Spenser came in as his wife was making last-minute adjustments to the circle of chairs in the living room. “Ah, the great day! I trust it will be a successful one, my dear. I must try to look in after surgery.”
“Yes, do! You know they all love to see you. And I’m rather relying on you to entertain Ellis Bryce’s crowd.”
A slow frown settled on the doctor’s face. “Oh, they’re coming, are they? Will that young fellow, Carmichael, be among them?”
“Yes, and he is going to give a talk,” said Mrs Spenser happily.
“I rather wish you hadn’t asked him. He was damned impertinent to me, you know, and from what I’ve been told he’s been making a confounded nuisance of himself out at the Dog. I don’t want him using your meeting as a platform to air his outlandish notions.”