Duck Season Death (11 page)

“Someone must have taken it,” Charles was insisting in a low voice. “Surely you would remember if you had lent it.”

“Chas, what's all the mutter-mutter? Speak up, dear, when you're in company.” Margot chided, fitting a cigarette into her long holder and turning her big eyes onto the American, who sprang to light it.

“All right,” said Ellis in a peaceable tone. “Someone took it—if it makes you happy. Who took a Wilding rifle out of the gunroom? Charles thinks someone borrowed it to shoot Athol Sefton. Is that right, Charles?”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed furiously. “Damn you, Ellis, will you stop making a farce out of this affair?”

“My dear chap, better poor comedy than poor drama.”

“Young man!” boomed Mrs Dougall, who was nursing a large sherry in place of the cartridge belt. “Are you accusing one of us of murdering your uncle with Ellis's Wilding?”

“I don't think it actually matters if it was not my particular gun,” said Ellis, with the air of one making a concession.

“I've got a Wilding,” said Andrew Turner, jutting his jaw at Charles. “I daresay you would like to have a look at it. It's all right, Frankie,” he added, throwing off his wife's hand. “You leave this to me.”

“But Andy, we hadn't even unpacked it. Mr Carmichael does not mean—”

“I don't care what he doesn't mean or does mean, but I think it's pretty hot that you can't choose to stay in a pub for a couple of days without being accused of the murder of a perfect stranger.”

“I'm sorry, Mr Turner, but—” began Charles quietly.

“You can go on apologising to the rest of us,” interrupted Mrs Dougall haughtily.

“I'm damned if I will!” said Charles, roused by her overbearing manner. “Someone here shot Athol deliberately and I apologise to no one for my suspicions until such time they can prove to me that they did not kill him.”

“I thought you Aussies followed the British tradition that a man is innocent until proven guilty,” drawled Jeffrey.

“You don't like Australians, do you? I wonder why you came here since you think so poorly of us.”

“Don't you like us, really?” Margot asked, round-eyed and open-mouthed with provocative innocence.

The American's face relaxed into a grin. “Honey, I'd like you if you were an Eskimo. What do you say, folks, if we just pay no heed to this guy and his crazy ideas?”

“I'm in full agreement with you,” declared Major Dougall, who had been hanging about nervously, waiting for a loophole such as this. “It's obvious the fellow can't behave like a gentleman.”

Mrs Dougall did not care for convenient loopholes. “I still maintain something should be done about this impertinent young man. Ellis, you must put your foot down. After all you are more or less in authority here.”

Ellis looked pained. “My dear lady, I never put my foot down at any time. I wouldn't know how to. I'm completely ruled by my family.”

“You mean you won't! If I didn't know you so well, I might suggest you were afraid of this young man.”

“How can I have possibly deceived you?” wondered Ellis. “For that is precisely what I am.”

“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.

“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.