Duck Season Death (9 page)

“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 him 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 always 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.”

She looked frightened and cast a glance over her shoulder at the group near the targets. Andrew had joined them and was striding about talking loudly on their shooting merits. He shouted across to his wife. “Hurry up there, Frankie!”

“I must go,” she said, but paused in flight. “Andy wasn't really furious, Mr Carmichael. He thought it a bit of a joke actually—the way Mr Sefton spoke to us.”

Charles gazed after her thoughtfully, and saw her speaking rapidly to her husband as she handed him one of the guns. Andrew shot a belligerent glance in his direction and made a threatening step forward, but he was restrained by Frances's hand on his arm. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and said something to the others.

Good! thought Charles recklessly. The sooner everybody knows I'm serious about Athol's murder, the better.

Mrs Dougall's booming tones reached him. “I never heard anything like it in my life. Jumbo! You'll have to speak to that impertinent young man.”

Splendid, thought Charles. Come on, Jumbo, I'm ready. Ah, coward! For Major Dougall had cravenly appealed to Ellis, who, with a tact wholly unlike him, evidently uttered some soothing words and set the target practice in motion again. Presently he left the group and came over to Charles.

“My dear fellow, I wish you'd go away. You're demoralising my guests.”

“Good!”

“Not good at all. A joke's a joke, so they tell me, though in my experience most jokes are fiendishly unfunny—as witness the Dougalls' rising choler on this occasion. You will have the pukka sahib dying of apoplexy and really, on top of Athol's sad demise, the Duck and Dog will be getting what Grace is always fearing—a bad name. Do go away and play your games elsewhere.”