Duck Season Death. June Wright

name is Carmichael. Miss Bryce told me to call you. I want to report a—an accident. My uncle, Athol Sefton, has been shot dead.”

      There was a pause while Charles listened to the breathing growing heavier. “Did you hear what I said?”

      “I heard,” said the voice, aggrieved. “I’m just writing down particulars. Hey, mother! Have you got another pencil? This one’s broken.” There was a gabble in the background, and the sergeant said aside, “Out at the Duck and Dog. That Mr Sefton has been killed.”

      There were more expostulatory words in the background. Charles thought he caught something about ‘no loss, I’m sure’, and cut in impatiently, “Keep particulars for when you see me. You had better come out here as quickly as you can.” He rang off, remarking bitterly, “Until now I always thought doltish policemen figments of authors’ imagination.”

      A sudden twinkle of sympathy in Shelagh’s eyes made him feel that it might be worthwhile persevering with her after all.

      She took the phone up again. “Maisie, get me two-four, please. Yes, the doctor’s house.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Your uncle seemed different from the last time he was here. Had he not been well?”

      “He was being plagued by anonymous telephone calls and letters.”

      “How unpleasant! What were they about?”

      “He wouldn’t tell me, but I think he might have been taking them seriously. I can’t understand why he didn’t report the matter to the police. He travelled under another name on the flight from Sydney, and when I met him at Melbourne airport, he was all huddled up in an overcoat and wearing dark glasses. Not that the disguise did much good. A note had been left for him at the gunsmith in Melbourne when he bought his Greenet.”

      “But you don’t know what was in it? How strange not to confide in you.”

      “There was a certain understanding between us, but never much love lost. A stranger matter was his insistence on spending the night at my flat instead of going to a hotel. I had the impression he wanted me under his eye, which was also his reason for dragging me up to this damn-awful place—as Margot Stainsbury dubbed your home town. At the moment I’m inclined to agree with her.”

      Shelagh’s face became chilly and she turned to deal with the high, quacking voice which came through the wire. Charles remembered the polite sparring match between her and Margot, who had arrived at the Duck and Dog accompanied by Jerry Bryce, the glowering young man of the cocktail party. Her brother’s latest infatuation pleased her no more than the others had. Athol had been quick to exploit the situation, exchanging slightly erotic banter with Margot both to annoy Shelagh and to arouse Jerry’s jealousy. But it had been Charles’s impression that Margot was trying to capture his more serious attention. In fact, Athol had said, maliciously frank, “I believe the woman wants me to marry her.” Margot had countered swiftly, “Darling Athol, what an incredible notion! You’d make a perfectly poisonous husband, as I am sure poor Paula discovered.”

      Young Bryce was one of those unfortunate persons who can never become angry without becoming inarticulate as well. Athol had played him like a fish on his verbal line, throwing practised taunts with the urbanity of one who never allows his emotions to get the better of his intellect.

      What a jolly night we had, reflected Charles. The only one who had appeared to remain impervious had been Ellis Bryce. Major and Mrs Dougall had taken umbrage at the first opportunity, while their daughter, Adelaide, who had been unfortunate enough to overhear some humiliating remarks Athol had passed on her, had spent the evening staring at nothing with blank, piteous eyes. The American, Harris Jeffrey, had kept his fists in a perpetually clenched state, as Athol entertained the company with his views on the morals, culture and character of all Americans. Of the other guests, Wilson was subtly mocked to his twitching unhappy face, and the young honeymooners, who had tried to take Athol in the best guesthouse spirit, had soon retreated, wounded and bewildered.

      Shelagh, having successfully baulked Mrs Spenser’s well-known curiosity, rang off. Charles said to her, “Do you know what all this reminds me of? One of those detective stories about an ill-assorted group weekending at a country house. I think everyone was about ripe for murder by the time Athol had finished last night.”

      “Don’t be absurd!” she said sharply. “You are to go and wait at the main road. Dr Spenser is picking Sergeant Motherwell up and will meet you there.”

      “Won’t you come too? I need you to keep my imagination at bay.”

      She shook her head and went to the door. “What happens now is not my affair. Besides, I must get the breakfast started. There’s Aunt Grace coming down now.”

      Charles scowled after her. She made perseverance seem an impossible task.

      II

      “Absolutely no doubt at all,” pronounced Dr Spenser.

      “I entirely concur,” proclaimed Sergeant Motherwell.

      Charles, who had already summed them up as a pair of fools, one pompous and the other sycophantic, protested against their verdict of accidental death. During the time they had taken to move Athol from the lagoon boat to the road, he had been occupied by the disturbing thought that Ellis’s lighthearted suggestion of murder might not be so ludicrous after all.

      “But what about the bullet?” he asked.

      Dr Spenser regarded him in a lofty professional manner. “What about the bullet?” he queried. He made a habit of making a question of a question. It made him sound omniscient and usually abashed the enquirer.

      “You don’t fire bullets at ducks,” said Charles defensively.

      “My dear fellow, these amateurs use anything—rifles, repeaters, pistols—but anything at all. Every season there is some fatality or other like this. We had one in this district only two years ago, am I not right, Tom?”

      The policeman nodded solemnly. “That is correct, Doctor. It was a near thing to having the chap up for manslaughter.”

      “But this isn’t manslaughter,” said Charles loudly. “It’s murder.”

      The doctor looked him over as coldly as though he had been requested to perform an illegal operation. “My good fellow, that’s an appalling statement to make. I can only presume that the natural sorrow you are feeling has caused the indiscretion.”

      “Indiscretion be damned!” Charles retorted. “Natural sorrow likewise. I never felt any personal regard for Athol in my life—and least of all now seeing the mess he has left for me to clear up. So you can cut out any emotion from my attitude. But I say he was murdered and if you two would only do your job properly—”

      “Now, wait a minute,” interrupted Motherwell, drawing himself up like an inflated frog. “We are prepared to make allowances for natural—um—shock, shall we say? But you must not talk like that, you know, Mr Carmichael. You can’t go making wild statements without the evidence to back them up.”

      “Well, what of the bullet, to start with?”

      “That has already been accounted for,” said the policeman with a glance at the doctor.

      “Not to my satisfaction, it hasn’t,” retorted Charles. “Then what about the season not being open until tomorrow? Yes, I know we shouldn’t have been out either, but that is beside the point. In fact, had I but known—” He broke off, horrified at the words that had slipped out involuntarily. He always panned mercilessly those emotional mystery stories whose writers belonged to what Mr Ogden Nash referred to as the H.I.B.K. school.

      Dr Spenser and the sergeant regarded him with puzzled animosity. “What I mean is,” he went on lamely, “it is unlikely that any sportsman would have been out today other than my uncle, who always made a point of breaking rules. Look at Major Dougall—you probably know him as he has been here before—he would not dream of shooting today.”

      “Just