Duck Season Death (10 page)

“I'm pleased to see I've got even you rattled, Ellis.”

“Quite unnerved, I assure you. Whether Athol was shot accidentally or on purpose I don't care, but I foresee my peace being absolutely destroyed by people wanting me to do something about you. For my sake, at least be a bit more tactful.”

“I'll go away presently. I want to see who can shoot and who can't. Margot is the only one out so far.”

“Didn't she make a wonderful muddle! But with your lynx eyes observing, what did you expect?”

“You mean she was pretending? She said she'd never fired a gun in her life.”

“I often find, my dear Charles, that when a woman uses the phrase ‘never in my life' there are usually some fairly consistent exceptions. But to be just to the enchanting girl, at least she did not come here pretending to shoot ducks.”

“One of the names you are not naming being Harris P. Jeffrey? I take it that he should have heard of Ducks Unlimited if he were genuine. Thanks for the tip. I only wish you would co-operate altogether.”

“I couldn't stand up to the strain,” said Ellis plaintively. “You may avail yourself of any gems of wisdom that should fall from my lips, of course, but I can't promise to be always in a communicative mood. Do watch the nice piece of shooting Mrs Turner is putting on. Husband-coached, I should say from the ultra-possessive
expression on the spouse's face. It follows that Andrew must be what is known as a crack shot.”

Charles turned to watch and when he looked round again Ellis had gone. Instead Adelaide Dougall stood alongside. “Hullo!” he said awkwardly, wondering how she was taking Athol's death. Her blushes and adoring glances in Athol's direction in the earlier part of the previous evening had been painfully obvious. Only Athol had remained unembarrassed, treating her so contumeliously that she could not have been left in any doubt as to his feelings for what he had termed ageing nymphomaniacs.

She just stood there staring at him steadily, a look that made him blink nervously. “So you think he was murdered!” she said at last.

“You mean Athol?” Charles queried foolishly.

She nodded impatiently, still watching him with that disconcerting stare.

“Er—yes, I think there is the possibility. You see—” he broke off. Then for some inexplicable reason he added lamely, “Actually the police say it was an accident and perhaps they are right, but—”

She leaned towards him. “But you are convinced he was murdered, aren't you?” Her eyes were gleaming now with a strange excitement. “And you suspect one of us of having done it. I think he was murdered too. In fact, I know it. But there is just one matter I want to bring to your attention, Mr Carmichael.” She came nearer and Charles backed away, his chin in his neck. “You'll never find out who did it. What do you say to that?”

“Er—nothing much. I mean—probably I won't. Look will you excuse me? I—ah—have to go now.”

He escaped round the garages, pausing there to wipe his forehead. The poor girl's gone dotty, he thought. The only one to agree with my conviction. A nice fool I'd look if I got her to substantiate my theories to the police.

There were voices in Athol's room as Charles passed on the way to his own. He opened the door and Shelagh and Miss Bryce turned round.

“Ah—here he is now!” said the latter. “The very person—you needn't fold the blankets, Shelagh. I want to air them.”

“What are you doing here?” demanded Charles. The room had been stripped of Athol's belongings which the girl was packing with an amazing economy of space and neatness into his pig-skin bags. “Who told you to touch my uncle's things?”

“No one,” replied Shelagh calmly, placing a pile of beautifully folded shirts in last and closing one bag with a snap. “Is there any reason why we should not?”

“Every reason and you know it,” Charles flung at her, striding over to the dressing table and opening drawers.

“Everything from there is in the other bag,” Miss Bryce informed him. “What do you want done with Mr Sefton's things?”

“I wanted them left where they were for the time being. Goodness knows what might be mislaid now. Where is his briefcase?”

“Behind you on the table,” said Shelagh, picking up a pile of review books and inspecting the titles. Charles snatched it up and undid the zipper so hastily that papers fell to the floor.

“Now, isn't that just like a man!” declared Miss Bryce crossly, bending down to sweep them together. “Why are you acting so hasty, young man? We haven't taken anything belonging to your precious uncle.”

“I just didn't want anything touched until I had—ah, you've missed something,” he broke off to say in an accusing voice. From floor level he had noticed a pair of shoes half under the bed.

Shelagh glanced up. “I knew they were there. I intended taking them to clean before packing.”

“That's what—” Charles began rudely. “Clean? Why should they need cleaning?” He stood upright, the shoes in one hand.

“Well, isn't it obvious?” asked Miss Bryce tartly, as a piece of dried mud fell onto the carpet and sent her bending again.

Charles felt a sudden glow. “Because,” he said triumphantly, “they shouldn't need cleaning. When and where would Athol have worn them to get them in such a state?”

Shelagh went on glancing through the books with an elaborate disinterest, but Miss Bryce, who could never let even a piece of rhetoric go by, said, “How should we know? It's nothing to do with us what—please be careful! You're still dropping bits of mud. Perhaps they're not Mr Sefton's shoes.”

Charles turned them over. “They're Athol's all right. I know the Sydney store where he shops. I also know the rubber tread on the soles—now. Would you like me to tell you how the shoes got so dirty?”

Shelagh said, “Not particularly,” but Miss Bryce, feeling something was expected of her, said vaguely, “If you want to—though I'm sure I don't know why you are making such a song and dance about a pair of shoes.”

“Mr Carmichael thinks his uncle was murdered, Aunt Grace, and that one of us did it.”

Miss Bryce looked from her niece to Charles between doubt and dismay. “I don't really think so—I'm convinced,” said Charles. “Now about these shoes. This morning I found prints in the soft ground near the lagoon about a hundred yards from where Athol stood up in the boat. The person who shot him realised that the leaving of footprints would be unavoidable and in order to disguise his own wore Athol's shoes.”

He paused expectantly, but this Miss Bryce only remarked dampingly, “Just fancy that! Shelagh, I'll take these blankets down to the line.” She bundled them together and went out.

A stifled sound made Charles glance at the girl. Her eyes were twinkling and she was biting her lips. “Oh, very funny!” he said sourly.

“Perhaps you'll realise now how ridiculous your notions are.”

“Ridiculous!” he almost shouted. “You don't think I'm doing all this just for the fun of it, do you? Someone from here shot Athol—had all the intentions of killing him for some time. A cooler, cleverer and more deliberately planned murder you wouldn't find
in the best detective fiction today—and because I recognise it as such you call me ridiculous!”

“Well, you needn't shout, just because no one else agrees with you.”

“No one agrees with me for the simple reason that they are scared.”

“I'm not in the least bit scared,” she said coldly.

“Yes, you are. You think Jerry might have shot Athol—that stood out a mile this morning.”

“Of course Jerry didn't shoot Athol.”

“He could have. He said he did.”

“What!”

Charles grinned suddenly. “He thought I was accusing Margot, so he came to her rescue with a confession. Made quite a good fist of it too—explaining how your father keeps a couple of rifles in the gunroom. By jove—” he stopped, his forehead wrinkling.

“What is it?” asked Shelagh sharply.

“I'm wondering if one of your father's rifles was used. After all, if the murderer borrowed a pair of shoes, it would be nothing to borrow the weapon. I've got a hunch that that was the case.”

“I thought you didn't hold with hunches,” she said maliciously.

“In books, no,” he returned cheerfully. “But this is real life.”

“I don't know if it is real,” said Shelagh slowly. “You've made everything seem so crazy and—and frightening.”

He turned back from the door to say soothingly, “You keep on packing while I look for your father. Sling the things into my room when you've finished. And if you come across anything that looks like a clue, please don't suppress it. I rate rock bottom those books where some female invariably gums up the case.”

Ellis was seated in the bar with his feet on another chair, alternately sipping contentedly at a long cold drink and carrying on a one-sided conversation with Wilson, who was drawing judicious draughts of lemonade through a straw. The latter had evidently been
trying to impress upon Ellis the need to keep his identity as a field inspector a secret until after the following day's blaze-away.

Ellis was taking delight in misunderstanding the other's earnest inarticulation, but when Charles burst in he said with an amiable wave of his hand, “All right—all right! Mum's the word, as I read somewhere in the literature of my youth. Charles, you mustn't tell the pukka sahib who Wilson is. He wants to catch him being naughty.”

“How many rifles have you precisely?”

Ellis groaned. “Don't tell me you're still at it! I would rather play Mr Wilson's games for a while.”

Charles knocked Ellis's feet off the chair and sat down. “Now, listen to me. I'm tired of your being obstructionist. If, for no other reason but to make Spenser and Motherwell look the pair of fools they are, you've got to co-operate. I've found a significant piece of evidence which, if I can tie it up with the murder weapon, will prove that Athol wasn't killed accidentally.”

Ellis scraped his chair forward and put his feet on the table instead. “He wears me out, this young man does, Mr Wilson. What do you suggest that I do?”

Wilson said surprisingly, “Turner has a r—r—”

“Rifle? Has he, by jove!” exclaimed Charles. “Thanks for the tip. How do you know?”

“Snooping,” said Ellis airily. “Mr Wilson's job, you know.”

The field inspector reddened and essayed a painful explanation. It appears that he had been standing near the utility as Mrs Turner was unpacking the shotguns for practice firing. In telling him of her husband's prowess with kangaroos up north, she had shown him the Wilding.

“Ah, one of the prolific kind. Wildings, my poor Charles, abound in this country. They started manufacturing them late in the war, which fortunately ended before the paucity of their powers could be put to the test. I believe they are still cluttering up the disposals stores, though I did my bit by purchasing a couple. You'll
find them in the gunroom—that is, if someone hasn't borrowed them.”

“I'd be surprised if one at least hasn't been,” said Charles grimly. “You'd better come with me and look.”

Ellis gave another groan. “Mr Wilson, do you know the appearance of a Wilding? Go with this harassing young man.”

“The time is rapidly approaching when you will just have to shake off your innate laziness,” Charles told him roundly and followed the field inspector out of the room.

Going along the passage, Wilson said, “And J—J—Jeffrey has a re—v—volver.”

“Athol wasn't shot with a revolver,” said Charles absently. “I'm not interested. This is the room, isn't it?”

Wilson went round the racks pulling out guns, some of them so deteriorated that he was unable to break the breach. Presently he indicated one of the Wildings. “It looks as though it hasn't been fired for years,” said Charles, inspecting it. “The lock's gone too, so that's out. Have another look for the other one. Both Ellis and Jerry said there were two.”

Wilson did the rounds again and finally shook his head.

“Hah!” exclaimed Charles, in high good-humour. “Net result—one only Wilding. Thank you, Mr Wilson, for your services.”

He strode back to the bar. “There's only one,” he said, bursting into the room which was now full of people. Target practice was over and the guests had gathered for pre-luncheon drinks. They turned at Charles's tempestuous entrance.

“I must have lent it to someone,” said Ellis comfortably. “Come and have your beer, boy, and stop wearing yourself out.”

“To whom did you lend it?”

Ellis picked up his glass. “Can't remember rightly, but it stands to reason I must have.”

“It doesn't stand to reason at all. I don't think you did lend it.”

“What on earth are you two talking about?” asked Margot, who was perched on a stool with the easy grace of one accustomed
to bar stools. She took a sip from the cocktail Jerry had just mixed for her and wrinkled her nose prettily. “Darling, far, far too much gin. But never mind, I'll drink it.” She swallowed half and smiled bravely at Jerry's sulky face.