Duck Season Death (13 page)

“I've always been lucky,” rejoined McGrath. “Hey, Charles! Wake up, will you, and set the young lady's mind at rest.”

Charles opened his eyes. “Don't wanna—Lo Shee! Meet a friend of mine.”

“You see?” said McGrath, “nothing hocus-pocus.”

“I see that he is very drunk,” she said warmly. “Come on, Chas, we'll help you up to your room.”

“Feel foul!” he pronounced, making an effort to stay upright.

“I'll fix you some coffee and sandwiches presently. Whatever made you drink like that on an empty stomach?”

“She knows all about stomachs,” Charles informed McGrath. “She's a nurse.”

“Leave him be, Miss Bryce,” said McGrath. “I can manage.” He slung Charles across his shoulder and the girl led the way into the house and up the stairs.

“Don't make too much noise,” she adjured, opening the bedroom door. “Everyone's having a sleep. They were up early this morning for the opening, then there was this inquest on Mr Sefton.”

McGrath lowered his burden onto the bed. “I didn't see you there, Miss Bryce.”

“I had better things to do,” she replied crisply, unlacing Charles's shoes and covering him with a rug. She went to the door. “Your room is next to this one. I'll get someone to bring your bag up. The bathroom is two doors away. Dinner at 6:30.”

“Just a minute, Miss Bryce!” He followed her out, shutting the door after him. “You seem an unusually cool and efficient girl. I'd like to have a chat with you.”

“What about? I haven't a great deal of time.”

“Is this my room? Don't you think you had better come and see if they've swept under the bed properly?”

“I did it myself this morning,” she answered coldly.

“Well, come in anyway. I want to talk about our drunken young friend next door.”

“It's not like Charles to get drunk. Why didn't you stop him instead of egging him on?”

“He acted like he had a grievance and seemed to find me understanding. I didn't want to spoil our beautiful new friendship.”

“Well, I hope you didn't take too much notice of what he said. He's been behaving rather strangely since his uncle's death.”

“He certainly told an interesting story. Do you think there might be something in it?”

The girl was silent. Presently she looked at him and asked quietly. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

“Sydney—the environs of Phillip Street. Do you know it?”

Her eyes flickered. “What brought you here? You're a long way off your—beat.”

He gave a soft appreciative guffaw, then said, “I wanted to make the acquaintance of Mr Athol Sefton. It's very disconcerting to have come all this way—not to mention the difficulty I had in tracing him here—only to find that he has met with a fatal shooting accident.”

“So you thought the next best thing to do would be to make Charles's acquaintance.”

He nodded. “At least he can tell me something of what I missed—seems fond of his late uncle too. From what you say of them together, would you say that was so—or is Charles indulging in post-mortem affection?”

“They seemed to get on well enough,” she replied shortly.

“You're not forthcoming, are you?”

“Look, Inspector or Sergeant or whatever you are, I don't know what business you wanted to discuss with Athol, but there has been enough disturbance here at the Duck and Dog already. Would you kindly not add to it!”

“Certainly,” he replied promptly. “I'm only here to shoot ducks.”

“That's what everyone's been saying,” said Shelagh dryly and went out of the room.

Charles was sober when she returned sometime later with a tray of coffee and sandwiches, but looking as sickly as he declared himself to feel. “Do you want me to be really ill?” he demanded crossly, surveying the tray with distaste.

“You'll feel better when you've had something to eat,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. She poured out some coffee, put the cup into his hand and then sat on the end of the bed watching him.

“I wish you wouldn't look so virtuously healthy,” grumbled Charles. “I know you're thinking what a poor weak fool I was getting tight over an inquest.”

“I wasn't thinking anything like that. Drink up, then try a sandwich. I want to talk to you presently.”

“What about?” he asked, picking over the plate of sandwiches half-heartedly.

“Your friend in the next room—Athol's room.”

“What friend? Oh, you mean that chap who drove me home. Mac something.”

“McGrath. Do you know he's a detective? He came all the way from Sydney in order to see Athol.”

“Yes, I remember he mentioned something, but I didn't know he was a cop. How did you find that out?”

“He told me. Have another sandwich!”

“I wish you'd stop the ministering angel stuff.”

“I merely want to make you sufficiently strong so as to tell your friend to leave,” she replied, taking his cup and refilling it.

“I'm not going to tell him to leave,” said Charles truculently. “In fact, I'm damned glad I got tight and invited him here. I remember
now I told him all about Athol's murder. He must think I have something and wants to look over the suspects for himself.”

His jubilant train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. Shelagh got up and opened it. “I thought I heard voices,” said McGrath. “May I come in?”

“Come right in,” Charles invited jovially. “It's nice to see only one of you for a change.”

McGrath laughed. “How do you feel now?”

“Fair enough. Shelagh tells me you're a detective from Sydney town.”

“You didn't say not to tell him,” the girl interpolated.

“Well, you'd better not tell anyone else, Shelagh, please,” said Charles. “The quieter we keep Mac's identity the better. I might as well admit having thrown my weight about too much over this business. Now that fool Motherwell is on my wheel, I'm going to move along more quietly. Mac can handle things here.”

“What things might they be?” enquired McGrath politely. “My business in Dunbavin has nothing to do with Miss Bryce's guests.”

Charles stared at him. “What are you talking about? Someone here murdered Athol—you know, my uncle, Athol Sefton.”

“So you said earlier. Don't think I'm not interested, boy, but I'm the sort of bloke who likes to do one thing at a time. I was sent here on a certain assignment, and until I've cleaned that up, your uncle's death is not my immediate concern—if, indeed, it ever will be.”

Charles, who had sat up when the detective entered, sank back with a grin and closed his eyes. “I'm having a relapse.”

“What is this certain assignment?” said Shelagh.

“Rather a delicate job—even more so now. I was sent to investigate a suspected case of murder.”

Charles opened his eyes again. “Now you're talking sense and I can follow you.”

“Don't speak too soon,” warned Shelagh. “I don't see how Mr McGrath was sent on Athol's account if he didn't know he was dead until he arrived in Dunbavin.”

“Don't try being tortuous too,” Charles implored. “My head won't stand it.”

“I'm not being tortuous. It's obvious Mr McGrath is here to investigate someone else's death—not Athol's.”

“Then where does Athol come in? Why did you want to see him so particularly? You can't mean Athol murdered someone!”

McGrath gazed at him blankly. “That is being rather blunt. Let's say I wanted to ask your uncle a few questions.”

Charles stared back at him in a bemused fashion, then turned to the girl. “More coffee, Shelagh,” he begged. She refilled his cup and presently he said more briskly, “Let's put all the cards on the table and cut out the delicacy. Athol is suspected of murder. Now he has been murdered—Oh yes, he has, Shelagh, so stop looking shocked—therefore you are now after a double murderer. Whom do you suspect now?”

“Your line of reasoning is not altogether accurate,” began McGrath.

“Oh, stop playing around the point. You must have someone in mind.”

“All right,” said McGrath serenely. “You.”

“What!” Charles jerked upright and swung his legs off the bed. “I've never murdered anyone in my life. And I certainly couldn't have shot Athol. The range was over a hundred yards and I was right alongside. Where the deuce are my shoes? Shelagh, I suppose you took them off.”

“I warned you my job has become even more delicate,” McGrath said righteously.

“Delicate be—Oh, thanks!” he broke off as the girl gave him his shoes, and sat on the bed to tug them on furiously. “I've never heard such bloody impertinence in my life. Suspecting me of killing my own uncle!”

“Charles, behave yourself!”

He swung round on her. “I bet you're as pleased as punch over this. Nothing delights you more than making me look a fool.”

McGrath lowered himself into a chair with an air of one waiting for the storm to subside. “No one's making you look a fool,” said the girl cuttingly. “And far from being pleased, I wish you'd be quiet and allow Mr McGrath to explain further.”

“You're a sensible girl, Miss Bryce.”

“She's too damned sensible,” Charles growled. “She's never likely to find herself accused of double murder. And you, Mac! To think that I drank with you, that I thought you were understanding and all the time—Oh, it beats all. Athol wouldn't have been so taken in.”

“Probably not,” agreed McGrath laconically. “A man with a guilty conscience is usually on his guard.”

“Why, Charles!” Shelagh touched his arm suddenly. “That's what was wrong with Athol—a guilty conscience.”

“Athol didn't have any sort of conscience at any time. It was those threatening notes and telephone calls that were worrying him. The person he is alleged to have murdered could hardly have had anything to do with them.”

“You told me someone said he seemed haunted,” suggested McGrath helpfully.

Charles shot him a kindling glance. “That was Margot Stainsbury, and according to her Athol asked if she believed in ghosts too! I flatly refuse to have the supernatural obtruding. There's been enough breaking of the rules of the game as it is. Vengeful ghosts would be the ruddy limit.”

“He's a disciple of the detective story,” explained Shelagh scornfully.

“Then I see I'll have my work cut out,” replied McGrath in genial tones.

“Stop suggesting that I'm a murderer. I don't even know who I'm supposed to have killed, anyway. Produce your body.”

“Well, that is a little difficult.”

“What! No body? Did I dissolve it in an acid bath?”

“No—but your uncle Athol Sefton had it cremated.”

All his angry flippancy dropped away from Charles. He sank slowly onto the bed staring at McGrath, who returned his gaze unblinkingly. After a moment's silence he said in a subdued voice, “You mean his wife? My aunt Paula?”

The other nodded.

“I see!” said Charles heavily.

The detective shifted in his chair. “One has to proceed very carefully in cases like these. Mrs Sefton has been dead for some time. I understand that she was more or less an invalid, suffering from some peculiar debility.”

“Peculiar debility is right! I was fond of my aunt—after all, she was a blood relation whereas Athol was not—but I always had the idea that she took to her invalid bed for want of something better to do. Athol was neither a kind man nor an attentive husband. Her pills and her potions and her Macquarie Street specialists were all she had in life.”

Shelagh nodded professionally. “Wealthy lonely women often develop hypochondriacal tendencies.”

“What happened?” Charles asked the detective. “Why has so much time been allowed to lapse before this enquiry?”

“If the doctor in attendance signs the necessary certificate of death, there is not much to be done. According to him your aunt died of heart failure brought on by acute gastritis, which in turn was the result of years of punishing her organs with various patent medicines.”

“But you think she was poisoned,” said Charles bluntly.

“Yes, it's possible that she was,” agreed McGrath coolly. “It's certainly what two or three busy-bodies seem to think. Some acquaintances of your aunt felt it their public duty to bring to the notice of the police that your aunt was a wealthy, neglected wife, that Athol Sefton was too good-looking and charming to be trusted, that she had often spoken with regret of the money she had sunk in that classy magazine he produced, and lastly that she had been
heard to say she preferred burial to cremation and had a vault already prepared to receive her remains.”