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PART TWO

Murder and Motives

I

The flat-bottomed old boat rocked dangerously as Athol Sefton staggered, gave an odd little choking cough, then sagged slowly across the gunwhale. His twelve-gauge double-barrelled Greenet sank into the muddy water, his hand trailing limply after it.

The two explosions had sounded almost simultaneously. Out of the beat of wings and noises of alarm above the lagoon, a chestnut-breasted teal, caught in flight, had dropped a hundred yards away. It lay floating in eddying circles with its neck askew. Wimpey, one of the spaniels from the Duck and Dog, went out to it almost as soon as it hit the water.

Charles Carmichael, sitting in the stern of the boat, stared incredulously at the humped figure of his uncle leaning over the side—the result of the second shot. The bright stain spreading over Athol’s shooting jacket held his bemused gaze.

Presently all became still again. The birds had made off and the boat stopped its crazy movement. The spaniel bitch came swimming back with the dead bird in her jaw. She nosed around the limp, trailing hand and made whining sounds. Receiving no response, she swam to Charles. He released the bird and flung it distastefully on the bottom of the boat. Then he climbed along the tilted boat and with much effort managed to turn the body over. Athol’s eyes were open and glazing fast. There was a frothy stain on his lips and the blood on his jacket was starting to congeal. He had been shot under Charles’s gaze, standing up to fire at the ducks.

Cautiously, Charles stood upright so that he was head and shoulders over the thicket of reeds into which they had pushed the boat. He gave an apprehensive look around, ready to duck for cover, but apart from the birds settling on the further end of the lagoon, there was no sign of movement. The scene was as desolate and uninviting in his eyes as when, less than an hour earlier, feeling cold, sleepy and irritable, he had crept with Athol through the low-lying scrub with a gun under his arm. He had not seen the sense of getting up at an ungodly hour just to bring down a few ducks before anyone else, but Athol had insisted upon his companionship.

Now look what has happened, thought Charles—so staggered by the turn of events that he felt a puerile indignation.

In spite of his absorption in fictional crime, an interest amounting almost to an intellectual passion, it was to come to him only slowly that the shot which had killed Athol had not been the accidental firing of a careless gunman, but the well-aimed shot of a marksman.

Leaving the boat wedged in the reeds, he made his way across the marshy ground to the track which led to the road. From there he jog-trotted the mile and a half back to the Duck and Dog.

The hotel was in the depths of early Sunday silence, the rising sun striking the mellow old stone. He went through the empty ground floor, past the stairs, to a door which led to one of the weatherboard annexes. Ellis Bryce had his bedroom there, because he did not see the point of climbing up and down stairs any more than being an unnecessary distance from the bar.

He came to the door in pyjamas, yawning and stretching. “Ah—good morning, Mr Carmichael! I won’t ask what I can do for you because I never do anything for anyone—least of all at this hour. In fact, I leave all complaints to my sister, Grace.”

“I don’t know if you will regard it in the nature of a complaint,” said Charles light-headedly, “but my uncle is dead.”

Ellis Bryce dropped his arms slowly and his brows went up. “Dear, dear! Poor Athol! I’m sorry to hear that. Heart, I suppose. I must say I thought he looked and behaved muchly the same last night—how the dear fellow loved to churn the party up—but Shelagh mentioned something about his not looking so well. You might not know my daughter properly yet, Mr Carmichael, but what she says is always accurate. A most efficient girl!”

“Most,” agreed Charles, who had tried to make headway with Shelagh and knew Ellis was pricking him gently. “But this time she is wrong. My uncle was shot though the chest.”

Ellis’s imperturbability was shaken, but after a pause he said, “What a bad shot you must be! Or was it with intent?”

Charles gaped at him, then exclaimed in shocked accents, “What the devil—”

“Oh, pray forgive me,” said Ellis, waving an airy hand. “I always endeavour to view life—and death—light-heartedly first thing in the morning. Was it the pukka sahib who shot him? Or the spurned Adelaide? ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. Dear me, how your news has affected me! Never have I sunk so far as to quote—and such a cliché—at this hour.”

“I would be obliged if you would stop being facetious about a very serious matter,” said Charles stiffly.

“My apologies again. However, to maintain the revolting flow which seems to have attacked me, many a true word is spoken in jest.”

“There are some subjects one does not jest about,” said Charles angrily. “I came to you because—”

“What a remark from one who reviews detective stories so ably and wittily,” interrupted Ellis, bent on being infuriating. “I always say your mordant comments are the one thing worth reading in Athol’s depressingly esoteric periodical. Perhaps an enraged author shot Athol by mistake for you. Do let me know the results of your cogitations on this matter later. Now I must go back to bed.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” said Charles, putting his foot in the door. “What do you advise I should do about Athol?”

Ellis looked pained. “My dear Mr Carmichael, I never give advice. I have already exerted myself enough for your benefit—without a doubt the poor unpleasant fellow was murdered. I refuse to have my brain picked further. However, as you seem nonplussed, I suggest the mundane ritual of burial should come next—or cremation. I understand your late Aunt Paula enjoyed a final combustion. However much one disliked him in life, one must respect Athol’s last wishes.”

There was a brisk tap of feet coming down the stairs, and Ellis cocked his head. “Ah—my daughter Shelagh—so efficient at handling mundane situations. I recommend you to her.”

Charles turned in relief as the girl came down the passage. She was dressed in a tailored skirt and a spotless white blouse, her face and hair attractive and neat. She was on her way to the kitchen to start the breakfast before her aunt Grace got there.

“Shelagh, my dear, Athol Sefton has been shot and Mr Carmichael wants to know what to do next. What do you suggest?”

The girl glanced from one to the other sharply. “Shot? Is he badly hurt?”

“Dead,” said Charles, surprised at the baldness of his own reply. It was extraordinary to realise that Athol was no longer alive. “We were over at that lagoon about a mile from here. He had just stood up and had actually fired when some fool of a person on the other side shot without looking.”

“You had no business being out at all,” said Shelagh reprovingly, as though Athol had received his just deserts for disobedience. “The season does not open until tomorrow.”

“You must tell that to the person whose shot killed Athol,” rejoined Charles, nettled. “In the meantime I would like some practical advice.”

“You’re asking just the right person, my boy,” said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. “A very practical girl, my daughter. But if there is one thing I abominate more than being asked advice, it is listening to someone else give it. So excuse me if I retire.”

“With pleasure and much relief,” said Charles grimly.

“You had better ring Sergeant Motherwell at Dunbavin,” said Shelagh and led the way to the phone in the gunroom. “And Dr Spenser too. I’ll get the number for you.”

Charles muttered a word of thanks and listened to her deal kindly but firmly with the moronic telephonist in the town.

“Father being trying?” she enquired calmly, as they waited for the police station to answer.

“Very,” replied Charles in heartfelt accents. “First of all he suggested I had shot Athol—then that he had been murdered possibly in mistake for me.”

She looked him over dispassionately. “I’m sure no one would want to murder you.”

“That sounds something between a compliment and an insult.”

She made as though to say something more when the phone was answered. “Mrs Motherwell? Is Tom there? Shelagh Bryce speaking.”

“What were you going to say?” asked Charles, taking the receiver she held out to him.

“Only that I can imagine there could be people who might have liked to murder Athol,” she announced coolly.

“That is a matter for the police to decide,” said Charles guardedly.

He listened to the approach of heavy deliberate footsteps, the noise of the phone being lifted, then breathing to match the tread. “Hullo, there!” he said impatiently.

“Now then, what’s all this about?” asked a ponderous voice. Charles’s worst fears were aroused as he wriggled his toes in revulsion at the timeworn phrase. “I was told Miss Bryce wanted me.”

“My 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 what are you suggesting, Mr Carmichael?”

“That someone guessed that Athol was likely to go shooting ducks this morning, and took the opportunity of no one else being nearby to kill him.”

“What nonsense!” said the doctor testily. “Motherwell, it is up to you. I’ve given you my opinion as a medical man, but yours is the final word.”

The policeman said with ponderous dignity, “I can only presume that Mr Carmichael’s imagination is running away with him. I shall put in a full report concerning this distressing affair; naturally there will be an inquest. Mr Carmichael need have no fear that this business will not be wound up entirely to the satisfaction of unbiased authority. But such wild talk of murder cannot be condoned. I must request you, sir, not to voice such fantastic beliefs.”

“I haven’t got that much imagination,” said Charles irritably. “Otherwise I would write books instead of reviewing them. And my beliefs are not fantastic but feasible. My uncle had some trouble on his mind. I don’t say he realised his life was in danger, but he was a changed man—and what is more I can produce witnesses to back me up in that statement.”

There was a pause; then the doctor said thoughtfully, “What sort of books do you review, Mr Carmichael? Ah, yes! You are associated with Mr Sefton in the production called Culture and Critic.”

“Detective novels,” replied Charles defiantly. “But that has nothing to do with the matter in hand.”