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.