Duck Season Death by June Wright Read Free Book Online

suggest?”
    The girl glanced from one to the other sharply. “Shot? Is he badly hurt?”
    â€œDead,” 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.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYou must tell that to the person whose shot killed Athol,” rejoined Charles, nettled. “In the meantime I would like some practical advice.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWith pleasure and much relief,” said Charles grimly.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œFather being trying?” she enquired calmly, as they waited for the police station to answer.
    â€œVery,” 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.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œWhat were you going to say?” asked Charles, taking the receiver she held out to him.
    â€œOnly that I can imagine there could be people who might have liked to murder Athol,” she announced coolly.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œNow 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.”
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œI 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