Duck Season Death by June Wright Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œYou don’t fire bullets at ducks,” said Charles defensively.
    â€œMy dear fellow, these amateurs use anything—rifles, repeaters, pistols—but anything at all. Every season there is some fatality orother 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.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œIndiscretion 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—”
    â€œNow, 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.”
    â€œWell, what of the bullet, to start with?”
    â€œThat has already been accounted for,” said the policeman with a glance at the doctor.
    â€œNot 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—youprobably know him as he has been here before—he would not dream of shooting today.”
    â€œJust what are you suggesting, Mr Carmichael?”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œWhat 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