Duck Season Death (12 page)

In the glorious blaze-away which followed, the unpleasant affairs of the day before were forgotten. The only contretemps which marred proceedings was the claiming of a bird which both Jerry Bryce and the American insisted they had brought down. This developed into a three-sided contest when Wilson announced that the bird was a shoveller and they should not have shot it anyway. The disclosure of the field inspector's identity reduced Charles's position on the scale of unpopularity, and they were still arguing hotly as to who should pay the fine when they returned to the hotel for breakfast.

Nothing was said about attending the inquest on Athol Sefton, but there was a general casual leaning towards the idea of taking a jaunt into the town. When Charles set off later in the morning he smiled grimly at the reflection of a string of cars in his rear-vision mirror.

The Mechanics Institute was crowded with people who had heard curious rumours concerning the Sunday accident. There were whispers and pointings as Charles entered. He glared about him in annoyance and the stares—all except one—were averted. A thickset man in a blue suit seated at the back of the hall kept looking at him in a speculative, laconic way, refusing to be shamed into glancing away.

Charles's heart sank when he saw that the gathering was only a formal enquiry. No jury had been summoned so the verdict was to rest on the summing up of the coroner, a local tradesman with a face like one of the pigs' heads adorning his own shop window.

Proceedings opened with Sergeant Motherwell reciting his report. This was followed by Dr Spenser's medical findings, impressively couched in professional terms. The whole affair would have been wound up circumspectly with a homily from the butcher on the criminal carelessness of shooters in general and the reprehensible conduct of one in particular who, not only culpable of shooting out of season, was also the cause of this shocking accident, when Charles leapt to his feet.

“This is an absolute travesty!” he shouted, stammering slightly in his indignation. “I demand that further action be taken in order to find that person.”

There was an excited stir among the people in the body of the hall, but the three men at the table on the platform did not seem surprised. Annoyed but resigned, they were expecting something like this. The coroner had been warned about Charles, so he was able to address him by name. He did so at first genially, as though Charles were a prospective customer crossing his sawdust threshold, then more austerely as he recalled his present role.

“I assure you, Mr Carmichael, that Sergeant Motherwell—ah—assures me that no stone will be left unturned, but—” he waved his podgy pink hand to the upturned faces, “with so many visitors swelling our community the task is a considerable one. For the present we can only pass our strongest censure on the coldblooded person who does not see fit to come forward with abject apologies—”

“I don't want apologies,” said Charles. “I want justice. Athol Sefton was not shot accidentally. He—”

“Mr Carmichael,” interrupted the butcher loudly, who had also been warned of what Charles might say, “I must ask you to restrain yourself. I am sure you would not wish to make wild accusations in the heat of the moment, which I am—ah—sure you will regret later.”

Charles swallowed. “Mr Coroner,” he said in quieter tones, “I have no intention of making wild accusations, but in my opinion
there is some sort of conspiracy afoot in order to keep me from uttering what I believe sincerely to be the truth. If you would allow me to bring certain matters to your attention—”

The coroner shook his porcine head. “Are these the same matters which I understand you brought to the attention of Sergeant Motherwell?”

“Er—yes, I suppose so. But the fool—I mean Sergeant Motherwell—”

“Then in that case, Mr Carmichael, I cannot allow you to continue. Furthermore, I would like to utter a word of warning.” He consulted a sheet of paper on which he had written it in advance. “I understand your profession is that of—ah—editor and literary critic, and that the main type of fiction that you review is detective—ah—stories.”

Charles closed his eyes as the butcher rambled on about making tolerant allowances because of his work and relationship to the deceased, but promising all sorts of dire penalties if he allowed his imagination to run away with him. “Won't any of you come forward to substantiate my beliefs?”

The coroner banged loudly on the table. “Mr Carmichael! I cannot permit you to behave in this unorthodox fashion. The enquiry is closed!” He got up quickly and left the platform with Dr Spenser and Sergeant Motherwell.

Charles slumped down in his place waiting for the hall to clear. Presently a chair scraped in the hollow emptiness and the last remaining spectator—the man in the blue suit—got up and advanced leisurely. Charles watched his approach sullenly.

Then the stranger spoke, a humorous inflection in his deep, deliberate voice. “What you need, boy, is a drink.”

“I don't know who the hell you are,” Charles told him slowly, “but I think you're right. Not one, but several drinks. Will you join me?”

“I'd be delighted. There's a pub just over the way.”

They strolled out together, Charles with his hands in his pockets scowling at the ground, the other man stepping lightly and whistling tunelessly under his breath.

“Round one,” he announced cheerfully, as they placed a foot each on the bar rung. “What'll it be?”

“Whisky and soda.”

The stranger raised his eyebrow again and gave the order. “Beer for me.”

They drank the first round in silence, Charles facing the counter with his left forearm resting on it, the other standing sideways with his glass in his hand.

“Round two,” said Charles. “Repeat performance?”

The stranger nodded. “The name's McGrath.”

“Delighted to know you, Mr McGrath. Carmichael is mine—as I suppose you heard back at that circus.”

“You think there was a certain amount of hoop-holding?”

“You can say that again!”

“The coroner didn't let you say much. I gather you weren't in agreement with him?”

Charles drained his glass again and pushed it across the counter. He glanced around, then beckoned McGrath nearer. “Mustn't say it too loud, but the whole thing was a travesty.”

“So you said back in the hall—way out loud. Why a travesty?”

“Because my uncle was murdered. Poor old Athol was deliberately and cold-bloodedly shot. Poor old Athol! Here's to him.”

“Poor old Athol!” the other echoed gravely, raising his glass and lowering it again without drinking.

Charles leaned his other arm on the counter. “He was a great chap, Athol. A genius! And now he's dead. A genius one minute, then pouf! A corpse! A poor bloody corpse for a fool like Spenser to cut up. It was a privilege to know Athol. Did you know him?” he asked abruptly, turning his head and blinking McGrath into focus.

The other shook his head. “No, but as a matter of fact, I came here hoping to make his acquaintance.”

“You did? You came to this damn awful place just to meet Athol?” A clouded thought eddied in Charles's mind which he tried to catch and clarify. “Are you a friend or foe?”

“Exactly what do you mean by that, Mr Carmichael?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. Wait for it!” He pondered for a moment, then said triumphantly, “Hah! I know what I meant. Did you come here to murder Athol?”

“No, I didn't come here to murder him. To be honest, I particularly wanted him alive.”

Charles stared at him fixedly. “I believe you,” he said at last. “I don't quite follow, but I believe you. Here, you're not drinking. I want to drink to you, Mr McGrath, because you're Athol's friend, and you didn't come to Dunbavin to murder him.”

“Why, thanks. But I can hardly drink a toast to myself.”

Charles nodded his head wisely and raised his glass. “True, very true. Here's to you, Mr McGrath. The only friend poor old Athol has.” He pulled himself erect as he spoke and then lurched against McGrath. “I think I'd better sit down somewhere,” he declared simply. He made careful progress to a bench in the corner.

“Athol has so few friends,” he confided, when McGrath seated himself alongside. “Besides yourself, there is only me. But no one believes me, therefore I have no friends either. You see my reasoning?”

The other agreed amiably, and Charles went on sadly, “I thought Ellis would be my friend—but no, he wouldn't speak up for me. No one would come to my assistance. That is what friends are for—to come to your assistance when you want help. I feel very unhappy.”

McGrath's eyes narrowed, hiding the watchful twinkle. “Perhaps I can offer my assistance, Mr Carmichael. What precisely is your trouble? Why wouldn't the people from the Duck and Dog come to your assistance?”

“Because they are afraid,” said Charles aggressively, “and they have every reason to be. Do you think I'm going to allow Athol's murderer to go scot-free? Every one of them had a reason to dislike Athol, but one of them had a strong reason—strong enough to
torment poor old Athol first before murdering him. I tried to tell Motherwell, but he wouldn't believe me. Margot knew he was a haunted and hunted man, but she wouldn't speak up with me either.”

McGrath nodded his head soothingly like a confessor as he encouraged Charles to drool and muddle his way through the story. Charles thought he was marvellously understanding and kept breaking off to tell him so and how any friend of Athol's was a friend of his—how they must join forces to see justice done and Motherwell, Spenser and all the others at the Duck and Dog grovel. He also, somewhere during the discourse, begged McGrath—in view of their friendship through Athol—to call him Charles, and asked permission to call the other Mac since he did not know his right name. On being told it was Alexander, he begged to be allowed to continue with Mac, since he once knew a man called Alexander who used to split infinitives and drink nothing but straight gin.

McGrath agreed that in that case he would prefer Charles to call him Mac. In view of this step in their flourishing friendship he suggested that, as Charles wished him to join forces in seeking the truth of poor old Athol's death, it might be a good idea if he were to stay awhile at the Duck and Dog.

Charles swayed to his feet. “You can't know,” he announced solemnly, “what it will mean to me to have a friend in that house of foes. Let us go at once and I will introduce you to Athol's murderers.”

McGrath steered him out of the hotel. “Is that your car? I wonder if you would allow me to drive. I've got a sort of phobia about being driven.”

“With the greatest pleasure on earth,” said Charles, passing over the ignition key after much fumbling. “Do you know I think I'm a little drunk.”

“Yes, you are a bit. I suggest you take a nap. I know the way to this place.” He tucked Charles alongside the driver's seat and shut the door.

“All your suggestions are good ones,” declared Charles. “First of all, the drinks. Then telling you about Athol and your coming to the Duck and Dog and now a nap. You're a very clever fellow, Mac.”

“That remains to be seen,” the other muttered, as he backed away from the kerb and set the car on the road.

IX

Charles's head was still lolling against the seat when McGrath pulled up outside the Duck and Dog.

“Come on, boy, wake up! Time for the introductions.”

Charles stirred, opened hazy eyes, then closed them again and turned his head to the other side. McGrath grinned and got out of the car. He walked through the hotel, poking his head into rooms without encountering anyone until he reached the kitchen, where Miss Bryce was messily stuffing a pair of ducks.

Shelagh was in the dining room, setting the tables for dinner. The male voice brought her back to the kitchen. She thought it was Charles demanding lunch, and was ready to deliver a caustic lecture on guests who could not come to meals on time.

“Really most fortunate,” Miss Bryce was saying, looking harassed when watching her hands trussing the birds and triumphant when she viewed McGrath. “Shelagh—here's someone for Mr Sefton's room. He is a friend of Mr Carmichael's. Isn't it lucky the way—my niece, Mr McGrath!”

“Where is Charles?” asked Shelagh sharply.

“Out in the car asleep.”

“Asleep? Is he ill or something?”

“Something,” McGrath returned imperturbably, giving her a quick scrutiny. “I'll take him up to his room if you will show me the way.”

“Come along then.” She led the way along the passage. “Are you really a friend of his? He didn't say anything about your coming to stay.”

“You seem to be rather a sceptical young lady. Your aunt doesn't mind my staying.”

“My aunt doesn't mind who comes as long as the rooms are full and the guests pay,” said Shelagh crisply. “For myself, I think it is something of a coincidence that you should have known we had an unexpected vacancy.”