Duck Season Death (23 page)

A grin of pure conceit crossed his face as the local storekeeper—who was also a caretaker for the park—volunteered further information that they intended making for a town two hundred miles on, in the environs of which they planned to stay. This particular town, Weerundi, was situated on a river which he himself had recommended as excellent for rainbow trout fishing. If Charles wished to meet up with them, he would most likely find them camped on a certain angle of the river three miles out of town—a spot which the storekeeper had gone to elaborate plans to identify as the young pair seemed so interested.

Charles thanked his informant fervently and got back into his car. The storekeeper ambled after him and leaned on the door. “In case they changed their minds, I suggest you make enquiries at Warner's store. I told them to look up old Bert if they wanted a licence or any tackle.”

Charles thanked him again and thought what a wonderful place the country was. Any stranger in the district stood out like men from Mars, and their movements were automatically under surveillance. So intent was he on catching up with his quarry that it did not occur to him that he was a figure of interest and speculation too.

It was after midday when he left the camping ground. Back on the main road, he set the speedo climbing, making as good progress as the rugged surface of the secondary highway allowed. Towards evening he arrived at Weerundi, and drove slowly down the main street looking for Warner's store.

He was fortunate in finding it still open, the proprietor having been detained by a haggling buyer after fishing rods.

“Excuse me,” said Charles, not disposed to being delayed at this juncture of the chase. “I'm in rather a hurry.”

The buyer, a big man in grey flannels and a polo neck pullover, looked him over, then said grudgingly, “See what he wants then, Bert, I'll wait.”

“Thanks,” Charles acknowledged briefly and then addressed Bert. “The camp caretaker at Boyes told me to look you up. I'm looking for some—ah—friends of mine by the name of Turner—a young married couple. He said they would probably call here to obtain a fishing licence. Have you seen them?”

Bert pondered the question, rubbing his nose. “A young pair? Big, set-up fellow and a little, sort of softly spoken woman? Driving a Holden ute? Can't say as how their name was Turner though.”

“It sounds like them. Your friend mentioned a spot on the river where he advised them to try their luck. Which road do I take?”

Bert massaged his chin. “I guess old Joe meant Angler's Point. You take the track behind the R. C. Church—rather a rough sort of road. It follows the river. If they're still there, you can't miss them.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Charles as he turned away. Then he thought of something else. “By the way, where is the police station in this town?”

There was a pause as Bert glanced over at the other customer, who had suddenly stopped making imaginary casts with the willow rod. “Police station? You want to know where the police station is? Why, that's just around the corner from here. But I reckon you won't find the sergeant in just now.”

“I don't want to see him right away. Probably later—in fact, quite definitely later,” Charles corrected himself, and then left the shop.

Dusk was now falling—a slow-encroaching film that is the beginning of the night-time in the country. Charles swerved and bumped over the narrow dirt track which led out to Angler's Point. Presently he saw a Holden utility backed in among the trees on the bank of the stream the track had been following. He drew up on the side of the track, switched off the engine and climbed out.

It was a still, quiet, warm evening. He could hear the splash and trickle of the water, and the hum of late summer insects. Advancing quietly towards the utility, he looked in the cabin. An ignition key dangled from the dash-board, its label bearing Turner's name and address. He felt a stab of anger when he saw the name Cranbilka, and remembered how hard he had worked to get hold of that name.

The scrub was thick, but he pushed his way through it as quietly as he could to where the ruddy glow of a fire was just visible. He could see a figure squatting beside it, and presently recognised Frances Turner. She was wearing faded jeans and a tartan shirt, and was busy scraping and filleting a fish. The fire shone on her intent little face. Charles thought she looked extraordinarily small and vulnerable. He glanced around carefully, but of Andrew there was no sign.

Suddenly Frances looked up. “Who's there?” she asked, her hands straining to the gun propped against a nearby tree.

Charles stepped out. “Don't be frightened,” he said quietly.

She gave a gasp when she recognised him, followed by a hasty glance over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Where is your husband?”

“Andy? He is down at the river—fishing. What do you want with him?”

Charles came nearer. “I think you can guess,” he said gently.

She looked up at him in silence for a moment. “I don't know
what you mean. Why have you followed us like this? Is there—is there anyone else with you?”

“No, I'm alone. If you are thinking of McGrath, I left him locked up in an office in Sydney.”

“Locked up—! Are you joking at me? What were you doing in Sydney?”

“Discovering the identity of my uncle's murderer.”

She jumped up and moved out of the firelight. “That is nothing to do with—with Andy,” she said in her breathless, husky voice. “I can't think how—”

“Yes, you can! You've suspected all along that Andy killed Athol, haven't you?”

She bent her head and did not reply.

“Before he married you, Andy was in love with another girl in Cranbilka. Her name was Dorothea Brand and she wrote poetry. She had a volume published which Athol panned with more than his usual unpleasantness, making some wounding personal remarks which led her into taking her own life. After pursuing a cat-and-mouse torment, Andy finally ran Athol to earth at Dunbavin and killed him.”

A long, shuddering sigh broke from the girl and she suddenly covered her face with her hands. Charles crossed to her quickly and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don't be distressed,” he said quietly. “Be brave and face the facts—shocking though they are.”

He continued to hold her while she trembled and cried noiselessly against him. She felt little and light and helpless. He put his arms around her slim body to support her more firmly, and she clung to him like child.

“Frances!” he spoke her name without meaning to, and she gave a child-like gulp of surprise and raised her head.

For a moment she stood in his arms silently, and she whispered hopelessly, “What am I going to do?”

“You must get away from your—from Andrew as quickly as you can. You're not safe if he knows you suspect him. I don't want
to sound brutal, you poor little thing, but it is obvious he only married you for an alibi.”

“You mean he would—he might—?” Charles nodded grimly and felt her shudder again.

“And you—what about you?” she asked, gripping the lapels of his coat with both hands. “What are you going to do?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I'm going to stay here to meet him.”

“No, Charles, you mustn't! Let's slip away at once without seeing him.”

He clasped her narrow wrists and gently put her away from him. “I'll be all right. I must stay. In some way or other, I've got to get him to admit his guilt. You see, the police think I killed Athol. This is my only chance.”

“I won't leave you.”

He felt in his pocket, drew out his car key and put it into her hand. “Take my car. It's down the track a bit. Go into the town and find the police station. It's round the corner from the store where you got your fishing licence. Tell the sergeant everything and bring him back here. If, by then, I haven't been able to—” he broke off and walked away from her to the other side of the clearing. Through the trees, he could see the faint glimmer of the stream and a shape moving along the steep, rock-strewn bank.

“Hey, Frankie!” came the faint call. Charles glanced over his shoulder. The girl had gone.

VIII

He went back to the fire, threw some twigs on it and waited. He could hear Andrew Turner clambering up the bank, and presently he appeared through the trees, dangling a pair of fair-sized trevally from one hand.

“Here's supper and breakfast, Frankie. Your old man has certainly got the game beaten.”

“Good-evening, Turner!” Charles said from the shadows.

“Who's that?” asked the other quickly. “Oh, it's you, Carmichael. What on earth are you doing here? Hey, Frankie—guess who's blown in.”

“Frances has gone,” said Charles, advancing nearer the fire.

“Oh, you've seen her, have you? Where's she gone?”

“Into the town.”

“She didn't say anything about going. What's she gone there for?”

“I told her to go. I want to have a talk with you—alone!”

“What about?” Turner asked defensively.

“Dorothea Brand,” replied Charles quietly.

The other man seemed to stiffen. Then he began to dismantle his rod, concentrating on the task. “Has Frances been talking about Dorrie? She was her sister, you know.”

“No, I didn't know. I first came across the name by reading a review Athol Sefton wrote of her book of poems. I made a few enquiries and learned about the—the subsequent tragedy.”

“The old bastard!” exclaimed Turner violently. He appeared suddenly to realise what he had said and gave an uneasy laugh. “I suppose he had to write something. I can't understand why Dorrie took it so much to heart. She was a funny kid—frightfully highly-strung and sensitive. I suppose writing poetry—”

His voice dwindled away as Charles kept staring at him steadily. “I don't get what this is all about,” he went on, more aggressively. “Why have you chased us all this way to talk about Dorrie? What have you been saying to my wife that she has gone off like this?”

“I told Frances to go because she is not safe staying with you.”

“What do you mean—not safe?” the other shouted. “You've got a bloody nerve, you have. Don't you think I didn't see the way you were making up to Frances back at the Duck and Dog. What lies have you been spinning her?”

“No lies,” replied Charles evenly. “Just facts of which she herself was suspicious.”

“You've poisoned her mind against me in some way. Frankie knows I would never harm her.”

“Maybe that's how you feel now, but supposing one day she made the mistake of letting you know her suspicions—what then? Supposing she became a danger to you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do—only too well.”

“You're crazy!” said Turner loudly. “Get the hell out of here or I'll—”

“Athol didn't know who you were,” interrupted Charles, raising his voice. “You were quite safe, weren't you? It must have been strange that—knowing so much about Athol first and then meeting him face to face. What did you think of him that night, I wonder? Did the meeting soften or harden you in your resolve?”

“I hated his guts—just as I hate yours,” said Turner furiously.

“Yes, I can well believe that. He was in top form that night. Is it any satisfaction to you to learn that Athol's behaviour then was mostly bravado? He was a worried, frightened man, Turner. You had succeeded wonderfully in your plans to torment him first. He had gone through a little hell already. Perhaps you might have been content if you had known. There were others who wanted to finish the job—Harry Jeffrey and Wilson and perhaps Adelaide Dougall.”

“They all thought he was a stinker—I could see that.”

“Yes, everyone hated Athol. I wasn't over-fond of him myself. But it had to be someone who hated Athol a bit more than average.”

“What had to be?” demanded Turner fiercely. “Okay—go on with your nattering. You won't get any change out of me. I'd never met your bloody uncle before, and no one can make me say differently.”

“Ah—that makes you feel so secure, doesn't it? But it won't work, Turner. You knew that Athol planned to duck-shoot and you persuaded Frances to take a sleeping dose, which, even if she
awakened when you slipped from your room, would make her so heavy and confused as not to be sure of your departure. I've had one of those pills of yours and know their effect.”

“It's a pity you didn't take the whole bottle,” sneered Turner.

“You planned to take your own rifle when you followed Athol and me that morning,” Charles went on. “A common enough type—a Wilding. But Ellis Bryce had a pair of them in his gunroom, which was quicker and, so you thought, safer to borrow than getting yours from your car or leaving it in your room for Frances to see. You took another precautionary measure by borrowing Athol's shoes. If the police did get suspicious and began looking for footprints you would be covered.