Duck Season Death (24 page)

“You saw us put off in the boat and then selected a hidden position within range, from which you, as an expert shot, could not fail to be successful. There you waited until Athol stood up to fire at the ducks. It took you just one shot and what you had planned so carefully and cleverly was accomplished. You had murdered the man who had caused the death of Dorothea Brand.”

Turner made a convulsive movement, then controlled himself. “Very clever, aren't you? You bump off your own uncle, hoping to make it look an accident and, when things start to get hot, you pin the blame on someone else. Well, you're not going to pin it on me, see? And I'm not going to open my mouth either. I'm going to find Frances and we are going home—back to Cranbilka, right away from swine like you and your uncle. And don't think to come after us, either. I'll fix it so that you won't be able to set foot in Cranbilka.”

Charles watched him steadily. “You will never go back to Cranbilka with Frances,” he said quietly. “It's almost the last scene, Turner. I sent Frances into the town to get the police. She should be back any minute, and then—” he turned aside, giving a fatalistic shrug.

A noise like that of an enraged animal came from Andrew Turner. He leapt at Charles, dragging him to the ground. They rolled over once or twice, locked together. There followed moments
of confusion and struggle as each man strode to gain the offensive. The night was broken only by the sounds of their panting and grappling. Then Turner was astride of Charles, with his hand at his throat in a blind murderous rage.

Charles made desperate efforts to throw him off as he tugged at the other's fingers. He could feel the pressure on his wind-pipe growing firmer and there was a drumming in his head as though it would burst. When the explosions sounded, he thought it was part of his own death agony.

He came slowly back to reality after Turner's fingers had slipped from his throat. He lifted his head and watched with fascinated gaze as the big figure, which had been above him, turned in a slow heavy roll and settled into a quiet sprawling heap alongside him.

“Andy! Andy! Oh, what have I done!” cried Frances Turner, throwing herself beside the dead man. She burst into a flood of weeping, rocking herself to and fro.

With an effort, Charles tried to collect his thoughts. He leaned over and felt for Turner's heartbeat. His hand encountered a wet stickiness. “He's dead! How—?”

“I shot him! I shot him!” sobbed the girl. “I thought he was killing you, oh, Andy, Andy!”

Charles struggled to his feet and went to her. He drew her up, away from her dead husband and buried her head in his shoulder. He held her there quietly and firmly until the hysterical weeping ceased and she rested, spent from emotion, against him.

Suddenly, in her normal husky voice, she said hesitantly, “I was here all the time. I knew something like this might happen. I was so afraid—Andy—”

“Don't try to talk,” said Charles soothingly, as her voice broke again and she began to tremble.

A sudden blinding light was focused on them, causing the girl to cry out in alarm. Then a well-known voice spoke out of the darkness beyond. “Well, boy! It seems as though I'm right on my cue.”

IX

Back at Dunbavin's Duck and Dog, there had been much speculation as to the precipitate disappearance of Charles and McGrath. Shelagh Bryce, the only one with some idea of their whereabouts and the reasons thereto, maintained an attitude of unruffled and infuriating reticence and refused to be drawn into the discussion. But she went about her tasks in the hotel with a faint frown of worry on her smooth forehead and showed a tendency to jump when the telephone rang. Her father marked the slight disturbances of her habitual calm and showed an ironic concern.

Ellis was being more than ever tiresome, which was his way to work off irritation. He was completely in the dark as to the meaning of Charles's disappearance and found it galling. However, he was afforded some measure of reinstatement by being the one who answered Charles's telephone call on the night of the third day—the first news they had had since the meeting of the Dunbavin Reading Circle at the Spensers'. Charles explained briefly where he was, what had taken place and his intention to bring Frances Turner back to the hotel. McGrath would also return, as he felt Ellis and his household were entitled to a full explanation of the case.

“Well, well!” said Ellis, as he put back the receiver and turned to find Shelagh standing tensely at his elbow. “That was Charles, my dear—ringing from Weerundi. He's been having quite an interesting time up there. It seems he has caught up with poor Athol's killer at last—none other than our late guest, Andrew Turner.”

“Andrew Turner! Did Charles say Mr McGrath had arrested him?”

“Charles was being very succinct. But I gathered from the brevity of his remarks that all is not well. Turner eluded arrest in that time-honoured way murderers have and he is most concerned about the little widow. He wants you to care for her for a few days. They will be here this evening, so go and break the news to Grace while I tell the rest of the ghouls.”

Ellis then retired to the bar, where he spent a most enjoyable day pretending that it was Andrew Turner whom he had had in mind when he had declared earlier that he could guess who had shot Athol Sefton. There was relief on several faces at the news and the guests unbent towards each other as suspicions evaporated. Speculation now turned on how Charles and McGrath had tracked Turner down, and it was an eager, avid audience that awaited the appearance of the three principals.

Their entrance, if they had felt inclined to mind such matters, could not have been better timed. They came in when the whole household was drinking after-dinner coffee in the lounge. The exclamations of welcome were topped by Margot Stainsbury's inimitable little shriek which she gave at the sight of Charles's bruised face.

“Never mind about that now,” he said shortly, guiding Frances solicitously to a chair. He bent over her, whispering, and looked up with a wistful smile. Then he straightened and asked, “Where is Shelagh?”

“Here,” replied a quiet even voice. The others had gathered around McGrath at the far end of the room. Charles went to her with one hand outstretched. “Well, the woman's instinct was right,” he admitted, smiling. “I don't know how to thank you for the tip.”

“I'm glad you found some use for it,” she returned coolly, looking beyond him at the small huddled figure he had left. “What is to happen now?”

His smile changed to a frown of concern. “I think Frances should go to bed, don't you? Perhaps we should get old Spenser to see her.”

From across the room, the girl caught what he was saying. “No, please, I feel perfectly all right. And I'd much rather stay here than go to bed.” The group near McGrath stopped talking and turned at the sound of the gentle husky voice. Frances glanced at them fleetingly. “But please don't let me stop you from—from any discussion
you may wish to have. I'd much rather stay here and listen, than go to my room and wonder what you were saying.”

Mrs Dougall beamed approvingly. “You're perfectly entitled to stay—and a brave gal to face up to things!” The Major made strangulated noises of endorsement through his moustache, and Adelaide, ready tears of sympathy shining in her eyes, crossed the room to sit beside Frances.

“As far as I'm concerned,” announced the American, his jaw pugnacious as he gazed at McGrath, “your husband did everyone a good turn, and you mourn our hero, not a villain.”

“I ag—ag—” stammered Wilson earnestly.

“Mr Wilson agrees with Mr Jeffrey's sentiments,” supplied Ellis in bored tones.

“Well, I don't!” announced Jerry trenchantly. “Oh, I admit Athol was a swine and all that, but you can't go bumping people off because you've got a hate against them. Furthermore, you can't make a hero out of a man who was unable to face the music. Suiciding when you're caught is a poor show, I think!”

“Jerry!” said Charles furiously.

McGrath stepped into the centre of the room. “All right, boy! Don't get hot and bothered. You're sure you're all right, Mrs Turner?”

Her voice shook a little as she answered, “Yes, please go on. They'll have to know it sooner or later.”

The detective addressed Jerry. “I don't know whether it will put Turner back on his pedestal for you, but the truth is he didn't suicide. He was shot—by Mrs Turner.”

“We were fighting,” Charles enlarged hastily. “Frances only intended to wound him, but—” He broke off as a quiet sob came from the girl. Abruptly she buried her head in Adelaide's receptive shoulder.

“You mean she saved your life?” asked Margot, her eyes open wide. “You must be terribly, terribly grateful to her, Chas.”

“I am,” he said quietly, and a respectful silence fell.

“Well, now!” said McGrath genially. “Having got over the final hurdle, perhaps we might as well go back to the beginning.”

“Yes, go on,” said Frances, raising her head. “Now you all know why I wanted to be here. I couldn't bear the thought of your talking about what I had done behind my back.”

“The point that troubles me,” remarked Ellis, as though pondering a great question, “is if Andrew is a hero, can Frances be a heroine when she killed him?”

“Have some coffee, Father,” suggested Shelagh, who had taken a cup to Frances.

“My daughter is rebuking me for ill-timed facetiousness. Do continue, Mr McGrath! We are all agog as to how you tracked down poor Athol's killer.”

“Charles is better qualified to give you that explanation,” said McGrath handsomely.

“You may have the privilege,” Charles conceded with a grin. “The only thing I do want to know is how you got out of the store-room in Athol's office. I locked Mac in because he didn't seem to believe me about Turner and I wanted a free hand,” he explained to the others.

Without rancour, McGrath related the details of his escape. He had managed, after much patient manipulation of various extempore lock-picking tools, to eject the store-room key to the ground and draw it under the door. Once in Athol's office, he had tried the telephone, but Miss Smart had switched the exchange line to the board before leaving the office. The only move was to attract the attention of someone below in the street. He attracted so much attention that the flying squad, a fire brigade cart and a minister of religion arrived on the scene, all equally convinced that he was a would-be suicider. It took quite some time to explain his position, but at the first available opportunity he set into motion a new plan of investigation to check on Charles's own enquiries. He then set off in hot pursuit and was, in fact, only a short distance behind him, having travelled through the night Charles spent at the roadside.

The camp attendant at Boyes proved as helpful to McGrath as he had been to Charles, and it was from his store that the detective had rung through to the police at Weerundi asking him to keep a look-out for a young chap enquiring about the Holden utility. The Weerundi sergeant stationed himself as an interested buyer at Warner's store, listened to Charles's story, and then waited for McGrath so as to conduct him to the camp at Angler's Point.

Charles again interposed hastily at this juncture, and told his listeners of the various moves he had taken after fleeing from the Spensers' party.

“It was as I said at the beginning,” remarked Ellis, with complacent sapience. “Athol was murdered because of a disgruntled writer to whom he had given a poor review.”

Charles allowed him his pleasure. “Yes, I remember you said something of that kind.”

“At one stage I seem to recall your saying any one of us could be guilty,” said Jeffrey, with a grin.

“Did you, Ellis?” queried Margot, with a shriek of protest. “Even I—you horrid man?”

“Even you, my dear.”

While they were bickering amiably, Charles went back to Frances. “Are you sure you are all right? They don't mean to be brutal, but I don't see how you can bear it.”

“I'm perfectly all right,” she repeated, smiling gratefully at his concern. “And Miss Dougall is being so kind.” Adelaide grew red with the pleasure of being acknowledged.

McGrath's voice broke through a clearing in the conversation. “There now seems only one problem that has been left unanswered.”

Charles turned round quickly. “What is that?”

“The one and only problem as far as I'm concerned. The reason why I was sent down here in the first place. Who murdered Mrs Paula Sefton?”

X

A sudden quietness fell over the room—a silence which seemed to manifest uneasiness and regret at having lowered guards too soon.

“Oh, Mac!” said Charles disgustedly. “You're not going to start that all over again, are you? Does it rankle because I showed you the way to Athol's killer?”

“Not in the least, boy,” the other returned amiably. “I am exceedingly grateful to you for putting me on the right track. But I very much doubt if Turner murdered Sefton.”

“You doubt it!” repeated Charles incredulously. “Have you gone mad?”