thing in the morning. Was it the pukka sahib who shot him? Or the spurned Adelaide? ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. Dear me, how your news has affected me! Never have I sunk so far as to quote—and such a cliché—at this hour.”
“I would be obliged if you would stop being facetious about a very serious matter,” said Charles stiffly.
“My apologies again. However, to maintain the revolting flow which seems to have attacked me, many a true word is spoken in jest.”
“There are some subjects one does not jest about,” said Charles angrily. “I came to you because—”
“What a remark from one who reviews detective stories so ably and wittily,” interrupted Ellis, bent on being infuriating. “I always say your mordant comments are the one thing worth reading in Athol’s depressingly esoteric periodical. Perhaps an enraged author shot Athol by mistake for you. Do let me know the results of your cogitations on this matter later. Now I must go back to bed.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” said Charles, putting his foot in the door. “What do you advise I should do about Athol?”
Ellis looked pained. “My dear Mr Carmichael, I never give advice. I have already exerted myself enough for your benefit—without a doubt the poor unpleasant fellow was murdered. I refuse to have my brain picked further. However, as you seem nonplussed, I suggest the mundane ritual of burial should come next—or cremation. I understand your late Aunt Paula enjoyed a final combustion. However much one disliked him in life, one must respect Athol’s last wishes.”
There was a brisk tap of feet coming down the stairs, and Ellis cocked his head. “Ah—my daughter Shelagh—so efficient at handling mundane situations. I recommend you to her.”
Charles turned in relief as the girl came down the passage. She was dressed in a tailored skirt and a spotless white blouse, her face and hair attractive and neat. She was on her way to the kitchen to start the breakfast before her aunt Grace got there.
“Shelagh, my dear, Athol Sefton has been shot and Mr Carmichael wants to know what to do next. What do you suggest?”
The girl glanced from one to the other sharply. “Shot? Is he badly hurt?”
“Dead,” 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.”
“You 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.”
“You must tell that to the person whose shot killed Athol,” rejoined Charles, nettled. “In the meantime I would like some practical advice.”
“You’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.”
“With pleasure and much relief,” said Charles grimly.
“You 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.
“Father being trying?” she enquired calmly, as they waited for the police station to answer.
“Very,” 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.”
“That 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.”
“What were you going to say?” asked Charles, taking the receiver she held out to him.
“Only that I can imagine there could be people who might have liked to murder Athol,” she announced coolly.
“That 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.
“Now 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.”
“My 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?”
“I 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 was here. Had he not been well?”
“He was being plagued by anonymous telephone calls and letters.”
“How unpleasant! What were they about?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but I think he might have been taking them seriously. I can’t understand why he didn’t report the matter to the police. He travelled under another name on the flight from Sydney, and when I met him at Melbourne airport, he was all huddled up in an overcoat and wearing dark glasses. Not that the disguise did much good. A note had been left for him at the gunsmith in Melbourne when he bought his Greenet.”
“But you don’t know what was in it? How strange not to confide in you.”
“There was a certain understanding between us, but never much love lost. A stranger matter was his insistence on spending the night at my flat instead of going to a hotel. I had the impression he wanted me under his eye, which was also his reason for dragging me up to this damn-awful place—as Margot Stainsbury dubbed your home town. At the moment I’m inclined to agree with her.”
Shelagh’s face became
