Duck Season Death by June Wright

disparaging appraisal. “I can’t see much to be afraid of.”
    â€œIt’s fear of exertion that is Father’s worry,” declared Jerry, with unfilial contempt. “He doesn’t care what happens as long as you all make fools of yourselves and keep him amused. And that includes you, Charles.”
    â€œI don’t understand what you are talking about,” stated Mrs Dougall flatly. “Jumbo! Will you kindly make a stand in this matter?”
    The Major gulped down the rest of his whisky and soda, touched his wiry moustache and squared his shoulders with a harrumph.
    â€œGad, sir!” muttered Jerry derisively, and turned to glare balefully at Jeffrey who was alleviating Margot’s boredom with the discussion.
    â€œMr Carmichael,” began the Major, forcefully enough. “We all realise that your uncle’s death has been a great shock—”
    â€œJust a minute,” interrupted Charles. “You knew Athol fairly well, did you not?”
    â€œI have been acquainted with him over a period of years. But that is beside the point. The assembled gathering here—”
    â€œI understand the acquaintanceship extended beyond a mutual antipathy at the Duck and Dog?”
    â€œI had a certain business acquaintance with him,” admitted the Major stiffly. “Though how that affects the present issue I fail to understand.”
    â€œI often think people who use the phrase ‘I fail to understand’, understand only too well,” put in Ellis musingly from the corner, where he had retired to watch proceedings.
    â€œI agree with you,” said Charles. “I understand quite well, Major Dougall, that you once went to Athol for advice on investing money, and that his advice was unfortunately not as sound as it should have been.”
    The Major’s colour rose with his voice. “I resent this inquisition, sir. What have my financial matters to do with you?”
    â€œNo doubt you bore my uncle a certain grudge over the failure of his advice?” persisted Charles.
    â€œI repeat, sir,” the other shouted, “that is none of your business. You are an undisciplined young cub, and your uncle was nothing short of a rogue.”
    â€œJumbo!” said Mrs Dougall sharply.
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t apologise to you yet, Major,” said Charles smoothly, and made an ironic bow towards Mrs Dougall.
    â€œI think that perhaps Mr Jeffrey has the right idea,” announced Mrs Dougall, giving the American the slight gracious bow she used to keep for young up-and-coming officers. “We will all of us disregard this—er—exceedingly difficult young man.”
    VII
    After lunch Charles took his car from the garage and drove into Dunbavin. He had no difficulty in locating the police station, but quite a deal in raising Sergeant Motherwell who, with his report on Athol Sefton’s death all written up ready for the inquest the following day, was enjoying a well-earned siesta. He lay stretched out on the leather-covered bench in his office under the ferocious hirsute gazes of by-gone custodians of law and order in Dunbavin.
    His dreams were slightly troubled by a subconscious thought of the cocky young chap who seemed bent on disrupting the smooth procedure of his official duties. Perhaps this was because of the telephone call from the Duck and Dog which had interrupted his meal just as his mother had placed before him a large serving of suet roll oozing jam. He dreamed that young Carmichael was attacking him with his own baton and raining down blows on his head. Although he felt no pain, he could hear the sounds of the blows and they sounded so much like wood upon wood that he awakened indignantly, at first blaming the pudding and then becoming conscious of someone knocking at the front door.
    Hurriedly, he pulled on his boots, gave a tug to his tunic and went to answer the summons. “Oh, it’s you!” he