Duck Season Death by June Wright Page A

said, not in the least surprised to see Charles. The aura of his dream was still with him and he eyed Charles carefully. A baton was no crazier than the pair of muddy laced brogues that the young fellow carried in one hand.
    â€œEvidence,” announced Charles, lifting them up. “And I think I’ve found the murder weapon—at least, not found it precisely but one of Ellis Bryce’s Wildings is missing.”
    Sergeant Motherwell shook his head, trying to clear away that heaviness. “Now then, what’s all this about?” he demanded.
    Unwillingly he led the way to the office and seated himself at the desk on which lay his report, neatly but laboriously typed that morning. He gave a palpable wince when Charles placed Athol’s shoes on top of it, moving them ostentatiously to one side and regarding them with no less distaste when he heard the explanation of their presence.
    He listened phlegmatically to Charles’s theories, then pointed out that the sole design could be a common one. As for the footprint he had found near Teal Lagoon, it could undoubtedly belong to the person who shot Sefton—accidentally.
    â€œThen, even if it was not someone from the Duck and Dog who wore these shoes, are you going to do nothing about finding your so-called careless shooter?” asked Charles angrily.
    â€œThat will be for the Coroner to decide,” was the reply. As to the missing Wilding—had not Bryce stated that he must have lent it to someone?
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œA gentleman called Dougall rang to complain about you,” said the sergeant severely. “He said you were making everyone’s life a misery out at Bryce’s. Now see here, Mr Carmichael, if you can’t behave like a reasonable man and stop making a nuisance of yourself, I’ll have to find some way in which to make you.”
    Charles closed his lips on an angry retort. He realised he had aroused too much prejudice already and that his best course now was to play down his convictions, at least until the inquest. After enquiring more quietly when this would be, he took himself off.
    Sergeant Motherwell saw him go with relief, and after congratulating himself on his diplomatic handling of a hot-headed young crank, went back to his interrupted slumber.
    Dr Spenser was another Dunbavinite who believed in an after-luncheon nap on Sundays. His slumber was guarded by that excellent help-mate, Mrs Spenser, who early in marriage had constituted herself as a sort of bull-dog between the noble profession of her husband and that heedless, inconsiderate conglomerate of persons known as patients.
    She did not, however, take into account a visitor such as Charles. Seeing a sign above the side door marked ‘Surgery’, he stalked straight in without ringing or knocking, thus surprising the doctor with his shoes off and his open mouth showing the slipped upper plate of his dentures.
    Charles awakened him by rapping on the desk. He sat up hurriedly, just managing to shut his mouth before the upper plate fell out.
    â€œHullo, young fellow!” he said irritably. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
    â€œSorry if I disturbed you. I wanted to know what you’ve done with Athol.”
    â€œI had the undertaker over. Do you want to make arrangements about a funeral?”
    â€œYes, I suppose I’d better do something about that. Tell me, did you succeed in getting the bullet out?”
    â€œNaturally,” said the doctor testily, feeling about for his shoes.
    â€œWhere is it? Do you mind if I have a look?”
    â€œNo, I don’t mind, I suppose. But I can’t remember where I put it precisely.”
    â€œWhat!” ejaculated Charles. “You don’t remember where you put an important piece of evidence like the bullet!”
    The doctor put on his rimless spectacles in order to increase the haughtiness of his stare. “I don’t like your tone,