Duck Season Death by June Wright Page B

young man. The bullet is superfluous. All that is necessary is contained in my report.”
    â€œI must find it,” said Charles fretfully, slapping his hand over the desk in case it was under papers. “For heaven’s sake will you try to remember what you did with it?”
    â€œKindly stop touching my belongings and get out of here. I didn’t ask you in to start with, and to finish I don’t like you—or your uncle.”
    â€œWhich is why you’ve hidden the bullet,” accused Charles wildly.
    â€œHidden? Why should I—now, look here, young man, have you gone mad?”
    â€œI’m the one sane person in this whole crazy affair,” retorted Charles. “The only one with enough honesty and common sense to realise that Athol was murdered, not shot by accident.”
    â€œAre you still clinging to that ludicrous notion? I advise you to watch your step.”
    â€œI’m watching it—and others’ as well. Did you put it down somewhere carefully or throw it out?”
    The doctor said coldly, “If you mean the bullet, it’s probably in the swab bucket in the other room. If you just stay quietly for a moment I’ll take a look.” With a last wary glance, he went out. After a few minutes he came back. “Here you are!”
    â€œI note that you found it pretty quickly when you saw I was in earnest. Tell me, what sort of gun would you say this fitted?”
    The doctor’s face quivered with dislike, but he replied equably, “Probably a Wilding—like that one of mine in the corner.”
    Charles swung round. “You own a Wilding?”
    â€œCertainly. Why do you ask?”
    â€œThe inference is obvious, I’d say,” retorted Charles and took his leave.
    VIII
    The duck season opened officially at five a.m. on Monday, March the second. All over the State of Victoria, sportsmen (and women) waited at swamps, lakes and rivers for the chilly dawn to break.Quite a few opened up before the set time, thus spoiling the fun for others. But at Teal Lagoon near the Duck and Dog, the party was kept strictly to schedule under the frosty eye of Major Dougall. He had set his watch by Eastern Standard Time the previous night and checked off the minutes in a voice of mounting tension as though planning a surprise assault on the Khyber Pass. As Margot stated to Charles later—the pukka sahib made it sound exciting even though it was the most boring affair she had ever been at.
    In the glorious blaze-away which followed, the unpleasant affairs of the day before were forgotten. The only contretemps which marred proceedings was the claiming of a bird which both Jerry Bryce and the American insisted they had brought down. This developed into a three-sided contest when Wilson announced that the bird was a shoveller and they should not have shot it anyway. The disclosure of the field inspector’s identity reduced Charles’s position on the scale of unpopularity, and they were still arguing hotly as to who should pay the fine when they returned to the hotel for breakfast.
    Nothing was said about attending the inquest on Athol Sefton, but there was a general casual leaning towards the idea of taking a jaunt into the town. When Charles set off later in the morning he smiled grimly at the reflection of a string of cars in his rear-vision mirror.
    The Mechanics Institute was crowded with people who had heard curious rumours concerning the Sunday accident. There were whispers and pointings as Charles entered. He glared about him in annoyance and the stares—all except one—were averted. A thickset man in a blue suit seated at the back of the hall kept looking at him in a speculative, laconic way, refusing to be shamed into glancing away.
    Charles’s heart sank when he saw that the gathering was only a formal enquiry. No jury had been summoned so the verdict was to rest on the summing up of the coroner, a local tradesman with a face