Duck Season Death (25 page)

A buzz of talk broke out which Shelagh silenced with a crisp, “Be quiet, and let Mr McGrath explain.”

The detective looked at her quizzically. “Thank you, Miss Bryce. I had a high regard for your intelligence right from the start. It's a pity Charles does not appreciate it.” Then he addressed the others apologetically. “I'm sorry to upset your sense of false security, but I was never very interested in Sefton's death. My job here primarily is to enquire into the death of his wife, which took place some months ago. One always starts with a husband in such a case—hence my arrival in Dunbavin.”

“The natural starting point,” observed Ellis languidly.

“Yes, Sefton seemed the obvious culprit in an obvious case—the rich cantankerous invalid wife and the bon-vivant husband of limited means. Unfortunately I arrived too late to ask him if he had done the obvious in poisoning his wife. There was, however, a substitute suspect with whom I was able to get on intimate terms almost at once.

“Through Charles I arrived at the Duck and Dog, where I learned that his story of your divers dislikes of Sefton was not unfounded. He had also told me that his uncle's behaviour just prior to his apparent accidental death was that of a man suffering some sort of fear—though not necessarily of his life. There had been
vague threatening messages and so on. When the possibility occurred to me that it was Charles whom Athol suspected of sending the messages, my case against him strengthened.”

“You've got everything utterly upside down,” Charles said loudly.

“It would seem so,” McGrath admitted. “But it was you he was worried about. You see, Charles, Mrs Sefton was murdered for no other reason than that Athol Sefton would be accused of her death. He dared not lodge a complaint about the messages to the police. Your uncle suspected that she had been poisoned and the only way that could have happened was through the chocolates which you periodically sent your aunt. For a while he must have considered the possibility of your aunt's arranging her own death and the subsequent messages—hence his talk of ghosts to Miss Stainsbury.”

“Turner knew I sent chocolates to Aunt Paula. Lots of people probably knew, for that matter. His initial plan of revenge was to have Athol suffer for a crime he did not commit. When that failed he decided to come after him personally.”

“So that was why Athol had his wife cremated,” remarked Ellis, “I presume he was able to fix the death certificate because of her well-known chronic bad health. How frustrating for you, Charles!”

Charles made a gesture of weary resignation. “How do you talk like that, Father!” exclaimed Shelagh. “Athol came to a wrong conclusion, Charles. It wasn't you he should have been afraid of, but—” She broke off as she realised where her burst of indignation was leading her.

“Go on!” invited McGrath. “I feel sure you know.”

The girl looked across at him tensely. “Perhaps I do know, but supposing I am wrong? After all, it could only be a guess.”

“Go ahead and guess then. You put Charles on the right track, but he took a wrong turning.”

“All right!” said Shelagh, throwing up her hand. “It wasn't you Athol feared, Charles, not someone he knew.”

“It was Turner,” he said impatiently. “Even supposing Aunt Paula was murdered, he still fits.”

“No, he doesn't,” she contradicted gently. “There is one item Andrew Turner never fitted—Athol's shoes!”

There was a puzzled silence which McGrath broke by saying, “Go right ahead, Miss Bryce. You need have no fear of making a mistake.”

“She is her father's daughter,” observed Ellis irrepressibly. “Shelagh, my dear, tell us quickly. Who did fit Athol's shoes, by whatever bearing they may have on this most drawn-out affair?”

“The person who killed Athol wore his shoes to disguise footprints,” explained Charles slowly, and there was a look of dawning uneasiness in his eyes.

“Then it couldn't have been Turner,” said the American. “He was a much bigger man than your uncle.”

“Don't tell me it is going to lapse into a Cinderella farce where we all have to try on Athol's shoes,” implored Ellis. “Mr McGrath—since my daughter seems so reluctant to speak, won't you, please?”

“I'm only reluctant,” said Shelagh quietly, “because it is not my place to be pointing the accusing finger. Charles, you must know now. Remember those shoes of Athol's—they were laced! Who could have removed them after use without undoing the laces?”

“Only someone with a much smaller foot than Athol.”

“A woman, Charles!”

He gazed around the room wildly. “Don't look at me like that, young man!” boomed Mrs Dougall, sitting up straight. Nearby, Margot gave a little cry and put up her hands as though protecting herself.

Charles turned back to McGrath. “But Turner practically admitted everything!”

“Everything? Did he actually say he killed Athol?”

“No, no, he didn't, but—Mac, I must be right!”

“You took the wrong turning, boy,” said McGrath gently. He walked across the room to where Adelaide and Frances Turner sat.
“I have a warrant for your arrest for the murders of Mrs Paula Sefton and her husband, Athol. I must warn you—”

“Adelaide!” cried Mrs Dougall.

“No, not Adelaide,” snapped Shelagh over the sudden roar. “Frances Turner!”

With the stunned gaze of the room upon her, Frances sat up straight in her chair, staring at McGrath with wide grave eyes. “I don't understand what you mean. Andy—”

“Mrs Turner!” interrupted McGrath wearily, “you are a consummate actress, particularly in the role of the injured, helpless innocent. But I am a middle-aged policeman who has come up against your type before. You fooled your husband and you fooled Charles, but you can't fool me.”

She began to weep softly. “After all I have been through—”

“Keep your tears for the jury,” he recommended, putting a hand under her elbow and raising her up. “It will be for them to decide who had the stronger motive for revenging Dorothea Brand's suicide—her devoted sister or the man that sister knew probably never had any intention of marrying a paralytic. Proof of the one-sidedness of that affair can be seen in the way you were able to get Andrew to marry you. It is my belief that you did that not only as a cover but also so that if anything went wrong—as it did—Andrew would get his just deserts for not returning your sister's devotion.”

The tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked. “You're making a terrible mistake. I loved Andy, but I know now that he was only using me. I've never been out of Cranbilka before—before my honeymoon. But Andy used to go everywhere on account of his contracting business. He often went through Fisherton.”

“Why do you mention Fisherton, Mrs Turner?”

Her big eyes, wet with tears, flickered. “That's where—didn't Charles say that—”

“Charles did not say the name, Mrs Turner. In his account he merely said that to preserve anonymity, the murderer gave a false name and a post office address some distance from Cranbilka.
Your late husband was easily deceived by some pretext into collecting your mail—which included not only reports from the private enquiry agency you employed to check on the Seftons, but also supplies of chocolates from the Melbourne confectioner that Charles patronised for his aunt. The report I received on you from Cranbilka says that prior to your marriage you were employed as an assistant to the local chemist. We have asked him to check on any dangerous pharmaceutical ingredients that might be missing.”

Frances turned her head. “Charles!” she called imploringly. Charles was sitting slumped in a chair looking lost and dejected. Shelagh bent over him. “You mustn't even look at her,” she advised quietly.

McGrath surveyed him kindly from across the room. “When you get into the crime game professionally, boy, you learn never to let your emotions become involved. I grew to like you, Charles, but I still would not have hesitated to arrest you. What you told me in Sydney was going to be your last chance. Luckily for you, your theories stood up to investigation and turned out to be right in every detail except the exact identity of the killer. I am full of admiration for what you did, boy!”

Charles raised his eyes. “Thanks, Mac—but are you quite—sure?”

“Quite sure, boy. You need have no remorse. Mrs Turner has her head screwed on properly—you can tell by the way she is keeping up her act. The prosecution is in for a tough time. She may even get off at her trial. Heaven help you if she still affects you in the same way then, for remember this—she had no hesitation in planting that Wilding on you and she made a scapegoat out of her husband even to the extent of killing him! In the meantime—here, Miss Bryce, you look after the foolish fellow!”

“I'll do that,” Shelagh promised, a deep, warm note in her voice. “Charles, look at me!”

Ellis's eyes goggled and Miss Bryce, coming in to collect the coffee cups, fell into mild hysterics as Shelagh took Charles's face in her hands and kissed him long and efficiently.

“Why, Shelagh!” exclaimed Charles idiotically, when he was able to speak. He did not notice that McGrath had led Frances Turner from the room.

THE END