Free Duck Season Death by June Wright

to kill Athol.”
    Margot gave a horrified gasp. “Charles, do you know what you’re saying!”
    â€œYes, I know. Now don’t get into a flap like a good girl. I know you were fond of Athol, but you’re as tough as they come actually.”
    â€œBut Chas, this is absurd, frightful, I don’t know which. You should have broken it more gently. You always were a clumsy-tongued creature.” She put both her hands over her face for a moment, but not too roughly so as to disturb her skilful make-up, then emerged looking dewy-eyed. “Charles, they don’t really think Athol was murdered, do they?”
    He deplored the loose pronoun. “If by ‘they’ you mean the local authorities—no, they don’t. They think Athol was killed accidentally by another duck-shooter. For several reasons to which they refused to listen, I think Athol was murdered. You know one of those reasons yourself, Margot.”
    She looked startled. “No, I don’t. Now Charles, don’t be silly. I told you before you made too much of a thing of this detective business. Don’t you remember?”
    â€œYes, I remember. I can also recall the occasion when you issued that rebuke. At a cocktail party when you were talking to me about Athol’s odd behaviour in Sydney, and how you thought he was haunted.”
    â€œDid I say that?” she asked lightly, after an almost imperceptible pause. “I can’t recall exactly, but if you say so, darling, I won’t deny it.”
    â€œYou’d better not deny it,” he said good-humouredly, hoping to coax away the slightly guarded look that had come over her face. “I want you to tell Sergeant Motherwell that you had also noticed a change in Athol and about that mysterious phone call he received while lunching with you at Manonetta’s. You wouldn’t want the person who killed Athol to get away with it, would you? Imagine, Margot—someone was deliberately playing on his nerves before finally murdering him!”
    She lit a cigarette, inserting it in her long, tortoise-shell holder with fingers that trembled slightly. “Damn, I’m as nervy as a cat. I feel ghastly over this, Chas. I simply can’t believe that Athol was actually murdered. What I mean is—who would have done such a thing?”
    â€œSomeone staying here at the Duck and Dog.”
    She stared at him for a moment, then her lids lowered and a little smile played around her mouth. He knew that expression of old. You could go so far with Margot, but when she chose to stop there was no forcing her on. “Oh now, Chas!” she said in an amused voice. “You can’t really mean what you say. It just doesn’t make sense. I know quite a few people hated poor Athol, but no one would actually murder him. Darling, you’re trying to complicate something which is quite simple. You know, dear,” she went on, changing to earnestness, “I don’t think you’ve looked a bit well lately. All that writing about detective novels—you’ve got murder on your mind.”
    Next she’ll be telling me I need a holiday, thought Charles.
    She got up and came round to put an affectionate arm around his shoulders. “Believe me, Charles, I know just how you feel. Just as soon as this dreadful business is wound up, you must get away from everything—take a trip somewhere.”
    â€œI’ve taken a trip,” said Charles. “I came here—and here I am going to stay until I find out who killed Athol.”
    â€œDarling, do be reasonable! You can’t go round poking and prying. Goodness knows what you’ll turn up.”
    â€œWhich is precisely what I hope will happen. Someone here hated Athol with more than the usual animosity he aroused—enough to murder him.”
    â€œYou are going to make yourself terribly disliked,” she said on a sigh.
    â€œI can bear it. Why the sudden anxiety