Duck Season Death Read Free

matter where you put Pukka and Memsahib? They always complain about something, anyway. Which reminds me—there was a telegram from our old friend, Sefton. You’ll find it on the desk somewhere. He’s bringing his nephew along with him this year.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me before? Now you’ve upset—you really are the most inconsiderate—” With a long suffering sigh which had no effect whatsoever, Miss Bryce fumbled amongst the bills, receipts and circulars and found the telegram. ‘Reserve accommodation for self and nephew, Charles Carmichael, from evening 28th February—Athol Sefton.’ As Ellis was now talking to the Duck and Dog’s solitary guest, she did not call out for his advice, but marked in two adjoining rooms on the floor plan she had drawn up. She would tell Ellis later what she thought of Mr Sefton’s impending sojourn.
    The guest—a pale, unobtrusive man called Wilson—had arrived a week earlier. He was evidently not a duck-shooter for he had brought no guns with him; neither had he made any enquiries about local equipment, while he was patently nervous of the two or three water dogs Ellis kept for the use of the guests. Although afflicted with a stammer which made conversation not only embarrassing but tedious, he was no trouble and went off for long walks wearing khaki shorts, which revealed his pale bony legs and a pair of field glasses slung around his plucked chicken neck. Miss Bryce presumed that he was some sort of ornithologist, who did not like to vouchsafe the information because of the terrific effort needed to form the word.
    Miss Bryce’s distraction became further diverted as her roving eye lighted on an open letter lying on the desk. It was written in bold capitals with a few dashes and twirls to make up the rest of the words. The worry lines on her face waxed as she deciphered it. Presently she turned her head sideways to call out to Ellis about it and almost rubbed noses with Wilson, who had come into the gunroom unheard.
    Miss Bryce dismissed the extraordinary notion that he had been looking over her shoulder. “Why, good morning, Mr Wilson! Going out walking again? And it’s such a wet day! Good weather for ducks, as so we hope. But you have a raincoat, haven’t you?” Unlike her brother, who maliciously delighted in engaging him in conversation, she always kept to questions which required only anod or shake of Wilson’s head. When he had gone, she turned back to the letter. “Ellis, I don’t like the sound of this young woman Jerry wants to bring home for the weekend. Who is she?”
    â€œA m-m-model.”
    â€œShh, he’ll hear you. And you shouldn’t tease him like that. It’s most unkind. How would you like—it’s a pity you don’t pay more attention to your children instead of—it was an artist last time—at least she called herself an artist. I’m sure I couldn’t make head nor tail of that painting she gave you. It looked to me as though one of the dogs had got to it. Still, I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer an artist to a model. Why does Jerry get entangled with such females?”
    Ellis gave a sudden guffaw. “Not that sort of model. This one’s paid to wear clothes.”
    â€œI think it is high time you behaved as a father should and not let your children run wild.”
    â€œWild? Shelagh? Now, come, come!”
    â€œYes, Shelagh is all right, though I must say it doesn’t seem right for a girl of twenty-two to be so certain of herself and so—well, sort of unfeeling, even if she is a nurse.”
    â€œYes, I know,” said Ellis, yawning. “At least Jerry’s females are amusing.”
    â€œEllis, you are the most unnatural father. You’ve allowed those two to grow up anyhow. It is easy to see whom Jerry takes after. But Shelagh is a good girl. At least she is conscious of her duties and