Duck Season Death. June Wright

testily. “Motherwell, it is up to you. I’ve given you my opinion as a medical man, but yours is the final word.”

      The policeman said with ponderous dignity, “I can only presume that Mr Carmichael’s imagination is running away with him. I shall put in a full report concerning this distressing affair; naturally there will be an inquest. Mr Carmichael need have no fear that this business will not be wound up entirely to the satisfaction of unbiased authority. But such wild talk of murder cannot be condoned. I must request you, sir, not to voice such fantastic beliefs.”

      “I haven’t got that much imagination,” said Charles irritably. “Otherwise I would write books instead of reviewing them. And my beliefs are not fantastic but feasible. My uncle had some trouble on his mind. I don’t say he realised his life was in danger, but he was a changed man—and what is more I can produce witnesses to back me up in that statement.”

      There was a pause; then the doctor said thoughtfully, “What sort of books do you review, Mr Carmichael? Ah, yes! You are associated with Mr Sefton in the production called Culture and Critic.”

      “Detective novels,” replied Charles defiantly. “But that has nothing to do with the matter in hand.”