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the rising sun striking the mellow old stone. He went through the empty ground floor, past the stairs, to a door which led to one of the weatherboard annexes. Ellis Bryce had his bedroom there, because he did not see the point of climbing up and down stairs any more than being an unnecessary distance from the bar.
    He came to the door in pyjamas, yawning and stretching. “Ah—good morning, Mr Carmichael! I won’t ask what I can do for you because I never do anything for anyone—least of all at this hour. In fact, I leave all complaints to my sister, Grace.”
    â€œI don’t know if you will regard it in the nature of a complaint,” said Charles light-headedly, “but my uncle is dead.”
    Ellis Bryce dropped his arms slowly and his brows went up. “Dear, dear! Poor Athol! I’m sorry to hear that. Heart, I suppose.I must say I thought he looked and behaved muchly the same last night—how the dear fellow loved to churn the party up—but Shelagh mentioned something about his not looking so well. You might not know my daughter properly yet, Mr Carmichael, but what she says is always accurate. A most efficient girl!”
    â€œMost,” agreed Charles, who had tried to make headway with Shelagh and knew Ellis was pricking him gently. “But this time she is wrong. My uncle was shot though the chest.”
    Ellis’s imperturbability was shaken, but after a pause he said, “What a bad shot you must be! Or was it with intent?”
    Charles gaped at him, then exclaimed in shocked accents, “What the devil—”
    â€œOh, pray forgive me,” said Ellis, waving an airy hand. “I always endeavour to view life—and death—light-heartedly first thing in the morning. Was it the pukka sahib who shot him? Or the spurned Adelaide? ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. Dear me, how your news has affected me! Never have I sunk so far as to quote—and such a cliché—at this hour.”
    â€œI would be obliged if you would stop being facetious about a very serious matter,” said Charles stiffly.
    â€œMy apologies again. However, to maintain the revolting flow which seems to have attacked me, many a true word is spoken in jest.”
    â€œThere are some subjects one does not jest about,” said Charles angrily. “I came to you because—”
    â€œWhat a remark from one who reviews detective stories so ably and wittily,” interrupted Ellis, bent on being infuriating. “I always say your mordant comments are the one thing worth reading in Athol’s depressingly esoteric periodical. Perhaps an enraged author shot Athol by mistake for you. Do let me know the results of your cogitations on this matter later. Now I must go back to bed.”
    â€œOh no, you don’t,” said Charles, putting his foot in the door. “What do you advise I should do about Athol?”
    Ellis looked pained. “My dear Mr Carmichael, I never give advice.I have already exerted myself enough for your benefit—without a doubt the poor unpleasant fellow was murdered. I refuse to have my brain picked further. However, as you seem nonplussed, I suggest the mundane ritual of burial should come next—or cremation. I understand your late Aunt Paula enjoyed a final combustion. However much one disliked him in life, one must respect Athol’s last wishes.”
    There was a brisk tap of feet coming down the stairs, and Ellis cocked his head. “Ah—my daughter Shelagh—so efficient at handling mundane situations. I recommend you to her.”
    Charles turned in relief as the girl came down the passage. She was dressed in a tailored skirt and a spotless white blouse, her face and hair attractive and neat. She was on her way to the kitchen to start the breakfast before her aunt Grace got there.
    â€œShelagh, my dear, Athol Sefton has been shot and Mr Carmichael wants to know what to do next. What do you