Murder at Mansfield Park (25 page)

Dr Grant had not yet concluded his diatribe. ‘And now we have this wretched man Maddox in our midst, poking and prying and intermeddling with affairs that in no way concern him, in what has so far proved to be a fruitless quest for the truth. He will want to see you, sir, without delay; that much is abundantly clear. There will be questions—and you will be required to answer. And what will you have to say for yourself, I wonder?’

There was a silence. Henry did not appear to be aware that he was being addressed. He was staring into the bottom of the glass of wine Mary had poured for him, his thoughts elsewhere.

Dr Grant cleared his throat loudly. ‘Well, sir? I am waiting.’

Henry looked up, and Mary saw with apprehension that his eyes had taken on a wild look that she had seen in them once before, many years ago. It did not bode a happy issue.

‘What did you say?’ he cried, springing up and striding across the room towards Dr Grant. ‘Who is this—
Maddox
— you speak of? By what right does he presume to summon
me
—question
me
?’

The two men were, by now, scarcely a yard apart, and Henry’s face was flushed with anger, his fists clenched. Mary stepped forward quickly, and put a hand on his arm. ‘He is the person the family have charged with finding the man responsible for Fanny’s murder,’ she said. ‘It is only natural that he should wish to talk to you—once he knows what has occurred.’

Henry shook her hand free; he was still staring at Dr Grant, who had started back with a look of alarm.

‘Henry, Henry,’ said Mary, in a pleading tone, ‘you must see that it is only reasonable that Mr Maddox should wish to talk to you.You may be in possession of information that could be vital to his enquiries. You must remember that you saw her—spoke to her—more recently than any of us. It may be that there is some thing of which you alone are aware, which may be of vital significance—more than you can, at present, possibly perceive.’

She stopped, breathless with agitation, and watched as Henry stared first at her, and then at her sister and Dr Grant.

‘So that is what you are all thinking,’ he said, nodding slowly, his face grim. ‘You think
I
had some thing to do with this. You think
I
was responsible in some way for her death.
I—
her husband—the man she risked every thing to run away with—you actually believe that I could have—’

He turned away. His voice was unsteady, and he looked very ill; he was evidently suffering under a confusion of violent and perplexing emotions, and Mary could only pity him.

‘Come, Henry,’ she said softly. ‘Your spirits are exhausted, and I doubt you have either eaten or slept properly for days. Let me call for a basin of soup, and we will talk about this again tomorrow.’

‘No,’ said Henry, with unexpected decision. ‘If this Maddox wishes to see me, I will not stay to be sent for. I have nothing to hide.’

Dr Grant eyed him, shaking his head in steady scepticism. ‘I hope so, for your sake, Crawford.’

The two ladies turned to look at him, as he continued. ‘We here at Mansfield have spent the last week conjecturing and speculating about the death of Miss Price, but it seems that we were all mistaken. It was not Miss Price at all, but
Mrs Crawford
.That puts quite a different complexion on the affair, does it not?’

Mary’s eyes widened in sudden fear. ‘You mean—’

‘Indeed I do. Whoever might have perpetrated this foul crime, it has made your brother an extremely rich man. As Mr Maddox will no doubt be fully aware.’

At that very moment, Charles Maddox was sitting by the fire in Sir Thomas’s room. It was a noble fire over which to sit and think, and he had decided to afford himself the indulgence of an hour’s mature deliberation, before going in to dinner. He had not yet been invited to dine with the family, but such little indignities were not uncommon in his profession, and he had, besides, gathered more from a few days in the servants’ hall than he could have done in the dining-parlour in the course of an entire month. They ate well, the Mansfield servants, he could not deny that; and Maddox was a man who appreciated good food as much as he appreciated Sir Thomas’s fine port and excellent claret, a glass of which sat even now at his elbow. He got up to poke the fire, then settled himself back in his chair.

Fraser had completed his questioning of the estate workmen, and although he had assured his master that there was nothing of significance to report, Maddox was a thorough man, and wished to read the notes for himself. There were also some pages of annotations from Fraser’s interviews with the Mansfield servants. Maddox did not anticipate much of use there, either; he had always regarded both maids and men principally as so many sources of useful intelligence, rather than probable suspects in good earnest. Moreover, only the female servants had suffered that degree of intimacy with Miss Price that might have led to a credible motive for her murder, and he could not see this deed as the work of a woman’s hand. Stornaway, by contrast, had spent the day away from the Park, interrogating innkeepers and landlords, in an effort to determine if any strangers of note had been seen in the neighbourhood at the time of Miss Price’s return. Now that Maddox knew she had indeed eloped, it was of the utmost necessity to discover the identity of her abductor. If Stornaway met with no success, Maddox was ready to send him to London; it would be no easy task to trace the fugitives, and Maddox was mindful that the family had already tried all in its power to do so, but unlike the Bertrams, he had connections that extended from the highest to the lowest of London society; he knew where such marriages usually took place, and the clergymen who could be persuaded to perform them, and if a special licence had been required, there was more than one proctor at Doctors-Commons who stood in Maddox’s debt, and might be induced to supply the information he required.

It was little more than ten minutes later when the silence of the great house was broken by the sound of a commotion in the entrance hall. It was not difficult to distinguish Mrs Norris’s vociferous tones in the general
fracas
, and knowing that lady was not in the habit of receiving visitors any where other than in the full pomp and magnificence of the Mansfield Park drawing-room, he suspected some thing untoward, and ventured out to investigate the matter for himself. The gentleman at the door was a stranger to him, but first impressions were Maddox’s stock-in-trade. He prided himself on his ability to have a man’s measure in a minute, and he was rarely wrong.This man was, he saw, both weary and travel-soiled, but richly and elegantly attired. Maddox was some thing of a connoisseur in dress; it was a partiality of his, but it had also proved, on occasion, to be of signal use in the more obscure by-roads of his profession. He could, for example, hazard a reasonable estimation as to where these clothes had been made, by which London tailor, and at what cost. This was, indeed, a man of considerable air and address; moreover, the set of his chin, and the boldness of his eye, argued for no small measure of pride and defiance. Yet, in spite of all this, it piqued Maddox’s curiosity not a little to see that Mrs Norris accorded the newcomer neither courtesy nor common civility, and her chief object in leaving the sanctuary of the drawing-room for the draughtiness of the hall seemed to be to compel the footmen to expel the intruder without delay.

‘May I be of some assistance, Mrs Norris?’ said Maddox, with a bow. ‘And perhaps you might do me the honour of introducing me to this gentleman.’

‘There will be no call for that
,
’ said Mrs Norris quickly. ‘And I can assure you, he is
not
a
gentleman
. Indeed I cannot think what Mr Crawford is doing here, unless it be to enquire what we intend to do about the improvements. The time is not convenient, sir. We cannot stay dinner to satisfy the importunate demands of a
hired hand
. I suggest you call on the steward in the morning.’

‘So this,’ mused Maddox, ‘is the Henry Crawford of whom I have heard so much.’ His person and countenance were equal to what his imagination might have drawn, but Maddox had been in Mary Crawford’s company sufficiently often to make a tolerable guess as to the number of her gowns, and the constraints on her purse. He had not expected a brother of hers to have the means to equip himself so handsomely; an idea was forming in his mind, and he began to have a faint glimmering of suspicion as to what was to ensue.

‘Forgive the intrusion at this late hour,’ said Henry, ‘but am I correct in supposing that I am addressing Mr Charles Maddox? I am but recently arrived at the parsonage, and have only now been informed about—’

‘We have no need of
your
sympathy, Mr Crawford
,
’ said Mrs Norris, drawing herself up more stiffly than ever. ‘Who knows, or cares, for what
you
have to say? The death of Miss Price is a private family affair, and can have nothing whatsoever to do with such as
you.
’

‘I beg to differ, madam,’ said Henry, coldly. ‘I rode up here directly, as soon as I heard the news. It became absolutely necessary that you should all know the full truth, and from my own lips.’

‘What truth, sir?’ demanded Mrs Norris, peremptorily.

‘The truth that Fanny—’

‘Fanny?
Fanny
?’ she gasped. ‘By what right, sir, do you
dare
to call Miss Price by her Christian name?’

Henry stood his ground, and did not flinch. ‘The best right in the world, madam. A
husband
’s right.’

There was a instant of terrible silence, then she threw up her hands before her face, uttered a piercing shriek, and sank down prostrate on the floor. Maddox had anticipated the revelation by some moments, and knowing some thing of Mrs Norris, and conjecturing pretty well what a blow this must be to the family’s pride and repute, he feared that she might succumb to a fit. But Mrs Norris had a strong constitution, and quickly found a vent for her fury and indignation in a vehement bout of crying, scolding, cursing, and abuse.

‘You are a
scoundrel
,’ she screamed, pointing her finger in Henry’s face, ‘a felon—a lying, despicable
blackguard—
the most infamous and depraved
villain
that ever debauched innocence and virtue—’

This invective being interspersed by screams so loud as must soon alarm the whole house, Maddox made haste to lift Mrs Norris to her feet, and turning to the butler, interposed with all necessary authority, ‘I think, Baddeley, that Mrs Norris would benefit from a glass of water and some moments lying down; perhaps the footmen might attend her to the parlour? See that her ladyship’s maid is called, and inform Mr Bertram and Mr Norris, if you would be so good, that I will beg some minutes’ conversation with them after dinner. I will be with Mr Crawford in Sir Thomas’s room.’

The door closed and peace restored, Maddox poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to his companion, noting, without surprise, that he held it in his right hand. He then took up a position with his back to the fire. Crawford was standing at the French windows, looking out across the park; the sky was beginning to darken, but it would still be possible for him to make out the alterations that had already been imposed on the landscape at his behest; the transformation about to be wrought inside the house might prove to be even more momentous. Maddox wondered how long it would be before the news of Miss Price’s scandalous marriage had spread throughout the whole household, and made a wager with himself that the last and least of the housemaids would know the whole sorry story long before most of the family had the first notion of the truth about to burst upon them. He wondered, likewise, whether he might now be on the point of elucidating this unfortunate affair, but abstained from assailing his companion with questions, however much he wished to do so. He had long since learned the power of silence, and knew that most men would hurry to fill such a void, rather than allow it to prolong to the point of discomfiture. He was not mistaken; Henry Crawford stood the trial longer than most men Maddox had known in his position, but it was he who broke the silence at last.

‘You will expect me to be particular.’

Maddox took out his snuff-box and tapped it against the mantel. ‘Naturally. If you would be so good.’

‘Very well,’ Crawford said steadily, taking a seat before the fire. ‘I will be as meticulous as possible.’

He was as good as his word. It was more than half an hour before he concluded his narration; from the first meeting in the garden, to the hiring of the carriage, the nights on the road as man and wife, the taking of the lodgings in Portman-square, and the wedding at St Mary Le Bone, on a bright sunny morning barely two weeks before.

‘So what occurred thereafter?’ said Maddox, after a pause. ‘Listening to what you say, one would be led to expect this story to have a happy ending, however inauspicious its commencement. How came it that Mrs Crawford returned here alone?’

Henry got to his feet, and began to pace about the room.

‘I have already endeavoured to explain this once today, but to no avail. The simple answer is that I do not know. I woke one morning to find her gone. There was no note, no explanation, no indication as to her intentions.’

‘And when, precisely, was this?’

‘A week ago. To the day.’

‘I see,’ said Maddox thoughtfully. ‘But what I do
not
at present see, is why—given that Mrs Crawford arrived here so soon thereafter—you yourself have not seen fit to make an appearance before now.’

‘I had no conception that she would choose to return here, of all places. She abominated this house, and despised most of the people in it. To be frank with you, sir, I find it utterly incomprehensible.’

Maddox took a pinch of snuff, and held his companion’s gaze for a moment. ‘May I ask what you have been doing, in the intervening period?’

Henry threw himself once again into his chair, and Maddox took note that, consciously or not, Crawford had elected a posture that obviated any need for him to meet his questioner’s eye, unless he actively wished to do so.