The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (18 page)

Mr. Stover himself arrived but minutes later. Upon being apprised of the latest developments, he promised to complete his examinations with all possible haste. While the coroner conducted his work, Darcy and the others had work of their own to perform.

Starting with visiting the viscount. They not only needed to advise him of Neville’s death, but also to question him about whether his son had owned a pair of dueling pistols.

A rather dishonorable pair of dueling pistols.

Twenty-six

There is nothing like employment, active, indispensable employment, for relieving sorrow.

—Mansfield Park

P
ray forgive me.” Elizabeth leaned across the table so that Anne could hear her lowered voice. “When I suggested breakfasting together in the dining room now that you are recovered, I forgot about the fact that Meg has become employed here.”

Anne shook her head. “You need not apologize. I was bound to encounter her eventually.”

Meg, who had been hovering near the kitchen door, came over and offered an awkward greeting. Anne returned it with all the decorum one could be expected to muster toward a woman with whom one shared a husband—that is to say, with equal awkwardness. Fortunately, no one else was in the room to observe the meeting.

Meg went to retrieve their tea. She returned with a pot and two cups. As she set Anne’s teacup before her, she offered Anne a self-conscious half-smile, then turned to go.

“Mrs. Garrick?” Anne said.

She paused. “I cannot bear to hear that name. Call me Meg.”

“Meg, I—” Anne glanced at Elizabeth, who encouraged her to continue. “I want you to know—I had no idea. That he was married.”

A short, mirthless laugh escaped Meg. “Apparently, neither did he.” She shook her head. “We are in a fine mess, are we not? But I do not blame you for it, Mrs. Crawford.”

“Do call me Anne, for I cannot bear
that
name.”

Nat came into the room just then. As Elizabeth had not yet seen Lord Sennex that morning, she excused herself and went to speak with the boy.

“How are you this morning, Nat?”

“Very well, ma’am. I have been watching out for Lord Sennex as you asked.”

“I am glad to hear it. The task has not interfered with your other duties, I hope?”

“Not greatly, though I can see why you want me to do it. He was about his business so long last night that I started to worry. But when I got closer to the privy, he was no longer within—I found him poking around the bushes to one side of it. Said he had lost something, but found it, and all was well. I think he dropped his cane and then accidentally kicked it under a bush, for he was stooping when I came upon him. I led him back to his room—tried to take him by the arm to help him a bit, but he wanted no part of that. A proud man, he is, even if his mind is not quite sharp.”

“He is, indeed. Have you seen him yet this morning?”

“I have. He got past me somehow, for I didn’t notice him leave the inn, but not long after sun-up I saw him come back inside. He was moving slowly—the walk to the privy must have tired him, or maybe he forgot where it was and wandered about for a while before he found it. Why he does not simply use the chamber pot, I don’t know. Maybe he forgets it’s there.”

Elizabeth did not care to speculate on the matter. Apparently, she had been well justified in her concern for the viscount’s welfare.

By the time she finished with Nat, Meg was seated at the table with Anne, and the two were talking over tea as if they had known each other for years. Apparently, their mutual betrayal by Henry had united them. Meg had a gift for putting people at ease; Elizabeth could see why Henry had been drawn to her.

She decided to leave them to their conversation while she checked on Lord Sennex. Receiving no immediate response to her initial rap on the viscount’s door, she knocked a second time. “Lord Sennex? It is Mrs. Darcy.”

Her latter attempt elicited sounds of movement. “Just a moment,” he called. She heard something small fall to the floor, followed by muttering. A minute later he opened the door.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I came to make that very enquiry of your lordship. With your son gone, I wanted to ensure that you were properly attended. Do you require anything this morning?”

He stared at her, uncomprehending, for a moment.

“My lord?”

“What? Oh! I—no, I do not believe I need anything. Kind of you to enquire, however. You must have been a very dutiful daughter to your father.”

“I like to believe so. I thought I heard something fall. Is all well?”

“Oh, indeed. I only dropped something. It was a—now, what was it?” He turned to look back into his chamber. “Yes—oh, yes.” He opened the door wider so that she could see into the room. Unlike her chamber, his had a small table, and upon it was a chess set. “I was just setting up the game, moving everything into position. I knocked down a black knight unexpectedly, but all is fine now.”

“Your lordship brings a chess set along when traveling?”

“Very often. It provides occupation. I had this one designed for travel. The board folds into a case, you see.” He gestured her inside. “Would you care to have a look?”

She followed him to the table. It was a lovely set, each piece carved in intricate detail. The knights appeared ready to charge, the pawns to march, the kings to command. The castles hosted small rooks roosting at the top of each tower.

“It is a fine set,” she said. “With whom do you play? Your son?”

“No. Neville—” He cleared his throat. “Neville never showed much interest in the game. I play—well, never mind. You indulge me by enquiring, but the amusements of an old man cannot be of interest to a young person.”

She pitied the viscount. A sadness seemed to envelop him. How lonely he must often be, with an impatient, self-absorbed son and scarcely anyone else to pay attention to him. “They are of great interest to me. Do go on.”

“I play against myself, mostly. White Sennex versus Black.” He lifted the white king, his hand betraying a slight tremor. “It has been years since I faced a truly worthy opponent.”

“Mr. Darcy plays chess. Perhaps he may provide your lordship a challenge.”

“Perhaps.” He replaced the piece and steered her toward the door. “I thank you for enquiring after me, Mrs. Darcy, but as you can see, I am fine.” He yawned. “Though perhaps less lively than I was at your age. I believe I will have a bit of a nap.”

She returned to the dining room to discover Anne’s company considerably expanded. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Sir Thomas had joined her and Meg. All bore grave expressions. The colonel sat in a chair beside Anne, talking to both women in a low voice, while the other two gentlemen stood nearby. Upon sighting Elizabeth, Darcy came to her.

“You have unfortunate news, I take it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Mr. Crawford is dead.”

“For certain this time?”

“Yes. And so is Neville Sennex.”

“Oh, my.” Her thoughts immediately went to the frail old man she had just left upstairs. “This will be a terrible blow to the viscount.”

Lord Sennex swayed, his cane proving insufficient to steady him. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam helped him to a chair.

“Oh!” The viscount’s hands quivered. He gripped his knees as if trying to still the tremors. “Oh . . .”

“My lord—”

He closed his eyes and slowly moved his head from side to side. “Oh, Neville . . .”

“The coroner believes he died quickly,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “And honorably. It appears he dueled with Mr. Henry Crawford.”

“Mr. Crawford? I thought Mr. Crawford was dead?”

“He is now,” said Sir Thomas.

A chessboard sat on the small table beside the viscount, and he took up one of the pieces. He turned the black knight over in his hands, at last setting it down to one side of the set. “At least Neville settled that business properly.”

As Sir Thomas spoke with Lord Sennex, Darcy surreptitiously scanned the viscount’s room. In the far corner stood a wardrobe, one door slightly ajar. Within, Darcy could see two hanging frock coats and a large mahogany case inlaid with a gold chess castle. His lordship’s trunk rested in another corner of the chamber, its lid closed. Against its side rested a valise.

The viscount tried to stand. “I must make arrangements to have him transported back to Buckinghamshire.”

“The coroner is still examining him,” said Sir Thomas. “In the meantime, I have a few questions for your lordship about the pistols he might have used.”

“My son is dead. What does it matter which pistols he used?”

Sir Thomas produced the small pistol they had found with Mr. Lautus. “Have you seen this before?”

“I—I have never seen that pistol in Neville’s possession.” He glanced from one man to the next. “Must we do this now? My son will be just as dead tomorrow.”

“My lord—”

The viscount stood, leaning on his cane. “I am not familiar with every belonging of my son’s.” His voice trembled, and he rocked slightly.

Sir Thomas caught his elbow. “Perhaps this might be easier if you sat back down.”

“I do not want to sit down!”

“My lord, I do not mean to further distress you,” said Sir Thomas. “Please understand that I am merely discharging my duty as an agent of the Crown to ensure justice is served in the matter of your son’s death. And that of Mr. Crawford.”

“I do not give a damn about Mr. Crawford.” He raised his right arm and shook a finger at Sir Thomas. Actually, his arm might have shaken of its own accord—the viscount grew more agitated with each passing minute. “As for my son, if he died defending his honor, then I am satisfied that justice was served.”

“My lord—”

“Cease
my lord
-ing me! If you wish to show respect, end this interview altogether and leave me in peace.”

Darcy interceded. “If you will but allow us a couple questions more, we shall not have to disturb you further.”

The viscount sighed heavily. “What are your questions?” He sounded exhausted, and somehow looked smaller and more frail than he had when they arrived.

“There was a guest registered here by the name of Mr. Lautus,” Darcy said. “Do you know him?”

“Should I know him?” He turned to the colonel, his expression all confusion. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, is Mr. Lautus one of our neighbors? Pray, help me remember. His name is not familiar to me, but I—from time to time I forget things . . .”

“No, my lord. He is not one of our neighbors. But he did occupy this room before you arrived. Did you by chance find anything he might have left behind?”

“The only items in this chamber are my own possessions.”

Darcy could listen to the interrogation no longer. The viscount was obviously overwhelmed; to prolong the questioning was to torture an old man who had not been given even a minute in which to grieve for his son. “Perhaps, Sir Thomas, we can continue this later?”

“We are done.”

Sir Thomas apologized to the viscount for the necessity of having to so question him. Lord Sennex merely nodded and sank into his chair once more.

As they left, he swept the pieces off the chessboard with a single motion. And put his head in his hands.

Twenty-seven

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain.

—Mansfield Park

W
hen a man dies, it seems that someone ought to mourn him,” Elizabeth said as they retired to their room that evening.

It had been a long day, and Darcy anticipated the next several would prove still longer. “To which man do you refer?”

She did not immediately answer. “All three of them, I suppose,” she finally said. “Mr. Crawford’s actual demise has inspired far more gossip than grief—I expect because anyone inclined to regret his passing got an early start when he died the first time. Though Neville Sennex’s death has deeply saddened his lordship, Lady Catherine is jubilant, for it has opened the way for Anne to give birth to a future viscount. Mr. Lautus, nobody here knew, although perhaps there might be someone in Birmingham who will miss him.”

“Sir Thomas travels there tomorrow to determine that. He hopes to learn who might have hired him to kill Mr. Crawford.”

She sat down on the bed. “Perhaps Sir Thomas will also learn more about the pistol found with him.”

Darcy hesitated. “That, it seems, has fallen to me.”

“Oh?”

“The coroner’s examination confirms that Henry Crawford was shot either with the same pistol that killed Mr. Lautus, or a matching one. Mr. Stover compared the bullets found in both bodies, borrowing Mr. Dawson’s apothecary scales to weigh them, and marks on the gun patches indicate the same distinctive rifling of the barrels for both shots. Meanwhile, the bullet found in Neville Sennex was larger, as were the other two patches found this morning, indicating that his killing shot came from a bigger pistol. Yet the patches from those shots share the same fabric and rifling as those from the smaller pistols. Somehow, the pistols are related, and we need to determine the connection.”

“How will you do so?”

“I am bringing the one pistol in our possession to the gunmaker himself. The gun’s furniture—its engravings and so forth—is distinctive, and Mr. Mortimer will have records. He should be able to tell me for whom it was made, and whether others were produced for the same purchaser.” He retrieved the portmanteau he had used on his journey to Scotland and opened it on the bed beside her.

“Why does Sir Thomas not undertake the errand himself?”

“He has contacts in Birmingham that will make that aspect of the investigation easier for him to complete than if someone else attempted it, and he does not want to delay pursuing one lead for another. So he has asked me to go to London bearing a request with his official seal as magistrate, which should be sufficient to obtain Mr. Mortimer’s full cooperation.”

Her expression was wistful as she watched him pack a few essentials. “Do you expect to be long in London?”

“I shall depart at first light. I hope one or two days will prove sufficient to obtain the information we need, plus a day’s travel there and another back. Mortimer produces a high volume of arms, however, so if the pistol is not a recent purchase it might take some time to locate it in his records.”

She removed one of his shirts and refolded it. “I would offer to accompany you, but I do not want to leave Anne. Lady Catherine is now pressing her harder than ever to marry Lord Sennex with all possible haste, and since Colonel Fitzwilliam made his offer your aunt looks upon him almost as an adversary. She thwarts any opportunity for private conversation between your cousins. I have hopes that Anne may yet muster the courage to stand up to her mother, but in any event, she needs the support of a friend.” She returned the shirt to the travel bag, her hand lingering upon it.

He wished she
could
accompany him. He had grown weary some time ago of this inn and its company, and wanted nothing more than to steal away with his wife to someplace—anyplace—far removed from the murders and machinations with which they had been surrounded. He most desired to go home to Pemberley, but barring that, London would do. However, as much as duty called him forth, it required her to stay.

“It is just as well,” he said sportively. “You would only slow me down.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Journeys always take twice as long when you accompany me.”

“I see.” She returned his lighthearted tone. “And are there no advantages to my companionship?”

“There are definite advantages.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “That is why they take twice as long.”

Elizabeth shifted in her chair and stole what she hoped was a discreet glimpse at the case clock in the parlor. Noon—a mere six minutes since her last covert glance. Her suspicions were confirmed.

She would die at this card table.

Against her better instincts, she had consented to participate in a game of quadrille with Anne, Lady Catherine, and Lord Sennex. Her ladyship had proposed it as a means of diverting the viscount. Ostensibly, they were distracting him from his heartache over the loss of Neville; in reality, Lady Catherine sought to distract him from what remained of his judgment.

Before the game was over, Anne and Lord Sennex would have all but exchanged vows. Lady Catherine’s campaign for the marriage to occur by special license had already met with success; she now forged ahead to secure a date. Her blatant manipulation of a man weakened by age and debilitated by grief made Elizabeth recoil. It also so distracted her from game play that she was in danger of losing enough pin money to purchase three muff pistols.

“As the special license enables us to hold the wedding at any convenient location, you could wed at Hawthorn Manor. We need not even return to Rosings after Mr. Sennex’s funeral; the marriage could take place shortly thereafter.”

“An efficient proposal,” the viscount said. “The guests could come for one event and stay for the other. We could even serve the leftover funeral meats at the wedding breakfast.”

Elizabeth studied him instead of her cards, trying to determine whether he had offered the outrageous suggestion out of sarcasm or senility.

“Now, what is trump?” he asked.

“Hearts, my lord,” Lady Catherine said. “You named them.”

“I took the bid? Oh, yes—I suppose I did.”

Senility.

He selected a card from his hand and captured the trick, his third straight. Somehow, despite the dual impairment of his mental state and Lady Catherine’s conversation, he was managing to retain the lead.

“I did not mean to propose that the wedding should follow quite that hard upon,” Lady Catherine said.

“No, no—it is a capital idea. I am glad you suggested it.”

“Surely no one in Society would look askance at someone of your lordship’s years assuaging his sorrow with a bride. Perhaps it will not be long before you have a new heir to cheer you.”

Anne colored and occupied herself in rearranging her cards.

The viscount selected another lead from his hand. “Kindly remind me, Lady Catherine, when is Neville’s funeral?”

“Three days’ time.” Lady Catherine frowned as he captured another trick. “Mr. Sennex’s body is being transported to Buckinghamshire tomorrow morning. Your lordship planned to accompany it, with the rest of us making the journey the following day.”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Sennex became lost in thought so long that Elizabeth began to wonder whether he would ever return. At last, he played a card. “It will be a lonely journey home, I am afraid.” He turned to Anne. “I wonder whether you would consent to ride with me.”

“She would be delighted,” Lady Catherine declared.

Anne, her felicity apparently too great for expression, merely nodded her assent.

“Excellent. And would you, Mrs. Darcy, accompany us? After all, we must maintain decorum.”

Elizabeth agreed, far more for Anne’s sake than for the sake of propriety. She looked at Anne, willing her to assert herself. But Anne offered no objection to the travel arrangements or the marriage, only a low card already defeated by her mother’s and the viscount’s plays.

Lady Catherine was so satisfied with herself that she did not even scowl when the viscount captured his sixth trick, and the pool.