The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (12 page)

If any shooter could, however, it would be the owner of that pistol. Darcy had seen some exquisite weapons in his life, but never one as superior as the firearm he had just held. That piece of craftsmanship had to rival any arm Mr. Mortimer had manufactured for the royal family. As Mr. Stover had said, who would intentionally abandon it? Yet if it indeed belonged to Mr. Crawford, where had he acquired it? It was small, perhaps ten inches long from the grip of its handle to the end of its barrel, a size sometimes called a “traveler’s pistol.” Had he indeed been traveling with it this whole time?

It might be small, but it was costly—more in price than Darcy would have imagined Mr. Crawford was willing to expend on a pistol. But then, Mr. Crawford was not a man given to sacrifice. He enjoyed everything life offered; enjoyed it rather too much. Reached for it with both hands.

Darcy stared at the spot beside Mr. Crawford where the pistol had lain. And realized what had been prodding the edges of his consciousness.

“Gentlemen, when Mr. Stover picked up the pistol just now, was that the first time any of you handled it?”

They approached. All denied having touched the gun before Darcy’s arrival.

“I left it exactly where I found it,” the gamekeeper said.

“Did you disturb Mr. Crawford’s remains?”

Mr. Cobb regarded Darcy as if he were daft. “Begging your pardon, sir, but would
you
touch a corpse that looked like that? Not without a shovel, I wouldn’t, and not without instructions from Sir Thomas.”

“And I gave no such order,” said Sir Thomas. “Mr. Stover has served as coroner for many years, and I know he prefers to record his observations before anything is moved.”

“Why, then, if Mr. Crawford committed suicide, was the pistol lying to the left of his body? Mr. Crawford was right-handed.”

Sir Thomas did not immediately reply.

“Perhaps it fell to that side after he fired it,” said Mr. Stover.

Darcy did not like that improbable explanation, for the fact that the coroner had offered it increased his doubt over the likelihood of an impartial ruling on the cause of Mr. Crawford’s death. Sir Thomas’s objectivity was already in question, but Darcy had harbored faint hope that the coroner had had no personal quarrel with the late Mr. Crawford. Could Sir Thomas’s “old friend” be relied upon to perform his public duty?

“Perhaps it did fall from his right hand to the opposite side,” Darcy said. “Or perhaps Mr. Crawford did not fire the gun.”

“Mr. Darcy, I understand and sympathize with your motives. Nobody wants the stigma of suicide associated with his family,” said Sir Thomas. “But in taking his own life, Mr. Crawford merely accelerated the process of justice. He was a coward who could not face the shame of a trial. To all appearances, rather than risk hanging, Mr. Crawford chose his own punishment. The consequences of self-murder are indeed severe, but you must admit that Mr. Crawford hardly established for himself a history of considering consequences.”

“Then it is particularly incumbent upon you and Mr. Stover to do so before rushing to a judgment that might be erroneous,” Darcy replied. “Would you have his heirs deprived of their inheritance and his remains unjustly buried at a crossroads for all eternity?”

“I would have him buried somewhere, and the sooner the better. He is not growing any fresher.” Sir Thomas regarded the body with disgust. “Mr. Crawford’s corpse has suffered enough indignity, and the people who knew him, enough anguish. There is no reason to prolong both. Let us resolve this matter posthaste. Mr. Stover will complete his examination of the body. If, at its conclusion, he is convinced that Mr. Crawford’s death was self-inflicted, then I am, as well.”

“What if I am not?”

Sir Thomas was silent. Finally, he turned to the coroner. “Mr. Stover, how soon can you be prepared to hold the formal inquest?”

“I will finish examining the remains today. Then we need only gather any witnesses we want to call. The inquest could be held tomorrow if you wish.”

“All right then, Mr. Darcy. If you are not satisfied with the results of Mr. Stover’s examination, you have until the inquest to gather evidence of your own.”

“I am to solve a murder by the morrow?”

“You need not solve it, simply prove that one occurred.”

He had been trying to do so this past half hour with no success. Clearly, Sir Thomas would require Darcy to not merely establish reasonable doubt, but to produce incontrovertible proof. “A single day is hardly sufficient time.”

“Something must be done with this rotting corpse.”

Seventeen

“
Now, be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?
”

“
For the liveliness of your mind, I did.
”

—
Elizabeth and Darcy,
Pride and Prejudice

A
gunshot to the face?” Elizabeth shuddered despite the warmth of the air in their chamber.

“I am afraid so.” Darcy did his best to force the image of Mr. Crawford’s remains from his mind. The day’s unpleasantness had only just begun. He not only had a murder investigation to commence, but also still had to break the news of Mr. Crawford’s death to Anne and the rest of the family. He had been summoned to Mansfield Wood so early that only Elizabeth knew where he had gone this morning, and upon his return he had proceeded to their room straightaway. He needed some time in her steady companionship before dealing with the others.

“Poor Anne—as if she has not endured enough,” she said after he finished narrating the morning’s errand. Despite the relative privacy afforded by four walls and a closed door, they nevertheless kept their voices low. Their party nearly filled the inn, and while most of their acquaintances were not wont to eavesdrop, conversations could yet be inadvertently overheard. Too, the subject matter itself dictated somber tones. “Do you believe, as Sir Thomas does, that Mr. Crawford committed self-murder?”

“There is evidence in support of it, but also against. It suits Sir Thomas’s interests for Mr. Crawford to have killed himself. It does not suit Anne’s. Therefore, I will do what I can to disprove that theory.”

“If it is not suicide, then someone not only killed Mr. Crawford but left him to the predations of animals. I dislike thinking anyone capable of that.”

He had spared her the most disturbing details of Mr. Crawford’s condition, only explained that his remains were not in an appropriate state for visitation by mourners.

If there were any mourners. “Mr. Crawford had no shortage of enemies.”

“I daresay our hosts are the only people in town without cause to despise him. Between all his relations-by-marriage occupying the bedchambers and the gossipmongers crowding the dining room every mealtime, business at the Ox and Bull is thriving. But there is a difference between wanting vengeance and actually executing it.”

“Yet there is a good chance that someone has—the location of the pistol suggests as much, as does Mr. Crawford’s presence in Mansfield Wood in the first place. If Mr. Crawford indeed killed himself, why would he choose to do so on Sir Thomas’s estate?”

“Because of its connection to Maria Rushworth?”

“His present difficulties derive from his two marriages, not an affair he ended a year ago without regret. And then there is the matter of the shot patch. I cannot imagine its having come from any weapon but that pistol, yet Sir Thomas quite dismissed it and encouraged his friend to do likewise. I can predict the results of the coroner’s examination. Even should Mr. Stover not render an opinion of suicide, Sir Thomas’s dislike of Mr. Crawford is so pronounced that I am not confident any official murder investigation would be undertaken in a diligent manner. The magistrate seems content to consider Mr. Crawford’s death justice served.”

She studied his expression. “Do you?”

It was a difficult question, one he had been pondering since first being summoned to the scene. “I am not exactly overcome by grief,” he confessed. “I do, however, believe in the due process of law. To tacitly condone murder, even when justified, sets a dangerous precedent. Regardless of his personal feelings toward Mr. Crawford, as magistrate Sir Thomas ought to uphold his duty, or he risks his district descending into anarchy.”

“Mr. Crawford ruined Sir Thomas’s daughter. Do you think the magistrate bypassed the courts and sentenced Henry Crawford himself?”

“Before your arrival in the village I heard that Sir Thomas had washed his hands of Maria. But as a father myself, I could see a man who refuses to publicly forgive his daughter nevertheless acting privately to punish her seducer.”

“Or, through inaction, protect her if she herself killed her lover. Maria Rushworth was quite warm in her anger the day Mr. Crawford disappeared. She seemed to have just learned of Mr. Rushworth’s intentions to divorce her. If her husband’s petition succeeds, she will be utterly destroyed in society—divorce is so rare, and it always taints the woman, regardless of individual circumstances. Meanwhile Mr. Crawford, as a man, would have endured a few reproofs and blithely gone on with his life.”

“She loses everything, and he, nothing.”

“Socially, she will be dead, and might have decided that a literal death for Mr. Crawford would be fair recompense.”

“So she lured him to Mansfield Wood to deliver it?” Darcy pondered the hypothesis a moment. It was not entirely without merit. “The grove in which he was found is rather secluded. Though as unwelcome in her father’s house as Mr. Crawford, she would know the grounds, and could have chosen that spot intentionally.”

“I wonder, though, where she would have obtained the firearm. Tell me more about the pistol. Was it a gentleman’s weapon, or a lady’s?”

He looked at her askance. “
Lady’s?
What do you know of muff pistols?”

“I have read a novel or two.”

“I shall not ask which of them encourage ladies to conceal firearms in their apparel.”

“You disapprove? That is unfortunate for me, as I am begun to grow restless in Mansfield and had thought to purchase one as a diversion.”

“A muff pistol?”

She laughed. “No, a novel. But now that you have suggested it, perhaps I ought to acquire a pistol along with it. Then, like a proper heroine, I could stop the villain by revealing my weapon and proclaiming, ‘Hold, sir—I am armed!’ ”

He wished they were home, and she reading another novel right now, instead of discussing a very real death. “That is unnecessary. I will protect you from any villains who might be lurking about.”

“And who will protect you?”

“I believe it may be safely assumed that the person who shot Mr. Crawford acted out of revenge. So long as I keep my suspicions quiet, he will believe his revenge satisfied and himself safe. I therefore need not fear him, whoever he is.”

“You sound certain that the killer is a man.”

“Not entirely. Though it was larger than a muff pistol, the weapon found with Mr. Crawford was small enough that it could be comfortably handled by a woman, and a considerable number of women did have motive to harm Mr. Crawford: Maria Rush-worth, as we have said, but also two betrayed wives.”

“One betrayed wife, for the killer could not possibly be Anne. She is incapacitated. And even were she more ambulatory, she has had nearly constant companionship since the carriage accident, and so could not have been absent long enough to commit the deed.”

“I, too, have ruled her out—beyond the impossibility of her circumstances, violence is simply not in her nature. I also consider Mrs. Garrick unlikely. Although she had an opportunity to do away with Mr. Crawford when she rode off in pursuit of him, where on earth would she have obtained a pistol of that quality? Even if she had stolen it, she could not have had it with her when she arrived in Mansfield, for you and I both saw her disembark from the coach with naught but the clothes she wore.”

“Ah, but those clothes could have concealed a pistol! Do not regard me so—I only half jest. I rather like Meg, and I do not want to believe her capable of killing anybody. But she did travel all this way unescorted, and before that lived alone with her mother while Mr. Crawford was allegedly sailing the seven seas. It is not unreasonable to suppose she possesses some means of defending herself.”

“I do not recall her carrying so much as a reticule in which to keep it.”

“That is not the only place a lady might conceal a pistol.”

“What
have
you been reading?”

She started to answer, but he shook his head. “Never mind. If indeed the weapon was fired by a woman, I believe Maria Rushworth is the more likely owner. The pistol was manufactured in London, where she lived during her marriage and also during her liaison with Mr. Crawford.”

“Do you suppose she purchased it herself?”

“Perhaps, out of her pin money.”

Her brows rose. “Apparently, I need to ask for more pin money.”

“I wondered how you intend to finance this muff pistol you speak of acquiring.”

“By employing my feminine wiles upon you.”

“I am impervious to wiles.”

“We shall determine that later. Do you think her husband equally resolute? Mr. Rushworth might have purchased the weapon for her, before she left him.”

“Do not most women prefer jewelry?”

“We witnessed how highly Maria Rushworth valued gifts of jewelry, at least from Mr. Crawford.” Elizabeth was thoughtful a moment. “Maybe the pistol came from him, and those earrings were not the only gift she so dramatically returned to him that day.”

“She shot him with the pistol and then dropped it at his side?”

“That would explain why it was left behind. A pistol is not the most romantic gift, though, and Mr. Crawford seems like someone who would be very conscious of creating the proper impression.”

“Perhaps it was indeed Mr. Crawford’s own pistol, purchased for himself when he and Mrs. Rushworth eloped.”

“In anticipation of a duel?”

“What do you know of duels?”

She shrugged. “Someone in a novel has to defend the heroine’s honor. And Mr. Crawford has compromised more than his share of ladies.”

“More than his share? I did not realize gentlemen received an allowance. ’Tis a shame no one told me while I was still a bachelor. Or does the allotment apply only to rakes?”

“Mr. Crawford was not a rake, precisely. He did not conduct his life as a gentleman ought, but he was no Mr. Wickham. Though he toyed with women’s affections, he did not seem to do so out of predatory intent. He was simply vain and foolish and insensible to the damage he wrought.”

“Your defense of him surprises me.”

“He is dead; I can afford to be generous. But apparently one of the women he wronged, or a male protector, was less forgiving. Pray describe the pistol further.”

“It is smaller than a typical dueling pistol,” he said, “but could certainly serve as one. It was made by Mortimer, one of the best gunsmiths in England, and exhibits the finest technical and artistic features of the gunmaker’s craft. It is by far the most superior pistol I have ever held.”

“Just how many pistols have you held? Perhaps I ought to ask what you know of dueling.”

“As much as most gentlemen.” He had never been called upon to defend his own honor, and hoped he never would. The closest he had come was during his Cambridge years, when a friend who had issued a challenge asked him to serve as his second. Darcy and the defender’s second had tried their hardest to mediate the disagreement before the primaries met on the field, but their efforts had been in vain. His friend had died—a pointless waste of a promising life—and all of those involved had been fortunate to escape prosecution.

“An impressive parry,” she said, “but I grant you only temporary reprieve from answering my question. Meanwhile, let us return to the matter at hand. You believe the shooting patch you found in the grass came from the pistol beside Mr. Crawford?”

“It is so fine a cloth that I cannot imagine someone’s using it to load an ordinary hunting rifle. And it shares a bird motif with the pistol’s engravings.”

“Might I see it?”

He withdrew the silk from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Damask,” she said. “Our gunman has good taste. And it is indeed an interesting pattern—a departure from the more common paisleys and florals.” She turned it over and examined the abrasions. “The gunpowder creates an intriguing design of its own—like a black sun, only with few rays. What are these thin black lines coming out from the center?”

“I am curious about them myself. A rifle creates such marks on shot patches, but there are usually more of them—six or seven. They are caused by spiraled cuts within the barrel—rifling—whence the weapon derives its name. But this patch has only three such marks. And if, as I believe, it was fired from the pistol found with Mr. Crawford, that weapon has a smooth bore, and therefore would leave no marks.”

“So this patch might not have come from the pistol after all?”

“Please do not dismantle my investigation before it has begun. Sir Thomas is doing a fair enough job of that as it is, and I have little time in which to formulate a plausible theory of events.”

“Why not show the patch to Colonel Fitzwilliam? Perhaps Sir Thomas would also allow him to examine the pistol. As a military man, the colonel no doubt possesses extensive knowledge of firearms. And as he carries pistols himself, he is certainly very experienced with them.”

He hesitated. “That is my fear.”

Her eyes widened as she realized his meaning. “Darcy, surely you do not believe—Oh! But he even spoke of dueling with Mr. Crawford, just before he left in pursuit of him.”

That fact troubled Darcy greatly. “He assured me, after the horse returned riderless, that he had not killed Mr. Crawford. I trust his word.” A tiny point of doubt yet pricked him, but he did his best to suppress it. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is more than capable of punishing Mr. Crawford on a field of honor, but he would have done it in just that manner—honorably. Gentlemen’s duels are not ambushes; they are civilized affairs that adhere to strict protocol. There are rules. There are witnesses in attendance to ensure those rules are followed. Whom would Colonel Fitzwilliam choose as his second, if not me?”

“Dueling is illegal. Perhaps he deliberately excluded you from the proceedings so as not to compromise you.”

It would be just like his cousin to take all of the risk upon himself, sparing to whatever extent he could all other family members from any scandal that resulted from his actions. He could have found another, more disinterested, second. But one fact exonerated Colonel Fitzwilliam, in Darcy’s mind, as decisively as possible without actually entering another person’s thoughts and heart.