The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (14 page)

Nineteen

Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.

—Pride and Prejudice

I
may require your assistance,” Darcy said as soon as he and Colonel Fitzwilliam extricated themselves from Anne’s chamber. Or, more to the point, from Lady Catherine’s hearing.

His cousin asked no questions, only answered without hesitation, “Of course.”

Darcy glanced about the hall, then decided their conversation was best held elsewhere. Fortunately, they found the small parlor on the main floor unoccupied. Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded Darcy expectantly.

“I believe Henry Crawford has been murdered,” Darcy said.

Surprise flashed across Fitzwilliam’s countenance. “What raises your suspicion?”

“The lead ball in his brain.”

“That would indeed cause quite a head wound. I understand now why you imparted so few details to Anne. Pray continue.”

Darcy described the state in which Mr. Crawford had been found. When he finished, he added, “The coroner and Sir Thomas believe it to be a case of suicide.”

“And you doubt their judgment?”

“I doubt their objectivity. I also find curious several particulars regarding the pistol. It was found on Mr. Crawford’s left side, and this gun patch lay some distance away.” He produced the cloth circle and handed it to his cousin.

“Silk. And a fine one at that. His Majesty does not issue patches of this quality to my sharpshooters.”

“Nor does he provide firearms such as the one discovered. Among all the weapons you have personally encountered, I defy you to produce a finer example of craftsmanship.”

The colonel rubbed his thumb across one of the black rays. A streak of powder smeared onto his skin. “These lines are intriguing.”

“I thought so, as well. They suggest the presence of rifling, but the pistol is smoothbore.”

“That would seem to indicate that this patch did not come from the pistol you found.” Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned in thought. “Are you quite certain it is smoothbore?”

“I held it myself.”

“But did you look all the way down the barrel?”

“No.”

“Where is the weapon now? I would like to see it if I could.”

“Sir Thomas took it into his possession.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam consulted his pocketwatch. “The noon hour approaches—early yet for a social visit to Mansfield Park, but our purpose is business. We need to examine that pistol, preferably in strong sunlight. It might contain rifling farther down the barrel—French rifling, it is called, and aptly named, for it is a deceitful practice, but unfortunately one sometimes seen in private firearms. The rifling stops an inch or two from the muzzle, making the pistol appear to be smoothbore—and therefore in compliance with dueling protocol should the need arise—but concealing the improved accuracy of a rifled weapon. It is difficult to detect, and best observed in bright sunlight aimed down the bore.”

“If the pistol is so designed, that would account for the marks on the patch. Why, however, are they but three in number?”

“A weapon with hidden rifling is custom made. Its owner may have ordered fewer grooves cut into the bore, to make their presence still less noticeable if the barrel is inspected.”

They walked to Mansfield Park directly. Upon being ushered into Sir Thomas’s study, they found him in conference with Mr. Stover. The coroner sat in a chair opposite Sir Thomas’s desk, holding a small tin in his hands.

“Mr. Stover has completed his examination of Mr. Crawford’s remains,” Sir Thomas said. “He was just imparting his findings.”

“As I anticipated, I found the spent ball embedded in Mr. Crawford’s brain matter,” the coroner said. “It had carried the fired patch into the wound, verifying that the patch Mr. Darcy discovered did not come from the shot that killed Mr. Crawford.”

Darcy received the news with disappointment. He had been so certain that the patch and pistol must share a connection.

Mr. Stover opened the tin he held. “I was, however, surprised by the appearance of the patch.” He withdrew a gold circle of the same ornate silk as the one Darcy possessed. It was stained with substances Darcy did not care to contemplate too extensively, but it, too, bore a black “sun” with three evenly spaced rays.

“When I washed the excess matter off the patch, some of the powder came off as well,” said the coroner. “But you can see that the fouling pattern, as well as the pattern of the fabric itself, is identical to that of the other patch, indicating that both patches were shot from the same weapon. Yet the pistol found beside Mr. Crawford is a smoothbore.”

“Not necessarily,” Darcy said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam and I have been discussing the point, and we would like to examine the pistol more closely.”

“Outdoors, if we may,” the colonel added.

“Outdoors? Whatever for?” Sir Thomas asked.

“To obtain the best view down the barrel. I should also like to clean it beforehand.”

Sir Thomas regarded him skeptically, but rose. “Very well.” He opened a drawer of his desk and withdrew the pistol. “Let us proceed.”

He led them to an open expanse of grass on the south side of the mansion. Colonel Fitzwilliam accepted the pistol from him and stuffed a damp rag, procured by a servant, down the barrel. It emerged blackened by powder residue. The colonel then noted the angle of the sun. He turned so that the axis of the bore was pointed toward the sun and light could penetrate the barrel as deeply as possible. He rotated the weapon slowly, then nodded and handed it to Darcy.

“It is as I suspected.”

Darcy held the pistol to the light for himself. At first he saw only darkness. But as he slowly rotated the barrel, the light revealed three spirals deep within.

“This weapon indeed bears rifling.” Darcy returned the pistol to Sir Thomas. “If you peer down the shaft as we have done, you will note three grooves.”

Both Sir Thomas and the coroner examined the weapon. Afterward, Sir Thomas thanked Darcy for proving the coroner’s case for self-murder.

“How have I done so?” Darcy replied. That had hardly been his intent.

“Mr. Crawford’s shot obviously came from the pistol found beside him.”

“But what of the second patch?”

“What of it?”

“If Mr. Crawford took his own life, why is there evidence of two shots?”

“Perhaps he fired a test shot.”

“Unfortunately,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “the horrors of war sometimes prove too great for young men to bear, so I have experience with suicide. I have never known a man to engage in firing practice beforehand. They are usually confident of succeeding.”

“Perhaps in the passion of the moment, he misfired on his first attempt, or the weapon discharged before he took aim.”

“Perhaps,” the colonel said. “When you discovered the loading materials, were they also near Mr. Crawford’s body?”

“We discovered no such materials,” Sir Thomas said. “They must have been with his horse.”

“His horse returned without anything at all,” Darcy said.

“Well, they must be somewhere,” said Mr. Stover. “Let us go have another look in the grove.”

The clearing appeared unchanged, with the notable exception of Mr. Crawford’s absence. The coroner had removed the body to examine it, and it was now being prepared for burial. Though the corpse was gone, its scent yet lingered, as did the impression in the grass from where it had lain so long.

The four gentlemen searched the grove for a powder flask, patch tin, spare balls—anything which would indicate that Mr. Crawford had reloaded his pistol as Sir Thomas insisted must have occurred. Darcy began his part of the quest where he had discovered the second patch, locating the rock over which he had nearly tripped, and working outward in a measured shuffle through the overgrowth. He found nothing.

The coroner circled the area surrounding the body impression while Sir Thomas wandered about halfheartedly kicking through brush that had accumulated at the foot of a wild gooseberry bush along the grove’s perimeter. Colonel Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, investigated the bases of a stand of birch trees about ten feet away from where Mr. Crawford had lain. Darcy grew impatient with the futility of their exercise. If reloading apparatus had ever been present, it was long gone.

He walked toward his cousin. Just as he neared, Colonel Fitzwilliam passed his fingertips over a splintered section of bark at approximately eye level on the side of one of the trees. At its center was a small hole.

“Have you found something of interest?” Darcy asked.

“Quite possibly.” He produced his folding knife and called for Sir Thomas and Mr. Stover to join them.

Several minutes’ application of knife to bark widened the hole sufficiently to pry out a misshapen, dark grey lump.

“It is not a spare ball, but a spent one,” the colonel said, “and appears to be of a caliber commensurate with the bore of the pistol. Sir Thomas, if I may?”

The magistrate did not offer the pistol, but his other hand, open and palm up.

Colonel Fitzwilliam surrendered the bullet. Sir Thomas held it to the crown of the muzzle. While impact with the tree had flattened one side, it appeared to be a match. “Mr. Stover, how large was the ball you removed from Mr. Crawford’s head?”

“Fifty-four, perhaps fifty-six. It is difficult to measure caliber precisely once a ball has been fired and hit a target. The bore of Mr. Crawford’s pistol is fifty-four. I am satisfied the ball that killed him came from this gun.”

“We now have both a patch and a ball from a second shot,” Darcy said, “yet no loading materials.”

“Darcy, would you show me exactly where you found the patch?” his cousin asked.

They paced out the short distance to the rock in the overgrown grass. At Colonel Fitzwilliam’s request, Sir Thomas finally handed over the pistol. The colonel sighted the weapon. “There is a direct line from the patch to the point of impact with the tree, at the proper angle to deduce it was fired from here. The body, however, does not fall within this line. It is too far to the side of the tree for the shot to have been aimed at Mr. Crawford where he was found—even if it flew wide, the angle of impact is wrong. Nor could Mr. Crawford have fired this shot into the trunk from his final position—the entry hole in the trunk was nearly opposite him. Either he fired into the tree from here, then moved to kill himself, or—”

“Or the shot that came from here was fired by someone else,” Darcy finished. “And most likely it was, because if Mr. Crawford fired both shots, he would have had to reload, and he had no means by which to do so.”

“The materials could have been taken from here after the fact,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “Or a second pistol, loaded at the same time—or at least with the same distinctive patches—was used.”

“How can you say there might have been a second pistol?” Sir Thomas said. “Both patches match the unique rifling of Mr. Crawford’s weapon.”

“It is distinctive but not necessarily unique,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Crawford’s pistol could have been commissioned as part of a cased set.” It was not uncommon for pistols, particularly custom weapons, to be sold in matched pairs, ostensibly for duels. If a contest of honor was not settled in the first round, the well-prepared owner then had an ancillary pistol at the ready so as not to suspend the duel in the heat of the moment to spend five minutes reloading. Not all cased sets were purchased in anticipation of actual duels; as with other goods collected by the wealthy, if owning one pistol was desirable, owning two was better still, and most pairs were used for improving one’s skill at target-shooting rather than defending one’s honor, if they were ever fired at all.

“Whether Mr. Crawford’s pistol has a twin, or is a single pistol that was fired and reloaded, something—the loading supplies or the second weapon—is missing from this grove that had to have been present at the time of Mr. Crawford’s demise,” Darcy said. “Which means someone else was in this grove before Mr. Crawford was discovered, and took with him the loading materials or the matching pistol. Either way, this individual was somehow involved in whatever event ended Mr. Crawford’s life. I should think that constitutes sufficient evidence to cast reasonable doubt on the probability of suicide.”

Sir Thomas stared at Darcy a long moment. At last he turned to the coroner. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Stover?”

“I am no longer confident in a suicide ruling. I will hold the inquest as planned; if no other information comes to light during it, I shall simply state the cause of death to be a close-range gunshot to the head, and the investigation into how that shot came to be fired can proceed from there.”

Sir Thomas appeared disappointed. “I had hoped this matter would be settled by your report. But very well. At least I shall be able to ship Mr. Crawford’s rotting remains out of Mansfield and back to Norfolk. Everingham is welcome to them.”

Twenty

“
Do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require.
”

—
Lady Catherine,
Pride and Prejudice

M
r. Archer had always reminded Elizabeth of an undertaker. However, she had assumed the solicitor’s undertakings were aboveboard.

Now she was not quite so certain.

As Elizabeth descended the stairs in search of Meg, who had not yet been informed of her husband’s death, she contemplated Lady Catherine’s solicitor more seriously. Of all the people she and Darcy had discussed as having motive for Henry Crawford’s murder, they had avoided the mention of one who almost certainly had wished him dead.

And Mr. Archer worked for her.

The thought that Lady Catherine had instructed her solicitor to eliminate her daughter’s seducer was absurd. Was it not? Darcy’s aunt was a titled aristocrat. The daughter of an earl. A landowner in her own right, a patroness of—well, of Mr. Collins, the realm’s most obsequious clergyman, but a patroness nevertheless. She might be domineering, she might think herself infallible on the subject of what was best for everybody else, she might be in the habit of bullying everyone around her until she got her own way. But such people as her ladyship—ladies with a capital L and the pedigree to support it—did not go round orchestrating assassinations.

Unless they were provoked beyond reason.

And Lady Catherine had every reason. Henry Crawford had not only interfered with what she had considered a very desirable marriage contract, he had destroyed Anne’s chances of ever receiving another. Darcy’s aunt had been incensed from the moment she learned of the elopement, and her ire had only grown as the magnitude of the damage compounded. Perhaps she had indeed surpassed reason.

Elizabeth suspended her musings for a moment to enquire after Meg. Mrs. Garrick had last been seen heading for the livery. Whatever for, Elizabeth could not imagine, but she followed the direction nonetheless.

She found Meg in the stable, deep in conference with Charleybane. She stood just outside the Thoroughbred’s stall, stroking the animal’s marred face and speaking in low, lulling tones. The horse leaned its head toward her hand.

Elizabeth was reluctant to interrupt—this was the most content she had ever seen either the mare or the woman, but the news she bore could not be postponed, and Meg deserved to hear it from a sympathetic teller.

“Meg?”

Meg turned. “Mrs. Darcy. I was just—” She glanced back at the Thoroughbred self-consciously. “I was just visiting John’s—Mr. Crawford’s—horse. I thought she might be missing her owner.”

“Are you missing her owner?”

“I—” She shook her head and shrugged. “I do not know. I doubt I can ever forgive his betrayal, but all the same, he is my husband, and with each passing day since Charleybane’s return, I fear more for his safety.”

Elizabeth wished she had a better report to offer. “He has been located.”

Relief lit Meg’s features, but for only a moment. Then a look of doubt set in. “You have left something unspoken—I can hear it in your voice. Was he found with yet another woman?”

“No. I am afraid he was found dead.”

Meg blinked rapidly and swallowed—twice—before speaking. “I feared as much. How?”

“He was shot. The coroner is determining whether by accident or intent.”

Charleybane nickered. Meg turned and absently stroked the mare’s face while she composed her own. The intelligence had clearly taken her by surprise. So, apparently, had her grief. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Elizabeth offered her a handkerchief. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news.”

“I am sorry to be the recipient of it.” She dabbed the tears and returned the handkerchief. “Now that he is gone, I do not know what I shall do.”

“As his widow, you might attempt to petition the courts for dower rights. Even if you receive merely a portion of his personal property, that ought to help support you. This horse alone is worth quite a sum, despite her injury.”

“I cannot afford to keep a horse, let alone petition the courts for anything. I cannot afford my room at this inn.”

“Do not distress yourself over the room at present.”

She shook her head. “That is most generous of you, but I shall find a way to manage for myself.” She stroked the horse’s mane. “In the meantime, I believe I shall take Charleybane out for some exercise. Perhaps the ride will help organize my thoughts.”

Elizabeth left Meg with the mare and went back toward the inn. As she neared the door, Mr. Archer emerged. He nodded brusquely and continued past her, heading for the stables. She followed him with her eyes, her earlier reflections returning to her mind. Where had Mr. Archer gone when he rode off on the night of Mr. Crawford’s disappearance? Had he discovered Henry and dispatched him, then returned to report his search unsuccessful?

There was one way to find out. Probably more than one, but today Elizabeth preferred the direct approach. The challenge would be obtaining the information she sought without revealing her suspicions. She retraced her steps to the livery, rapidly inventing and then discarding means of phrasing the questions she wanted to ask, and hoping inspiration would reach her before she reached him. She expected to find him just within, arranging with the ostler the hire of a mount or post-chaise—for what else would take him to the stables?—but he was not immediately inside. Nor were the ostler or his stable hands.

She proceeded toward the rear of the building, where she had left Meg and Charleybane. The Thoroughbred’s stall was round a corner, and she slowed at the sound of voices.

“. . . her ladyship’s interests. His death has not changed that.”

“It might have changed mine.” The voice was Meg’s. The other belonged to Mr. Archer.

“I thought you would see reason. I shall inform her ladyship.”

“Do not inform her yet, for I have not made up my mind.”

“You are hardly in a position to refuse. Reports already circulate that Mr. Crawford might have been murdered. You were seen riding off after him the night he disappeared.”

“So were you.”

“I am a respected London solicitor employed by a lady of irreproachable reputation. You are a penniless commoner. Who is more likely to swing from a tree? Come, now, Mrs. Garrick—you need only maintain silence on the subject of your marriage.”

The ostler reentered, startling Elizabeth. He asked whether he might be of assistance. She shook her head and departed quickly, hoping Meg and Mr. Archer had not heard him and therefore remained unaware of her presence.

Rather than return to the inn, she strode down the lane, hoping to put enough distance between herself and the livery that when Meg emerged with Charleybane she would not suspect her conversation with Lady Catherine’s solicitor had been overheard. Clearly, it had not been their first conversation, nor did it sound like it would be the last.

Elizabeth soon found herself approaching White House, where Maria Rushworth presently resided with her aunt. A curtain fell in one of the front windows, and a moment later Mrs. Norris bustled out.

“Mrs. Darcy, I have seen your husband coming and going from the village all morning. Are there tidings of Mr. Crawford?”

“Why would Mr. Darcy’s errands lead you to think of Mr. Crawford?”

“Mr. Crawford has been on my mind since his horse returned without him. Poor, ugly creature.”

“Do you refer to Mr. Crawford or the horse?”

“His mount, of course! I have never seen a more frightened animal in all my days. Naturally, one wonders about the fate of its master.”

“When there is news of Mr. Crawford that concerns the general public, it will be circulated.” No doubt with the aid of Mrs. Norris. Though she had met Mrs. Norris only once before, and that during Maria’s argument with Mr. Crawford, Elizabeth knew her well. There was a Mrs. Norris in every village in England.

“But has he been found? However cowardly it was of him to flee, one would not want serious harm to befall him. Not I, at least. He injured my Maria terribly, but never let it be said that I failed in my Christian duty of forgiveness.”

“You demonstrate great generosity of spirit.”

“I am but a poor widow, yet even one with limited means can afford to be liberal in spirit. I have been telling Maria, and Sir Thomas, too, that if we are to know any peace ourselves we must all of us turn the other cheek. That is what my late husband, the Reverend Mr. Norris, would say were he here.”

As Mrs. Norris had hardly seemed moved by the spirit of Christian forgiveness during her last encounter with Henry Crawford, Elizabeth wondered at her change of heart. Had she already heard of the morning’s discovery? One such as Mrs. Norris generally managed to be among the first to learn any village news. She could well have been informed of Mr. Crawford’s demise by someone at Mansfield Park—perhaps her sister, Lady Bertram—and now angled for more information.

Elizabeth decided to indulge her—or at least, appear to indulge her. In the process she would conduct a fishing expedition of her own.

“I am sure Mr. Crawford would appreciate your magnanimous sentiments. Unfortunately, Mr. Darcy and I were advised this morning that he has passed away.”

“It is as I feared! I knew when his horse came back that its return did not bode well. Found him far from here, I expect?”

“No, in fact—in Mansfield Wood.”

“Mansfield Wood! Sir Thomas did not say a word. Only imagine—Mr. Crawford’s being there all along. Did his horse throw him? It looks a most unsound animal, if you want my opinion.”

Elizabeth did not want her opinion, but she did wonder when Mrs. Norris had formed it. “When did you happen to see his horse?”

“I saw it—” She glanced down the lane. “I saw it when he arrived in the village. Everyone passes White House on their way to the Bull.”

Indeed, Mrs. Norris could not have a more convenient situation for the gathering of village intelligence. A well-timed peek through her curtains could yield a day’s worth of news. Elizabeth decided to offer her a bit more, and see what resulted. “I understand Mr. Crawford died of a gunshot.”

“Indeed? How dreadful. Well, I expect his libertine ways must have caught up with him. Died in an argument, no doubt, over some lady or other. One wonders who the other gentleman is.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly, “one does.” Considering that her niece’s husband was such an obvious suspect, Elizabeth would expect Mrs. Norris to be less vocal in her speculations. “I am certain, however, that he will be found.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Norris blinked. “Is he still at large?”

“So far as I know.”

“Oh, my.” She glanced up and down the lane, no doubt hoping to spot a friend to whom she could immediately impart the news.

“How is Mrs. Rushworth?” Elizabeth asked. “Is she at home?”

“Mrs. Rushworth?” she repeated absently, still looking round. At last, she returned her gaze to Elizabeth. “Maria is presently at Sotherton with her husband.”

“Oh? I understood she lived with you. I must have been mistaken.”

“She has been staying with me—such a good-hearted girl, to keep her poor aunt company. Kindness and thoughtfulness itself, I am sure. But she had matters to discuss with Mr. Rushworth this morning.”

“I had hoped to call upon her today. Perhaps I will try again later, after she returns. Is Sotherton far?”

“It is ten miles. I intended to accompany her, but she would not hear of it. I am sure she thought only of my comfort. It will indeed be a long journey—the roads are narrow and toss one about even in the best of weather. But once at Sotherton, all is ease. It is one of the largest and finest estates in England, you know. An ancient manor. Mr. Rushworth is a man of some consequence.”

“I did not know. Perhaps Mr. Darcy and I will call upon both Mrs. Rushworth and her husband, to improve our acquaintance with them.”

“Perhaps you had better not. As I said, it is a tiresome journey.”

“Then maybe we will have an opportunity to converse with Mr. Rushworth the next time he visits Mansfield.”

“Mr. Rushworth does not come to the village often. He was a frequent visitor to Mansfield Park whilst courting Maria, but after they wed, they spent all their time in London and other fashionable spots. Of late, however, I believe he has largely been at home.”

“With such an estate as you describe, I can well imagine Mr. Rushworth prefers it above any other location—especially now, as hunting season approaches. I have always heard Northamptonshire reputed as fine country for sportsmen.”

“Oh, it is. The finest! And Mr. Rushworth loves to hunt and shoot. He is forever talking about his hounds.” She glanced up the lane again, focusing on something past Elizabeth’s right shoulder. “Oh—there is Jacob Mauston.”

Elizabeth turned to see a laborer coming down the road, carrying with him a box of tools.

“If you will excuse me,” Mrs. Norris continued, “I must speak with him about some work I would like done.”

“By all means.”

Mrs. Norris first reentered her house, returned with a key, and locked her door. “One cannot be too cautious,” she said as she passed Elizabeth.

Indeed, thought Elizabeth as she watched Mrs. Norris bustle toward Mr. Mauston. In this village, one could not.