The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (17 page)

“What? What do you say about Anne?” Viscount Sennex shuffled into the room. “Oh, here you are, Lady Catherine. I have been looking for you this hour. I have questions about the agreement we discussed—”

“I am afraid we must discuss it further, my lord, before it can be finalized.”

“Further? Very well. But what has this gentleman to do with my bride?”

“Nothing, my lord. Nothing that need trouble you. He is only—only a Mr. Garrick.”

He blinked and scratched his head. “But I thought I heard you call him Henry Crawford.”

“You did. I should not have addressed him so.”

“Well, is he Mr. Crawford or Mr. Garrick?”

“The matter is complicated.”

The viscount rubbed his chin, which appeared in need of shaving. “If he is Mr. Crawford, is he Miss de Bourgh’s Mr. Crawford?”

“Anne no longer has a Mr. Crawford.”

The elderly gentleman appeared so confused that he looked as if he could not at once absorb Lady Catherine’s words and remain standing. He leaned heavily on his cane. “This is all most perplexing . . .”

“Indeed, it is, my lord. Allow me to escort you back to your chamber whilst I explain everything you need to know.” With a final glare at Mr. Crawford, Lady Catherine led the viscount from the room.

Elizabeth wondered just how Lady Catherine planned to “explain” the present situation in a way that would enable her plan to proceed. As sorry as Elizabeth felt for Anne, she experienced equal sympathy for Lord Sennex. It vexed her to witness Lady Catherine taking advantage of his age and mental frailty to advance her own selfish interests.

She excused herself from the parlor temporarily. To her knowledge, no one had yet informed Anne or Colonel Fitzwilliam of Mr. Crawford’s return from the dead, an omission she undertook to rectify. She was stopped on her way to the staircase by Mrs. Norris, who apparently had come to the inn solely for the purpose of being among the first in the village to obtain particulars about Mr. Crawford’s miraculous resurrection.

“Mrs. Darcy, is it true? Is Henry Crawford indeed alive?”

Elizabeth lacked the patience to deal with the busybody at present. The day would soon turn to evening, yet there seemed to be no end of it in sight.

“Yes, he is. Would you care to join the queue of persons who have business with him?”

Her eyes widened. “No—no, indeed! I merely wanted to know—for Maria’s sake. I have no wish to see that scoundrel.”

Now that Henry Crawford was alive once more, he was again a scoundrel. So much for Christian forgiveness.

“But if Mr. Crawford is alive,” Mrs. Norris pressed, “who was found in Mansfield Wood?”

“A traveler.”

“Does anyone know who killed him?”

“That is perhaps a question best directed to Sir Thomas. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Elizabeth left Mrs. Norris and headed upstairs, restraining herself from physically throwing back her shoulders to shake off the encounter. She found the old gossip more disagreeable with every conversation.

On the landing, she met Colonel Fitzwilliam and quickly apprised him of the day’s extraordinary events. His jaw settled into the same rigid set as Darcy’s did when aggravated, and she was struck by the resemblance between the cousins. They both carried within them a strong sense of honor, and a subsequent disdain for those who so profoundly lacked one of their own. Both were highly conscious of duty; just as Darcy upheld his responsibility to his tenants and others who depended upon him for their livelihood, so, too, did Colonel Fitzwilliam take seriously his responsibility to the men under his command. They also shared a commitment to family, particularly the protection of those in their charge. He was a good man, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and could make a fine husband to Anne if only Lady Catherine and Henry Crawford would leave them be.

He muttered something under his breath. Elizabeth could not quite make it out, but from the hard expression of his eyes she suspected it was not the most gentlemanly of sentiments.

“I was on my way to acquaint Anne with this turn of events,” she said. “Though perhaps you would do me the favor of delivering the news? You have been a steadfast companion to her these many days; she might hear it better from you.”

“I would that there was no such news to impart,” he said. “But yes, I shall tell her directly.”

As she left him, she wondered whether Henry’s return would prove a blessing in the end. Perhaps Lady Catherine’s grand designs would at last crumble, and she would be forced to give them up and accept Anne’s wishes.

She reached the main floor in time to see Viscount Sennex coming in the front door with Mrs. Norris, of all people. Whatever had the two of them to do with each other?

“I thought you were conversing with Lady Catherine, my lord?”

“Indeed, yes. Then I stepped outside for a moment and became a bit turned around. This kind lady took pity on me and led me back.”

“He was returning from the necessary,” Mrs. Norris offered in a too-loud whisper. “You might want to keep a watch on him, lest he wander off and be unable to find his way back.” She tapped her head meaningfully. Fortunately, the viscount did not seem to notice her less-than-subtle reference to his mental state. He was busy shuffling back out the door.

“I shall bear that in mind, thank you.” She hastily excused herself from Mrs. Norris and caught up with the viscount just outside.

“My lord, I believe your room is this way—within the building?”

“What? Oh! Yes—yes, of course. I was merely on an errand”—he glanced in the direction of the necessary—“of a personal nature.”

Had he not just attended to such an errand? Pity entered her heart as she regarded the elderly man. He did not appear that feeble, but looks could be deceiving, as evidenced by his frequent trips to the privy. It was, she supposed, one of the indignities of old age. Poor Viscount Sennex.

Poor Anne!

“Do not you worry about me, young lady. I shall return to my chamber in a few minutes.”

Elizabeth forced a cheerful smile to her lips. “Of course.”

She felt, as she watched him walk off, that she ought to wait to ensure that he actually made it back to his room safely. He looked so frail—his posture stooped, his clothes hanging loosely on a frame that no longer filled them. But she did not want to subject the viscount to the embarrassment of being treated like a toddler whose nurse stood outside the privy door. Why was his valet not more attentive? Surely he had brought a personal servant, had he not? Come to think on it, she had not seen one with him—perhaps he and Neville had brought only one to attend them both, and Neville commanded more of his service.

She spotted Nat, the innkeeper’s son, and pressed a penny into his hand. Nodding toward the viscount, she asked Nat to discreetly help him back to his room if need be. “And here is a sixpence to remain watchful of the viscount’s future visits out of doors.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

By the time she returned to the parlor, Sir Thomas had arrived and heard Mr. Crawford’s tale. The magistrate addressed Darcy. “If Mr. Crawford is speaking truthfully, it would seem that you and Colonel Fitzwilliam were correct about the existence of a second pistol. Where is it now, Mr. Crawford?”

“I know not. I recall seeing only one when I awoke, and that I left behind. I was, however, extremely disoriented and could well have overlooked it, especially in the dismal light.”

“And you do not recall shooting Mr. Lautus with either pistol?”

“Not at all.”

With an air and expression of dissatisfaction, Sir Thomas rose from his seat. “That will do for now, I suppose. I shall repeat your story to the coroner. He might have additional questions for you, as might I whilst I verify what you have related and attempt to learn more about Mr. Lautus. Are you lodging here at the Bull?”

“I have no idea. I have not even considered the matter of tonight’s lodging. I suppose I shall indeed stay here, if there is a room.”

Mr. Gower was again summoned, and regretfully informed them that the Ox and Bull had not a single vacant chamber. Mr. Crawford’s former room had been assigned to Neville Sennex. Sir Thomas himself, however, struck upon a solution.

“Mr. Sennex is an acquaintance of my son’s,” he said. “I met him this afternoon—in fact, I believe he is yet at Mansfield Park. We shall simply invite him to stay with us. His lordship is welcome too, if the viscount is inclined.”

“The viscount is fatigued from the journey from Bucking-hamshire and has only just settled into his chamber here,” Elizabeth said. “Let us not uproot him at this hour.”

All was arranged. Neville Sennex returned to the inn long enough to supervise the transportation of his belongings and take cursory leave of the viscount. He then made continued use of Henry’s horse to hie himself to Mansfield Park, where he reveled in freedom from any care over his father’s happiness or comfort, while Henry Crawford took possession of his former chamber.

It was the last time either gentleman was seen alive.

Twenty-five

He was entangled by his own vanity.

—Mansfield Park

N
ot again?”

Darcy signaled to Elizabeth to keep her voice hushed. Though the inn bustled below with sounds of breakfast being prepared, he was not certain whether others were yet awake, and he did not want to be overheard. “I am afraid so,” he said. “That horse is a bad omen.”

“The horse has nothing to do with it. She is merely an innocent victim of circumstances.”

Charleybane had once again returned riderless to the Ox and Bull. Upon her arrival, Mr. Gower had looked in on his newest guest—and then summoned Darcy. Mr. Crawford’s chamber was empty. The bed had been slept in, but otherwise the room exhibited no sign of disturbance. Nor any indication that Mr. Crawford—or John Garrick, or whoever he claimed to be today—ever planned to return. Though he had once again left behind his valise, as Garrick he had insisted it was not his.

Darcy, who had hastily donned breeches and a shirt to accompany Mr. Gower to Henry’s room, had returned to his own chamber to finish dressing and field questions from Elizabeth to which he had no answers.

“Perhaps he remembered who he was and fled,” she suggested.

“Perhaps he never forgot.” Darcy had not been fully convinced of Mr. Crawford’s claim of amnesia, and now was even more suspicious of its having been yet another one of his theatrical performances, this one enacted to escape prosecution for having killed Mr. Lautus.

He struggled to tie his cravat in the tiny glass. The effort went poorly, as he had not patience for it. The sooner Sir Thomas was informed of Henry Crawford’s latest disappearance, the sooner Darcy could have done with the entire matter.

Elizabeth crossed to him, took hold of the ends of the cloth, and tried to lend assistance. “It is still unfair to accuse the horse of complicity. Besides, I thought you told me last night that the Thoroughbred was in Neville Sennex’s possession.”

He frowned. “You are correct—she was. I had forgotten.”

“Well, then we cannot malign her for returning here. Were I her, I would escape Neville Sennex at first opportunity, too.” She loosened the uneven knot she had made and started over. “One wonders, though, how she was able to simply wander off from Mansfield Park’s stables. I would expect the groom to exercise better guardianship over the horses of guests.”

“As would I.”

She chuckled. “Perhaps Mr. Sennex went out for an early-morning ride and Lady Catherine’s fondest hopes have indeed come to fruition.” Her hands suddenly stilled, and her expression lost its mirth. “Darcy, you do not suppose—”

“That the horse threw him?” The possibility was not an outrageous one, considering how Mr. Sennex had treated the mare during his ownership. Until he had confirmation of any such accident, however, he would reassure Elizabeth. “I doubt anything unfortunate has befallen Mr. Sennex. I doubt he has even stirred from his bed at this hour.” He settled his hands on her waist. “I wish I could say the same.”

She awarded him a mischievous smile. “I see my wiles are working after all.”

“Quite well.”

“ ’Tis a relief. I had begun to fear that motherhood had diminished them. Perhaps I shall win that muff pistol yet.”

She released the ends of his cravat and stepped back. “Not, however, if I am judged by my skill with gentlemen’s neckcloths. I seem to have made an even greater tangle of this than before I attempted to help.”

Darcy retrieved a fresh neckcloth. In so doing, he spied the shot patch from the grove. Sir Thomas had not yet asked for its return for use in investigating Mr. Lautus’s death, but surely he would want it. He tucked the patch into one of his pockets.

Elizabeth’s observation about the horse prompted him to greater haste in calling upon Sir Thomas, despite the uncivilized hour. He did not believe in coincidences, and Charleybane’s unexpected appearance at the same time as Mr. Crawford’s disappearance raised questions in his mind that he preferred to settle without delay.

He would call on Sir Thomas before even breaking his fast. And he wanted Colonel Fitzwilliam to accompany him.

“Not again?” Sir Thomas stared at his gamekeeper incredulously.

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had no sooner been shown into the study than Mr. Cobb had entered to report another discovery in the now infamous grove.

“Yes, sir. Though found in a more timely manner, at least.” The gamekeeper conveyed the particulars, each one causing Sir Thomas increasing agitation. “Do you and the gentlemen want to come see for yourselves?”

Sir Thomas rubbed his temples. In the space of a minute he seemed to have aged a decade. “Of course. Tell Badderley to summon Mr. Stover.”

They arrived in the grove to a scene very much like the one they had found a se’nnight previous. Mr. Crawford sprawled lifeless in the grass.

This time there could be no mistake. The body was definitely his, and he was definitely dead. A scarlet hole in his chest and the blood soaking his clothing announced that a pistol had once more been aimed at him, this time with greater accuracy.

Upon the present occasion, however, Mr. Crawford was joined in death by a person familiar to them all: Neville Sennex. The viscount’s son lay in a heap about twenty paces away. He had not been thrown from his horse. Riding accidents generally did not leave a bullet hole through one’s heart.

Darcy observed Sir Thomas’s pale countenance with sympathy. Any death was a serious matter, but to have the son of a viscount discovered slain on one’s property, where he had been staying as a guest, was an event no one wanted to experience.

“I ought to inform Viscount Sennex immediately,” Sir Thomas said. “I understand his lordship is in failing health. I hope his heart can survive the news.”

“I have known the viscount for many years,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I will accompany you when you deliver the tidings, if you like; they might be easier to bear coming from a familiar person.”

“I would be most obliged.”

For a field that had seen so much death in recent days, the scene appeared oddly peaceful. Darcy observed no sign that the two men had engaged in any sort of physical struggle or pursuit that had led to the exchange of gunfire. Their bodies lay on their sides, more or less facing each other. Though the pistols themselves were absent, spent patches—two near Mr. Sennex, one near Mr. Crawford—littered the ground between them. Their deaths had been an orderly affair.

The colonel glanced from one body to the other. “Two gentlemen of means, one of whom eloped with the other’s betrothed. I have seen the results of more than a few duels during my career, and this certainly has the appearance of one.”

“Neville Sennex complained last night that he had been denied satisfaction in the matter of Miss de Bourgh’s elopement,” Darcy said. “The Sennex family takes honor seriously, and you and I both knew Neville Sennex to be a man of incendiary temperament. I would not be surprised if he called out Mr. Crawford and made him defend his actions.”

“Nor would I,” Fitzwilliam said. “In fact, the Sennex family is so honor-driven that it might bring the viscount some small comfort to know his son died in a contest of honor.”

“Small indeed,” said Sir Thomas. “He has lost his only heir.”

Darcy glanced at Colonel Fitzwilliam. With Neville dead, a son born to his lordship and Anne would inherit the viscountcy. There would be no dissuading Lady Catherine from effecting the marriage now. And, now that he needed to produce another heir posthaste, the viscount himself would likely press as hard for a timely wedding—provided he even had the mental clarity to realize what was at stake.

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not meet Darcy’s gaze, but rather, swept the grove with his own, frowning. “A proper duel involves veritable entourage of participants—not only the primaries and seconds, but also the presiding officer, four officer seconds, and a surgeon—at a minimum.”

Darcy quickly took his meaning. “It does not appear that ten or more men were tramping about here this morning. Much of the grass remains untrodden, and the shot patches seem to be lying where they fell.” He recalled Elizabeth’s words about whether a gentleman confronting a rival lover always adhered to form. He also remembered Neville’s confrontation with Sir John Trauth in the card room at the Riveton ball. “Perhaps Neville Sennex felt it unnecessary to heed all the precepts of the Code Duello. He is quicker to talk about honor than to practice it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded. “A duel between Mr. Sennex and Mr. Crawford might well have been of a more . . . informal nature.”

“I wonder whether their unconventional duel began in an even more unorthodox manner,” said Darcy. “If Henry Crawford can be believed, Mr. Lautus claimed to have been hired by someone to teach him a lesson about honor. Perhaps that ‘someone’ was Mr. Sennex.”

“I deem it possible,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “Inasmuch as I believe Mr. Sennex likely to have issued a challenge to Mr. Crawford, I believe him equally likely to have delegated the first attempt to mete out punishment. Neville was probably the least honorable Sennex to have been born into that family in generations; very good at spouting off about honor but poor in his own demonstration of it. I warrant he would have had no qualms about letting someone else perform the dangerous work of defending his honor from foes.”

“And then when Mr. Lautus failed, he was forced to complete the business himself,” Darcy said.

“It would be just like him to arrange a less-than-proper means of settling their contest, with as few witnesses as possible.”

“There might not have been a crowd of observers here,” said Darcy, “but there was at least one other person—the individual who took their pistols afterward.”

“I dislike all these missing weapons,” Sir Thomas declared. “We still have not located the matching pistol to the Mortimer found with Mr. Lautus. If Neville Sennex
did
hire Mr. Lautus, I wonder, then, whether he knew anything regarding the whereabouts of the missing Mortimer pistol, or perhaps used it himself this morning.”

“That might prove easy enough to determine,” Darcy said. He walked to one of the patches near Mr. Sennex. It was a golden silk circle with the same bird pattern and three rifling marks surrounding a black center circle.

“You would seem to have your answer.” Darcy handed the patch to the magistrate. “This patch matches the two already in our possession. Somehow the missing pistol found its way into Mr. Sennex’s hands after the encounter between Mr. Crawford and Mr. Lautus.”

“Did Mr. Sennex retrieve it himself?” Sir Thomas asked.

“He had five days in which to do so before Mr. Lautus’s body was discovered—plenty of time to travel from Buckinghamshire and back,” Darcy said. “Though he would have had to know where to come. Was he ever a guest in your home before last night?”

“I am not certain. I had never met him before, but my son Tom frequently has friends to visit while I am traveling on business.”

Another patch lay nearby. Darcy picked it up. Same fabric, same rifling marks.

Bigger black bull’s-eye at the center.

Darcy asked Sir Thomas to hand back the patch he had just surrendered. He held it next to this new one. Not only the black powder circle, but the fabric itself, was of a larger diameter. “These two patches differ in size.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam took them from him while Darcy reached into his pocket for the one he had brought from the previous shootings. “The larger center circle suggests that a larger ball was used,” said the colonel.

Darcy unfolded the old patch and compared it to those just found. It matched the smaller of the two. “Unless the evidentiary pistol left your custody, Sir Thomas, the shot seated with the smaller of these new patches was fired from the missing Mortimer.”

“It has not left my custody.”

“Forgive me, but are you quite certain? Mr. Sennex was a guest in your home last night.”

Sir Thomas’s expression indicated that he did not appreciate the suggestion that he had failed to exercise proper stewardship over the pistol. “I am certain.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam walked toward Mr. Crawford and retrieved the patch that lay about five feet in front of the corpse. “It is of the same silk,” he said as he walked back, “in the larger size.” All four patches shared the three black rifling lines.

“Were this a proper duel,” Darcy said, “I would have expected Mr. Crawford to provide his own pistols, but it appears that all the shots were fired by weapons with similar rifling, and loaded by the same individual.”

“Were this a proper duel, the weapons would not bear rifling at all,” Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded them. “And it is consistent with what we know of Neville Sennex’s character to believe he might have owned a pair of pistols with hidden rifling.”

“Or two sets,” Darcy said. “It would seem we are now also seeking at least one larger pistol.”

“The size of the spent balls will be able to confirm that, assuming they can be found.” Colonel Fitzwilliam approached Mr. Sennex’s remains.

“Pray do not disturb him,” said Sir Thomas. “Mr. Stover will want to see the bodies as we found them. He is rather particular.”

Darcy would have liked very much to disturb Mr. Sennex just enough to close his eyelids and shield them all from his lifeless gaze. The expression of astonishment that yet dominated his countenance disturbed Darcy every time he accidentally glanced in his direction. Neville must not have expected Henry Crawford to prove so accurate a marksman.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, seemed entirely untroubled by the open eyes. Darcy imagined his cousin had seen the glassy stare of death often enough on the battlefield to have become oblivious to its unsettling effects.

Mr. Sennex had landed on his side, and Colonel Fitzwilliam circled round him. “I do not see a wound that would indicate the ball passed clear through him. We may be fortunate enough to find it lodged inside, as with Mr. Lautus. Mr. Crawford sprawls at a more difficult angle to judge, but we can be hopeful that he, too, exhibits no exit wound.”