Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“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.”