Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“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.

“Not 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.