Lynn Shepherd - Murder at Mansfield Park

"And I had rather she remained so," said Crawford quickly — too quickly, as the expression on his companion’s face immediately testified.

Maddox nodded. "I can see that it would, indeed, be most trying to have to explain your squalid depravities to someone as principled as Miss Crawford. So trying, in fact, that you might well have been tempted to silence the Tranter girl once and for all — especially if she were becoming importunate in her demands. Or if, shall we say, she had told you she was with child, or threatened to expose you to your sister. Or even, poor wretch, if you had merely tired of her, and wished to rid yourself of an incumbrance which had, by then, become nothing more than a source of irritation."

Crawford’s face had turned very red. "How dare you presume to address me in this manner — there is absolutely nothing to substantiate a single one of these vile and disgusting accusations, and I defy you to do so."

Maddox remained perfectly calm. "You are quite right. If there were such proof, no doubt even the rather slow-witted constables of the parish of Enfield might have been expected to uncover it."

Crawford took a step nearer. "And if I find you repeating any of these base and unfounded allegations to my sister — "

He had, by now, approached so close as to be less than a foot from the thief-taker, but Maddox stood his ground, even in the face of such encroachment. "I have no wish to distress her, sir. Unless, of course, it is absolutely necessary. I am sure that she — like you — would prefer to forget the whole horrible affair; but unlike you, she may one day be successful in that endeavour."

"And what do you mean to insinuate by that?"

"Merely that unresolved murders of this kind have a habit of coming to light, even after the lapse of several years. The law may seem to nod, Mr Crawford, but she is not wholly blind, especially where unanswered questions persist, and when the persons involved subsequently find themselves entangled in circumstances of a similar gruesome nature. It is interesting, is it not, that then, as now, you cannot confirm your whereabouts at the time of the killing?"

Crawford turned away, and Maddox watched with interest as his companion perceived, for the first time since he had entered that room, that he was face to face with his dead wife. Maddox had wondered, when he elected to use Sir Thomas’s room for this interview, whether Crawford had ever entered it, or seen this portrait, and now he had his answer. It was, he believed, a striking likeness of the late Mrs Crawford. The painter had no doubt yielded to the young lady’s demands as to the pink satin gown, the bowl of summer roses, and the small white dog leaping in her lap, but he was evidently a good hand at drawing a likeness, and there was a certain quality in the set of her head, and the curl of her lip, that belied the outward charm and sweetness of the tout ensemble.

Crawford was still standing before the portrait, lost in thought. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of his interlocutor; it was the very state of mind that Maddox had hoped to induce, and too fair an opportunity for a man of his stamp to let pass.

"I wonder, did the constables ever resolve the mystery of the shirt?"

Henry turned slowly, his countenance distracted.

"If you recall, Mr Crawford," continued Maddox, "the hammer with which Mrs Tranter was so cruelly done to death was subsequently discovered in the garden of the house, wrapped about in a blood-stained shirt." He paused. "Her blood, but y our shirt."

Henry shook his head, as if to banish the thoughts that had begun to beset him. "It was an old shirt," he said. "One I had deposited in a trunk in the house. I cannot explain how the ruffians came to discover it."

"Any more than you can explain why a witness claimed to have seen you in the neighbourhood that day? A washerwoman, was it not?"

"She was mistaken, God damn you! She was old, half-blind and very likely in liquor. She was mistaken . Indeed, as I recall, she withdrew her story only a few days later."

"So there is no danger of a similar sighting in the vicinity of Mansfield on the day your wife was battered to death?"

Henry Crawford’s face, which had been flushed, was now as pale as ashes. "Absolutely none. I was, as I said, still in London.You may make whatever enquiries you choose."

Maddox drained his own glass, and placed it carefully on the table. "Thank you, Mr Crawford. I would have done as much whether you consented or not, but this is a rather more civilised way of proceeding, is it not?"

Mary was alone in the parlour when Henry returned. The impetuous and defiant demeanour had gone, and been replaced by an expression she might almost have called fear. As she handed him a glass of Madeira she noticed that his hands were cold, even though the evening was warm.

"Come, Henry, sit with me by the fire."

He sat for some moments in silence, until prompted by her once more.

"Did you see the family — Mr Bertram, her ladyship?"

"I saw Maddox, mostly. He it was who has detained me so long. The man is a veritable terrier, Mary. Heaven help the guilty man who finds himself in his power, for he can expect no quarter there. Would to God that you had told me he knew so much of Enfield — he had all the facts at his fingers’ ends as if it had happened only yesterday. It was like living the whole atrocious business through a second time. I had thought we had left it behind us in London, and now it returns to haunt us once more — will we never be free of it?"

Mary put a hand on his arm. "I am sorry. I should have said something. But our sister and Dr Grant were in the room at the time, and we agreed never to speak of it to anyone. No good can come of doing so now. It would only — "

" — give my brother-in-law yet further reason to suspect me, and fix me even more firmly at the head of whatever list it is that Maddox is busily compiling. Good God, Mary, it appeared as if every word I uttered only made me seem the more guilty."

"Do not lose courage. If Mr Maddox is ruthless, that should only reassure us that he will, at the last, discover who really committed this crime."

Henry shook his head sadly. "I am afraid you do not appreciate how such a man Maddox is accustomed to operate. He will receive a fine fat reward for bringing the culprit to justice, but what will happen if he cannot find the real villain? Do you imagine he will merely doff his hat to Tom Bertram, and admit he has failed? Depend upon it, he will deliver someone to the gallows, and whether it is the right man or no will not trouble him unduly."

They sat in silence for a long while after this, until Mary ventured to ask him, once more, if he had seen the family.

"I saw Mrs Norris, who was intent on seeing me off the premises with all dispatch. I am heartily glad you were not there to see it — or hear it, given the choice turn of phrase she chose to avail herself of. The only thing that distinguishes that old harridan from a Billings-gate fishwife is a thick layer of bombazine, and a thin veneer of respectability. No, no, my conscience is easy on the score of Mrs Norris; she has never shewn me either consideration or respect, and I will requite her insolence and contempt in equal measure. But I do have cause for self-reproach on Lady Bertram’s account. You know I have always thought her a silly woman — a mere cipher — interested only in that vile pug and all that endless yardage of fringe, but she has a kind heart, for all that, and has borne a great deal of late, without the strength and guidance of Sir Thomas to assist her. I am afraid to say that this latest news has quite overcome her, and she has taken to her bed. I am heartily sorry for it, and all the more so since I discovered how ill Miss Julia had been these last few days."