Murder at Mansfield Park

Chapter 12

When Mary opened her eyes again, the morning sun was streaming through the window. For a few precious moments she enjoyed the bliss of ignorance, but such serenity could not last, and the events of the previous day were not long in returning to her remembrance. She felt weak and faint in body, but her mind had regained some part of its usual self-possession, and she dressed herself quickly, and went out into the passage. She was in a part of the house she did not know, and she stood for a moment, wondering how best to proceed. It then occurred to her that she might take the opportunity to locate Julia Bertram’s chamber, and try if she might be permitted to see her. To judge from Rogers’s words the preceding day, Julia might even have recovered sufficiently to rise from her bed. Mary made her way down the corridor, hearing the sounds of the mansion all around her; the tapping of servants’ footsteps and the murmur of voices were all magnified in a quite different way from what she was accustomed to, in the small rooms and confined spaces of the parsonage. A few minutes later she saw a woman emerging from a door some yards ahead of her, carrying a tray; it was Chapman, Lady Bertram’s maid. The woman hastened away without seeing her, and Mary moved forwards hesitatingly, not wishing to appear to intrude. As she drew level with the door she noticed that it was still ajar, and her eyes were drawn, almost against her will, to what was visible in the room.

It was immediately apparent that this was not Lady Bertram’s chamber, but her daughter’s; Maria Bertram was still in bed, and her mother was sitting beside her in her dressing gown. Mary had not seen either lady for more than a week, and the change in both was awful to witness. Lady Bertram seemed to have aged ten years in as many days; her face was grey, and the hair escaping from under her cap shewed streaks of white. Maria’s transformation was not so much in her looks as in her manner; the young woman who had been so arch and knowing when Mary last conversed with her, was lying prostrate on the bed, her handkerchief over her face, and her body racked with muted sobs. Lady Bertram was stroking her daughter’s hair, but she seemed not to know what else to do, and the two of them formed a complete picture of silent woe. Mary had no difficulty in comprehending Lady Bertram’s anguish — she had supplied a mother’s place to Fanny Price for many years, and the grief of her death had now been superadded to the public scandal of her disappearance; Maria’s condition was more perplexing. Some remorse and regret she might be supposed to feel at Fanny’s sudden and unexpected demise, but this utter prostration seemed excessive, and out of all proportion, considering their recent enmity.

Mary was still pondering such thoughts when she became aware of a third person in the room: Mrs Norris was standing at the foot of the bed, observing the two women almost as intently as Mary herself. A slight movement alerting that lady to Mary’s presence, she moved at once towards the door with all her wonted vigour and briskness.

"I do not know why it was necessary for Miss Crawford to remain in the house last night," she said angrily, to no-one in particular. "She seemed perfectly recovered to me, and in my opinion it is quite intolerable to have such an unnecessary addition to our domestic circle at such a time. But I did, at the very least, presume we would be not be subjected to vulgar and intrusive prying."

"Sister, sister," began Lady Bertram, in a voice weakened by weeping, but Mrs Norris did not heed her, and seized the handle of the door, with an expression of the utmost contempt.

"I beg your pardon," said Mary. "I did not mean — I was looking for Miss Julia’s chamber — "

"I doubt she wishes to see you, any more than we do. Be so good as to leave the house at your earliest convenience. Good morning, Miss Crawford."

And the door slammed shut against her.

Mary took a step backward, hardly knowing what she did, and found herself face to face with one of the footmen; he, like Mrs Chapman, was already dressed in mourning clothes.

"I am sorry," stammered Mary, her face colouring as she wondered how much of Mrs Norris’s invective had been overheard, "I did not see you."

"That’s quite all right, miss," he replied, his eyes fixed on the carpet.

"I was hoping to find Miss Julia’s room. Perhaps you would be so good as to direct me?"

"’Tis at farther end of t’other wing, miss. By the old school-room."

"Thank you."

The footman bowed and hurried away in the opposite direction, without meeting her eye, and Mary stood for a moment to collect herself, and still her swelling heart, before continuing on her way with a more purposeful step.

Nearing the great staircase, she became aware of voices in the hall below, and as she came out onto the landing, she was able to identify them, even though the speakers were hidden from her view by a curve in the stairs. It was Edmund, and Tom Bertram.

"It is scarcely comprehensible!" Edmund was saying. "To think that that all this time we have been thinking her run away — blaming her for the ignominy of an infamous elopement — and yet all the while she was lying there in that dreadful state, not half a mile from the house. It is inconceivable — that such an accident could have happened — "

"My dear Edmund," interjected Tom, "I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension. You were absent from Mansfield, and cannot be expected to be aware of precise times and circumstances, but I can assure you that the work on the channel commenced some hours, at least, after Fanny was missed from the house. It is quite impossible that there could have been such an accident as you have just described."

There was a pause, and Mary heard him pace up and down for a few moments before speaking again. She had already drawn a similar conclusion; moreover, she had private reasons of her own for believing that the corpse she had seen could not have lain above a day or two in the place where it was found.

"And even were that not the case," continued Tom, "you cannot seriously believe that the injuries we were both witness to, were solely the result of a fall? You saw it, as much as I did. Surely you must agree that there was a degree of malice — of deliberation — in the reckless damage done to — " he hesitated a moment. "In short, it can only have been the work of some insane and dangerous criminal. It is of the utmost importance that we arrange at once for a proper investigation."

"But the constable — "

" — has done everything in his power, but even were he a young man, which he is not, he has neither the men nor the authority to pursue the rigorous enquiries demanded by such an extraordinary and shocking case. You must see that — just as you must acknowledge that we have only one course available to us."

"Which is?"

"To send for a thief-taker from London. Mr Holmes himself as good as begged me to do so — he knows as well as I do, that this is our best, if not our only, hope."

"A thief-taker?" gasped Edmund. "Good God, Tom, most of those men are little more than criminals themselves! I have read the London newspapers, and I know how they operate. Bribery, violence, and extortion are only the least of it. Do we really want to open our most private and intimate affairs to such a man? To the public scrutiny such a course of action must inevitably occasion? I beg you, think again before you take such a perilous and unnecessary step."

"Unnecessary?" replied Tom coldly. "I am afraid I cannot agree. You, of all people, must want the villain who perpetrated so foul a deed to be brought to justice? And there is but one way we can hope to achieve that. I have made careful enquiries, and have received a most helpful recommendation from Lord Everingham. His lordship has suffered a number of fires on his property, and this man was instrumental in the discovery and detention of the culprit."

"For a handsome reward, no doubt," said Edmund, dryly.

"Of course. That is how such men earn their bread. But they are not all base rogues and villains, as you seem to believe. It appears this fellow gave distinguished service as a Bow Street Runner, before setting up on his own account, and Lord Everingham was willing to vouch not only for his proficiency, but for his complete discretion."

"But surely we should delay until we have the opportunity to consult my uncle?We should not contemplate such a proceeding without his permission. In our last communication from Keswick there was some expectation that he might be sufficiently recovered to commence the journey homewards within a few days. Can we not await his arrival?"

"You know full well, Edmund, that my father is not as yet deemed well enough to receive the news of Fanny’s death, coming as it does, so soon upon the shock of her disappearance, which has already provoked a dangerous relapse," replied Tom. "And even if he is able to set out from Cumberland as promptly as you hope, he will have to travel in slow stages, and will not return to Mansfield for at least a fortnight. We cannot afford to wait so long. I am grateful for your advice, Edmund, but in my father’s absence I am master at Mansfield Park. I have sent for this Charles Maddox, and I expect him later this afternoon. Good day to you."

Mary had, by this time, crept to the edge of the gallery and she saw Tom bow coolly to his cousin and turn away, before Edmund caught his arm.

"Can we, at least, have the body properly attended to? They have conveyed her to the old school-room — it faces north, and is cold without a fire, even in summer." He hesitated, and seemed to be struggling for composure. "I have had candles lit there, and flowers brought from the garden — "

His voice broke, and Mary leaned against the banister, unsure how to interpret his evident distress of mind; she had been so sure that he no longer cared for Fanny — perhaps had never truly done so — but —

" — but to speak frankly, there is no disguising the smell. In a day or so it will be through the whole house. And we should not forget that Gilbert has urged us to keep this latest misfortune from Julia for as long as possible — he was most concerned that she should not suffer further anxiety at this present, and most delicate, stage of her recovery. For her sake — for decency’s sake — let me arrange for the body to be washed and laid out."

There was a pause, then Tom acquiesced: "Whom would you suggest we entrust with so repugnant a task?"

Edmund shook his head, "To tell you the truth, I do not rightly know. Your mother and sister are out of the question, and my own mother is not quite herself. She has been suffering from the head-ache for some days past. I believe we will have to call upon Mrs Baddeley, though that would not be my first preference. Even the footmen who brought back the body recoiled at the sight, and Mrs Baddeley is prone to nervous palpitations. Would that Miss Crawford were well enough — there is no-one so steady, so capable as Miss Crawford."

"Indeed," said Tom, "she is a young woman of rare strength of mind. And we might have relied absolutely on her prudence."

Mary retreated into the shadows, her mind overcome with a confusion of feelings, in which fear, compassion, and gratification all had their place. She saw in a moment what she must do: Edmund had need of her; there was a service she could perform for him, and if she loved him, then she must face it, and without shrinking.

She did not stay to hear any more, and made her way as quickly and quietly as she could to the room Edmund had referred to, at the farthest end of the east wing. She hesitated a moment on the threshold, but summoned up her courage and threw open the door. The windows were shuttered, and the candle-flames wavered in the sudden draught, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls. Her senses were assailed by a gust of suffocating odours, in which the heavy scent of the cut roses was mingled with another, more sickly sweetness that Mary knew only too well. The body lay a few feet away, the face covered by a white sheet, but there was a dark and spreading stain that spoke of horrors beneath — horrors that would be only too dreadfully out of place in this homely little room, with its writing-desks and ill-used chairs, its map of Europe, and its charts of kings and queens. Mary shivered suddenly; Edmund had not been mistaken when he had said that the room was cold. She went briskly to the door and rang the bell, and sent the footman with a message to Mrs Baddeley. A few minutes later the housekeeper appeared at the head of a procession of maids bearing aprons, hot water, sponges, and, as Mary observed with a suppressed shudder, a linen shroud that looked but newly made.

"Thank you, Mrs Baddeley," she said briskly, doing her best to shield the maids from the sight of the corpse. "Are you aware if any arrangements have been made with respect to a coffin?"

Mrs Baddeley’s rosy face lost a little of its colour. "Yes, miss. Mr Norris has commanded one from Dick Jackson. A simple one, as might serve until the family decide what they prefer."

"I see that Mr Norris has thought of everything. Pray arrange for it to be brought up, would you? And is there some where the body might lie until the funeral? There is no question, in this case, of visitors being permitted to see the corpse, but there is still a need for an appropriate resting place."

Mrs Baddeley nodded. "There’s the small sitting-room next to the parlour. That’s never used at this time of the year."

"Thank you, Mrs Baddeley, that sounds most suitable. I will ring again when I have finished."

The housekeeper looked doubtful. "Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Miss Crawford? I don’t know as I’d be much use, what with my heart being as it is, but I don’t like to think of you up here all alone. Quite turns my stomach, that it does. Such a duty is bad enough at the best of times, but having to look at — "

Mary smiled. "You are very kind, but you need not be concerned," she said firmly. "The dead are at peace, Mrs Baddeley, however terrible the manner of their demise."

When she was once again safely alone, Mary stood for a moment with her back to the door, then took a deep breath, and started to pin back her sleeves. She hoped to harden herself to the undertaking before her by beginning with those parts of it that she might accomplish without trepidation. Leaving the face covered for as long as possible, she first cut the clothes away, and folded them carefully. The skin beneath was cold and waxy, and its paleness had begun to acquire a greenish tinge, while dark purple patches had spread underneath, where the body had been lying against the damp earth. Mary had always been observant, and now, as once before, she wondered if this quick-sightedness were not a positive curse; she feared that every tiny detail of that terrible hour would be etched forever on her mind, but she endeavoured to dismiss the thought, and turned her attention instead to the heavy toil of washing the body, and dressing it in a simple white night-gown. The limbs had become stiff and rigid, and she wondered once or twice whether she should indeed have insisted that Mrs Baddeley remain behind to assist her, but another moment’s thought told her that such a request would have been ignoble. She must shift as she could, and do the best she was able.

It was a long task, and an arduous one, but at last the moment came when the sheet must be removed; she could avoid it no longer. She took hold of the cloth, and lifted it slowly away. She had prepared herself, but she could not suppress a gasp. The right side of the face was much as she remembered it, though drawn and distorted, and its features sharpened by death; but the rest was merely a dark mass of crusted flesh, with here and there the pale glimmer of naked bone. The eye that remained was dull and clouded, and seemed to stare up at her with an expression of unspeakable reproach. Mary reached blindly for her handkerchief, and held it to her face, stifling a spasm of nausea. It was so horribly akin to what she had seen once before; but then it had been merely the impression of a moment, which she had laboured to forget; now she must confront this horror without flinching, and do what she could to assuage it. Steady nerves achieved a good deal, soap and water even more; and as the dirt and dried blood were eased away, Fanny’s face regained a little of its human shape. When it was done, Mary smoothed the hair, secured the jaw with ribbon, and wound the body in its shroud, securing it neatly at head and foot. She had never undertaken any task she had dreaded more, or relished less; but she had probably never done a thing more needful, or one she might be prouder to own.

She washed her hands carefully, then rang the bell for Mrs Baddeley. A few moments later Mary was ushering in the carpenter and a group of footmen, and instructing them how to place the body within its plain oak coffin. As they lifted the lid and made to secure it, Mrs Baddeley took a small package from her pocket, and laid it quickly at the feet of the corpse. Seeing Mary’s enquiring look, she hastened to explain herself.

"’Tis nought but a little Bible, miss. Mr Norris gave it me and asked me to place it there. A last gift, he said."

Mary could not help remembering another gift he had bestowed on Fanny — a gift she had passed to Mary, with no other thought than to ensnare and humiliate her. The necklace still lay in her trinket-box at the parsonage, but she would never now be able to wear it. At that moment the sound of the great clock striking two carried home to Mary’s mind the full duration of her task, and she recollected that she had eaten neither breakfast nor luncheon. Something of the kind had clearly occurred to Mrs Baddeley, and she whispered to Mary that tea and bread and butter had been prepared for her in her own room; Mary thanked her; she owned that she should be very glad of a little tea. The housekeeper took her kindly by the arm, as they watched Dick Jackson nail down the lid, and the footmen shoulder their sad burden. They were all so wholly occupied in their progress out of the school-room and into the narrow corridor, that the opening of an adjacent door passed unnoticed — unnoticed, that is, until the silence was rent by a shriek of so terrifying a pitch as to be scarcely human. It was Julia Bertram; her face was white, and she had sunk to her knees, her eyes wide with awe and terror.

"No! No!" she screamed. "Tell me she is not dead! She cannot, cannot be dead!"

"Oh my Lord!" cried Mrs Baddeley, rushing to Julia’s aid. "This is just what I tried to prevent!"

Mary turned at once to the footmen, who were standing motionless, half stupefied. "Go at once," she said quickly. "Make haste with the coffin, if you please. Miss Julia should never have seen this."

"Did I not tell you, not an hour since,"said the housekeeper, casting a furious look at the maid who had just appeared at Julia’s side, "that on no account was Miss Julia to be allowed to leave her bed this afternoon? Heavens above, girl, what were you thinking of?"

The maid was, by this time, almost as horror-struck as her young mistress, and stammered between her tears that "They would have stopped her had they only known, but Miss Julia had insisted on rising — she said she wished to see her brother, and she seemed so much better, that they all thought some fresh air would do her good."

"As to that, Polly Evans, it’s not for you to think thoughts, it’s for you to do as you’re told. Heaven only knows what Mr Gilbert will say. It will be a miracle if serious mischief has not been done."

This did little to calm the terrified maid, who looked ready to fall into hysterics herself, and Mary motioned to Mrs Baddeley to take the girl to her own quarters, while she helped Julia back to her bed. She was by this time in a state of such extreme distress that Mary sent one of the servants to fetch Mr Bertram, with a request that the physician be summoned at once. But as she waited anxiously for his arrival, it was not Tom Bertram, but Edmund, who appeared at the door. When he saw his young cousin lying insensible on the bed, moaning and crying indistinctly, his face assumed an expression of the most profound concern.

"Is there anything I can do to assist?"

Mary shook her head. "I have administered a cordial, but I fear something stronger is required."

Edmund nodded. "I concur with your judgment. Let us hope Gilbert is not long in arriving." As he spoke the words his eyes stole to her face, and he saw for the first time that Mary, too, was wan and tremulous. A glance at the apron, with its tell-tale stains, lying disregarded on the chair, told him all that was needful for him to know.

"So it was you! You were the one who — " He stopped, in momentary bewilderment. "When I saw the coffin being carried through the hall I thought — at least, I had no conception that it was your kindness — "

Mary had borne a good deal that day, but it was the gentleness of his words, rather than the horror of what she had seen and endured, that proved her undoing. She turned away in confusion, hot tears running down her face. Edmund helped her to a chair, and rang the bell.

"You are overcome, Miss Crawford, and I can quite comprehend why. You have over-taxed yourself for our sakes, and I am deeply, everlastingly, grateful. But I am here now, and I can watch with my cousin until Mr Gilbert arrives. You look to stand in great need of rest and wholesome food. I will ring for it directly."

Being obliged to speak, Mary could not forbear from saying something in which the words "Mrs Baddeley’s room" were only just audible.

"I understand," said Edmund, with a grim look, and not wanting to hear more. "I understand. I have allowed this unpardonable incivility to continue for far too long. I will arrange for you to take a proper meal in the dining-parlour, as befits a lady, and one to whom we all owe such an inexpressible obligation."

Such a speech was hardly calculated to compose Mary’s spirits, but he would brook no denial, and within a few minutes she was settled in a chair by the fire downstairs, being helped to an elegant collation of minced chicken and apple-tart. Both her head and her heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness, and when the maid returned with a glass of Madeira with Mr Norris’s compliments, Mary enquired at once whether Mr Gilbert had yet been in attendance.

"I believe so, miss. Mrs Baddeley said he’d given Miss Julia something to help her sleep."

Mary nodded; such a measure seemed both prudent and expedient; they must all trust to the certainty and efficacy of some hours’ repose. She thanked the maid, and sat for a few minutes deliberating whether it would be best to return to the parsonage; her sister must be wondering where she was. She was still debating the matter when she heard the sound of a carriage on the drive, and went to the window. It was a very handsome equipage, but the horses were post, and neither the carriage, nor the coachman who drove it, were familiar to her. The man who emerged was a little above medium height, with rather strong features and a visible scar above one eye. His clothes, however, were fashionable and of very superior quality, and he stood for a moment looking confidently about him, as if he was weighing what he saw, and putting the intelligence aside for future use. He was not handsome — or not, at least, in any conventional manner — but there was something about him, a sense of latent energy, of formidable powers held in check, such as might command attention, and draw every eye, even in the most crowded of rooms. As she observed him ascend the steps to the door, Mary did not need to overhear the servant’s announcement to guess that the man before her was none other than Mr Charles Maddox.

A few moments later, this impressive and uncommon personage was being shewn into Sir Thomas’s room, where Mr Bertram and Mr Norris were awaiting him. The former had taken up the post of honour behind his father’s desk, while his cousin was standing by the window, evidently ill at ease. They had both been to Oxford, and no doubt considered themselves men of the world, but such a creature as Maddox was far beyond their experience.

"Good day to you, sirs!" said their visitor, with the most perfunctory of bows. "I admire your discernment. This will do admirably."

"I am not sure I understand you," said Tom, who had not expected such extraordinary self-assurance from a man who was to be in his employ.

But Maddox had already assumed a proprietorial air, and was wandering about the room, running his hand over the furniture, and inspecting the view from the windows. "This will make a very suitable “seat of operations”, as I like to call it. I will have my assistants set up in here."

"But this is my father’s room — " began Tom, looking at him in consternation.

Maddox waved his hand. "You have nothing to fear on that score, Mr Bertram. His house shall not be hurt. For everything of that nature, I will be answerable. And my men are good men. They know how to behave themselves, even in such a grand house as this one."

Tom and Edmund exchanged a look in which there was as much anxiety on the one side, as there was reproof on the other; the door then opened for a second time, and two men appeared, carrying a large trunk. One was tall and thin, with a pock-marked face; the other short and stout, with a reddened and weather-beaten complexion, and his fore-teeth gone. They set down their burden heavily on the carpet, then departed as they had come, without a word, but leaving behind them a distinct waft of tobacco. Maddox, meanwhile, had installed himself comfortably in an elbow-chair, without staying to be asked.

"And now to business," he said, genially. "You agree to my terms, both as to the daily rate, and the reward in the event of an arrest?"

Tom endeavoured to regain the dignified manner suitable to the head of such a house, and to reclaim the mastery of the situation. "We consider ourselves fortunate to be able to call upon a man of your reputation, Mr Maddox. Indeed, we are relying on you to bring matters to a prompt and satisfactory conclusion."

"My own aim, entirely," said Maddox, with a smile."And in the pursuit of same, may I begin by examining the corpse?"

The two gentlemen absolutely started, and for a moment both seemed immoveable from surprise; but Edmund shortly recovered himself, and said in a hoarse voice, "You cannot possibly be in earnest, Mr Maddox. It is quite out of the question."

Mr Maddox frowned. "I assure you I am in the most deadly earnest, Mr Norris. The precise state of the body — the nature of the injuries, the advancement of putrefaction, and such like matters — are all of the utmost significance to my enquiries. It is the evidence, sir, the evidence, and without it, my investigation is thwarted before it even commences."

"You mistake me, Mr Maddox," said Edmund coldly, a deep shade of crimson overspreading his features. "It is out of the question, because the coffin has already been sealed. To open it again — to break open the shroud — would be a sacrilegious outrage that I cannot — will not — permit."

"I see," said Maddox, eyeing him coolly. "In that case, may I be permitted to speak to the person who laid out the corpse? It is a poor substitute, but in such a circumstance, secondhand intelligence is better than no intelligence at all."

Tom hesitated, and looked to his cousin. "What think you, Edmund? May we impose so much on Miss Crawford’s kindness?"

"Could such an importunate interview not wait a few days?" said Edmund, angrily. "It has been a distressing day for us all, and for none more so than Miss Crawford. She finished laying out the body not two hours ago."

"So much the better," replied Maddox. "The lady’s memory will be all the fresher for it. You would be surprised, Mr Norris, how quickly one’s powers of recall weaken and become confused, especially in cases such as this, when the mind is exerting itself to throw a mist over unpleasantness. We all believe our faculties of recollection to be so retentive, yet I have questioned witnesses who would swear to have seen things that I know, from my own knowledge, to be absolutely impossible. And yet they sincerely believe what they say. Which is why it is essential that I speak with this Miss Crawford without delay. There is not a moment to lose."

Edmund turned and went to the window, and remained there some moments. This did not fail to attract a considerable degree of interest from Mr Maddox, though he said nothing, and appeared to be absorbed merely in contemplating the set of family portraits that hung on the wall behind.

A moment later Edmund turned to face them; his features had assumed an air of grim determination, but his voice was steady.

"I will ask Miss Crawford to join us. I am sure you will find her to be both accurate and reliable in her observations."

He bowed hurriedly, and left the room. There was a short silence, in the course of which, Mr Maddox got up from his chair, and strolled with apparent unconcern towards the paintings.

"Is this the victim?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" said Tom, who had not been accustomed to such language as this.

"Fanny Price — is this her?"

"Yes," said Tom, stiffly, bridling at the familiarity. "That is indeed a likeness of Miss Price."

"And is it a good one?"

"I believe it is generally thought to be so. It was drawn some two years ago."

"I see," said Maddox, thoughtfully. "A handsome woman. A very handsome woman, if I may say so. And an heiress, into the bargain.Your Mr Norris was a lucky fellow. And to lose such a prize, in such a way — it would be a wonder if his life were not ruined. Would it not, Mr Bertram?"

Tom was saved from the necessity of a reply by the sound of the door opening, and the reappearance of Edmund, accompanied by Mary.

"I have explained the circumstances to Miss Crawford," he said, "and she has kindly agreed to answer any questions you may have. But I would beg you to recollect that we have already made more demands on her than we can claim any right to, and she is, as a consequence, quite exhausted. Pray do not tire her unnecessarily, or distress her without good reason."

Edmund made to take a seat, but Maddox prevented him. "I would much prefer to speak with Miss Crawford in private, Mr Norris."

"Why so? Surely that is not necessary?"

"In my experience, Mr Norris, people find it easier to be completely frank and open in their disclosures, when their family or acquaintances are not listening to every word they say. All the more so, when the questions to be asked are of such a delicate and, shall we say, squeamish nature. So if Miss Crawford permits —?"

Mary held his gaze for a moment, and he perceived the slightest lift of her head as she replied, with some self-possession, "Thank you for your concern, Mr Norris, but I am quite content. I will speak to Mr Maddox alone."

Mary had been both surprised and pleased when Edmund had sought her in the dining-parlour, but she had instantly perceived him to be wholly preoccupied by something that seemed to have little to do with her; his manner was distant, and had she not become well acquainted with his character and temper, she might have considered him to be almost uncivil. He had explained his errand in some haste, barely meeting her eye, and she could not tell if he was vexed or relieved when he met with a ready acquiescence to his request. He had asked her to accompany him with scarcely another word, and she had barely enough time to collect her wits before she was led into the presence of Charles Maddox.

When the door had closed behind the two gentlemen, Maddox directed her to a chair beside the fire, and took one facing her. It might have been accident, or design, but the seat he had chosen afforded him a clear view of her face in the light from the window, while his own features remained shadowed and obscure.

"Now, Miss Crawford," he began. "I am most grateful for your assistance in this sad affair. I am sure you are as anxious as any body to have it elucidated."

"I will do anything in my power to help."

"Quite so, quite so. Perhaps you might begin, then, by giving me your impressions of the corpse. In your own words, of course."

This was not what she had expected — in so far as she had expected anything — and she sat for a moment without speaking, wondering how, and where, to commence. She was aware that Maddox was eyeing her closely all the while, but before she had the chance to begin her relation, he took matters into his own hands.

"Perhaps it might expedite the business if I began by putting one or two questions of my own?"

Mary blushed in spite of herself; she had not thought to find an intellectual superior in such a man as this, but he already had the advantage of her.

"If you would be so good. I have no experience of such things, and do not know what, precisely, you wish to ascertain."

"Quite so. I would have been astonished if it had been otherwise," he replied with what he clearly believed to be an affable smile. "As far as I have been informed, Miss Price met her death as the result of an accident."

Mary shook her head. "That is simply not possible. Such injuries could not have been sustained in a simple fall."

"You say injuries, in the plural.Was that deliberate?"

Mary looked at him archly. "I am always most precise in my use of words, Mr Maddox. You may take it that what I say, I mean."

He bowed. "I am glad to hear it. Indeed, I wish more of my witnesses demonstrated such precision of thought. So, we may conclude her assailant inflicted more than one blow?"

Mary nodded. "Six, or seven, in my estimation."

"You saw evidence of that?"

"Not at first, but once I had washed the blood and dirt away, several distinct wounds became clearly visible. They were all close together on the left side."

Maddox sat back in his chair, and joined his finger-tips under his chin. "So there was a great deal of blood," he said thoughtfully, before continuing in a louder tone, "and what sort of blows, do you imagine, might have produced those wounds?"

Mary frowned. "I do not take your meaning."

"Were they, for instance, caused by the blade of a knife?"

"Oh, I see. No, it was most definitely not a knife. It must have been much thicker and heavier than that. But with a pointed edge."

"Like a hammer, would you say?"

Mary considered for a moment. "Yes. That would be possible. something of that kind. There was also a mark on the right-hand side of the face, but that was little more than a bruise."

Maddox smiled again. "Excellent. You are a most observant young woman, Miss Crawford. Just as Mr Bertram said you were. Now, shall we pursue the same fertile train?"

It was not a very happy turn of speech, but Mary had already perceived that she would do well to keep her private opinions to herself, in the presence of the watchful Mr Maddox.

"Were there any other marks or blemishes on the body, Miss Crawford," he continued, "that particularly engaged your notice?"

Mary’s feelings had been in such a tumult, that she could not have articulated a sensible answer, had the same question been put to her on the spot; but now, under the influence of his questions, her mind was becoming calm, and her recollections exactly defined.

"I did notice her hands."

"Her hands?"

Mary nodded slowly. "Miss Price was always rather vain of her hands. But her finger-nails were broken, and there was mud under them. And there were cuts on both her palms."

"And you concluded from this?"

Mary could not remember concluding anything at all at the time, but she found herself replying before she was aware, "I suppose it is possible that she attempted to defend herself."

"Quite so, quite so. That is very likely, I should say."

"There was also the question of the clothes," continued Mary, hesitatingly.

"Go on."

"She was wearing a very handsome pelisse, trimmed with fur, which I believe had been given to her by her uncle, just before he left for Cumberland. And underneath that, a white muslin gown. Her boots, also, were of very fine leather — "

Maddox waved his hand. "I am sure all this is most fascinating for you young ladies, but — "

"If you would allow me to finish Mr Maddox, I was going on to say that her boots were caked in mud. They were not designed for walking any great distance, but I believe that is what she must have done. The weather had lately been very wet."

"I see — "

"Moreover, the front of the gown was stained with mud. In particular, there were two large dark patches on the skirt."

It was Maddox’s turn to look bewildered.

"Do you not see the significance, Mr Maddox? Miss Price was discovered at the bottom of the trench, lying on her back. I was present at that dreadful moment, and I can attest to that. But the marks on her gown would suggest that she had also, at some point, fallen forwards, onto her knees."

Maddox looked at her with new respect. "Was there anything else about her appearance that you noted? Was she, for instance, wearing a wedding ring?"

"No."

"Was she carrying a purse?"

"No. Nor, I believe, was one discovered in the trench."

"So she had no money about her at all?"

"No, Mr Maddox, none."

This exchange was succeeded by a silence of some minutes. Mary was suddenly aware of the sound of the clock on Sir Thomas’s desk, and the crepitation of the subsiding fire.

"Now, Miss Crawford," said Maddox at length, "we come to what we might call the heart of the matter. It is clear that you are not a young woman given to fits of the hysterics. Nonetheless, these are not pleasant subjects. Not pleasant subjects, at all. Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water, before we proceed?"

"No, thank you, Mr Maddox. I am perfectly composed."

"Quite so, quite so. My next question, then, returns to the subject of her clothes. You have given ample proof of a discerning eye, Miss Crawford, so tell me, was her dress in such a state as you might expect to find it?"

"How so, Mr Maddox?"

"Was it, shall we say, torn, or rent in any way?"

"There was, I believe, a small tear to the collar of her pelisse. The trim had come away in one place."

"It was her dress I enquired after, Miss Crawford, not the pelisse."

"In that case, the answer is no. Apart from the stains I described, it was unharmed."

"And when you washed the body, you noticed no other injuries, beyond those you have described? None, shall we say, of a more intimate nature?"

Mary shook her head, feeling her face must be like scarlet; so this was why he had wanted to question her alone. Much as she resented being indebted to him on any account, she could not but be grateful that Edmund was not in the room at that very instant. Maddox gave her no time to recover her composure; indeed, he gave no sign of having perceived her confusion.

"And what state was the body in," he continued, perfectly collected, "when you laid it out? Let me be absolutely clear, Miss Crawford. How advanced was the progress of decomposition?"

Mary looked at him, but her gaze was steadier than the beatings of her heart. "You do not mince matters, do you, Mr Maddox?"

Maddox spread his hands. "I did warn you I would be candid, Miss Crawford. In my experience, there is little to be gained by evading the truth. Not in cases of murder, at any rate."

Mary took a deep breath. "Very well. Let us say that the — the — natural process — had commenced, but I do not believe it had advanced more than one or two days."

"Indeed? And why should you say that? There are those in the household, I am told, who believe that she must have lain there above a fortnight. Nay, sixteen full days, if my own computations are correct."

Mary shook her head. "That is quite impossible," she said quickly. "As you are already so well informed, Mr Maddox, you must also know that the work on the channel did not commence until after Miss Price was missed from the house."

"Indeed," he said, with a look that confirmed that it was, indeed, exactly as she had surmised, and she was so much vexed at this manner of proceeding as to be betrayed into uncharacteristic carelessness. "And even were that not the case — "

She stopped at once, suddenly conscious of where her words were tending.

"Do go on, Miss Crawford," he said. "I am all agog."

Mary wished it unsaid with all her heart; he had provoked her into imprudence, and she had allowed herself to be taken in. She was mortified by her own lack of caution, but there was no help for it now. If Maddox was at all aware of what was passing in her mind, he gave no outward sign, and sat quietly in his chair, exercising his excellent teeth upon his thumb-nails.

"You were saying, Miss Crawford?" he asked quietly.

Mary lifted her chin, and held his gaze." "If Miss Price had been lying in the open air, during a period of inclement weather, for more than two weeks, the body would have been in a quite different state from the one in which we found it. Is that plain enough?"

Maddox took out a gold snuff-box, tapped it, and let the snuff drop through his fingers, then shut it, and twirled it round with the fore-finger of his right hand. Mary watched with rising irritation, perfectly aware that this was precisely the response he hoped to induce.

"And you base this assertion on personal experience?"

Mary swallowed. "Yes. I have been unfortunate enough to have seen such a corpse once before. It is not an event I wish to recall."

Maddox leaned back in his chair. "No doubt. But it might assist me to know a little more of the circumstances."

"Really, Mr Maddox," she said angrily, "it can have no possible relevance here."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Humour me a little, Miss Crawford."

She saw at once that opposition to a man of Maddox’s stamp would be of little use, and might indeed prove perilous; she did not want this man as her enemy.

"As you wish," she said, taking a deep breath. "My brother owns a small house in Enfield. After our parents died we lived for some years with our uncle near Bedford-square, while a housekeeper took care of the Enfield house. However, when our uncle died we were obliged in due course to leave London, and made arrangements to return to Enfield, as a temporary expedient until we might find some where more commodious. The housekeeper wrote to say she would expect us, and my brother came to fetch me and convey me to the house. It was — quite dreadful. Thieves had broken into the property, and taken everything of any value. The doors were broken open, and some of the windows shattered. We found the young woman lying dead in the parlour, covered in blood. She had been beaten to death, and her skull crushed. Henry believes that she must have surprised the villains in their heinous crime."

"Henry?"

"My brother. He is at present at Sir Robert Ferrars’s estate in Hertford-shire. He left here some days before Miss Price’s disappearance."

"You hear from him regularly?"

Mary frowned. "Of course."

"Quite so. Pray continue, Miss Crawford."

"There is little left to tell. The culprits were never apprehended, and I have never set foot in the house from that day to this. It brings back memories I have striven to forget. Until now."

Maddox nodded slowly. "I can quite see that all this must be a painful reminder of what happened to poor Mrs Tranter."

Mary started. "But how — I did not tell you her name — how could you possibly know such a thing?"

Maddox gave her a knowing look, and tapped the side of his nose. "Someone in my profession comes to know many things, Miss Crawford. Some good, some bad. And some that other people believe to be secrets that they alone possess.You would — all of you — do well to remember that."