Murder at Mansfield Park

Chapter 14

Mary, needless to say, knew nothing of this; and she set out for the Park the following morning with a heart much lighter than it would have been, had she been privy to all that was going through Maddox’s mind at that same moment. The house seemed quiet enough, and if the servants were more circumspect than usual, Mary scarcely noticed in her eagerness to enquire after Julia, and her relief at hearing that if she was no better, she was likewise no worse. The girl had been given another sleeping draught, and Mary sat with her for some time, deriving considerable comfort from seeing her in such a quiet, steady and seemingly comfortable repose. From the window she could still see the view that had been so much cherished by her young friend. Mary could not but find it most affecting that, even if it had come about in a way she could never have foreseen, Julia had, indeed, succeeded in her desperate attempt to save her beloved trees: they had been judged sufficiently close to the Park to make the task of felling them too productive of noise and commotion for the abode of a patient in her precarious state of health. A temporary stay of execution had since become indeterminate; the workmen had been confined to their quarters since Mr Maddox’s arrival, at his express request, and Mary now doubted whether the improvements at Mansfield Park would ever be resumed.

She was still pondering the effect all this might have on Henry, as she made her way down the main staircase some time later, and saw Maddox in deep conversation with his two assistants in the entrance hall; Maddox was wearing yet another fine and expensive frock-coat, while the men were in riding-dress, and to judge by their appearance, had been on horseback that morning. They were evidently discussing a matter of great import with their employer, and the taller of the two pointed more than once at a piece of paper he held in his hand. As Mary drew closer Maddox made towards her, with a smile that spoke of a development of some significance.

"My dear Miss Crawford!" he said, with a smile. "You will be pleased to hear that I have already made considerable progress. My men have been enquiring at local inns hereabouts, and have discovered that a young lady answering Miss Price’s description was seen at the White Hart in Thornton Lacey some four days past. She was observed alighting from the London coach that evening, and, given the foul weather, decided to take a room for the night.The landlord says she would not give her name, and seemed concerned to muffle herself up in her cloak as much as she was able, and avoid all intercourse with other guests. She then hired a pony and trap early the following morning, but has not been seen since; indeed the landlord begins to be somewhat incommoded by the vast quantity of trunks and band-boxes she left behind."

It took some moments for Mary to comprehend the full import of his words, and her thoughts returned at once to her conversation with Tom Bertram. She knew that Fanny had been in no want of money when she left Mansfield, but the purchase of such a number of new clothes and effects seemed, once again, to argue for an elopement. And yet she had returned alone just as she had left, and wearing no ring. It was inexplicable. But at that moment, Mary became aware, on a sudden, that Maddox’s eyes were fixed upon her.

"I congratulate you, sir," she said quickly, wondering whether this was the response he had expected, "you have been most thorough.What did the owner of the pony-trap have to say?"

Maddox inclined his head. "It is my turn to congratulate you, Miss Crawford; that is exactly the question I myself asked. Happily, Stornaway encountered no difficulties in tracking the man down, and has only recently returned from examining him. The man was barely coherent, I am afraid, and a little the worse from spending most of last night in the inn, but it seems the young lady demanded to be set down at the back gate of the estate; the man has not lived long in the neighbourhood, and had no idea that his early morning passenger was the celebrated Miss Price of Mansfield Park. He did remember that it had been raining hard, and the weather still looked ominous, and the young woman did not seem to be shod for walking — as you yourself pointed out to me only yesterday, Miss Crawford. He expressed some concern for her boots as Miss Price was getting down from the trap, but all he received by way of reply was a rather tart little remark about there being “plenty more where those came from”. Curious, would you not say? And now, if you would be so good as to accompany me to the drawing-room?"

"I do not understand — "

"Fear not," he said cheerfully, already some yards ahead of her. "It will all become clear, soon enough."

When the footmen threw open the doors Mary was startled to see that the whole family was assembled, with the sole exception of Julia Bertram. Lady Bertram and her elder daughter were sitting silently on the sopha; Mrs Norris was in her customary chair; Edmund stood by the French windows, his back to the company; and Tom Bertram was standing before the fire, his hands behind his back, in just such a position as his father might have assumed. All were wearing deep mourning, which only served to add to the portentous mood of the room.

Mary turned at once to Maddox. "There must be some mistake — you cannot require my presence here — "

"On the contrary, Miss Crawford," he said, taking her firmly by the arm, "I have a question I must put to everyone at Mansfield, and it will save a good deal of time if I may ask you that question now, rather than being compelled to make a separate journey to the parsonage later in the day."

"Very well," said Mary. She knew she must look as confused and perplexed as any of them, and with an attempt at self-possession that was far indeed from her true state of mind, she walked silently towards the sopha, and sat down next to Maria.

Maddox assumed a place in the centre of the room, and began to pace thoughtfully up and down the carpet; his mind seemed elsewhere, but he could hardly be unaware of the eyes fixed upon him, or the painful apprehension his behaviour was occasioning. Mary looked on, conscious of the variety of emotions which, more or less disguised, seemed to animate them all: Maria seemed concerned to affect an appearance of haughty indifference, while a dull grief was discernible in her mother’s face; Tom Bertram looked serious, and Mrs Norris furious and resentful; of Edmund’s humour she could not judge.

"May I begin by thanking you for your prompt compliance with my request for an audience this morning," Maddox began, in a manner that was perfectly easy and unembarrassed."As I have been explaining to Miss Crawford, I have just now received certain most interesting information. We have, at last, a witness." He stopped a moment, as if to ensure that his announcement would produce the greatest possible effect.

"Miss Price was seen by a local man, at the back gate to Mansfield, three mornings ago, some time between eight and nine o’clock. Since she never reached the Park, I believe we may safely presume that she met her death at, or around, that time."

There was a general consternation at this: Edmund turned abruptly round, his face drawn in shock and dismay; Maria gasped; and Lady Bertram drew out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly. Mary was, perhaps, the only one with sufficient presence of mind to observe Maddox at this moment, and she saw at once that he was equally intent on observing them. "So he has contrived this quite deliberately," she thought; "he plays upon our feelings in this unpardonable fashion, merely in order to scrutinise our behaviour, and assess our guilt." But angry as she was, she had to own a reluctant admiration for his method, even if it owed more to guile and cunning, than it did to the accustomary operations of justice. There doubtless were inveterate criminals so hardened to guilt and infamy as to retain control over their countenances at such a moment, but the members of the Bertram family could not be numbered among them. Maddox had succeeded in manoeuvring them all into displaying their most private sentiments in the most public fashion.

"My purpose, then," he continued, his calm and composed manner providing the most forcible contrast with the state of perturbation all around him, "is to ask you all, in turn, where you were that morning. It will be of the utmost usefulness to my enquiries. So, shall we begin?"

This was all too much for Mrs Norris, who had sat swelling for some minutes past, and now shewed two spots of livid colour on her cheeks. "This is the most extraordinary impertinence! Question us, indeed! And in such a barbarously uncouth manner! When it is as plain as it could possibly be that it must have been one or other of those blackguardly workmen — why we do not cart the lot of them off to the assizes at once I still cannot conceive. A night or two without bread or water and we would soon have our confession — I never did like the look of that tall one with the eye patch — "

But here she was interrupted. "My dear aunt," said Tom, "I am sure we all wish to see this dreadful matter cleared up as soon as possible, do we not? If it will assist Mr Maddox, what objection can we have? It is, after all, quite impossible that any of us were responsible."

Mary wondered whether Tom’s readiness to accede to Maddox’s request owed more to his knowledge of his own complete innocence in the affair, or to a recognition that he had brought this man into the house, and would be the one answerable if the enterprise should fail.

"I shall set the example, Mr Maddox," he said. "You may begin with me. I was in my room until ten o’clock, and after a late breakfast I spent an hour with my father’s bailiff, Mr Fletcher. He will be able to confirm that."

Maddox nodded. "And her ladyship?"

Lady Bertram looked up; her eyes were heavy, and she seemed not to have heard the question. "I am sorry, were you speaking to me?" she said, in the languid voice of one half-roused.

Tom turned towards his mother. "Mr Maddox wishes to know how you occupied your time on Tuesday last, ma’am. Most particularly the time before breakfast."

Lady Bertram seemed bewildered that anyone should even ask such a thing. "I was in my room, where else would I be? Chapman came to dress me as usual, and I had a dish of chocolate. I do not understand — what can this have to do with poor dear Fanny?"

Her tone was becoming agitated, and Tom endeavoured to soothe her, saying at once, "Oh no, ma’am — I am sure nobody suspected you!"

"Quite so," said Maddox, with the most deferential of bows. "I seek merely to obtain the fullest possible picture of where everyone in the house was at that particular time. There is no cause to distress yourself, your ladyship."

"I am very happy to tell you where I was, Mr Maddox," said Mary, in an effort to draw attention away from Lady Bertram. "I spent the morning in the garden with my sister, cutting roses."

"Indeed," said Maddox in a steady tone. "And before that, Miss Crawford?"

Mary flushed; she had quite forgotten her fruitless excursion to the post-office, and the conviction was of a sudden forced upon her that Maddox was already fully apprised of every aspect of her movements that day. "Well, I did walk to the village that morning — "

"So I have been informed. I am delighted that you have elected to be so thorough in your disclosure. Did you see anyone during this no doubt pleasant little walk? Aside from the post-boy, of course?"

Mary shook her head. "No, I did not."

The expression on Maddox’s face was unfathomable. "That is a pity. Let us hope it does not prove to be significant."

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but Maddox had already turned his attention to Maria. "Perhaps Miss Bertram might now be so good?"

Maria might look a good deal thinner and paler than she had used to do, but she appeared to have assumed once more all the hauteur owing to a Miss Bertram; it was with the pride and dignity of a daughter of a baronet that she met the thief-taker’s gaze. "I was somewhat indisposed, as I recall. I remained in my room all morning, with my maid in attendance."

"You did not speak to anyone during all that time? Aside from your maid, of course."

Maria shook her head. "No. I saw no-one."

Maddox gave a broad smile, and linked his hands behind his back. "Your clarity is admirable, Miss Bertram. And you, ma’am?" he said, turning to Mrs Norris. "Perhaps you also took a walk in the park? I gather Miss Crawford was not alone in seeking air and exercise that morning — I am told Miss Julia was also some where in the vicinity."

"Well, I most certainly was not. I have better things to do than wandering about on wet grass catching my death of cold. I was in my store-room, sir, as any respectable matron would be at that time of the morning. And you need not trouble to question my son, neither. He did not return from Cumberland until just before luncheon, and he left for the parsonage almost immediately, when we heard what had happened to Julia."

Maddox was not the only one in the room to turn towards Edmund at this; he was still standing in the window, but Mary saw at once that his demeanour was not as collected as it had been.

"Is this true, Mr Norris?" asked Maddox genially. "The briefest of discussions with the stable-hands, would, of course, resolve all doubt."

"For heaven’s sake, tell him, Edmund," said Mrs Norris impatiently. "Let us have done with this, once and forever."

Edmund gave a slight cough. "Mr Maddox will have no need to trouble the grooms. As it happens, I arrived in Mansfield somewhat earlier than my mother might have supposed. The difference is easily accounted for: I was glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a walk in the fresh air, to collect my thoughts."

Maddox gave a disarming smile. "It seems that the park was more than usually crowded on Tuesday last. You had, I conclude, much on your mind?"

Edmund appeared to hesitate, before regaining his confidence. "Evidently. But my private cogitations are my own affair, and can have no conceivable bearing on your enquiries, Mr Maddox."

Maddox was unperturbed. "I will determine what does, and does not, have a bearing on my enquiries, Mr Norris. So how long did you devote to this perambulation? Let me be absolutely clear: at what time, precisely, did you return to Mansfield that day?"

Edmund flushed. "I am not entirely sure. Perhaps eleven o’clock."

Maddox took a memorandum book from his pocket, and opened it with a theatrical flourish. "According to the information supplied to my assistant yesterday by the stable-boy, you arrived just before nine o’clock. He is quite sure of this, because the great clock at Mansfield happened to chime as he was unharnessing the horses. I say again, it was not eleven o’clock, as you claim, but nine. Having employed one of Sir Thomas’s carriages for the journey, you naturally came directly to the stables here, but then, rather than going into the house, you told your valet that you would, instead, walk across the park to the White House. Rather an irregular way of proceeding, would you not say?"

"What do you mean to imply by that?"

Maddox snapped his pocket-book shut. "I imply nothing; I enquire merely. However, I am sure I would not be alone in regarding it as rather curious for a gentleman in your position, returning to a house in turmoil, and a family in dire need of him, to dawdle among the delphiniums for upwards of three hours."

Edmund’s colour was, by this time, as heightened as Mary had ever seen it, and it had not escaped her notice that, whether he knew it or not, he had reverted to the stiff and officious mode of discourse that had characterised his manner on their first acquaintance, and which her brother had once found so entertaining. There was no possibility of entertainment now; knowing him as she did, Mary feared, rather, that the alteration in his elocution betrayed a mind profoundly ill at ease.

"I was not aware it was so long," he stammered.

Maddox linked his hands behind his back. "You are an educated man, Mr Norris, and as such you will be aware that, given these facts, it would have been quite possible for you to have seen Miss Price — and not only seen her, but met with her, and talked to her. Indeed, it almost defies belief that such an encounter did not take place. And it would hardly have been a congenial reunion. You would, indeed, have had good cause for resentment on Miss Price’s account. To be subjected to the shame of a public jilting — what man of any character could submit to that with equanimity? And there is, of course, the small matter of her very considerable fortune."

"You need not concern yourself about that," said Mrs Norris quickly, her face red. "My son has plenty of money of his own."

"In my experience, madam," said Maddox coolly, "all men covet money, however lofty their professed indifference; many are willing to die for it, and some are prepared to kill for it. So, Mr Norris, I repeat: what, precisely, happened in the park that morning?"

Mary felt quite sick with fear and apprehension; she could not dispute Maddox’s reasoning, but her heart shrank from what that reasoning implied. She did not — could not — believe Edmund guilty of such an act of horror and violence, however cruelly provoked, but she could not deny that his actions had driven him into the appearance of such guilt. She could quite believe that Maddox found his story incredible; she alone, of all the family, might have been able to account for such uncharacteristic perturbation of mind, but how could she, with propriety or delicacy, supply Maddox with the explanation he lacked? And even if she overlooked her own scruples, was it not equally possible that Maddox might consider that if Edmund was in love with her, and not Fanny, that would only serve to provide him with an even more cogent motive for committing the very act from which she hoped to exonerate him? She could barely keep still, terrified of what Maddox might say next. Would he have Edmund apprehended there and then? Were his odious assistants even now summoning magistrates and constables from Northampton? It was altogether horrible, and in her anxiety for Edmund, it did not occur to her to fear for herself: not until much later did she perceive that what Maddox had said of Edmund, he could equally well have said of her.

Edmund, meanwhile, appeared to have regained his composure. He looked first at his family, and then at Maddox."You have my word, sir, as a gentleman, that no such encounter with Miss Price took place, either then, or at any other time. I can offer no corroborating circumstances or exculpatory evidence; my word alone will have to suffice."

His voice was both cool and steady, and the two men remained stationed thus for what seemed to Mary to be an age, gazing upon one another in silence. Then Maddox suddenly gave a brief bow. "Thank you," he said, "I have all I need. For the present."

Having uttered these words, he walked so swiftly to the door as to forestall the footmen, and were the notion not so ludicrous, Mary might have been tempted to think he did so to ensure that no-one inside the room should perceive that there had been someone listening outside. There was certainly nobody in evidence when Mary followed Maria Bertram through the door and into the hall; Edmund had departed without another word, and as she was endeavouring to determine where he might have gone, her thoughts were distracted by the sight of Mr Gilbert descending the stairs.

Maddox stood in the door of the drawing-room, and observed as the family went their several ways. It had been a most rewarding morning, and it was not done with yet. He had read widely on the subject of physiognomy, and to this theoretical knowledge of facial features, the pursuance of his profession had added a practical proficiency in the interpretation of gesture and demeanour. He regularly derived considerable amusement from scrutinising people at a distance, and deducing the state of relations between them, and many times, as now, this faculty had proved to be of the greatest service in the course of his work. He, too, had noted the appearance of the physician, and he now watched his meeting with Miss Bertram and Miss Crawford with the keenest interest. It was evident that Gilbert had promising tidings to impart, and the satisfaction writ across his face was quickly communicated to one, at least, of his companions: Miss Crawford’s relief was immediate and unfeigned; Miss Bertram’s response to the news, however, was rather more finely chequered. She seemed to be very much aware that she ought to look happy, without really being so; it was the impression of a moment only, but Maddox thought he discerned something that looked, to his trained eye, very much like fear. "Now why," he thought to himself, "should that be so?"

As Mr Gilbert turned to spread his happy news to the rest of the family, the two young women went out onto the sweep; Miss Crawford began to walk down the drive towards the parsonage, while Miss Bertram appeared to be making her way to the garden. Maddox followed them out of the house and lingered a moment, watching the retreating figure of Mary Crawford, and suppressing the urge to follow her; something told him that this young woman had a role to play yet, in this affair.What that might be, he could not tell, but he owned himself engrossed to an unprecedented and possibly dangerous degree with the captivating Miss Crawford. For a moment the man strove with the professional, but the professional prevailed. He turned away, and walked briskly in the direction of the garden.

Maria had taken a seat in the alcove at the farther end from the gate, and although she had drawn a piece of needlework from her pocket, she let it fall in her lap when she saw Maddox approaching. Her position afforded each the opportunity of observing the other as he drew near. He looked all confidence, but Maria’s feelings were not as easily discerned as they had been in the hall; she knew herself to be under scrutiny, and was more guarded as a consequence.

"May I?" said Maddox.

"It appears you have little regard for the niceties of common civility, Mr Maddox," she replied archly. "I dare say you will sit down whether I give my permission or no."

"Ah," he said with a smile, as he sat down beside her, "there you are wrong, Miss Bertram, if you will forgive me. There are few men who are more watchful of what you term “niceties” than I am. Many of my former cases have turned on such things. In my profession it is not only the devil you may find in the detail."

Maria replied only with a toss of her head; she seemed anxious to be gone, but unable to take her leave without appearing ill-mannered. Maddox smiled to himself — these fine ladies and gentlemen! It was not the first time that he had seen one of their class imprisoned by the iron constraints of politeness and decorum.

"To tell you the truth, I followed you here, precisely so that we might have this chance to talk privately," he continued. "I wished to elucidate one or two points, but felt that you would prefer to discuss these matters when the rest of your family were not present."

He received a side-glance at this, but nothing more.

"You stated, just now, that you remained in your own room for the whole morning on Tuesday last, and that your maid was with you. You still hold to that? There is nothing you wish to add — or, perhaps, modify?"

"No," she said, her colour rising. "I have told you everything you need to know."

"I fear," he said, with a shake of the head, "that that is not the case. But let us leave the matter there for the moment. Why are you so concerned that your sister may soon be in a position to speak to me?"

A slight change in his tone ought to have been warning enough, but she had not heeded it.

"I–I — do not know what you mean," she stammered, her face like scarlet.

"It is not wise to trifle with me, Miss Bertram, and even more foolish to attempt to deceive me. I saw it with my own eyes only a few minutes ago. Mr Gilbert told you that Miss Julia may soon be recovered enough to speak, did he not? I saw the effect this intelligence had upon you — and how intent you were to disguise it."

"How could you possibly — "

Maddox smiled. "Logic and observation, Miss Bertram, logic and observation. They are, you might say, the tools of my trade. Mr Gilbert had good news, that much was obvious; ergo, your sister is recovering. And if your sister is recovering, she will soon be able to speak. This intelligence clearly disturbs you; ergo, you must fear what it is she is likely to say. Simple, is it not?"

She was, by now, breathless with agitation, and had her handkerchief before her face."I am not well," she said weakly, attempting to rise, "I must return to the house."

"All in good time," said Maddox. "Let us first conclude our discussion. You may, perhaps, find that it is not quite as alarming as you fear at this moment. But I have taken the precaution of providing myself with salts. I have had need of them on many other like occasions."

Maria took them into her own hands, and smelling them, raised her head a little.

"You are a villain, sir — not to allow a lady on the point of fainting — "

"Not such a villain as you may at present believe. But no matter; I will leave it to your own conscience to dictate whether you do me an injustice on that score. But to the point at hand. I will ask you the question once again, and this time, I hope you will answer me honestly. I can assure you, for your own sake, that this would be by far the most advisable way of proceeding."

She hesitated, then acquiesced, her hands twisting the handkerchief in her lap all the while.

"Good. So I will ask you once more, what is it that you fear your sister will divulge?"

A pause, then, "She heard me tell Fanny that I wished she were dead."

"I see. And when was this?"

"At Compton. The day we visited the grounds."

Maddox nodded, more to himself than to his companion, whose eyes were still fixed firmly on the ground; one piece of the puzzle had found its correct place.

"I was — angry — with Fanny," she continued, "and I spoke the words in haste." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I did not mean it."

Maddox smiled. "I am sure we all say such things on occasion, Miss Bertram, and from what I hear, your cousin was not, perhaps, the easiest person to live with, even in a house the size of this. Why should such idle, if unfortunate words have caused you so much anxiety?"

It was his normal practice to ask only those questions to which he had already ascertained the answer, and this was no exception; but even the most proficient physiognomist would have been hard put to it to decide whether the terror perceptible in the young woman’s face was proof of an unsophisticated innocence — or the blackest of guilt.

Maria put her handkerchief to her eyes. "After Fanny and I quarrelled in the wilderness I ran away — but — but — my eyes were full of tears and I could hardly see. I stumbled on the steps leading up to the lawn, and made my nose bleed. I did what I could to staunch it, but the front of my dress was covered with blood. I was mortified to be seen so in public, so I concealed the stain with my shawl, that no-one should perceive it. As a result I alone know how and when the blood came to be there."

"You did not ask your maid to launder the gown?"

She shook her head. "Not at first. I had not spirits to bear even her expressive looks. Insolence would have been intolerable, but pity infinitely worse. And when Fanny’s body was found, it was too late. I became more and more terrified. It was as if some frightful trap had been laid for me. I thought that if — "

" — if I searched your room I would discover this dress, and draw the obvious — indeed the natural — conclusion. I confess I did wonder why you were so adamant in your refusal to permit such a search."

"How could I have proved that the blood was my own? Such a thing is impossible."

"Quite so," said Maddox, who reflected to himself in passing that, unlike any other injury, a nose-bleed offered the invaluable advantage of leaving no visible scar or sign thereafter, which made Maria Bertram either transparently guiltless, or quite exceptionally devious. He had his own ideas on that subject, but he had not finished with her yet. "I can quite understand why you should have been concerned, Miss Bertram. And, if I may say so, your explanation seems most convincing."

Her head lifted, and she looked at him in the face for the first time. "O, how you do relieve me!" she burst out. "I have not slept properly for days — not since — "

Maddox held up his hand. "There is just one more thing, Miss Bertram. One last question, if I may. If you are indeed as innocent as you claim, why did you induce your maid to lie?"

Her eyes widened in terror, and he saw her lips form into a no, though the sound was inarticulate.

"There is nothing to be gained by denying it, Miss Bertram — I have spoken to the young woman myself. Do not blame her, I entreat. Your Kitty is one of the most loyal creatures I have ever encountered in her station in life, although I own the ten shillings you gave her would have been a most efficacious reinforcement of her natural tendencies. It was an admirable amount to fix upon, if I may say so — not too large, not too small. Bribery is always such a tricky thing to carry off, especially for a novice: pay too much, and you put yourself in the power of a servant, offer too little, and a greater price — or a greater threat — may be your undoing. And, I am afraid, it proved to be so in this case. Kitty Jeffries was proof against my pecuniary inducements, but even she could not withstand George Fraser. He has never failed me yet."

He paused; he was not proud of what he had done, but the wench had suffered no real harm, and he had got the truth from her. Maria Bertram was, by now, sobbing as bitterly as her maid had done not twelve hours before.

"I see that you are unwilling — or unable — to speak. I, then, will speak for both of us. I have a little theory of my own, Miss Bertram, and with your permission, I will indulge myself by expatiating on it for a moment. I believe that you did, indeed, leave your room that morning, and your maid saw you go. I believe you were still angry with your cousin, and this anger had festered for many months, nay, possibly even years. Matters drew to a crisis over Mr Rushworth, and contrary to what one might have expected, your cousin’s disappearance, and the news of Mr Rushworth’s engagement, did nothing to assuage your fury and resentment. Rationally or not, you blamed his defection on Miss Price, and in your eyes, this was only the last of a long series of incidents in which you had been demeaned and humiliated, thanks to her. I believe you were in this same bitter and revengeful state of mind that morning, when, to your enormous astonishment, you saw Miss Price walking towards you near the channel being dug for the new cascade. What you said to one another, I cannot at present divine, but whatever it was, it ended with you striking your cousin a blow across the face. The rest, I admit, is conjecture on my part, but I surmise that whether from pain or shock, Miss Price fell to her knees before you, under the force of this blow, leaving you ashamed, appalled, and perhaps a little exhilarated, at the enormity of what you had done. Doing your best to contain these tumultuous feelings, you returned to the house at once, without daring to look back. Having regained your room, you remained there in a state of the utmost fear and expectation, dreading every moment to hear a commotion in the hall, as Miss Price arrived to accuse you, but time dragged on, and nothing of the kind occurred. By nightfall you were forced to conclude that she must have returned from wherever it was she had come. But the following day her body was discovered, and you were compelled to face the unspeakable possibility that the blow you had struck was far worse than you had perceived, or meant. You had, in fact, committed murder."

He had never yet used that word, and it had the predictable effect on the already high-wrought nerves of his companion. He sat back in his seat and took out his snuffbox. "Now, Miss Bertram. Perhaps you can tell me whether my theory requires some emendation?"

She took a deep breath. "Very little, Mr Maddox," she whispered. "You are correct in almost every particular. Except one."

"And that is?"

"I did look back. I could hardly bring myself to do it, but something — some impulse — made me turn around. She was still there — lying on the ground where I had left her, screaming at me. I cannot get the sound out of my head. It haunts me, both sleeping and waking."

Maddox could well believe it; her spirits were clearly quite exhausted. "So when they found the body, you presumed that she must have fallen into the trench, and been unable to save herself, dying a lingering and terrible death, from the effects of hunger, no more than a few short hours thereafter."

Maria put her head in her hands, and her slender frame was racked with sobs.

Maddox took a pinch of snuff. "This is not the first time I have had cause to remark on the deficiencies of young ladies’ education, particularly in relation to what we might term the human sciences. A well-nourished young woman like Miss Price could not possibly have succumbed to starvation in so short a period, and certainly not if she retained the use of her lungs, and the ability to call for help. Now tell me, Miss Bertram, did you see the body when they brought it home?"

She shook her head, and murmured something in which the words "my cousin Edmund" were distinguishable.

Maddox nodded; it was of a piece with everything he knew of the public character of Edmund Norris to have stipulated that the young ladies should be protected from such a shocking and distressing spectacle, but on this occasion his interference had had terrible and unintended consequences.

"Your cousin’s consideration for you has, for once, done you a grave disservice. Had you been permitted to see it with your own eyes, rather than relying for your information on rumour and servants’ gossip, you would have saved yourself many hours of needless grief and self-reproach.The wounds inflicted on Miss Price were far more grievous than anything you describe. The blows that killed her were made by an iron mattock, not a human hand."

Maria raised her head and stared at him, daring, for the first time in days, to allow herself the possibility of hope. "But how do you know that I am telling the truth — that I did not pick that mattock up and wield it, just as you say?"

Maddox shook his head, and smiled. "You have the proof, there, in your own hand."

Her expression of uncomprehending amazement was, he had to admit, exceedingly gratifying, and one of the subtler pleasures of his chosen profession.

"I do not take your meaning. I have nothing in my hands — nothing of relevance."

"On the contrary. Before I intruded upon you, you were engaged in needlework, were you not?"

"Yes, but — "

" — and, if I am not mistaken, you hold your needle in your left hand? And your pen, when you write?"

She nodded. "It is not the common way, I know — indeed, when I was a girl, my aunt Norris insisted that our governess school me to use my right hand instead, “as all but idiots do”. Everything was attempted, including tying my left hand behind my back in the school-room, but it was to no effect. Not for nothing does my aunt call me gauche."

"I fear the effort was always doomed to failure, Miss Bertram. Such preferences are in-born, and cannot easily be changed — if at all. But you are correct in noting that it is not a common trait. It is so uncommon, in fact, that according to my observations, you are the only person I have encountered at Mansfield to exhibit it. A fact which is most significant, in the circumstances."

He could have carried on in the same vein a good deal longer, but elected to be merciful; this girl had suffered enough, and all to no purpose.

"I have considerable experience in the art and act of killing, Miss Bertram. It is not a suitable subject for young ladies’ ears, and I myself am frequently shocked and sickened at the extremities of cruelty and pain that human beings are capable of inflicting on one another. But such a long and intimate acquaintance with the many methods by which my fellow men have met an untimely death, allows me to be quite categorical as to certain critical aspects of the horrible crime I have been asked to investigate here, including the full significance of the exact position of the wounds that killed Miss Price. In consequence, I know for a fact you did not take your cousin’s life. The person who wielded that mattock did so with their right hand."

It took several more minutes to convince her, and even longer to quiet her into anything resembling a composed state of mind, but Maddox was patient. He had one more question to ask, and a demand to make, and he required her to be both rational and sensible when he did so.

"Before I allow you to depart," he said presently, "I must enjoin you to absolute secrecy as to the nature of our discussion this morning; I have already commanded as much from your maid. I am sure Miss Bertram will find herself more than willing to accede to this request, in exchange for a reciprocal silence on my part. After all, I cannot believe she would wish to submit her mother, in particular, to further unseemly revelations about the goings-on in her own family."

There was a blush at this, and she bent her head with downcast eyes.

"Good. I was sure we would understand one another. My final request will not, I am sure, surprise you. Would you be so good as to inform me what exactly Miss Price said to you that morning?"

Maria stared into the distance, as if to force her attention to the reviving of such a distasteful memory.

"It was very much as you surmised. I was astonished to see her — and see her in such high spirits, into the bargain. I asked where she had been, but she told me that was her affair, and none of mine. She said this in that arrogant, imperious way she had when we were alone, and out of the hearing of either of my parents — as if I was little better than a servant, or one of her pitiable underlings. I had been angry before, but her words and her tone aroused a fury such as I had never felt before. I thought of all the distress she had caused — the scandal in the neighbourhood — my mother’s grief — and yet there she was, parading about in her finest clothes, with no thought for the fact that she had put the whole family through days of doubt and misery on her account. Some part of this I think I said — my recollection is somewhat confused — but I do recall her laughing. Laughing out loud, and saying that she did indeed doubt that the like alarm would have been raised if I had been the one to go off with a man, instead of her. They would not have missed me half so much, she said, or wasted half the effort to discover me, always assuming I could have persuaded any man of fortune or distinction to take me in the first place."

A single tear rolled down her cheek at this, and Maddox was moved to pity her; he could only imagine what submitting to the incessant spite and ascendancy of her cousin had been to a temper like Maria Bertram’s, an evil which even the comfort and elegance of such an eligible home could not have entirely atoned for. He had never met Miss Price, but everything he had heard of her declared her to have been a monster of complacency and pride, who, under a cloak of cringing self-abasement, had succeeded in dominating Mansfield Park, and everyone in it. And without presuming to judge whether she had merited such a fate, he suspected, nonetheless, that Maria Bertram was not the only member of the family who might have yearned for a world without Miss Price, however much they might have shrunk from such a savage and brutal way of achieving it.

"Go on, Miss Bertram," he said softly."We shall soon have done."

"I know she meant those words as provocation; I know she meant to insult and offend; but that was no excuse. I will think of what followed with shame and regret for the rest of my life. I struck her, Mr Maddox. I struck her full across the face, and she staggered. She had not expected it — how could she? She could not conceive of anyone having the audaciousness to raise a hand to her — to Miss Price, the heiress of Lessingby. I could scarcely believe it myself, and as I watched her sink on her knees before me in the mud everything seemed to be happening with strange and unnatural slowness. And then the full horror of what I had done rushed in upon me, and I ran away."

The two sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. At last Maria rose to her feet, and made as if to return to the house. She was a few feet away when Maddox called her back.

"You are quite sure she said she had left here with a man — that she had eloped?"

Maria nodded.

"But she did not say with whom? You do not know who it was?"

"No, Mr Maddox. I am sorry, but I cannot assist you. She never told me his name."

Some time before this, Mary had returned to the relative peace of the parsonage, and, finding both Dr Grant and her sister departed on business to the village, she sat down in the parlour to write to Henry. She had not heard from him for some days, and had not written herself since Miss Price’s disappearance: as catastrophe had succeeded catastrophe she had not known how to begin, or how best to convey such terrible and unexpected news; preparing him for the disappointment to be occasioned by the cessation of all work on the improvements was only the least of her concerns.

She had arranged her paper, pen, and inkstand, and even gone so far as to write "My very dear Henry", when she was suddenly aware of an unusual noise in the hall. A moment later the door of the room was thrown open, and Henry himself rushed into the room, his clothes bespattered with the dirt of the road, and his hat still in his hands.

"Is she here?" he cried, in a state of agitation. "Have you seen her?"

"What can you mean?" said Mary, rising to her feet in dismay. "Whom do you mean?"

"My wife, of course — who else? I’ve come back to find her — I’ve come back to find Fanny."