Murder at Mansfield Park

Chapter 19

Mary went to her bed that night in such an agony of mind as she had never yet suffered. The tumults of the last dreadful weeks were nothing to what she endured now; she had not known the human mind capable of bearing such vicissitudes. She saw, only too clearly, what she should do; it was not merely her knowledge of her brother that told her he was guiltless, but the words that she had heard from Julia Bertram’s own lips, and which no-one else would ever hear now, if she herself were not to communicate them. But was she prepared to take such a terrible step? Was she willing to send the man she loved to certain death on the gallows? Because that, she believed, would be the inevitable consequence of her disclosure. Henry might have more obvious motives for killing his wife, but she knew that some might consider Edmund Norris to have reasons that were scarcely less cogent, and he, like Henry, had no alibi for the morning of Fanny’s death.Were Julia Bertram’s last words to become generally known, the evidence against him would appear all but conclusive. It was an appalling prospect: say nothing, and watch her innocent brother condemned; speak, and see Edmund hang in his place.

She could not imagine any possibility of sleep, and lay awake for many hours, passing from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror, and from hot fits of fever to cold. But shortly before two o’clock her bodily weakness finally overcame her, and she slipped into a shallow and disturbed slumber, only to wake at dawn in a terror that made such an impression upon her, as almost to overpower her reason. She had fallen into a dark and wandering dream, in which she was barefoot, walking across the park, as the mist rose from the hollows, and the owls shrieked in the dark trees. All at once she found herself at the edge of the channel — the dank and fetid pit yawned beneath her very feet. She was overcome with fear, and dared not go any farther, but something drew her on, and she saw with revulsion that the body was still there at the bottom of the chasm, still wrapped in its crimson cloak and bloody dress, the face already rotting, and maggots eating at the suppurating flesh. She turned away, sickened, but Maddox stood behind her, and took hold of her arm, forcing her to look, forcing her to the very brink. And now she saw that Henry and Edmund were standing at either end of the trench — she saw them face each other, their countenances blank of all expression, then draw their swords with a rasp of polished metal. Minute after minute they fought over the body, notwithstanding all her prayers and tears, trampling the dissolving carcase beneath their feet, and staining their shirts with runnels of blood that smoked in the cold air. Then in the space of a moment, Henry was suddenly in the ascendant, pinning his opponent against the earth, and holding his sword across Edmund’s throat; Mary cried out, "No! No!" and as her brother looked up to where she stood, Edmund drew back his sword, and ran his rival through the thigh. Henry slipped to his knees, his eyes all the while on Mary’s face, fixing her with a look of unutterable agony and reproach. She turned to Edmund for mercy, but he rejected her pleas with arrogant disdain, and pushed the point of his sword slowly, slowly through his adversary’s heart. She crawled towards him, as Maddox threw earth and dirt down upon her dying brother, and the rotting corpse of his dead wife; then she awoke in a cold sweat, real tears on her cheeks, and the frightful images still before her eyes.

She did not know how long it was she lay there, trembling and weeping, before she felt able to sit up. It was still dark outside. She had never given any credence to dreams, deeming them to be but the incoherent vagaries of the sleeping mind, and no prognostic or prophecy of what was to come; but while her intellect might attribute her vision to the uneasiness of a weakened and disturbed constitution, her conscience told her otherwise. Her imagination had forced her to contemplate the true nature of the choice she must now make; her heart shrank from the dread prospect, but her mind was clear; she was quite determined, and her resolution varied not.

As soon as the servants were awake she sent a message to the Park, requesting an interview at the belvedere that morning, then made a hasty breakfast, and went out into the garden.

By the time she heard the great clock at Mansfield chime nine, she had been waiting at the appointed place for more than an hour, and the bench offering an uninterrupted view to the house, she was able to watch him approaching for some moments, before he was aware of her presence. His step, she saw, was measured, and his comportment upright. When she rose to her feet and walked to meet him, she perceived, with a pang, that his step quickened.

"Good morning, Miss Crawford."

"Mr Norris."

"I must thank you, once more," he continued, "for the kind service you have afforded my family at this sad time. I have heard from Mrs Baddeley of your exertions in the last stages of Julia’s illness, and I know that you did all in your power to nurse her back to health. We are all, as you might imagine, quite overcome. To lose a daughter and a sister in such terrible circumstances, and so soon after the death of her cousin, it is — well, it is intolerable. My poor uncle will come home only to preside at a double funeral, though his presence will, at least, be an indescribable comfort to my aunt. We expect him in a few days."

There was a silence, and he perceived, for the first time, that she had not met his gaze.

"Miss Crawford? Are you quite well?"

"I am very tired, Mr Norris. I will, if you permit, sit down for a few minutes."

They walked back, without speaking, to the bench, too preoccupied by their different thoughts to notice a figure in the shadows, just beyond the wall of the belvedere, listening intently to every word they spoke.

Mary took her seat, and was silent a moment, endeavouring to quiet the beating of her heart.

"I have dreaded this moment, Mr Norris, and more than once I felt my courage would fail me before I came face to face with you. Now that I am here, I beg you will hear me out. I asked to see you because there is something I must tell you. It relates to your cousin."

He frowned a little at this, but said nothing.

"Some hours before Julia lapsed into her final lethargy, she became very distraught, and began to talk wildly. I did not perceive, at first, what had distressed her to such a dreadful extent, but I am afraid it soon became only too clear. As you know, she was walking in the park the day Miss Price returned; I now know that she saw something that morning, and she was frightened half out of her wits by the memory of it. I believe, in fact, that she saw quite clearly who it was who struck her cousin the fatal blow. She was talking incoherently about the blood — on her face, on her hands. It must have been a barbarous thing for such a young and delicate girl to witness."

She rose from her seat and walked forward a few paces, unable to look at him; she had hardly the strength to speak, and knew that if she did not say what she must at that very moment, she might never be able to do so.

"She — she — mentioned a name. I am sure you do not need me to repeat it. It is — too painful; for you to hear, or for me to utter. I only tell you this now because I am convinced that Mr Maddox is about to arrest my brother for this crime. I, alone of everyone at Mansfield, know that he absolutely did not do this thing of which he will be accused. I therefore have no choice but to go to Mr Maddox and tell him what I have just told you. Once I have done so, you and I will probably have no opportunity to speak; indeed," she said, in a broken accent, "we may never see each other again."

Had Mary been able to turn towards him and encounter his eye, she would have seen in his face such agony of soul, such a confusion of contradictory emotions, as would have filled her with compassion, however oppressed she was by quite other feelings at that moment. He rose and moved towards her, and made as if to put a hand on her shoulder, but checked himself, and turned away.

"I am grateful," he said in a voice devoid of expression, "for the information you have been so good as to impart. I wish you good morning."

He gave an awkward bow, and walked stiffly away.

She had enough self-control to restrain her tears until he was out of hearing, but when they came they were the bitterest tears she had ever had cause to shed. Notwithstanding Julia’s dying words, notwithstanding the seemingly incontestable nature of what Mary had heard, she had never entirely lost the hope that he might have an innocent explanation. That he would seize her hands, and tell her she was mistaken, that he was as blameless as her brother. But he had not. She had not seen him for some days, and in that time her knowledge of his character had undergone so material a change, as to make her doubt her own judgment. How could she have been in love with such a man — how could she justify an affection that was not only passionate, but also, as she had thought, rational, kindled as it had been by his modesty, gentleness, benevolence, and steadiness of mind? She must henceforth regard him as a man capable of murder, a man who could kill the woman to whom he was betrothed in the most brutal manner, without any apparent sign of remorse. And even if it were possible for her heart to acquit him, in some measure, of the death of Fanny, on the grounds of a sudden wild anger, or insupportable provocation, how could she ever forgive him for the part he had played in Julia’s demise — a gentle, sweet-tempered girl for whom he had appeared to feel deep and genuine affection? And when she had confronted him with the evidence of his guilt he had merely reverted to the cold and impenetrable reserve that had characterised their first acquaintance.

She wondered now whether Henry’s estimation of him had not been correct all along, and she had seen in Edmund something she had wished to see, but which bore little relation to his true character. And much as she had tried to dismiss it, she had never fully rid herself of a slight but insistent unease she had felt ever since the dreadful day when they had discovered Fanny’s body. Even in the midst of her terror she had thought his behaviour singular: she had told herself since, that his composure was that of a rational man, undaunted by the horrors of death, and concerned only to alleviate her own distress; but now she knew, beyond question, that it was not so: he had known all along what he would find in that trench, and prepared himself, however unconsciously, to behold it without recoiling. And yet she could not entirely quell the bewitching conviction that he had loved her, nor forget how she had felt with his eyes upon her. Whatever his fate, whatever his crime, she could not imagine thinking of another man as a husband. Was it an attachment to govern her whole life?

It was enough to shake the experience of twenty. And though she knew it to be her duty to go at once to Maddox and put an end to this suspense, she did not yet feel capable of such an irrevocable deed, and sought the most retired and unfrequented areas of the park, hoping by prayer and reflection to calm her mind, and steel herself against the final act of absolute condemnation. It was near the hour of luncheon when she returned to the parsonage, and she was in hopes that her walk in the fresh air had sufficed to wipe away every outward memento of what she had undergone since she was last within its doors. But she need not have been uneasy. Her sister came running towards her, as she entered the garden gate, her handkerchief in her hand, and her face in a high colour.

"Oh Mary, Mary! Such news, such shocking news! Mr Norris has confessed! He has told Mr Maddox that he killed Fanny! Who would have believed such a frightful and incredible thing?"

Mary was not quite so unprepared for this intelligence as her sister might have supposed, but it was not without its effect; she staggered, and felt she might faint, and a moment later felt Henry’s arm about her waist, supporting her.

"Come Mary," he said softly. "This is a most dreadful shock, and you have already had too much to bear. Come inside, and I will send for some tea."

She did not have the energy to refuse, and a few minutes later found herself sitting by the parlour fire, with her sister fussing about her, chattering all the while about the astonishing developments at the Park.

"Mrs Baddeley told me about it herself, when I encountered her in the lane. It appears Mr Norris went to Mr Maddox this very morning, and told him the whole appalling tale — how he met Miss Price that morning by accident, and they had the most terrible quarrel. He claims he never intended to harm her, but when she told him she was married, he was seized of a sudden by a desperate anger. It seems he does not remember much of what ensued, and it was not until the body was found, that it was brought home to him exactly what he had done."

"That being the case," said Dr Grant heavily, "it is a pity he did not make his confession then and there, and save us all a world of trouble and scandal."

"He has saved my neck, at least," said Henry. "I owe him a debt of gratitude for that."

"You, sir," replied Dr Grant, "have almost as much cause for remorse and repentance as Mr Norris can have. You, sir, deserve, if not the gallows, then the public punishment of utter disgrace, for your own part in this infamous affair. You, sir, have indulged in thoughtless selfishness, and coldhearted vanity for far too long. You, sir, would do better to take this unhappy event as a dire warning of what God apportions to the wicked, and hope by sincere amendment and reform, to avoid a juster appointment hereafter."

"A pretty good lecture, upon my word!" said Henry, sarcastically. "Was it part of your last sermon?"

"Come, come," said Mrs Grant, quickly, "I am sure Henry is well aware that he has a good deal to answer for. I must say," she continued with a sigh, "I never thought to hear myself say such a thing, but it’s Mrs Norris I pity. I cannot imagine what she must be suffering."

"She will have to bear much worse if he is convicted," said Dr Grant. "As a gentleman, Norris might hope to avoid being dragged through the public streets to the taunts of the mob, but birth and fortune will not preserve him from the gallows. He deserves no better, and should expect no less; it will be a meritorious retribution for a crime so obnoxious to the laws of God and man."

Mary could endure no more, and leaping from her chair, ran out of the room. It was one thing to act as she had done, from the heroism of principle, and a determination to do her duty; it was quite another to hear Edmund’s fate so freely, so coolly canvassed. She took refuge in a far corner of the garden, which offered no view of the Park, feeling the tears running down her cheeks, without being at any trouble to check them. It was some minutes before she heard the sound of footsteps, and looked up to see her brother walking towards her.

As soon as he reached her, he took her hand, and pressed it kindly. "I am no great admirer of our brother-in-law, but you must forgive him, if you can, on this occasion. I do not think he has the least idea of your feelings for Mr Norris. Whatever our sister says, I believe you are more to be pitied than his unspeakable mother."

Mary nodded, a spasm in her throat. "It must have been the work of a moment — a temporary insanity — under sudden and terrible distress of mind — "

Henry looked away, uncomfortable.

"What is it, Henry?" she cried, catching his arm. "Tell me, please."

She would not be denied, and he did, at length, capitulate. "Very well. It was not, perhaps, so unpremeditated an act as you have just described. I have not told you this before, as there seemed no necessity to do so, but when we were in Portman-square, Fanny wrote to Mr Norris, to tell him of her marriage. I heard her give the messenger the directions to the White House."

"And what did she say in this letter?"

"I did not see it all, only some scraps. What I did see was couched in the scornful and imperious language that I was, by then, coming to expect from her. I do, however, recall one phrase. It was something to the effect that “I wonder now if my fortune was always the principal attraction on your part, given that I have now discovered that you are very much in need of it”."

"I do not understand — Edmund has an extensive property."

"Not, perhaps, as extensive as we have all been induced to believe. And it seems that this is not the only matter about which Mr Norris has dissembled. Having received that letter, he would have known that Fanny was married, but he said nothing of this to anyone at the Park."

Mary’s heart sank still further. "I suppose no killer would willingly draw such attention upon himself."

Henry pressed her hand once more. "But he has, at least, confessed. That can only assist him at the assizes. We must hope for clemency." He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. "Mary?"

She took a deep breath, and looked him in the eyes. "He did confess, but not voluntarily. I myself forced his hand."

She had, until that moment, adhered to Maddox’s request to keep the manner of Julia Bertram’s death a secret, but she saw no reason to respect his wishes any further, now that he had apprehended his killer. She saw at once that her brother was shocked and disgusted at what she had to tell him, far more shocked and disgusted, indeed, than he had been at the death of his own wife.

"But she was a mere child — an innocent child — "

"I know, I know — but if she did indeed see what happened that day — if he feared she was recovering and would soon tell what she knew — "

Henry dropped her hand and walked away, pacing across the grass, his face intent and thoughtful.

"Did you hear what our sister said, Mary? There was no mention, as far as I can recall, that Mr Norris has confessed to killing Julia. Fanny, yes, but not Julia. That is curious, is it not?"

It had not occurred to her before, and she hardly knew how to explain it. "I cannot tell, Henry, nothing seems to make sense."

"But this, indeed, does not make sense. From what you say, aside from good Mrs Baddeley, no-one at the Park is aware how Julia died — with one exception: our friend Maddox. So why has he not confronted Mr Norris with that fact? Why has he not extorted a second confession?"

Mary looked helpless."I do not know. It is unaccountable."

Henry was still pacing, still pensive. It was some minutes before he spoke again, but when he did, his words made every nerve in her body thrill with transport. "Do you really believe him to be guilty of these terrible crimes?"

"I do not want to believe it, but what choice do I have? I heard what Julia Bertram said."

"But from what you say, she only cried out his name — that does not prove anything in itself. Is it at all possible, do you think, that she was calling to him for help? We know he was in the park at that time. Might she have seen him at a distance, and called to him, even if he never heard her — even if he never even knew she was there?"

"Then why has he confessed? Why admit to a crime he did not commit?"

Henry took her hands in both his own. "Has it crossed your mind, even for the briefest of moments, that he may have been protecting you?"

"But why? Why should I need his protection?"

"Come and sit down, and tell me, as exactly as you can, what you said to Mr Norris this morning."

She sat down heavily on the bench, her mind all disorder, trying to recapture her precise words. "I–I told him that Julia had spoken a name, but that I did not need to repeat it. I said I could not allow you to be falsely accused, and that I had no choice but to go to Maddox. And I said," her voice sinking, "that he and I might never see each other again."

She was by now crying bitterly, but her brother, by contrast, was in a state of excited agitation.

"So you never, at any point, accused him directly?"

She shook her head.

"In fact, my dear Mary," he said, coming to her side and taking her hand, "everything you said might have led him to believe that you were confessing to him."

It was gently spoken, but every word had the force of a heavy blow. She gazed at him in amazement, her mind torn between bewilderment and mortification. The shock of conviction was almost as agonising as it was longed for; he was not guilty, but he was willing to appear so for her sake, and she alone had placed him in this peril.

"But Henry, this is dreadful!" she cried. "I must explain — how could he have believed me capable of — "

"You believed him capable, did you not?"

"I must go to him — to Maddox — I must tell him — "

"Calm yourself, my dear sister. You are not thinking clearly. We do not even know where Mr Norris is at this moment. He may, even now, be on his way to Northampton. And as for Mr Maddox, I fear you will need more proof than this to convince a man of his make. He has his reward money already in his sights, and he will not relinquish a suspect who has so conveniently confessed, unless we can present him with another equally promising quarry. Our best course will be to convince Mr Norris that his heroic concern for you is not necessary; if he can be persuaded to withdraw his confession, we may be better placed to counter Maddox."

"But how are we to do such a thing? If we do not even know where he is?"

"Leave that to me, my dear Mary. I will go at once to the Park, and see what I may discover. I do not expect the family to see me — that would be too much of an intrusion — but the steward, McGregor, will be as well-informed as any body, and he still has regard for me, even if some others at the Park do not. You, in the mean time, should take some rest. I will return as soon as I am able."

She had no better plan to propose, and returned to the house after watching him mount his horse, and head down the drive. She heartily wished to avoid going into company, but she knew that any further absence would only attract more notice and enquiry, so instead of retiring to her room she joined her sister and Dr Grant in the parlour. She could not hope for restraint from her sister, in the face of such extraordinary news, but she did hope that, by suggesting a game of cribbage before dinner, she might limit the scope of her speculations. The cards were brought, and for the next hour the reckonings of the game were interspersed with Mrs Grant’s wondering conjectures.

"And that makes thirty-one, Mary. And to think, all this time the killer was right under our very noses — and for it to be Mr Norris too! — it just shews that you can never judge by appearances — I always thought him such a placid and agreeable gentleman! Four in hand and eight in crib. And to think, anyone of us might have fallen prey to his murderous urges, and been slaughtered in our beds at any moment!"

"I think that most improbable, my dear," said Dr Grant, looking up from his copy of Fordyce’s Sermons. "According to the eminent authorities on the subject whose works I have perused, Norris does not exhibit any of the recognised characteristics of lunacy, and is therefore most unlikely to be an indiscriminate killer of the type to which you refer."

"That may very well be the case, Dr Grant," replied his wife, "but Mrs Baddeley told me his own servants are now afraid to go near him, fearing that he is more than half-crazed. You are to deal, Mary; shall I deal for you?"

The time passed heavily, and Mary was impatient for sounds of her brother’s return; indeed, she could not comprehend why such a simple errand should have taken him so long, but when Henry did, at last, present himself in the parlour, the explanation was not tardy in coming forth.

"I hope I have not been the means of delaying your dinner," he said, as he handed his gloves to the servant, "but I have been unavoidably and unexpectedly detained. Sir Thomas has returned to Mansfield."

"Sir Thomas returned!" exclaimed Mrs Grant. "But I thought he was not expected for another two days at least?"

"It seems that he made rather quicker progress on the road than he had originally hoped — or than his physician had advised. But I am afraid he had distressing news to hear on his return. Having so far outstripped his expected course, the intelligence had not yet reached him of his daughter’s death. It must have been a cruel blow."

"And a heavy aggravation to what he will already have suffered upon hearing of Miss Price’s murder," said Dr Grant. "Not to mention her unseemly marriage. I imagine he had words to say on that subject to you, sir."

Henry flushed. "Once I learned of his return, I went directly to offer Sir Thomas my respects. He was, indeed, so good as to receive me."

Mary could only imagine the particulars of that interview, and her brother’s conscious and awkward manner served to confirm her suspicions; Dr Grant might be overly condemnatory in his reproofs, but impartiality would not have denied that Sir Thomas had good cause to be aggrieved, and Henry as good cause for self-reproach.

"He was not pleased — how could he be? — but I can assure you, Dr Grant, that he remained both just and reasonable throughout, even in the face of such provocations as he has suffered. Indeed, I do not think I have appreciated, till now, the true benevolence of his character. He has such a fine and dignified manner, that one scarcely distinguishes the man, from the head of the house. He did not scruple to give me his opinion of my conduct, but he was prepared to listen to what I was able to say in my defence, and concluded by observing that the one consolation he has derived since his return," this with a side glance at Mary, "is the discovery that I am no longer suspected of any involvement in the death of my wife."

"I imagine that will be but poor solace for the loss of her fortune," retorted Dr Grant, with a sniff.

"And what about Mr Norris?" interjected his wife. "Did you discover any more on that subject?"

This time Henry did not meet Mary’s eye. "He is to be taken to Northampton in three days’ time. There are, it seems, some matters of procedure to be resolved with the magistrate, and Mr Maddox is reluctant to hand over his charge until they are settled. I fancy Sir Thomas was not much pleased to find his room — and his claret — had been appropriated in his absence, and by such a man as that. I do not think he had been at home more than an hour when he saw me, but it had sufficed to return his room to all its previous peace and stateliness."

"So where is Mr Maddox now?" asked Mrs Grant.

"He has moved, as a temporary expedient, into lodgings with the steward, my old friend McGregor. Mr Norris remains, for the moment, at the White House, under guard."

"Let us hope he is dispatched bag and baggage long before the funerals," said Mrs Grant. "Imagine the scandal if it were otherwise! Even Northampton would be too close."

"That, I am afraid, is not very likely, my dear sister," said Henry. "Indeed, sir," turning to Dr Grant, "Sir Thomas bade me inform you that, if it is convenient, he wishes the burial services to take place the day after tomorrow."