The Matters at Mansfield

Sixteen

Darcy turned his head away from the appalling spectacle, grateful that he had come alone despite Elizabeth’s offer to accompany him. The servant who had summoned him upon the unfortunate discovery had communicated few details, but something in his manner had forewarned Darcy that the true news lay in what had gone unsaid.

Sir Thomas Bertram muttered something resembling condolences. “You can imagine how surprised I was to learn that Mr. Crawford had been found on my own grounds,” he added. “We were still more shocked by his condition. I am sorry to have summoned you so early, but you can see why I do not want him left any longer in his present state.”

Sir Thomas’s servant had escorted Darcy through the woods of Mansfield Park to a small clearing some distance from the road. It was Darcy’s second meeting with Sir Thomas, the first having occurred when the family reported Mr. Crawford’s disappearance following the return of his horse. The coroner, a gentleman Sir Thomas had introduced as “my old friend Mr. Stover,” was also present, as was Sir Thomas’s gamekeeper, who had first come upon the body.

Darcy fought down the bile rising in his throat. As unconscionable as Mr. Crawford’s transgressions had been in life, no person deserved to endure such degradation in death as to be reduced to an inhuman mound of torn flesh. Rain had washed away most of the blood, but the body was in an advanced state of decomposition, and prolonged exposure to hungry wildlife and hot, humid weather had rendered what was left of him, particularly his countenance, unrecognizable. Were it not for the dark hair and general build of the remains, Darcy could not have believed it possible that this was a man he knew, let alone had spoken to less than a se’nnight previous. “Are you certain it is Mr. Crawford?”

“That is what we hope you will confirm,” said Mr. Stover.

“We identified him by these.” Sir Thomas produced a silver snuffbox engraved with the initials H.C. and the pair of earrings his daughter Maria had deposited at Henry’s feet. “They were in his coat.”

Darcy pitied whichever of the men had gotten close enough to the corpse to retrieve Henry’s effects. The coat, along with much of Mr. Crawford’s other moldering clothing, clung to his damaged body in shreds. The stench was beyond rank, made worse by the fact that the corpse lay in the full sun, just outside what limited shade might have been offered by a nearby cluster of birch trees.

“I saw him pocket those ear-bobs the day he disappeared,” Darcy said. “I am afraid this is indeed Henry Crawford.” He turned to the gamekeeper. “What sort of animal attacked him?”

The gamekeeper shook his head. “We have no large predators around here. He was dead before the scavengers got to him.”

“What killed him, then?”

“That.” The coroner pointed to Mr. Crawford’s left side. As Darcy stood on the opposite side of the corpse, he had to move to obtain a proper view.

A pistol lay in the grass.

“If you observe the area around what used to be his mouth, you can see black powder burns.” Mr. Stover leaned forward and waved away flies to grant a better view. “The shot came from extremely close range.”

Darcy would have been content to take his word on the matter, but he looked out of courtesy. There were indeed burns and powder embedded in a vague circle around the mouth, almost like the tattoos one sometimes saw on sailors. The rest of Mr. Crawford’s flesh was so discolored and darkened that he had not noticed the burns before — not that he had allowed his gaze to rest on Mr. Crawford’s face all that long. “Someone shot him in the mouth?”

“Not just any someone.” Mr. Stover exchanged an uneasy glance with Sir Thomas. “I believe we have another Young Werther here.”

If the sight and smell of Henry Crawford’s corpse had not been enough to turn Darcy’s stomach, the coroner’s pronouncement was. Darcy had read The Sorrows of Young Werther years ago — every one of his schoolfellows had, on the sly. Banned in some countries, the book had been blamed for a spate of imitative deaths.

“Self-murder?” He shook his head. “No — that cannot be.”

Yet even as he spoke, he privately admitted the possibility. Goethe’s novel appealed to romantic, impulsive young men, and Henry Crawford had proved himself both.

“This would seem to support Mr. Stover’s hypothesis.” Sir Thomas handed Darcy a water-stained note. “It is the only other item we found on Mr. Crawford’s person.”

Darcy unfolded the paper. Though the rain that had caused the ink to run had dried, humidity had left the paper damp, and black india stained Darcy’s gloves. Most of the words were obscured by smears and blots; Darcy could make out but two: “honor” and “forgiven.”

Yes, it could be a suicide message, Mr. Crawford’s final apology for his actions before taking his life. But the consequences of self-murder were too severe for the pronouncement to be made without absolute certainty. Suicide was more than just a crime against God; it was a crime against the king. Self-murderers could not be buried in consecrated ground, and their property was forfeited to the Crown. Anne’s grief and shame would be compounded, and, were her erstwhile marriage even deemed valid, she would receive nothing for all the misery it had caused her.

Darcy met Sir Thomas’s gaze. “This note could have said anything.”

“Including farewell.”

“There is ample room for doubt.”

“Not when considered with the other evidence.” The coroner stepped around the body and picked up the pistol. He turned it over in his hands, tracing the escutcheon and other engravings with his fingertip. “This is an expensive firelock. If someone else shot Mr. Crawford, why did he leave it behind?”

“Perhaps to make it appear a case of self-murder. There are many in this village with cause to wish Mr. Crawford ill.” Including Sir Thomas. Darcy fervently hoped the magistrate would not allow personal prejudice to influence his actions on so serious an issue. “Perhaps one of the people he wronged decided that depriving Mr. Crawford merely of his life was insufficient retribution. Contriving to have the death ruled a suicide would constitute complete revenge.”

“Indeed, it would,” Sir Thomas said, “but the fact that there might be others interested in taking Mr. Crawford’s life does not eliminate the possibility that he spared them the trouble.”

“Where did he obtain the pistol? I do not recall his having one among his possessions.”

“Can you say with certainty that he did not? That this is not his weapon?”

Darcy paused. “No. But he traveled here lightly—”

“Following his elopement, Mrs. Norris tells me. Perhaps he anticipated trouble en route to Gretna Green, particularly if he and his bride journeyed by night, and armed himself to ward off highwaymen — or friends of the bride who might pursue them. This is a small weapon, as pistols go, and easily concealed.”

“I wonder that Mrs. Norris would happen to share the circumstances of Mr. Crawford’s arrival with you, or how she even came into possession of her information,” Darcy said.

“She mentioned the news during a visit to my wife earlier this week. My sister-in-law makes it her business to stay informed of goings-on in the village, and to keep us similarly apprised.”

The gamekeeper stifled a cough.

The sound drew Sir Thomas’s attention. “Have you something to say, Mr. Cobb?”

“No, sir.”

Sir Thomas stepped back a few feet from the corpse. “Pray, let us move upwind, or better still, conclude this quickly. Now that the sun has risen above the trees I find the smell overpowering.”

Darcy had to concur with Sir Thomas’s complaint; the gamekeeper also appeared more than happy to relocate. Only the coroner seemed impervious to the odor as he continued to study the pistol. Darcy wondered how often he was exposed to such gruesome scenes.

Mr. Stover at last left the corpse’s side and joined them. “This is certainly a fine weapon. Pierced side plates, gold touch holes, crowned muzzle. Not one I would leave behind, revenge or no. But a dramatic choice for a dramatic act.”

“May I?” Darcy asked.

The coroner handed the smoothbore to Darcy. It was indeed a finely crafted weapon, fashioned of a rich brown walnut stock with a curved, deeply chequered grip and carved butt cap. Its case-hardened lock and hammer were engraved with images of a rook — or perhaps it was a crow or raven — and the polished silver escutcheon featured the same. The lock facing carried a London label with the crossed-pistols-and-swords mark of the arm’s renowned maker; the top flat of its blued octagonal barrel boasted his name, inlaid in gold: “H. W. Mortimer, Gun Maker to His Majesty.”

It was not so much a weapon as a work of art, and it was with reluctance that Darcy surrendered it to Sir Thomas. He privately agreed with Mr. Stover: One would not sacrifice so valuable an arm easily.

His gaze strayed toward the place beside Mr. Crawford where the pistol had lain, but his eye stopped instead on a spot of color in an area of particularly tall grass between him and the deceased. He had not noticed it before, but from his new vantage point upwind he could see something gold caught at the base of overhanging blades. Curious, he walked over to it, nearly tripping over a large rock also hidden in the grass but one stride from his quarry.

It was a circle of silk about two inches in diameter, gold with a pattern of tiny indigo birds lined up like chessmen on a field of or. Its edges were frayed, and three blackened hairline abrasions on its underside radiated out from a scorched bull’s-eye perhaps a half-inch round.

“What have you there?” Sir Thomas asked.

“A gun patch,” Darcy replied. The circles of fabric were used to load firelocks; the patch was inserted between the powder and the lead ball, and expelled when the weapon was discharged. The shot patch generally fell to the ground a few feet from the muzzle.

The quality of this particular fabric surpassed what one generally used to load weapons. Linen was far more common, and Darcy’s choice when hunting. Silks, valued for their strength and sheerness, were sometimes used in critical situations where accuracy was vital, but even then tended to be plain, not employ costly dyes or weaves. This was a singularly expensive gun patch. And Mr. Crawford had been killed by an expensive gun.

Darcy brought the patch to Sir Thomas and the coroner. “If Mr. Crawford indeed shot himself, how did the discharged patch land so far from his body?”

“He has lain here for days,” replied Mr. Stover, “with animals coming and going to an extent that one wishes were far less evident. Any number of creatures could have carried it hither.”

“Maybe it is not his patch,” added Sir Thomas. “Mr. Crawford is hardly the only person ever to fire in these woods. My eldest son and his friends often shoot for sport. The patch could have fallen there on an entirely different occasion, perhaps not even a recent one.”

Darcy conceded the possibility, but the fabric did not appear as if it had been tossed about the grove for months. Though the patch had been somewhat sheltered from this week’s intermittent rain by the overhanging grass, the area had received such heavy downpours in the days leading up to Mr. Crawford’s arrival in Mansfield that had the cloth been exposed to those tempests it would have been muddied or its black powder residue washed out to a much greater extent. If this patch had landed in the grove earlier, it had not preceded the night of Mr. Crawford’s disappearance by long.

In addition to the fabric itself being a curious choice for sport shooting, the design was one Darcy had never previously encountered, and the fact that both it and the pistol were ornamented by images of birds heightened his interest. “This is an unusual pattern,” Darcy said. “Do you recognize it as one Mr. Bertram uses for his rifle?”

“I cannot say that I do,” Sir Thomas admitted. His gamekeeper also denied familiarity.

“And does he typically hunt with silk?”

“Mr. Darcy, difficult as it may be to accept the manner of Mr. Crawford’s demise, that scrap of cloth could not have been associated with the shot that caused his death,” said Mr. Stover. “You saw how close the range was, and there appears to be no exit wound. I expect that when I complete my examination of the remains, I will find Mr. Crawford’s patch lodged with the ball inside his skull.”

Darcy was dissatisfied, but saw little value in arguing the point at present. He could not say that he himself was convinced that the patch was related to Henry’s shooting, only that the verdict of suicide — though not yet official, almost assuredly forthcoming given the collusion between the magistrate and the coroner — seemed overhasty.

“May I retain it, then? The patch?”

Sir Thomas shrugged. “I see no reason why I or Mr. Stover have need of it. If for some reason it is wanted, I trust you will surrender it?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, as you have no further business here, I suggest you return to the inn and impart the news of Mr. Crawford’s demise to his widow — widows — yes, I know of the bigamy allegation; my son informed me of it privately. When Mr. Stover has done with his examination, he will give notice of the inquest.”

Darcy knew he had been dismissed, but he was not quite ready to leave. “Might I view Mr. Crawford’s remains a final time before I go?” He had no idea what he sought, but something unexplored nagged him.

Sir Thomas’s brows rose. “I cannot fathom why you would wish to subject yourself to his corpse again, but do so if you like. For my part, I found Mr. Crawford’s company offensive whilst he lived; death has not improved him.”

Darcy walked the fifteen paces or so to the body. Mr. Crawford lay on his back, mouth open. Somewhere inside was the ball that had killed him. Had it indeed been self-administered? Despite having found the silk patch suggesting a shot that had come from farther away, despite the repercussions to Anne and, by extension, to the reputation of her entire family, himself included, he could not rationally rule out the possibility of suicide. It was indeed difficult to imagine another scenario that could lead to Mr. Crawford’s swallowing a bullet. Not even swallowing — from the coroner’s words and the appearance of things, the ball had traveled at an upward angle when it entered. What were the odds of anyone but Mr. Crawford himself having aimed so precisely?

If any shooter could, however, it would be the owner of that pistol. Darcy had seen some exquisite weapons in his life, but never one as superior as the firearm he had just held. That piece of craftsmanship had to rival any arm Mr. Mortimer had manufactured for the royal family. As Mr. Stover had said, who would intentionally abandon it? Yet if it indeed belonged to Mr. Crawford, where had he acquired it? It was small, perhaps ten inches long from the grip of its handle to the end of its barrel, a size sometimes called a “traveler’s pistol.” Had he indeed been traveling with it this whole time?

It might be small, but it was costly — more in price than Darcy would have imagined Mr. Crawford was willing to expend on a pistol. But then, Mr. Crawford was not a man given to sacrifice. He enjoyed everything life offered; enjoyed it rather too much. Reached for it with both hands.

Darcy stared at the spot beside Mr. Crawford where the pistol had lain. And realized what had been prodding the edges of his consciousness.

“Gentlemen, when Mr. Stover picked up the pistol just now, was that the first time any of you handled it?”

They approached. All denied having touched the gun before Darcy’s arrival.

“I left it exactly where I found it,” the gamekeeper said.

“Did you disturb Mr. Crawford’s remains?”

Mr. Cobb regarded Darcy as if he were daft. “Begging your pardon, sir, but would you touch a corpse that looked like that? Not without a shovel, I wouldn’t, and not without instructions from Sir Thomas.”

“And I gave no such order,” said Sir Thomas. “Mr. Stover has served as coroner for many years, and I know he prefers to record his observations before anything is moved.”

“Why, then, if Mr. Crawford committed suicide, was the pistol lying to the left of his body? Mr. Crawford was right-handed.”

Sir Thomas did not immediately reply.

“Perhaps it fell to that side after he fired it,” said Mr. Stover.

Darcy did not like that improbable explanation, for the fact that the coroner had offered it increased his doubt over the likelihood of an impartial ruling on the cause of Mr. Crawford’s death. Sir Thomas’s objectivity was already in question, but Darcy had harbored faint hope that the coroner had had no personal quarrel with the late Mr. Crawford. Could Sir Thomas’s “old friend” be relied upon to perform his public duty?

“Perhaps it did fall from his right hand to the opposite side,” Darcy said. “Or perhaps Mr. Crawford did not fire the gun.”

“Mr. Darcy, I understand and sympathize with your motives. Nobody wants the stigma of suicide associated with his family,” said Sir Thomas. “But in taking his own life, Mr. Crawford merely accelerated the process of justice. He was a coward who could not face the shame of a trial. To all appearances, rather than risk hanging, Mr. Crawford chose his own punishment. The consequences of self-murder are indeed severe, but you must admit that Mr. Crawford hardly established for himself a history of considering consequences.”

“Then it is particularly incumbent upon you and Mr. Stover to do so before rushing to a judgment that might be erroneous,” Darcy replied. “Would you have his heirs deprived of their inheritance and his remains unjustly buried at a crossroads for all eternity?”

“I would have him buried somewhere, and the sooner the better. He is not growing any fresher.” Sir Thomas regarded the body with disgust. “Mr. Crawford’s corpse has suffered enough indignity, and the people who knew him, enough anguish. There is no reason to prolong both. Let us resolve this matter posthaste. Mr. Stover will complete his examination of the body. If, at its conclusion, he is convinced that Mr. Crawford’s death was self-inflicted, then I am, as well.”

“What if I am not?”

Sir Thomas was silent. Finally, he turned to the coroner. “Mr. Stover, how soon can you be prepared to hold the formal inquest?”

“I will finish examining the remains today. Then we need only gather any witnesses we want to call. The inquest could be held tomorrow if you wish.”

“All right then, Mr. Darcy. If you are not satisfied with the results of Mr. Stover’s examination, you have until the inquest to gather evidence of your own.”

“I am to solve a murder by the morrow?”

“You need not solve it, simply prove that one occurred.”

He had been trying to do so this past half hour with no success. Clearly, Sir Thomas would require Darcy to not merely establish reasonable doubt, but to produce incontrovertible proof. “A single day is hardly sufficient time.”

“Something must be done with this rotting corpse.”