The Matters at Mansfield

Twenty-Seven

“When a man dies, it seems that someone ought to mourn him,” Elizabeth said as they retired to their room that evening.

It had been a long day, and Darcy anticipated the next several would prove still longer. “To which man do you refer?”

She did not immediately answer. “All three of them, I suppose,” she finally said. “Mr. Crawford’s actual demise has inspired far more gossip than grief — I expect because anyone inclined to regret his passing got an early start when he died the first time. Though Neville Sennex’s death has deeply saddened his lordship, Lady Catherine is jubilant, for it has opened the way for Anne to give birth to a future viscount. Mr. Lautus, nobody here knew, although perhaps there might be someone in Birmingham who will miss him.”

“Sir Thomas travels there tomorrow to determine that. He hopes to learn who might have hired him to kill Mr. Crawford.”

She sat down on the bed. “Perhaps Sir Thomas will also learn more about the pistol found with him.”

Darcy hesitated. “That, it seems, has fallen to me.”

“Oh?”

“The coroner’s examination confirms that Henry Crawford was shot either with the same pistol that killed Mr. Lautus, or a matching one. Mr. Stover compared the bullets found in both bodies, borrowing Mr. Dawson’s apothecary scales to weigh them, and marks on the gun patches indicate the same distinctive rifling of the barrels for both shots. Meanwhile, the bullet found in Neville Sennex was larger, as were the other two patches found this morning, indicating that his killing shot came from a bigger pistol. Yet the patches from those shots share the same fabric and rifling as those from the smaller pistols. Somehow, the pistols are related, and we need to determine the connection.”

“How will you do so?”

“I am bringing the one pistol in our possession to the gunmaker himself. The gun’s furniture — its engravings and so forth — is distinctive, and Mr. Mortimer will have records. He should be able to tell me for whom it was made, and whether others were produced for the same purchaser.” He retrieved the portmanteau he had used on his journey to Scotland and opened it on the bed beside her.

“Why does Sir Thomas not undertake the errand himself?”

“He has contacts in Birmingham that will make that aspect of the investigation easier for him to complete than if someone else attempted it, and he does not want to delay pursuing one lead for another. So he has asked me to go to London bearing a request with his official seal as magistrate, which should be sufficient to obtain Mr. Mortimer’s full cooperation.”

Her expression was wistful as she watched him pack a few essentials. “Do you expect to be long in London?”

“I shall depart at first light. I hope one or two days will prove sufficient to obtain the information we need, plus a day’s travel there and another back. Mortimer produces a high volume of arms, however, so if the pistol is not a recent purchase it might take some time to locate it in his records.”

She removed one of his shirts and refolded it. “I would offer to accompany you, but I do not want to leave Anne. Lady Catherine is now pressing her harder than ever to marry Lord Sennex with all possible haste, and since Colonel Fitzwilliam made his offer your aunt looks upon him almost as an adversary. She thwarts any opportunity for private conversation between your cousins. I have hopes that Anne may yet muster the courage to stand up to her mother, but in any event, she needs the support of a friend.” She returned the shirt to the travel bag, her hand lingering upon it.

He wished she could accompany him. He had grown weary some time ago of this inn and its company, and wanted nothing more than to steal away with his wife to someplace — anyplace — far removed from the murders and machinations with which they had been surrounded. He most desired to go home to Pemberley, but barring that, London would do. However, as much as duty called him forth, it required her to stay.

“It is just as well,” he said sportively. “You would only slow me down.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Journeys always take twice as long when you accompany me.”

“I see.” She returned his lighthearted tone. “And are there no advantages to my companionship?”

“There are definite advantages.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “That is why they take twice as long.”

Elizabeth shifted in her chair and stole what she hoped was a discreet glimpse at the case clock in the parlor. Noon — a mere six minutes since her last covert glance. Her suspicions were confirmed.

She would die at this card table.

Against her better instincts, she had consented to participate in a game of quadrille with Anne, Lady Catherine, and Lord Sennex. Her ladyship had proposed it as a means of diverting the viscount. Ostensibly, they were distracting him from his heartache over the loss of Neville; in reality, Lady Catherine sought to distract him from what remained of his judgment.

Before the game was over, Anne and Lord Sennex would have all but exchanged vows. Lady Catherine’s campaign for the marriage to occur by special license had already met with success; she now forged ahead to secure a date. Her blatant manipulation of a man weakened by age and debilitated by grief made Elizabeth recoil. It also so distracted her from game play that she was in danger of losing enough pin money to purchase three muff pistols.

“As the special license enables us to hold the wedding at any convenient location, you could wed at Hawthorn Manor. We need not even return to Rosings after Mr. Sennex’s funeral; the marriage could take place shortly thereafter.”

“An efficient proposal,” the viscount said. “The guests could come for one event and stay for the other. We could even serve the leftover funeral meats at the wedding breakfast.”

Elizabeth studied him instead of her cards, trying to determine whether he had offered the outrageous suggestion out of sarcasm or senility.

“Now, what is trump?” he asked.

“Hearts, my lord,” Lady Catherine said. “You named them.”

“I took the bid? Oh, yes — I suppose I did.”

Senility.

He selected a card from his hand and captured the trick, his third straight. Somehow, despite the dual impairment of his mental state and Lady Catherine’s conversation, he was managing to retain the lead.

“I did not mean to propose that the wedding should follow quite that hard upon,” Lady Catherine said.

“No, no — it is a capital idea. I am glad you suggested it.”

“Surely no one in Society would look askance at someone of your lordship’s years assuaging his sorrow with a bride. Perhaps it will not be long before you have a new heir to cheer you.”

Anne colored and occupied herself in rearranging her cards.

The viscount selected another lead from his hand. “Kindly remind me, Lady Catherine, when is Neville’s funeral?”

“Three days’ time.” Lady Catherine frowned as he captured another trick. “Mr. Sennex’s body is being transported to Buckinghamshire tomorrow morning. Your lordship planned to accompany it, with the rest of us making the journey the following day.”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Sennex became lost in thought so long that Elizabeth began to wonder whether he would ever return. At last, he played a card. “It will be a lonely journey home, I am afraid.” He turned to Anne. “I wonder whether you would consent to ride with me.”

“She would be delighted,” Lady Catherine declared.

Anne, her felicity apparently too great for expression, merely nodded her assent.

“Excellent. And would you, Mrs. Darcy, accompany us? After all, we must maintain decorum.”

Elizabeth agreed, far more for Anne’s sake than for the sake of propriety. She looked at Anne, willing her to assert herself. But Anne offered no objection to the travel arrangements or the marriage, only a low card already defeated by her mother’s and the viscount’s plays.

Lady Catherine was so satisfied with herself that she did not even scowl when the viscount captured his sixth trick, and the pool.