Nearing the great staircase, she became aware of voices in the hall below, and as she came out onto the landing, she was able to identify them, even though the speakers were hidden from her view by a curve in the stairs. It was Edmund, and Tom Bertram.
‘It is scarcely comprehensible!’ Edmund was saying. ‘To think that that all this time we have been thinking her run away—blaming her for the ignominy of an infamous elopement—and yet all the while she was lying there in that dreadful state, not half a mile from the house. It is inconceivable—that such an accident could have happened—’
‘My dear Edmund,’ interjected Tom, ‘I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension. You were absent from Mansfield, and cannot be expected to be aware of precise times and circumstances, but I can assure you that the work on the channel commenced some hours, at least, after Fanny was missed from the house. It is quite impossible that there could have been such an accident as you have just described.’
There was a pause, and Mary heard him pace up and down for a few moments before speaking again. She had already drawn a similar conclusion; moreover, she had private reasons of her own for believing that the corpse she had seen could not have lain above a day or two in the place where it was found.
‘And even were that not the case,’ continued Tom, ‘you cannot seriously believe that the injuries we were both witness to, were solely the result of a fall? You saw it, as much as I did. Surely you must agree that there was a degree of malice—of deliberation—in the reckless damage done to—’ he hesitated a moment. ‘In short, it can only have been the work of some insane and dangerous criminal. It is of the utmost importance that we arrange at once for a proper investigation.’
‘But the constable—’
‘—has done every thing in his power, but even were he a young man, which he is not, he has neither the men nor the authority to pursue the rigorous enquiries demanded by such an extraordinary and shocking case. You must see that—just as you must acknowledge that we have only one course available to us.’
‘Which is?’
‘To send for a thief-taker from London. Mr Holmes himself as good as begged me to do so—he knows as well as I do, that this is our best, if not our only, hope.’
‘A thief-taker?’ gasped Edmund. ‘Good God, Tom, most of those men are little more than criminals themselves! I have read the London newspapers, and I know how they operate. Bribery, violence, and extortion are only the least of it. Do we really want to open our most private and intimate affairs to such a man? To the public scrutiny such a course of action must inevitably occasion? I beg you, think again before you take such a perilous and unnecessary step.’
‘Unnecessary?’ replied Tom coldly. ‘I am afraid I cannot agree. You, of all people, must want the villain who perpetrated so foul a deed to be brought to justice? And there is but one way we can hope to achieve that. I have made careful enquiries, and have received a most helpful recommendation from Lord Everingham. His lordship has suffered a number of fires on his property, and this man was instrumental in the discovery and detention of the culprit.’
‘For a handsome reward, no doubt,’ said Edmund, dryly.
‘Of course. That is how such men earn their bread. But they are not all base rogues and villains, as you seem to believe. It appears this fellow gave distinguished service as a Bow Street Runner, before setting up on his own account, and Lord Everingham was willing to vouch not only for his proficiency, but for his complete discretion.’
‘But surely we should delay until we have the opportunity to consult my uncle?We should not contemplate such a proceeding without his permission. In our last communication from Keswick there was some expectation that he might be sufficiently recovered to commence the journey homewards within a few days. Can we not await his arrival?’
‘You know full well, Edmund, that my father is not as yet deemed well enough to receive the news of Fanny’s death, coming as it does, so soon upon the shock of her disappearance, which has already provoked a dangerous relapse,’ replied Tom. ‘And even if he is able to set out from Cumberland as promptly as you hope, he will have to travel in slow stages, and will not return to Mansfield for at least a fortnight. We cannot afford to wait so long. I am grateful for your advice, Edmund, but in my father’s absence I am master at Mansfield Park. I have sent for this Charles Maddox, and I expect him later this afternoon. Good day to you.’
Mary had, by this time, crept to the edge of the gallery and she saw Tom bow coolly to his cousin and turn away, before Edmund caught his arm.
‘Can we, at least, have the body properly attended to? They have conveyed her to the old schoolroom—it faces north, and is cold without a fire, even in summer.’ He hesitated, and seemed to be struggling for composure. ‘I have had candles lit there, and flowers brought from the garden—’
His voice broke, and Mary leaned against the banister, unsure how to interpret his evident distress of mind; she had been so sure that he no longer cared for Fanny—perhaps had never truly done so—but—
‘—but to speak frankly, there is no disguising the smell. In a day or so it will be through the whole house. And we should not forget that Gilbert has urged us to keep this latest misfortune from Julia for as long as possible—he was most concerned that she should not suffer further anxiety at this present, and most delicate, stage of her recovery. For her sake—for decency’s sake—let me arrange for the body to be washed and laid out.’
There was a pause, then Tom acquiesced: ‘Whom would you suggest we entrust with so repugnant a task?’
Edmund shook his head, ‘To tell you the truth, I do not rightly know. Your mother and sister are out of the question, and my own mother is not quite herself. She has been suffering from the headache for some days past. I believe we will have to call upon Mrs Baddeley, though that would not be my first preference. Even the footmen who brought back the body recoiled at the sight, and Mrs Baddeley is prone to nervous palpitations. Would that Miss Crawford were well enough—there is no-one so steady, so capable as Miss Crawford.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tom, ‘she is a young woman of rare strength of mind. And we might have relied absolutely on her prudence.’
Mary retreated into the shadows, her mind overcome with a confusion of feelings, in which fear, compassion, and gratification all had their place. She saw in a moment what she must do: Edmund had need of her; there was a service she could perform for him, and if she loved him, then she must face it, and without shrinking.
She did not stay to hear any more, and made her way as quickly and quietly as she could to the room Edmund had referred to, at the farthest end of the east wing. She hesitated a moment on the threshold, but summoned up her courage and threw open the door. The windows were shuttered, and the candle-flames wavered in the sudden draught, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls. Her senses were assailed by a gust of suffocating odours, in which the heavy scent of the cut roses was mingled with another, more sickly sweetness that Mary knew only too well. The body lay a few feet away, the face covered by a white sheet, but there was a dark and spreading stain that spoke of horrors beneath—horrors that would be only too dreadfully out of place in this homely little room, with its writing-desks and illused chairs, its map of Europe, and its charts of kings and queens. Mary shivered suddenly; Edmund had not been mistaken when he had said that the room was cold. She went briskly to the door and rang the bell, and sent the footman with a message to Mrs Baddeley. A few minutes later the housekeeper appeared at the head of a procession of maids bearing aprons, hot water, sponges, and, as Mary observed with a suppressed shudder, a linen shroud that looked but newly made.
‘Thank you, Mrs Baddeley,’ she said briskly, doing her best to shield the maids from the sight of the corpse. ‘Are you aware if any arrangements have been made with respect to a coffin?’
Mrs Baddeley’s rosy face lost a little of its colour. ‘Yes, miss. Mr Norris has commanded one from Dick Jackson. A simple one, as might serve until the fa
mily decide what they prefer.’
‘I see that Mr Norris has thought of every thing. Pray arrange for it to be brought up, would you? And is there some where the body might lie until the funeral? There is no question, in this case, of visitors being permitted to see the corpse, but there is still a need for an appropriate resting place.’
Mrs Baddeley nodded. ‘There’s the small sitting-room next to the parlour. That’s never used at this time of the year.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Baddeley, that sounds most suitable. I will ring again when I have finished.’
The housekeeper looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Miss Crawford? I don’t know as I’d be much use, what with my heart being as it is, but I don’t like to think of you up here all alone. Quite turns my stomach, that it does. Such a duty is bad enough at the best of times, but having to look at—’
Mary smiled. ‘You are very kind, but you need not be concerned,’ she said firmly. ‘The dead are at peace, Mrs Baddeley, however terrible the manner of their demise.’
When she was once again safely alone, Mary stood for a moment with her back to the door, then took a deep breath, and started to pin back her sleeves. She hoped to harden herself to the undertaking before her by beginning with those parts of it that she might accomplish without trepidation. Leaving the face covered for as long as possible, she first cut the clothes away, and folded them carefully. The skin beneath was cold and waxy, and its paleness had begun to acquire a greenish tinge, while dark purple patches had spread underneath, where the body had been lying against the damp earth. Mary had always been observant, and now, as once before, she wondered if this quick-sightedness were not a positive curse; she feared that every tiny detail of that terrible hour would be etched forever on her mind, but she endeavoured to dismiss the thought, and turned her attention instead to the heavy toil of washing the body, and dressing it in a simple white night-gown. The limbs had become stiff and rigid, and she wondered once or twice whether she should indeed have insisted that Mrs Baddeley remain behind to assist her, but another moment’s thought told her that such a request would have been ignoble. She must shift as she could, and do the best she was able.
It was a long task, and an arduous one, but at last the moment came when the sheet must be removed; she could avoid it no longer. She took hold of the cloth, and lifted it slowly away. She had prepared herself, but she could not suppress a gasp. The right side of the face was much as she remembered it, though drawn and distorted, and its features sharpened by death; but the rest was merely a dark mass of crusted flesh, with here and there the pale glimmer of naked bone. The eye that remained was dull and clouded, and seemed to stare up at her with an expression of unspeakable reproach. Mary reached blindly for her handkerchief, and held it to her face, stifling a spasm of nausea. It was so horribly akin to what she had seen once before; but then it had been merely the impression of a moment, which she had laboured to forget; now she must confront this horror without flinching, and do what she could to assuage it. Steady nerves achieved a good deal, soap and water even more; and as the dirt and dried blood were eased away, Fanny’s face regained a little of its human shape. When it was done, Mary smoothed the hair, secured the jaw with ribbon, and wound the body in its shroud, securing it neatly at head and foot. She had never undertaken any task she had dreaded more, or relished less; but she had probably never done a thing more needful, or one she might be prouder to own.
She washed her hands carefully, then rang the bell for Mrs Baddeley. A few moments later Mary was ushering in the carpenter and a group of footmen, and instructing them how to place the body within its plain oak coffin. As they lifted the lid and made to secure it, Mrs Baddeley took a small package from her pocket, and laid it quickly at the feet of the corpse. Seeing Mary’s enquiring look, she hastened to explain herself.
‘’Tis nought but a little Bible, miss. Mr Norris gave it me and asked me to place it there. A last gift, he said.’
Mary could not help remembering another gift he had bestowed on Fanny—a gift she had passed to Mary, with no other thought than to ensnare and humiliate her. The necklace still lay in her trinket-box at the parsonage, but she would never now be able to wear it. At that moment the sound of the great clock striking two carried home to Mary’s mind the full duration of her task, and she recollected that she had eaten neither breakfast nor luncheon. Some thing of the kind had clearly occurred to Mrs Baddeley, and she whispered to Mary that tea and bread and butter had been prepared for her in her own room; Mary thanked her; she owned that she should be very glad of a little tea. The housekeeper took her kindly by the arm, as they watched Dick Jackson nail down the lid, and the footmen shoulder their sad burden. They were all so wholly occupied in their progress out of the schoolroom and into the narrow corridor, that the opening of an adjacent door passed unnoticed—unnoticed, that is, until the silence was rent by a shriek of so terrifying a pitch as to be scarcely human. It was Julia Bertram; her face was white, and she had sunk to her knees, her eyes wide with awe and terror.
‘No! No!’ she screamed. ‘Tell me she is not dead! She cannot, cannot be dead!’
‘Oh my Lord!’ cried Mrs Baddeley, rushing to Julia’s aid. ‘This is just what I tried to prevent!’
Mary turned at once to the footmen, who were standing motionless, half stupefied. ‘Go at once,’ she said quickly. ‘Make haste with the coffin, if you please. Miss Julia should never have seen this.’
‘Did I not tell you, not an hour since,’said the housekeeper, casting a furious look at the maid who had just appeared at Julia’s side, ‘that on no account was Miss Julia to be allowed to leave her bed this afternoon? Heavens above, girl, what were you thinking of?’
The maid was, by this time, almost as horror-struck as her young mistress, and stammered between her tears that ‘They would have stopped her had they only known, but Miss Julia had insisted on rising—she said she wished to see her brother, and she seemed so much better, that they all thought some fresh air would do her good.’
‘As to that, Polly Evans, it’s not for you to think thoughts, it’s for you to do as you’re told. Heaven only knows what Mr Gilbert will say. It will be a miracle if serious mischief has not been done.’
This did little to calm the terrified maid, who looked ready to fall into hysterics herself, and Mary motioned to Mrs Baddeley to take the girl to her own quarters, while she helped Julia back to her bed. She was by this time in a state of such extreme distress that Mary sent one of the servants to fetch Mr Bertram, with a request that the physician be summoned at once. But as she waited anxiously for his arrival, it was not Tom Bertram, but Edmund, who appeared at the door. When he saw his young cousin lying insensible on the bed, moaning and crying indistinctly, his face assumed an expression of the most profound concern.
‘Is there any thing I can do to assist?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I have administered a cordial, but I fear some thing stronger is required.’
Edmund nodded. ‘I concur with your judgment. Let us hope Gilbert is not long in arriving.’ As he spoke the words his eyes stole to her face, and he saw for the first time that Mary, too, was wan and tremulous. A glance at the apron, with its tell-tale stains, lying disregarded on the chair, told him all that was needful for him to know.
‘So it was you! You were the one who—’ He stopped, in momentary bewilderment. ‘When I saw the coffin being carried through the hall I thought—at least, I had no conception that it was your kindness—’
Mary had borne a good deal that day, but it was the gentleness of his words, rather than the horror of what she had seen and endured, that proved her undoing. She turned away in confusion, hot tears running down her face. Edmund helped her to a chair, and rang the bell.
‘You are overcome, Miss Crawford, and I can quite comprehend why. You have over-taxed yourself for our sakes, and I am deeply, everlastingly, grateful. But I am here now, and I can watch with my cousin until Mr Gilbert arrives. You look
to stand in great need of rest and wholesome food. I will ring for it directly.’
Being obliged to speak, Mary could not forbear from saying some thing in which the words ‘Mrs Baddeley’s room’ were only just audible.
‘I understand,’ said Edmund, with a grim look, and not wanting to hear more. ‘I understand. I have allowed this unpardonable incivility to continue for far too long. I will arrange for you to take a proper meal in the dining-parlour, as befits a lady, and one to whom we all owe such an inexpressible obligation.’
Such a speech was hardly calculated to compose Mary’s spirits, but he would brook no denial, and within a few minutes she was settled in a chair by the fire downstairs, being helped to an elegant collation of minced chicken and apple-tart. Both her head and her heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness, and when the maid returned with a glass of Madeira with Mr Norris’s compliments, Mary enquired at once whether Mr Gilbert had yet been in attendance.
‘I believe so, miss. Mrs Baddeley said he’d given Miss Julia some thing to help her sleep.’
Mary nodded; such a measure seemed both prudent and expedient; they must all trust to the certainty and efficacy of some hours’ repose. She thanked the maid, and sat for a few minutes deliberating whether it would be best to return to the parsonage; her sister must be wondering where she was. She was still debating the matter when she heard the sound of a carriage on the drive, and went to the window. It was a very handsome equipage, but the horses were post, and neither the carriage, nor the coachman who drove it, were familiar to her. The man who emerged was a little above medium height, with rather strong features and a visible scar above one eye. His clothes, however, were fashionable and of very superior quality, and he stood for a moment looking confidently about him, as if he was weighing what he saw, and putting the intelligence aside for future use. He was not handsome—or not, at least, in any conventional manner—but there was some thing about him, a sense of latent energy, of formidable powers held in check, such as might command attention, and draw every eye, even in the most crowded of rooms. As she observed him ascend the steps to the door, Mary did not need to overhear the servant’s announcement to guess that the man before her was none other than Mr Charles Maddox.
Murder at Mansfield Park Page 14
