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 s
ide,” 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.”
Seventeen
“Now, be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
—Elizabeth and Darcy, Pride and Prejudice
Agunshot to the face?” Elizabeth shuddered despite the warmth of the air in their chamber.
“I am afraid so.” Darcy did his best to force the image of Mr. Crawford’s remains from his mind. The day’s unpleasantness had only just begun. He not only had a murder investigation to commence, but also still had to break the news of Mr. Crawford’s death to Anne and the rest of the family. He had been summoned to Mansfield Wood so early that only Elizabeth knew where he had gone this morning, and upon his return he had proceeded to their room straightaway. He needed some time in her steady companionship before dealing with the others.
“Poor Anne—as if she has not endured enough,” she said after he finished narrating the morning’s errand. Despite the relative privacy afforded by four walls and a closed door, they nevertheless kept their voices low. Their party nearly filled the inn, and while most of their acquaintances were not wont to eavesdrop, conversations could yet be inadvertently overheard. Too, the subject matter itself dictated somber tones. “Do you believe, as Sir Thomas does, that Mr. Crawford committed self-murder?”
“There is evidence in support of it, but also against. It suits Sir Thomas’s interests for Mr. Crawford to have killed himself. It does not suit Anne’s. Therefore, I will do what I can to disprove that theory.”
“If it is not suicide, then someone not only killed Mr. Crawford but left him to the predations of animals. I dislike thinking anyone capable of that.”
He had spared her the most disturbing details of Mr. Crawford’s condition, only explained that his remains were not in an appropriate state for visitation by mourners.
If there were any mourners. “Mr. Crawford had no shortage of enemies.”
“I daresay our hosts are the only people in town without cause to despise him. Between all his relations-by-marriage occupying the bedchambers and the gossipmongers crowding the dining room every mealtime, business at the Ox and Bull is thriving. But there is a difference between wanting vengeance and actually executing it.”
“Yet there is a good chance that someone has—the location of the pistol suggests as much, as does Mr. Crawford’s presence in Mansfield Wood in the first place. If Mr. Crawford indeed killed himself, why would he choose to do so on Sir Thomas’s estate?”
“Because of its connection to Maria Rushworth?”
“His present difficulties derive from his two marriages, not an affair he ended a year ago without regret. And then there is the matter of the shot patch. I cannot imagine its having come from any weapon but that pistol, yet Sir Thomas quite dismissed it and encouraged his friend to do likewise. I can predict the results of the coroner’s examination. Even should Mr. Stover not render an opinion of suicide, Sir Thomas’s dislike of Mr. Crawford is so pronounced that I am not confident any official murder investigation would be undertaken in a diligent manner. The magistrate seems content to consider Mr. Crawford’s death justice served.”
She studied his expression. “Do you?”
It was a difficult question, one he had been pondering since first being summoned to the scene. “I am not exactly overcome by grief,” he confessed. “I do, however, believe in the due process of law. To tacitly condone murder, even when justified, sets a dangerous precedent. Regardless of his personal feelings toward Mr. Crawford, as magistrate Sir Thomas ought to uphold his duty, or he risks his district descending into anarchy.”
“Mr. Crawford ruined Sir Thomas’s daughter. Do you think the magistrate bypassed the courts and sentenced Henry Crawford himself?”
“Before your arrival in the village I heard that Sir Thomas had washed his hands of Maria. But as a father myself, I could see a man who refuses to publicly forgive his daughter nevertheless acting privately to punish her seducer.”
“Or, through inaction, protect her if she herself killed her lover. Maria Rushworth was quite warm in her anger the day Mr. Crawford disappeared. She seemed to have just learned of Mr. Rushworth’s intentions to divorce her. If her husband’s petition succeeds, she will be utterly destroyed in society—divorce is so rare, and it always taints the woman, regardless of individual circumstances. Meanwhile Mr. Crawford, as a man, would have endured a few reproofs and blithely gone on with his life.”
“She loses everything, and he, nothing.”
“Socially, she will be dead, and might have decided that a literal death for Mr. Crawford would be fair recompense.”
“So she lured him to Mansfield Wood to deliver it?” Darcy pondered the hypothesis a moment. It was not entirely without merit. “The grove in which he was found is rather secluded. Though as unwelcome in her father’s house as Mr. Crawford, she would know the grounds, and could have chosen that spot intentionally.”
“I wonder, though, where she would have obtained the firearm. Tell me more about the pistol. Was it a gentleman’s weapon, or a lady’s?”
He looked at her askance. “Lady’s? What do you know of muff pistols?”
“I have read a novel or two.”
“I shall not ask which of them encourage ladies to conceal firearms in their apparel.”
“You disapprove? That is unfortunate for me, as I am begun to grow restless in Mansfield and had thought to purchase one as a diversion.”
“A muff pistol?”
She laughed. “No, a novel. But now that you have suggested it, perhaps I ought to acquire a pistol along with it. Then, like a proper heroine, I could stop the villain by revealing my weapon and proclaiming, ‘Hold, sir—I am armed!’ ”
He wished they were home, and she reading another novel right now, instead of discussing a very real death. “That is unnecessa
ry. I will protect you from any villains who might be lurking about.”
“And who will protect you?”
“I believe it may be safely assumed that the person who shot Mr. Crawford acted out of revenge. So long as I keep my suspicions quiet, he will believe his revenge satisfied and himself safe. I therefore need not fear him, whoever he is.”
“You sound certain that the killer is a man.”
“Not entirely. Though it was larger than a muff pistol, the weapon found with Mr. Crawford was small enough that it could be comfortably handled by a woman, and a considerable number of women did have motive to harm Mr. Crawford: Maria Rush-worth, as we have said, but also two betrayed wives.”
“One betrayed wife, for the killer could not possibly be Anne. She is incapacitated. And even were she more ambulatory, she has had nearly constant companionship since the carriage accident, and so could not have been absent long enough to commit the deed.”
“I, too, have ruled her out—beyond the impossibility of her circumstances, violence is simply not in her nature. I also consider Mrs. Garrick unlikely. Although she had an opportunity to do away with Mr. Crawford when she rode off in pursuit of him, where on earth would she have obtained a pistol of that quality? Even if she had stolen it, she could not have had it with her when she arrived in Mansfield, for you and I both saw her disembark from the coach with naught but the clothes she wore.”
“Ah, but those clothes could have concealed a pistol! Do not regard me so—I only half jest. I rather like Meg, and I do not want to believe her capable of killing anybody. But she did travel all this way unescorted, and before that lived alone with her mother while Mr. Crawford was allegedly sailing the seven seas. It is not unreasonable to suppose she possesses some means of defending herself.”
The Matters at Mansfield Page 13
