“I do not recall her carrying so much as a reticule in which to keep it.”
“That is not the only place a lady might conceal a pistol.”
“What have you been reading?”
She started to answer, but he shook his head. “Never mind. If indeed the weapon was fired by a woman, I believe Maria Rushworth is the more likely owner. The pistol was manufactured in London, where she lived during her marriage and also during her liaison with Mr. Crawford.”
“Do you suppose she purchased it herself?”
“Perhaps, out of her pin money.”
Her brows rose. “Apparently, I need to ask for more pin money.”
“I wondered how you intend to finance this muff pistol you speak of acquiring.”
“By employing my feminine wiles upon you.”
“I am impervious to wiles.”
“We shall determine that later. Do you think her husband equally resolute? Mr. Rushworth might have purchased the weapon for her, before she left him.”
“Do not most women prefer jewelry?”
“We witnessed how highly Maria Rushworth valued gifts of jewelry, at least from Mr. Crawford.” Elizabeth was thoughtful a moment. “Maybe the pistol came from him, and those earrings were not the only gift she so dramatically returned to him that day.”
“She shot him with the pistol and then dropped it at his side?”
“That would explain why it was left behind. A pistol is not the most romantic gift, though, and Mr. Crawford seems like someone who would be very conscious of creating the proper impression.”
“Perhaps it was indeed Mr. Crawford’s own pistol, purchased for himself when he and Mrs. Rushworth eloped.”
“In anticipation of a duel?”
“What do you know of duels?”
She shrugged. “Someone in a novel has to defend the heroine’s honor. And Mr. Crawford has compromised more than his share of ladies.”
“More than his share? I did not realize gentlemen received an allowance. ’Tis a shame no one told me while I was still a bachelor. Or does the allotment apply only to rakes?”
“Mr. Crawford was not a rake, precisely. He did not conduct his life as a gentleman ought, but he was no Mr. Wickham. Though he toyed with women’s affections, he did not seem to do so out of predatory intent. He was simply vain and foolish and insensible to the damage he wrought.”
“Your defense of him surprises me.”
“He is dead; I can afford to be generous. But apparently one of the women he wronged, or a male protector, was less forgiving. Pray describe the pistol further.”
“It is smaller than a typical dueling pistol,” he said, “but could certainly serve as one. It was made by Mortimer, one of the best gunsmiths in England, and exhibits the finest technical and artistic features of the gunmaker’s craft. It is by far the most superior pistol I have ever held.”
“Just how many pistols have you held? Perhaps I ought to ask what you know of dueling.”
“As much as most gentlemen.” He had never been called upon to defend his own honor, and hoped he never would. The closest he had come was during his Cambridge years, when a friend who had issued a challenge asked him to serve as his second. Darcy and the defender’s second had tried their hardest to mediate the disagreement before the primaries met on the field, but their efforts had been in vain. His friend had died—a pointless waste of a promising life—and all of those involved had been fortunate to escape prosecution.
“An impressive parry,” she said, “but I grant you only temporary reprieve from answering my question. Meanwhile, let us return to the matter at hand. You believe the shooting patch you found in the grass came from the pistol beside Mr. Crawford?”
“It is so fine a cloth that I cannot imagine someone’s using it to load an ordinary hunting rifle. And it shares a bird motif with the pistol’s engravings.”
“Might I see it?”
He withdrew the silk from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Damask,” she said. “Our gunman has good taste. And it is indeed an interesting pattern—a departure from the more common paisleys and florals.” She turned it over and examined the abrasions. “The gunpowder creates an intriguing design of its own—like a black sun, only with few rays. What are these thin black lines coming out from the center?”
“I am curious about them myself. A rifle creates such marks on shot patches, but there are usually more of them—six or seven. They are caused by spiraled cuts within the barrel—rifling—whence the weapon derives its name. But this patch has only three such marks. And if, as I believe, it was fired from the pistol found with Mr. Crawford, that weapon has a smooth bore, and therefore would leave no marks.”
“So this patch might not have come from the pistol after all?”
“Please do not dismantle my investigation before it has begun. Sir Thomas is doing a fair enough job of that as it is, and I have little time in which to formulate a plausible theory of events.”
“Why not show the patch to Colonel Fitzwilliam? Perhaps Sir Thomas would also allow him to examine the pistol. As a military man, the colonel no doubt possesses extensive knowledge of firearms. And as he carries pistols himself, he is certainly very experienced with them.”
He hesitated. “That is my fear.”
Her eyes widened as she realized his meaning. “Darcy, surely you do not believe—Oh! But he even spoke of dueling with Mr. Crawford, just before he left in pursuit of him.”
That fact troubled Darcy greatly. “He assured me, after the horse returned riderless, that he had not killed Mr. Crawford. I trust his word.” A tiny point of doubt yet pricked him, but he did his best to suppress it. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is more than capable of punishing Mr. Crawford on a field of honor, but he would have done it in just that manner—honorably. Gentlemen’s duels are not ambushes; they are civilized affairs that adhere to strict protocol. There are rules. There are witnesses in attendance to ensure those rules are followed. Whom would Colonel Fitzwilliam choose as his second, if not me?”
“Dueling is illegal. Perhaps he deliberately excluded you from the proceedings so as not to compromise you.”
It would be just like his cousin to take all of the risk upon himself, sparing to whatever extent he could all other family members from any scandal that resulted from his actions. He could have found another, more disinterested, second. But one fact exonerated Colonel Fitzwilliam, in Darcy’s mind, as decisively as possible without actually entering another person’s thoughts and heart.
“Even had he shot Mr. Crawford in secret, my cousin could not have left his remains exposed for days to the desecration of wildlife and weather. To do so would violate every principle that defines him.” Even now, as the body was being examined, the memory of it disgusted Darcy. Whoever had dispatched Mr. Crawford was devoid of conscience. “Formal dueling etiquette dictates the presence of a surgeon to attend to injuries. In the absence of one, Colonel Fitzwilliam would, at the very least, have contrived a means of ensuring the body was discovered before this morning, and would have been unable, in the interim, to look me in the eye and converse with me as freely as he has, knowing that he had left Mr. Crawford in such a state. Though words uttered in a heated moment cast suspicion upon him, his character as demonstrated over the course of three decades exculpates him.”
“I am relieved by your conviction of his innocence, for I did not want to consider him capable of such cold-blooded conduct. Yet if we acquit Colonel Fitzwilliam, we are back to Meg, Maria Rushworth, and Sir Thomas as our chief suspects. Setting aside the women for now, that leaves Sir Thomas. Did he strike you as someone foolish enough to shoot a man, even in a duel, on his own estate, then leave his body lying around for five days until the gamekeeper discovered it?”
“I cannot say that he did.”
“Then we need more gentlemen in our pool of candidates. I nominate Mr. Rushworth, the cuckolded husband. Now, there is a man with just cause for retribution. What do we know of h
im?”
“Very little beyond the fact that he has initiated divorce proceedings against his wife.”
“Yes, Maria Rushworth referred to a crim con suit while arguing with Mr. Crawford.”
Darcy’s brows rose. “ ‘Crim con’?” Before petitioning Parliament for a full divorce, the husband of an unfaithful wife first had to win a civil suit against her lover for their adulterous association, legally and euphemistically known as “criminal conversation.” Darcy was amused by Elizabeth’s use of the abbreviated term employed by members of the legal profession—and also in the salacious newspaper accounts and trial transcripts published to feed the public’s appetite for gossip. “I had no idea you were so conversant in legal jargon.”
“My reading tastes have not strayed to include sensational trial pamphlets, if that is your concern.”
“I should hope not.”
“But I have heard enough of such matters to know that crim con trials and divorce petitions are protracted, humiliating processes with uncertain outcomes. Mr. Rushworth might have decided to seek more immediate satisfaction. Perhaps that was the purpose of his call here—to issue a challenge to Mr. Crawford.”
“With his mother as his second?”
“Though you tease, you might not be far from the mark. She could not serve as his official intermediary, of course, but from what you told me of her, the dowager Mrs. Rushworth may well have pushed him to issue the challenge in the first place.”
“That is entirely possible. I daresay she was irate enough to challenge him herself, were she able. And Mr. Rushworth struck me as a man in the habit of acceding to her will.”
“The question is, can he shoot?”
“Once a pistol is loaded—which would not be his responsibility, but that of his second—anybody can shoot; one need only fully cock the hammer and pull the trigger. And as challenger, Mr. Rushworth would have chosen the range.” The image of Mr. Crawford’s destroyed countenance once more flashed before Darcy, eliciting an involuntary shudder. “The range, however, would not have been as close as Mr. Crawford’s wound indicates.”
“And when confronting his wife’s lover, a gentleman always adheres to form?”
Darcy did not respond. Instead, he regarded the silk patch in Elizabeth’s hand and imagined it falling to the ground as the ball carried forward to hit its target. How had it come to land so far away, if the range had been so close?
“I think we need to learn more about Mr. Rushworth,” Elizabeth said. “That is, if you want to learn more about Mr. Crawford’s death at all.”
He regarded her quizzically.
“Your inquiry could end right now in this chamber,” she said. “Mr. Crawford injured one of your cousins unpardonably. You owe him nothing, and by investigating the circumstances of his demise you risk exposing another cousin to suspicion, for we are not the only witnesses to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s hostility toward Mr. Crawford. A suicide ruling would scarcely do Anne’s reputation any further damage—it is Meg who stands to lose the most if his estate is forfeited to the Crown. You said earlier that the magistrate seems to consider Mr. Crawford’s death justice served. At this moment, I am the only other person, besides his friend the coroner, who knows of your suspicions. They appear only too willing to consider the issue settled, and one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
Had Mr. Crawford indeed lost his life in a duel or some other honorable manner, Darcy might have been able to leave the matter at rest. But if his execution were simple murder, he could not condone that kind of justice. And he would always wonder which had been the case.
“It would be a heavy silence, for it would carry within it my self-respect. And, I warrant, yours. You are correct in that I have no duty to Mr. Crawford to identify his killer and see him punished. But I have a duty to my own conscience and sense of honor. Believing yours to be as stalwart, I am surprised you made the offer.”
“I knew what your reply would be.”
She retrieved her bonnet from the top of the chamber’s tiny chest of drawers and donned it before the even tinier glass. “Now come—we have little time and much to do, starting with acquainting a good number of people with the news of Mr. Crawford’s discovery. I shall be curious as to how each receives it.”
“Do you think the murderer might reveal himself?”
“Not intentionally.” She tied the bonnet under her chin. “But in the unlikely event that he does, perhaps I should bring a muff pistol.”
Eighteen
“Depend upon it I will carry my point.”
—Lady Catherine, Pride and Prejudice
Anne heard the news in the chamber she had shared with Henry during their brief marriage. She was sitting up in bed, having just finished her breakfast, when Elizabeth and Darcy entered. Colonel Fitzwilliam was seated in a chair at her bedside. The two had been talking, and Anne’s countenance reflected more serenity than it had in days. Elizabeth was reluctant to disturb such hard-won peace with the tidings she bore.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, took one of Anne’s hands, and delivered the censored version of the morning’s events that she and Darcy had agreed upon: Henry’s remains had been found with a head wound; the coroner was examining his body to determine its cause.
Anne released a small gasp and an “Oh, poor Henry!” The colonel, upon receiving the news, blinked in momentary, and to all appearances genuine, surprise, but quickly assumed the detachment of a military commander accustomed to hearing reports of death.
After her initial response, the erstwhile Mrs. Crawford assumed an air of dignified composure. Having started grieving the loss of her husband and marriage when she first learned of Henry’s duplicity, the permanent bereavement was easier to accept. “So I am a bride and a widow in the span of a fortnight,” she said. “Or perhaps neither. It would seem that I am not meant for the marital state.”
“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “you simply were not meant for Henry Crawford.” He took her other hand. “It may wound you to hear me say this now, but this news frees you. He can no longer wreak havoc with your feelings; his death severs your legal and emotional entanglements with him unquestionably. You need not fear he will come round begging your forgiveness, or torment yourself over whether you should grant it. Mourn him if you must, Anne, but let it not be for long. He does not deserve your tears.”
“I have already shed his share. Any remaining ones are for myself and the wreckage I have made of my life.”
“Then let those be few, as well.”
She nodded and met his eyes. “I am grateful for your friendship through all of this. Were it not for you, I know not how I would bear it.” Her gaze quickly shifted to encompass Elizabeth and Darcy. “Were it not for all of you.” Her gaze strayed back to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s countenance, where it lingered before dropping to their hands, which were yet joined.
Elizabeth studied Anne more closely, a notion forming in her mind. Had Anne developed a tendre for her cousin? The possibility seemed premature, given that she had been widowed—or whatever one called her current state—so little time, but then again, she had not been married long. Or was this not a new attachment? She recalled Anne’s obvious pleasure in dancing with the colonel at the Riveton ball. Had she long harbored feelings for Fitzwilliam, temporarily eclipsed by Henry Crawford’s more passionate flirtation?
Her scrutiny moved to the colonel. His solicitude toward Anne was evidenced by the warmth of his expression as he regarded her. Was he beginning to return her sentiments?
With apparent reluctance, Fitzwilliam released Anne’s hand, rose, and turned to Darcy. “The sooner Mr. Crawford is laid to rest, the better. What arrangements are being made?”
“He will be interred pending the results of the coroner’s examination.”
“I expect his family will want him buried at Everingham. Our aunt has the name of his solicitor, who can notify his sister and uncle. Has Lady Catherine been informed?”
“Not y
et.”
“I anticipate her at any moment. She has requested my assistance with—” Footsteps sounded in the hall. “I believe she comes now.”
Lady Catherine burst into the chamber in her usual manner. “Mr. Darcy, I understand you have been on an errand this morning.”
“I did not realize my whereabouts held such powerful interest for you.”
“They do, insofar as they pertain to the hunt for Mr. Crawford. What have you done to advance the search?”
“I have ended it.”
“What? With him yet at large?”
“Mother—”
Lady Catherine ignored her daughter. “I cannot believe this of you, Darcy. How can you so shirk your duty? Until Henry Crawford is found, Anne is at sixes and sevens.”
“Mother—”
“I will not tolerate excuses. I want Henry Crawford back here, in this paltry little village, to answer for his conduct. If you cannot bring about—”
“Mother! He is dead!”
At last, Lady Catherine bestowed her attention on Anne. “How do you know he is dead?”
“He was found this morning,” Darcy said. “I have seen him myself.”
“Well!” For a minute, it seemed that was all her ladyship had to say on the matter. But Elizabeth could see that her mind was hard at work. “Well,” she repeated a moment later. “This is the best news I have received in weeks.”
“Mother!”
“Anne, do not become sentimental over the man. We have too much to do. What time does the post leave? Never mind—I shall send an express.”
“To whom? Mr. Crawford’s solicitor?” Elizabeth could not think of any other remote person who required such immediate notification of Mr. Crawford’s passing, except perhaps his sister, and she doubted Lady Catherine cared one whit about ensuring that any of his relations were informed in a timely manner of his death.
The Matters at Mansfield Page 14
