The Matters at Mansfield

a coach. Is there anything distinctive about her shoes? Perhaps we can trace the hoofprints to determine where she became separated from Mr. Crawford.”

An enormous crack of thunder satisfied that query. Even if they could have discerned Charleybane’s marks from all the others on the road, rain had obliterated them by now. As if to reinforce the point, the shower intensified.

They could not seek Henry Crawford today. The only question remaining was whether they would ever locate him at all.

Sixteen

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold- blooded vanity a little too long.

— Mansfield Park

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.”