Murder at Mansfield Park - Lynn Shepherd [59]
Mary was still pondering such thoughts when she became aware of a third person in the room: Mrs Norris was standing at the foot of the bed, observing the two women almost as intently as Mary herself. A slight movement alerting that lady to Mary’s presence, she moved at once towards the door with all her wonted vigour and briskness.
‘I do not know why it was necessary for Miss Crawford to remain in the house last night,’ she said angrily, to no-one in particular. ‘She seemed perfectly recovered to me, and in my opinion it is quite intolerable to have such an unnecessary addition to our domestic circle at such a time. But I did, at the very least, presume we would be not be subjected to vulgar and intrusive prying.’
‘Sister, sister,’ began Lady Bertram, in a voice weakened by weeping, but Mrs Norris did not heed her, and seized the handle of the door, with an expression of the utmost contempt.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mary. ‘I did not mean—I was looking for Miss Julia’s chamber—’
‘I doubt she wishes to see you, any more than we do. Be so good as to leave the house at your earliest convenience. Good morning, Miss Crawford.’
And the door slammed shut against her.
Mary took a step backward, hardly knowing what she did, and found herself face to face with one of the footmen; he, like Mrs Chapman, was already dressed in mourning clothes.
‘I am sorry,’ stammered Mary, her face colouring as she wondered how much of Mrs Norris’s invective had been overheard, ‘I did not see you.’
‘That’s quite all right, miss,’ he replied, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
‘I was hoping to find Miss Julia’s room. Perhaps you would be so good as to direct me?’
‘’Tis at farther end of t’other wing, miss. By the old school-room.’
‘Thank you.’
The footman bowed and hurried away in the opposite direction, without meeting her eye, and Mary stood for a moment to collect herself, and still her swelling heart, before continuing on her way with a more purposeful step.
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