Murder at Mansfield Park - Lynn Shepherd [75]
‘Miss Price was seen by a local man, at the back gate to Mansfield, three mornings ago, some time between eight and nine o’clock. Since she never reached the Park, I believe we may safely presume that she met her death at, or around, that time.’
There was a general consternation at this: Edmund turned abruptly round, his face drawn in shock and dismay; Maria gasped; and Lady Bertram drew out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly. Mary was, perhaps, the only one with sufficient presence of mind to observe Maddox at this moment, and she saw at once that he was equally intent on observing them. ‘So he has contrived this quite deliberately,’ she thought; ‘he plays upon our feelings in this unpardonable fashion, merely in order to scrutinise our behaviour, and assess our guilt.’ But angry as she was, she had to own a reluctant admiration for his method, even if it owed more to guile and cunning, than it did to the accustomary operations of justice. There doubtless were inveterate criminals so hardened to guilt and infamy as to retain control over their countenances at such a moment, but the members of the Bertram family could not be numbered among them. Maddox had succeeded in manoeuvring them all into displaying their most private sentiments in the most public fashion.
‘My purpose, then,’ he continued, his calm and composed manner providing the most forcible contrast with the state of perturbation all around him, ‘is to ask you all, in turn, where you were that morning. It will be of the utmost usefulness to my enquiries. So, shall we begin?’
This was all too much for Mrs Norris, who had sat swelling for some minutes past, and now shewed two spots of livid colour on her cheeks. ‘This is the most extraordinary impertinence! Question us, indeed! And in such a barbarously uncouth manner! When it is as plain as it could possibly be that it must have been one or other of those blackguardly workmen—why we do not cart the lot of them off to the assizes at once I still cannot conceive. A night or two without bread or water and we would soon have our confession—I never did like the look of that tall one with the eye patch—’
But here she was interrupted. ‘My dear aunt,’ said Tom, ‘I am sure we all wish to see this dreadful matter cleared up as soon as possible, do we not? If it will assist Mr Maddox, what objection can we have? It is, after all, quite impossible that any of us were responsible.’
Mary wondered whether Tom’s readiness to accede to Maddox’s request owed more to his knowledge of his own complete innocence in the affair, or to a recognition that he had brought this man into the house, and would be the one answerable if the enterprise should fail.
‘I shall set the example, Mr Maddox,’ he said. ‘You may begin with me. I was in my room until ten o’clock, and after a late breakfast I spent an hour with my father’s bailiff, Mr Fletcher. He will be able to confirm that.’
Maddox nodded. ‘And her ladyship?’
Lady Bertram looked up; her eyes were heavy, and she seemed not to have heard the question. ‘I am sorry, were you speaking to me?’ she said, in the languid voice of one half-roused.
Tom turned towards his mother. ‘Mr Maddox wishes to know how you occupied your time on Tuesday last, ma’am. Most particularly the time before breakfast.’
Lady Bertram seemed bewildered that anyone should even ask such a thing. ‘I was in my room, where else would I be? Chapman came to dress me as usual, and I had a dish of chocolate. I do not understand—what can this have to do with poor dear Fanny?’
Her tone was becoming agitated, and Tom endeavoured to soothe her, saying at once, ‘Oh no, ma’am—I am sure nobody suspected you!’
‘Quite so,’ said Maddox, with the most deferential of bows. ‘I seek merely to obtain the fullest possible picture of where everyone in the house was at that particular time. There is no cause to distress yourself, your ladyship.’
‘I am very happy to tell you where I was, Mr Maddox,