Murder at Mansfield Park - Lynn Shepherd [90]
‘That may, indeed, be one explanation. But there are some noteworthy similarities between the two cases, I think you will find. Not least the extreme and unnecessary violence with which each attack was perpetrated.’
‘True or not, that has nothing whatever to do with me. What possible reason could I have had for murdering the unlucky creature? She was a mere servant, nothing more.’
‘There, I am afraid, we disagree. Hetty Tranter was far more than a mere servant, at least as far as you were concerned. Indeed, it is quite alarming how often the women you seduce meet their deaths in such a cruel and brutal fashion.’
Crawford turned away. ‘I do not know to what you refer.’
‘Come, Mr Crawford, we are both men of the world. This Hetty Tranter was your mistress. Oh, there is little point in denying it—your countenance has already betrayed you. Indeed, you may have papered over your debaucheries by calling her your ‘housekeeper’, but the real truth is that you had installed this girl in the Enfield house for your own sordid convenience. At a discreet distance from town, far from the prying eyes of your loftier acquaintances, and the rather juster remonstrances of your sister. She is still in ignorance of this particular aspect of the affair, is she not?’
‘And I had rather she remained so,’ said Crawford quickly—too quickly, as the expression on his companion’s face immediately testified.
Maddox nodded. ‘I can see that it would, indeed, be most trying to have to explain your squalid depravities to someone as principled as Miss Crawford. So trying, in fact, that you might well have been tempted to silence the Tranter girl once and for all—especially if she were becoming importunate in her demands. Or if, shall we say, she had told you she was with child, or threatened to expose you to your sister. Or even, poor wretch, if you had merely tired of her, and wished to rid yourself of an incumbrance which had, by then, become nothing more than a source of irritation.’
Crawford’s face had turned very red. ‘How dare you presume to address me in this manner—there is absolutely nothing to substantiate a single one of these vile and disgusting accusations, and I defy you to do so.’
Maddox remained perfectly calm. ‘You are quite right. If there were such proof, no doubt even the rather slow-witted constables of the parish of Enfield might have been expected to uncover it.’
Crawford took a step nearer. ‘And if I find you repeating any of these base and unfounded allegations to my sister—’
He had, by now, approached so close as to be less than a foot from the thief-taker, but Maddox stood his ground, even in the face of such encroachment. ‘I have no wish to distress her, sir. Unless, of course, it is absolutely necessary. I am sure that she—like you—would prefer to forget the whole horrible affair; but unlike you, she may one day be successful in that endeavour.’
‘And what do you mean to insinuate by that?’
‘Merely that unresolved murders of this kind have a habit of coming to light, even after the lapse of several years. The law may seem to nod, Mr Crawford, but she is not wholly blind, especially where unanswered questions persist, and when the persons involved subsequently find themselves entangled in circumstances of a similar gruesome nature. It is interesting, is it not, that then, as now, you cannot confirm your whereabouts at the time of the killing?’
Crawford turned away, and Maddox watched with interest as his companion perceived, for the first time since he had entered that room, that he was face to face with his dead wife. Maddox had wondered, when he elected to use Sir Thomas’s room for this interview, whether Crawford had ever entered it, or seen this portrait, and now he had his answer. It was, he believed, a striking likeness of the late Mrs Crawford. The painter had no doubt yielded to the young lady’s demands as to the pink satin gown, the bowl of summer roses, and the small white dog leaping in her lap, but he was evidently a good hand at drawing a likeness, and there was