Murder at Mansfield Park - Lynn Shepherd [91]
Crawford was still standing before the portrait, lost in thought. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of his interlocutor; it was the very state of mind that Maddox had hoped to induce, and too fair an opportunity for a man of his stamp to let pass.
‘I wonder, did the constables ever resolve the mystery of the shirt?’
Henry turned slowly, his countenance distracted.
‘If you recall, Mr Crawford,’ continued Maddox, ‘the hammer with which Mrs Tranter was so cruelly done to death was subsequently discovered in the garden of the house, wrapped about in a blood-stained shirt.’ He paused. ‘Her blood, but your shirt.’
Henry shook his head, as if to banish the thoughts that had begun to beset him. ‘It was an old shirt,’ he said. ‘One I had deposited in a trunk in the house. I cannot explain how the ruffians came to discover it.’
‘Any more than you can explain why a witness claimed to have seen you in the neighbourhood that day? A washerwoman, was it not?’
‘She was mistaken, God damn you! She was old, half-blind and very likely in liquor. She was mistaken. Indeed, as I recall, she withdrew her story only a few days later.’
‘So there is no danger of a similar sighting in the vicinity of Mansfield on the day your wife was battered to death?’
Henry Crawford’s face, which had been flushed, was now as pale as ashes. ‘Absolutely none. I was, as I said, still in London.You may make whatever enquiries you choose.’
Maddox drained his own glass, and placed it carefully on the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Crawford. I would have done as much whether you consented or not, but this is a rather more civilised way of proceeding, is it not?’
Mary was alone in the parlour when Henry returned. The impetuous and defiant demeanour had gone, and been replaced by an expression she might almost have called fear. As she handed him a glass of Madeira she noticed that his hands were cold, even though the evening was warm.
‘Come, Henry, sit with me by the fire.’
He sat for some moments in silence, until prompted by her once more.
‘Did you see the family—Mr Bertram, her ladyship?’
‘I saw Maddox, mostly. He it was who has detained me so long. The man is a veritable terrier, Mary. Heaven help the guilty man who finds himself in his power, for he can expect no quarter there. Would to God that you had told me he knew so much of Enfield—he had all the facts at his fingers’ ends as if it had happened only yesterday. It was like living the whole atrocious business through a second time. I had thought we had left it behind us in London, and now it returns to haunt us once more—will we never be free of it?’
Mary put a hand on his arm. ‘I am sorry. I should have said some thing. But our sister and Dr Grant were in the room at the time, and we agreed never to speak of it to anyone. No good can come of doing so now. It would only—’
‘—give my brother-in-law yet further reason to suspect me, and fix me even more firmly at the head of whatever list it is that Maddox is busily compiling. Good God, Mary, it appeared as if every word I uttered only made me seem the more guilty.’
‘Do not lose courage. If Mr Maddox is ruthless, that should only reassure us that he will, at the last, discover who really committed this crime.’
Henry shook his head sadly. ‘I am afraid you do not appreciate how such a man Maddox is accustomed to operate. He will receive a fine fat reward for bringing the culprit to justice, but what will happen if he cannot find the real villain? Do you imagine he will merely doff his hat to Tom Bertram, and admit he has failed? Depend upon it, he will deliver someone to the gallows, and whether it is the right man or no will not trouble him unduly.’
They sat in silence for a long while after this, until Mary ventured to ask him, once more, if he had seen the family.
‘I saw Mrs Norris, who was intent on seeing me off the premises with all dispatch. I am heartily glad you were not there to see it—or hear it, given the