Murder at Mansfield Park

edge of the gallery and she saw Tom bow coolly to his cousin and turn away, before Edmund caught his arm.
    ‘Can we, at least, have the body properly attended to? They have conveyed her to the old school-room—it faces north, and is cold without a fire, even in summer.’ He hesitated,
and seemed to be struggling for composure. ‘I have had candles lit there, and flowers brought from the garden—’
    His voice broke, and Mary leaned against the banister, unsure how to interpret his evident distress of mind; she had been so sure that he no longer cared for Fanny—perhaps had never truly
done so—but—
    ‘—but to speak frankly, there is no disguising the smell. In a day or so it will be through the whole house. And we should not forget that Gilbert has urged us to keep this latest
misfortune from Julia for as long as possible—he was most concerned that she should not suffer further anxiety at this present, and most delicate, stage of her recovery. For her
sake—for decency’s sake—let me arrange for the body to be washed and laid out.’
    There was a pause, then Tom acquiesced: ‘Whom would you suggest we entrust with so repugnant a task?’
    Edmund shook his head, ‘To tell you the truth, I do not rightly know. Your mother and sister are out of the question, and my own mother is not quite herself. She has been suffering from
the head-ache for some days past. I believe we will have to call upon Mrs Baddeley, though that would not be my first preference. Even the footmen who brought back the body recoiled at the sight,
and Mrs Baddeley is prone to nervous palpitations. Would that Miss Crawford were well enough—there is no-one so steady, so capable as Miss Crawford.’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Tom, ‘she is a young woman of rare strength of mind. And we might have relied absolutely on her prudence.’
    Mary retreated into the shadows, her mind overcome with a confusion of feelings, in which fear, compassion, and gratification all had their place. She saw in a moment what she must do: Edmund
had need of her; there was a service she could perform for him, and if she loved him, then she must face it, and without shrinking.
    She did not stay to hear any more, and made her way as quickly and quietly as she could to the room Edmund had referred to, at the farthest end of the east wing. She hesitated a moment on the
threshold, but summoned up her courage and threw open the door. The windows were shuttered, and the candle-flames wavered in the sudden draught, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls. Her
senses were assailed by a gust of suffocating odours, in which the heavy scent of the cut roses was mingled with another, more sickly sweetness that Mary knew only too well. The body lay a few feet
away, the face covered by a white sheet, but there was a dark and spreading stain that spoke of horrors beneath—horrors that would be only too dreadfully out of place in this homely little
room, with its writing-desks and ill-used chairs, its map of Europe, and its charts of kings and queens. Mary shivered suddenly; Edmund had not been mistaken when he had said that the room was
cold. She went briskly to the door and rang the bell, and sent the footman with a message to Mrs Baddeley. A few minutes later the housekeeper appeared at the head of a procession of maids bearing
aprons, hot water, sponges, and, as Mary observed with a suppressed shudder, a linen shroud that looked but newly made.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Baddeley,’ she said briskly, doing her best to shield the maids from the sight of the corpse. ‘Are you aware if any arrangements have been made with respect to
a coffin?’
    Mrs Baddeley’s rosy face lost a little of its colour. ‘Yes, miss. Mr Norris has commanded one from Dick Jackson. A simple one, as might serve until the family decide what they
prefer.’
    ‘I see that Mr Norris has thought of every thing. Pray arrange for it to be brought up, would you? And is there some where the body might lie until the funeral? There is no question, in
this case, of visitors being permitted to see the corpse, but there is still a need for an appropriate resting place.’
    Mrs Baddeley nodded. ‘There’s the small sitting-room next to the parlour. That’s never used at this time of the year.’
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Baddeley, that sounds most suitable. I will ring again when I have finished.’
    The housekeeper looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Miss Crawford? I don’t