Murder at Mansfield Park

well have said of her.
    Edmund, meanwhile, appeared to have regained his composure. He looked first at his family, and then at Maddox. ‘You have my word, sir, as a gentleman, that no such encounter with Miss
Price took place, either then, or at any other time. I can offer no corroborating circumstances or exculpatory evidence; my word alone will have to suffice.’
    His voice was both cool and steady, and the two men remained stationed thus for what seemed to Mary to be an age, gazing upon one another in silence. Then Maddox suddenly gave a brief bow.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I have all I need. For the present.’
    Having uttered these words, he walked so swiftly to the door as to forestall the footmen, and were the notion not so ludicrous, Mary might have been tempted to think he did so to ensure that
no-one inside the room should perceive that there had been someone listening outside. There was certainly nobody in evidence when Mary followed Maria Bertram through the door and into the hall;
Edmund had departed without another word, and as she was endeavouring to determine where he might have gone, her thoughts were distracted by the sight of Mr Gilbert descending the stairs.
    Maddox stood in the door of the drawing-room, and observed as the family went their several ways. It had been a most rewarding morning, and it was not done with yet. He had read widely on the
subject of physiognomy, and to this theoretical knowledge of facial features, the pursuance of his profession had added a practical proficiency in the interpretation of gesture and demeanour. He
regularly derived considerable amusement from scrutinising people at a distance, and deducing the state of relations between them, and many times, as now, this faculty had proved to be of the
greatest service in the course of his work. He, too, had noted the appearance of the physician, and he now watched his meeting with Miss Bertram and Miss Crawford with the keenest interest. It was
evident that Gilbert had promising tidings to impart, and the satisfaction writ across his face was quickly communicated to one, at least, of his companions: Miss Crawford’s relief was
immediate and unfeigned; Miss Bertram’s response to the news, however, was rather more finely chequered. She seemed to be very much aware that she ought to look happy, without really
being so; it was the impression of a moment only, but Maddox thought he discerned some thing that looked, to his trained eye, very much like fear. ‘Now why,’ he thought to himself,
‘should that be so?’
    As Mr Gilbert turned to spread his happy news to the rest of the family, the two young women went out onto the sweep; Miss Crawford began to walk down the drive towards the parsonage, while Miss
Bertram appeared to be making her way to the garden. Maddox followed them out of the house and lingered a moment, watching the retreating figure of Mary Crawford, and suppressing the urge to follow
her; some thing told him that this young woman had a role to play yet, in this affair. What that might be, he could not tell, but he owned himself engrossed to an unprecedented and possibly
dangerous degree with the captivating Miss Crawford. For a moment the man strove with the professional, but the professional prevailed. He turned away, and walked briskly in the direction of the
garden.
    Maria had taken a seat in the alcove at the farther end from the gate, and although she had drawn a piece of needlework from her pocket, she let it fall in her lap when she saw
Maddox approaching. Her position afforded each the opportunity of observing the other as he drew near. He looked all confidence, but Maria’s feelings were not as easily discerned as
they had been in the hall; she knew herself to be under scrutiny, and was more guarded as a consequence.
    ‘May I?’ said Maddox.
    ‘It appears you have little regard for the niceties of common civility, Mr Maddox,’ she replied archly. ‘I dare say you will sit down whether I give my permission or
no.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said with a smile, as he sat down beside her, ‘there you are wrong, Miss Bertram, if you will forgive me. There are few men who are more watchful of what you term
“niceties” than I am. Many of my former cases have turned on such things. In my profession it is not only the devil you may find in the detail.’
    Maria replied only with a toss of her head; she seemed anxious to be gone, but unable to take her leave without appearing