Murder at Mansfield Park

London?’
    Henry hesitated, and flushed slightly. ‘No. Not directly. I come from my house at Enfield.’
    Maddox looked at him more closely; this was an interesting development indeed. ‘Now that, sir, if you will forgive me, strikes me as rather odd. Capricious even.’
    ‘I do not see why,’ retorted Henry, sharply. ‘I had decided to return to Mansfield, and Enfield is in the way from London.’
    ‘Quite so,’ said Maddox, with a smile. ‘I do not dispute your geography, Mr Crawford. But I do ask myself why a gentleman in your position—a man of means, with
horses and grooms at his disposal, and the power to command the finest accommodations in the country—should voluntarily, nay almost wilfully, elect to lodge in a house that, as far as I am
aware, is barely larger than the room in which we sit, and has not been inhabited for years. Not, indeed, since the regrettable death of poor Mrs Tranter.’
    Henry started up, and stared at his companion. ‘How do you come to know of that?’
    Maddox’s countenance retained its expression of impenetrable calmness. ‘You will not be surprised to hear that your delightful sister asked me exactly the same question, Mr Crawford.
But it was a brutal and notorious crime, was it not? And not so very far from London. You would surely expect a man in my line of work to have heard tell of such an incident. The gang was never
apprehended, I collect.’
    Henry shook his head. ‘No, they were not.’
    Maddox turned to stir the fire. ‘I gather your sister finds the house so retentive of abhorrent memories that she will not set foot in it. You, by contrast, elect to stay under that very
roof, when you might have had your pick of lodgings without stirring a finger.’
    He turned to face Crawford once more, but received no reply.
    ‘But perhaps I am unjust,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you found yourself in the immediate neighbourhood just as twilight descended. Perhaps it was easier to put up for the night
there, than search for more suitable quarters after dark. And, after all, I have no doubt that you stayed not a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. You must have been in such haste to be
gone that you left with the light the following morning. Am I right?’
    Henry shook his head, his eyes cast down.
    ‘At noon, then? Surely no later than three?’
    Henry drained his glass. ‘I left the next day.’
    Both men were silent.
    ‘There was no particular reason for this otherwise unaccountable delay?’ said Maddox at last.
    ‘No reason I am prepared to divulge to you, Mr Maddox. I do not choose to enlarge upon my private concerns. All I am willing to confirm is that I stayed two nights on the road at Enfield.
That is all.’
    ‘No matter, Mr Crawford. I am happy to take the word of your grooms and coachman. Unless, of course, you came on horseback?’
    He had not needed to ask the question to obtain the answer; and it had not exercised any great intellectual faculty to do so: his companion was in riding-dress, and the hem of his great-coat was
six inches deep in mud. The facts were not in dispute; he only wished to see how Crawford addressed them, and on this occasion it was with some self-possession.
    ‘To use your own phrase, Mr Maddox,’ he replied, with a scornful lift of the brow, ‘I would expect a man in your line of work to have taken notice of my boots.’
    Maddox inclined his head. ‘Quite so, Mr Crawford, quite so.’ Had he known it, he had just had a glimpse of another Henry Crawford, the witty and charming Henry Crawford who had
succeeded in persuading one of the country’s foremost heiresses to elope with him. Maddox smiled, but never had his smile been more artificial, nor his eyes more cold than when he next
spoke.
    ‘You were, I believe, examined by the constables after the death of your housekeeper.’
    It took a moment for the full implications of the question to be felt.
    ‘You are well informed, sir,’ Henry said at last, in a purposely even tone. ‘And that being the case, you will also know that they were more than satisfied with the information
I was able to impart. After all, what possible reason could I have had for committing such a repugnant crime?’
    ‘None at all, I grant. Though the present case is somewhat different, is it not? You would, I contend, have every possible reason to murder Mrs Crawford. You will now take full
possession of a very considerable fortune, without the concomitant inconvenience of