Murder at Mansfield Park

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 a certain quality in the set of her head, and the curl of her lip, that belied the outward charm and sweetness of the tout ensemble .
    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 y our 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 washer-woman, 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