“May I retain it, then? The patch?”
Sir Thomas shrugged. “I see no reason why I or Mr. Stover have need of it. If for some reason it is wanted, I trust you will surrender it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, as you have no further business here, I suggest you return to the inn and impart the news of Mr. Crawford’s demise to his widow — widows — yes, I know of the bigamy allegation; my son informed me of it privately. When Mr. Stover has done with his examination, he will give notice of the inquest.”
Darcy knew he had been dismissed, but he was not quite ready to leave. “Might I view Mr. Crawford’s remains a final time before I go?” He had no idea what he sought, but something unexplored nagged him.
Sir Thomas’s brows rose. “I cannot fathom why you would wish to subject yourself to his corpse again, but do so if you like. For my part, I found Mr. Crawford’s company offensive whilst he lived; death has not improved him.”
Darcy walked the fifteen paces or so to the body. Mr. Crawford lay on his back, mouth open. Somewhere inside was the ball that had killed him. Had it indeed been self-administered? Despite having found the silk patch suggesting a shot that had come from farther away, despite the repercussions to Anne and, by extension, to the reputation of her entire family, himself included, he could not rationally rule out the possibility of suicide. It was indeed difficult to imagine another scenario that could lead to Mr. Crawford’s swallowing a bullet. Not even swallowing — from the coroner’s words and the appearance of things, the ball had traveled at an upward angle when it entered. What were the odds of anyone but Mr. Crawford himself having aimed so precisely?
If any shooter could, however, it would be the owner of that pistol. Darcy had seen some exquisite weapons in his life, but never one as superior as the firearm he had just held. That piece of craftsmanship had to rival any arm Mr. Mortimer had manufactured for the royal family. As Mr. Stover had said, who would intentionally abandon it? Yet if it indeed belonged to Mr. Crawford, where had he acquired it? It was small, perhaps ten inches long from the grip of its handle to the end of its barrel, a size sometimes called a “traveler’s pistol.” Had he indeed been traveling with it this whole time?
It might be small, but it was costly — more in price than Darcy would have imagined Mr. Crawford was willing to expend on a pistol. But then, Mr. Crawford was not a man given to sacrifice. He enjoyed everything life offered; enjoyed it rather too much. Reached for it with both hands.
Darcy stared at the spot beside Mr. Crawford where the pistol had lain. And realized what had been prodding the edges of his consciousness.
“Gentlemen, when Mr. Stover picked up the pistol just now, was that the first time any of you handled it?”
They approached. All denied having touched the gun before Darcy’s arrival.
“I left it exactly where I found it,” the gamekeeper said.
“Did you disturb Mr. Crawford’s remains?”
Mr. Cobb regarded Darcy as if he were daft. “Begging your pardon, sir, but would you touch a corpse that looked like that? Not without a shovel, I wouldn’t, and not without instructions from Sir Thomas.”
“And I gave no such order,” said Sir Thomas. “Mr. Stover has served as coroner for many years, and I know he prefers to record his observations before anything is moved.”
“Why, then, if Mr. Crawford committed suicide, was the pistol lying to the left of his body? Mr. Crawford was right-handed.”
Sir Thomas did not immediately reply.
“Perhaps it fell to that side after he fired it,” said Mr. Stover.
Darcy did not like that improbable explanation, for the fact that the coroner had offered it increased his doubt over the likelihood of an impartial ruling on the cause of Mr. Crawford’s death. Sir Thomas’s objectivity was already in question, but Darcy had harbored faint hope that the coroner had had no personal quarrel with the late Mr. Crawford. Could Sir Thomas’s “old friend” be relied upon to perform his public duty?
“Perhaps it did fall from his right hand to the opposite side,” Darcy said. “Or perhaps Mr. Crawford did not fire the gun.”
“Mr. Darcy, I understand and sympathize with your motives. Nobody wants the stigma of suicide associated with his family,” said Sir Thomas. “But in taking his own life, Mr. Crawford merely accelerated the process of justice. He was a coward who could not face the shame of a trial. To all appearances, rather than risk hanging, Mr. Crawford chose his own punishment. The consequences of self-murder are indeed severe, but you must admit that Mr. Crawford hardly established for himself a history of considering consequences.”
“Then it is particularly incumbent upon you and Mr. Stover to do so before rushing to a judgment that might be erroneous,” Darcy replied. “Would you have his heirs deprived of their inheritance and his remains unjustly buried at a crossroads for all eternity?”
“I would have him buried somewhere, and the sooner the better. He is not growing any fresher.” Sir Thomas regarded the body with disgust. “Mr. Crawford’s corpse has suffered enough indignity, and the people who knew him, enough anguish. There is no reason to prolong both. Let us resolve this matter posthaste. Mr. Stover will complete his examination of the body. If, at its conclusion, he is convinced that Mr. Crawford’s death was self-inflicted, then I am, as well.”
“What if I am not?”
Sir Thomas was silent. Finally, he turned to the coroner. “Mr. Stover, how soon can you be prepared to hold the formal inquest?”
“I will finish examining the remains today. Then we need only gather any witnesses we want to call. The inquest could be held tomorrow if you wish.”
“All right then, Mr. Darcy. If you are not satisfied with the results of Mr. Stover’s examination, you have until the inquest to gather evidence of your own.”
“I am to solve a murder by the morrow?”
“You need not solve it, simply prove that one occurred.”
He had been trying to do so this past half hour with no success. Clearly, Sir Thomas would require Darcy to not merely establish reasonable doubt, but to produce incontrovertible proof. “A single day is hardly sufficient time.”
“Something must be done with this rotting corpse.”
“Now, be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
— Elizabeth and Darcy, Pride and Prejudice
Agunshot to the face?” Elizabeth shuddered despite the warmth of the air in their chamber.
“I am afraid so.” Darcy did his best to force the image of Mr. Crawford’s remains from his mind. The day’s unpleasantness had only just begun. He not only had a murder investigation to commence, but also still had to break the news of Mr. Crawford’s death to Anne and the rest of the family. He had been summoned to Mansfield Wood so early that only Elizabeth knew where he had gone this morning, and upon his return he had proceeded to their room straightaway. He needed some time in her steady companionship before dealing with the others.
“Poor Anne — as if she has not endured enough,” she said after he finished narrating the morning’s errand. Despite the relative privacy afforded by four walls and a closed door, they nevertheless kept their voices low. Their party nearly filled the inn, and while most of their acquaintances were not wont to eavesdrop, conversations could yet be inadvertently overheard. Too, the subject matter itself dictated somber tones. “Do you believe, as Sir Thomas does, that Mr. Crawford committed self-murder?”
“There is evidence in support of it, but also against. It suits Sir Thomas’s interests for Mr. Crawford to have killed himself. It does not suit Anne’s. Therefore, I will do what I can to disprove that theory.”
“If it is not suicide, then someone not only killed Mr. Crawford but left him to the predations of animals. I dislike thinking anyone capable of that.”
He had spared her the most disturbing details of Mr. Crawford’s condition, only explained that his remains were not in an appropriate state for visitation by mourners.
If there were any mourners. “Mr. Crawford had no shortage of enemies.”
“I daresay our hosts are the only people in town without cause to despise him. Between all his relations-by-marriage occupying the bedchambers and the gossipmongers crowding the dining room every mealtime, business at the Ox and Bull is thriving. But there is a difference between wanting vengeance and actually executing it.”
“Yet there is a good chance that someone has — the location of the pistol suggests as much, as does Mr. Crawford’s presence in Mansfield Wood in the first place. If Mr. Crawford indeed killed himself, why would he choose to do so on Sir Thomas’s estate?”
“Because of its connection to Maria Rushworth?”
“His present difficulties derive from his two marriages, not an affair he ended a year ago without regret. And then there is the matter of the shot patch. I cannot imagine its having come from any weapon but that pistol, yet Sir Thomas quite dismissed it and encouraged his friend to do likewise. I can predict the results of the coroner’s examination. Even should Mr. Stover not render an opinion of suicide, Sir Thomas’s dislike of Mr. Crawford is so pronounced that I am not confident any official murder investigation would be undertaken in a diligent manner. The magistrate seems content to consider Mr. Crawford’s death justice served.”
She studied his expression. “Do you?”
It was a difficult question, one he had been pondering since first being summoned to the scene. “I am not exactly overcome by grief,” he confessed. “I do, however, believe in the due process of law. To tacitly condone murder, even when justified, sets a dangerous precedent. Regardless of his personal feelings toward Mr. Crawford, as magistrate Sir Thomas ought to uphold his duty, or he risks his district descending into anarchy.”