Murder at Mansfield Park

"It is a wonder," she said, at length, and with a break in her voice, "that your mother was able to keep up the appearance of affluence for so long."

He smiled sourly. "She has — had — a will of iron. But even she could not endure such a terrible burden for ever; the pressure was too great.That day in the park — the unexpected encounter with Fanny — it was not so very much, in itself. But it brought her to the brink of the abyss. She had already seen the wreck of all her hopes of my marrying Fanny; our debts had mounted to the point of imminent ruin; and now she had to endure contempt and disdain from the very person from whom she expected the utmost deference, gratitude, and respect."

He paused, and gazed across the lawn to where the moon was rising in the late afternoon sky.

"When you spoke to me at the belvedere, I knew at once. When you talked about the blood — the “blood on her hands” — I knew. That day, when I returned from Cumberland, she had not expected me; when I surprised her at the house, she was in a strange mood — excitable, nervous — she could barely keep in one place for a minute together. You know her character, and you know such behaviour to be quite unlike her usual self; I, certainly, had never seen it before. And when I went into the parlour, I found rags in the fire. Blood-stained rags in a fire that did not need to be lit so early on such a warm day. She told me she had dropped a jar in the store-room, and cut her hand, and there were indeed some marks that might have testified to such an incident. But how could I have suspected their real cause? Even later, when it became horribly, indisputably clear, I still could not believe — "

He swallowed, and went on, "When I confronted her, she said she had done it for me — for us. I saw at once that, even if she were the actual perpetrator of the crime, I bore my own terrible responsibility for what she had done. I should have made it my business to enquire into our pecuniary circumstances years ago; had I done so, I would have known the strain under which she had been labouring for so long, and been in a position to take action to alleviate it. Any man of the least decision of character would have done so, and more. How could I, knowing that, allow her to pay the price for my own blindness and incompetency? I did the only thing left to me. I went to Maddox, and confessed to everything."

"Not quite everything. That was how he knew you were not telling him the truth."

He turned to look at her. "So you knew? About Julia? And yet you said nothing."

"I was there when she died. It was impossible not to know. But I was bound by a solemn promise of secrecy. And besides, that day at the belvedere, I believed you to be the murderer. It was your name I had heard on Julia’s lips — it was you I thought had killed her. To keep her from betraying you."

His astonishment appeared to be beyond what he could readily express; he stared at her, then looked away. "There is a fine irony here, could I but appreciate it. Here I have been, thinking you despised me for a fool, a coward, and a dupe, and all the time you believed me capable of killing two defenceless young women in the most brutal, cold- blooded manner." He laughed, but it was a chill and hollow sound. "I should, I suppose, be flattered you deemed me capable of acting with such resolution! And yet, believing that, you trusted yourself, alone, in my company, that day at the belvedere. You took such a terrible risk — merely to warn me?"

Mary shook her head. "I do not think I really believed you guilty. I longed to hear you give a plausible explanation — to tell me some new fact that would prove you innocent."

"And yet no such fact was forthcoming. Indeed, your worst fears must only have been confirmed, when you heard of my subsequent confession."

"I do not wish to speak of that," she said with a sigh. "It is past, and should be forgotten."

"And you wish to think only of the future." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"I do not take your meaning."

"Come, Miss Crawford. The housemaids at the Park can talk of little else, and in my pitiful invalid state I cannot easily escape from their chatter. Mr Maddox is, I gather, growing extremely particular in his attentions."

She flushed, but would not meet his gaze. "I have received a proposal of marriage, yes."

"And when am I to wish you joy?"

"I have not yet made my decision. There are many things to consider."

Had Mary been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen a faint colour rush into his cheeks; the herald of an infinitesimal hope, when all before had been utterly hopeless.