"It was you," said Mary slowly, as the horrifying truth flooded her mind. "All of this — from the beginning — was your doing."

"You need not look so shocked, Miss Crawford. You are a woman of spirit yourself; indeed, it is the single admirable quality you possess. Do not try to pretend to me that you are not capable of resolution and premeditation in the pursuit of what you desire. I have seen you at it every day for months."

"So it was you who tampered with Mr Gilbert’s cordial." "I could not risk the girl waking up and accusing me. I could not be sure what she had seen. As soon as Gilbert told me that she might make a full recovery, I knew what I must do."

"And you are now prepared to do the same to your own son?"

Mrs Norris’s face became hard and closed. "He is no child of mine. And in any case, it will be better thus. I do not know what you said to him at the belvedere, but when he returned he was like a man possessed. I tried to explain, but he would not listen. He was out of the house before I could stop him, and straight to that odious ruffian, Maddox. But I need not tell you, that any sort of trial is completely out of the question. Even to contemplate that a son of my dear late husband’s — a Norris — might be paraded through the streets of Northampton to the jeers of the common rabble — it is in every way unthinkable. This way it will all be hushed up, and soon everyone will have forgotten that anything ever happened."

"Forgotten? How can the Bertrams ever forget their daughter? How will any of us forget what happened to Fanny? And to resort to such violence — I saw what you did to her, and the memory of it sickens me."

"As to that, I will admit to falling prey to a momentary impulse — a mere freak of temper. She wrote to me, you know, flaunting her patched-up marriage — rejoicing in the fact that I would probably succumb to an apoplexy when I discovered the name of her husband. Congratulating herself for having escaped Edmund — and the next moment stating that she was even more thankful to have escaped me. Me! Do you know what I have done for that girl all these years? Petted and cosseted and brought her forward, day after day, even at the expense of my sister Bertram’s children. And all for nothing — nothing! And when I met her that morning she threw it all in my face — with such pleasure — such malicious enjoyment of my ignominy and humiliation."

"And did she take an equal delight in your imminent ruin?" said Mary quietly.

"What’s that?" snapped Mrs Norris.

"My brother saw parts of that letter, Mrs Norris. I know that Mrs Crawford referred to your very great need of money — her money. That was the real reason why you were so keen on the marriage, was it not? It had nothing to do with your son’s happiness, and everything to do with her vast fortune. It was not the family honour that my brother destroyed, but your own hopes of ever rectifying your perilous financial position. All your scrimping and penny-pinching, they were real enough, but this house, your style of life, it was all a sham — a blind.There is no money, is there, Mrs Norris? It has all gone."

Everything was clear to Mary now: even the smallest elements of the riddle had found their true place. "Indeed, it was not merely insults she threw in your face, was it? I have wondered from the start why she had no purse when she was found, but now I think I understand. She actually dared to offer you money.Was that not the final insult? To receive a few miserable shillings from someone who had robbed you of so much, and sealed your ruin? And yet you were so desperate for money, that you kept it, little as it was."

"How dare you stand there and talk to me in such a fashion! What can you possibly know of such things?"

Mary began to edge slowly round the edge of the table towards the window. She had already perceived that her sole hope lay in someone hearing their voices, and coming to investigate. If not her brother, then the White House servants; she must do all in her power to keep Mrs Norris talking — even to reason with her, if she could; though one glance at the woman’s haggard, ill face was enough to make Mary fear whether she were not already far beyond the reach of either reason or persuasion.

"I know a good deal of such things, Mrs Norris," she said, in a placatory tone. "I, too, have struggled to maintain the proper appearances on a straitened income. I, too, have been forced to measures I deplored, merely to make ends meet. We are not so very unlike, you and I."

"Do not presume to compare your situation with mine," she cried, pointing a trembling finger at Mary. "You are nothing, a non-entity — scarcely better than a servant, and with the manners and wardrobe to suit — an impudent upstart without birth, connections, or fortune."

"Oh, but there you are wrong," said Mary. "Even if I allow that I may lack some of those things — though I resent your insolence just as much as you resent my supposed impudence — I am not, now, without fortune. Indeed, thanks to his marriage my brother will henceforth be one of the richest men in England, as well as the legal inheritor of Lessingby Hall."

She had hoped to plead a rational case — to present the prospect of a marriage between herself and Edmund as the only way to recover the family’s lost prosperity, and therefore grounds enough for Mrs Norris to spare Mary’s own life, and help her save her son. But she had miscalculated. She could not have known that the mere mention of Lessingby would smite such a raw nerve. It was the summation of everything that Mrs Norris had hoped for, and to which she had deemed herself entitled; to her mind, it remained the pattern of perfection for all that was gracious, elegant, and desirable, that she had been denied for so long; had it taken place, her son’s marriage would have brought this dream of felicity within her reach at last, and made her, de facto, the mistress of the Hall. It had been the darling wish of her heart for many, many years, and she had not relinquished it without much pain, and even greater bitterness; it had been torn from her like the child she had never borne, and here, before her very eyes, was the woman to whom so much of the blame could be attributed.

She threw down the basket upon the table, and seized one of the silver knives within it.

"No!" cried Mary, backing away. "You are not thinking clearly — someone will be here at any moment — they will discover you — you cannot hope to escape — "

"Your brother, perhaps? Or that piece of vermin Stornaway? When I last saw them they were chatting away quite comfortably in the alcove. Which does not surprise me; it is clear your brother is quite at home with men of that class."

"Then your own servants — they will be returning from the Park."

"I have already had the foresight to allow them a half-holiday, out of respect to the dear departed. I did not want my step-son disturbed — not before matters were brought to their inevitable conclusion. You see, you underestimate me, Miss Crawford, as you always have.You and that reptile Maddox alike. He thinks only a man could be capable of what I have done, just as you think I am so weak-minded as not to have anticipated this very possibility, and planned accordingly. I knew you might eventually piece together who was really responsible for Fanny’s death, and I have been prepared to act for some days past."

She stopped, and smiled, a smile that froze Mary’s very soul. "In fact, I am indebted to you, Miss Crawford. You have made it easier for me than I could have ever hoped. I will only have to say that I found you dead when I opened the door. My step-son is already accused of a crime no less violent, and it will not be difficult to induce people to believe him capable of another act of equal savagery. Indeed, it will merely make it easier to explain his regrettable decision to take his own life."

All this time Mary had been edging along the side of the table, hoping to attain the French door, and praying that it would not be locked; but she was too slow, and Mrs Norris too quick. Time and time again Mary had heard tell of this woman’s energy and vigour, but she had never seen it put to such dreadful use. She seized Mary by the arm, and twisted it so brutally that she fell back against the table, gasping in pain, and then in fear, as she felt the cold blade of the silver knife pressed against her throat. Overcome with panic, she wrenched herself away and reached in desperation for the empty glass on the table — anything that might serve to defend herself — but it span away from her on the polished wood, and she felt fingers in her hair, and an arm dragging her back and down. She put up her hands to shield her face, but she was too late. The blade flashed before her sight, and as the hot blood ran on her skin, and the icy metal cut into her flesh, her eyes filled with darkness, and she knew no more.


Maddox had heard enough. He pushed his fist through the window-pane and threw open the door. He had relied on surprising her, and it did indeed buy him a few precious seconds. The old woman looked up at him, and at the burly figure of Fraser at his heels. Her eyes narrowed, and she raised her hand to strike, just as Maddox seized her wiry wrist, and forced the blade from her grasp. As the knife clattered onto the floor he dragged her away from the insentient body of Mary Crawford, and pushed her, none too gently, into Fraser’s muscular clutches. She began to shriek and kick, the spittle dripping from her mouth as she hurled a stream of such rank and obscene insults, as would not have disgraced one of the more brazen Covent-garden whores of Maddox’s acquaintance.