Well, I never did manage to finish my other mystery so I've decided to use this steamm opportunity to give the mystery genre another go! This story is AU (and slightly cracky) and will change up events from S3 and even a few things from S2...just go with it! And for those interested, the RMS Carinthia is an actual ship first launched in 1925. You can wikipedia if you'd like to learn more and see all the little details I shoehorned in to the story.
This chapter is more M/M focused but we'll get shippy moments and character moments from all the principles in due time. Maybe I'll even toss in some Molesley as a bonus, if I feel in an extra charitable mood.
Many thanks to Mrstater for the beta, and foojules for the thoughtful feedback.
Chapter 1: The Launch
i.
Mary watched by the window:
The sun at day break: fingers of muted orange and tangerine stretched like newly awakened fingers across a pale blue sky, the meld of colors always putting Mary to mind of the sparkling shade of her hair….
Poor Lavinia. Poor, sweet Lavinia. Everyone had loved her, just loved her, that quiet voice laced with sugar and kindness. And no one ever had a bad word to say.
Mary sat down upon her vanity chair. In the mirror she saw her ivory flesh neatly composed into the usual detached expression. Aloof and untroubled. No trace of the disturbing thoughts which had roused her so egregiously early in the morning.
Anna Bates – her maid, her ally, her confident and friend – quietly slipped into the room. "My. But you're up rather early, milday."
"I hope I haven't set off your schedule. I wanted to get an early start. So many arrangements left to be made…."
The arrangements had been expertly handled for days. All that remained were a few last minute packing details which Anna attended to without a contrary word.
While Anna worked, Mary thought. She was always thinking, she was that sort of person. Full pitchers of liquid thoughts and ideas that every so often precipitated action. But she hadn't thought of Lavinia Swire for years - years! Yet this morning she could not displace Matthew's late fiance from her mind. Such a young and beautiful woman, who certainly hadn't deserved her fate – but then who ever does? And in Mary's opinion she couldn't have gone a better way. No mustard yellow lungs, devoured from the inside out. Or an agonizingly slow poison. Painless. That was what the doctor had told them all as they huddled in the hallway outside of Lavinia's sickroom in those closing moments.
Painless….the confirmation brought some comfort to Mary as Anna began dressing her hair.
"What's left for the packing, Anna?"
"One more frock should do it, I think."
Mary chose the sea green silk that left both shoulders bare and the rest up to imagination. The one that her darling Matthew loved so, so much. And a set of Sapphire earrings to match. She knew how well they caught the light with every turn of her crane-like neck, and made her face appear to be dancing...
Dancing, dancing – twirling in the snow, twirling in the foyer – that night when it all began, when Matthew had leaned forward and kissed her and –
Poor Lavinia. Poor, sweet Lavinia! Oh, but she could picture the scene in her head right at this very moment! Every detail freshly plucked from her mind as the moment she lived through it: There Lavinia lay like a fallen angel on a bed of ivory linen. There was Sybil holding the basin to one side, morosely displayed as she always was when donned in the white and grey. The doctor standing resignedly beside her, stroking his mustache. And surrounding the bed: Matthew and Mama and Papa –
And her. Far back in one corner. Watching a death unfold before her very eyes.
Poor Lavinia! She hadn't deserved it.
But it couldn't be helped.
For there were only two things in this world that Lady Mary Crawley could not live without. And Lavinia Swire had held the key to them both.
ii.
"Just a few more hours, Molesley! I can hardly wait! Are you looking forward to it?"
Molesley paused briefly from his devout work on the shoe shining to reply with enthusiasm, "Very much, sir. I've never been to America."
"Nor I." Matthew ran his hand along a queue of clothing laid in a neat line across his bed. "We'll wet our boots together in the New World, what do you say?"
The valet smiled. Molesley loved the idea of travel but feared for his legendary experience with sea sickness.
After completing his morning sacraments Matthew left Molelsy to finish off the suitcases. He sailed down the stairs, more than ready for a hearty breakfast, considering the strange turn in fortune the last week had wrought. He and Mary had been living in untarnished happiness for some time now – over five years. Five years since their marriage, and the propitious fortune that had swooped in at the crucial moment to save Downton from financial ruin. Five years of breathing easily, living largely, with nary a whisper of fallout to concern them of those harrowing days of uncertainty.
And then the letter had come.
Matthew grimaced on the landing, appetite fading. Oh, but he couldn't get that blasted letter out of his mind! The contents had been alarming enough, to say nothing of the identity of the sender….
When Matthew swung open the door to the breakfast parlor he happened upon a starkly empty room. Eerily silent. No one sitting or eating. Carson wasn't even there, and the buffet bare as a stripped bed, not even a tablecloth. Puzzled, he glanced down at his watch.
6:00
Had he really risen that early? He supposed he had had an awful time of it lately, all the pent up anxiety robbing his waking hours, and now invading his slumber. And all of it starting with that dreadful letter…
But no matter. Matthew's face set in that same wrenching, determined look that had got him through the mud-soaked weeks of the Somme. And he'd get through this just the same – alive and on top. For George. For William. And most of all for Mary.
Mary! His darling Mary!
He had promised Mary he would secure Downton's future, both for them and for their children. He had meant it then.
He meant it now.
Matthew sat down at the head of the table – Robert wouldn't like it, but the seat would be his someday – and looked out through the window, to the limitless breadth of verdant green sloping off to the horizon. "Two full weeks at sea…." The ocean was wide and vast, invocating exploration and possibility. Who knew what those storied waters could bring about, and with two long, leisurely weeks to do it?
Matthew Crawley smiled. He couldn't wait to launch from port.
iii.
Mary squinted into the clear azure waters of the Atlantic, sunlight glinting off the surface and beating a straight path directly into her dark eyes. "I could have done without this abominable heat. It's criminal that Spring should boast such a temperature, and at the coast, no less."
Her husband was not to be deterred. "You'll feel cooler once we launch." He beamed into the reflecting waters.
"And I would have preferred Southampton. I find Liverpool rather..."
"Rather what?"
Mary smirked. "Rather like Manchester."
Matthew laughed. A boyish sound that thrilled her. "Very middle class? Once we're surrounded by salt water you'll forget all about the horrors of port." Then he turned to her, eyes of deep ocean blue that elicited an unseen fire to shoot through her chest. "And It will be marvelous, Mary!"
She was caught up in his exuberance, which reminded Mary rather of their boys on a sunny day. Or a rainy one. Or any day at all, really, were she to cop to their mischievous nature. But how typical of her husband, especially these days – childlike in his lust for life, utterly indifferent to the cares of the world in the wake of their wedded bliss after so many years of separation.
Arm in arm they promenaded along the narrow walkways of the deck. Mary shrewdly assessed their ship – the stout RMS Carinthia. While it wasn't in the same league as the grander cruise liners, it had its own charm, and was certainly capable of catering to the epicurean lifestyle of which she was accustomed. It shall do, she thought. It shall do very well.
Of course, she allowed none of her approbation to display across her face. Matthew would gloat over even a hint of a smile, and she didn't like to make things easy for him.
"You seem excited," is all she said, with the tone of a right put down, as they exited the first class dining room.
"I am excited. And I shan't let you put a damper on it. We'll have a splendid time."
Mary smiled. "Whether I like it or not?"
Baffling to some, their perfect union more closely resembled a lifelong battle of one upmanship. But what the ignorant bystander would fail to factor in were the simple facts that Matthew had no siblings to speak of, and Lady Mary, although possessing two younger sisters, was so far above them on the repartee scale (Lady Edith usually falling a notch or two below the mark and Lady Sybil delighted only in puns), that she may as well be considered an only child. And so starved for a proper opponent all their lives it was only natural they would fall madly for each other at the first exchange of insults, and make for themselves an entirely satisfying and death-till-they-part verbal fencing match.
"Come." Matthew led them to the gangplank where droves of passengers were currently boarding. "I'm waiting to hear what you really think of her."
"Of the ship?" she asked with a raised brow. "The rather upscale accommodations in third class were a good touch. Unorthodox to be sure, but wise given the current market."
"Which is exactly why I've invested."
Ah, her husband. Always in need of a few friendly reminders. "At my insistence, if you recall."
If there was anything Mary was an expert on it was luxury, fashion – the finer things. As nobility and a First Daughter, she was raised with the most exacting standards and schooled in fastidiousness by none other than the legendary Mr. Carson, Butler. And she'd realized shortly after her marriage that she could leverage all that knowledge into a profitable skill. Recreation was a business, she had come to find. And while she may not have direct acumen for business, she knew more than enough about recreation to recognize a good investment opportunity when she saw one.
"Let's agree that we came to the decision together," Matthew said with a waxing smile. "Now tell me all of your glowing opinions."
"The smoke room was a brilliant touch. Very sophisticated and modern – put me in touch with the decorator, I think we should do up one of the drawing rooms in the same style. The Spanish look seems all the rage now. Although the decor in the lounge was rather ostentatious. Somewhat out of place considering the restraint shown elsewhere."
"But do you approve?"
At last she consented to smile. Fully. "Of course I do, darling."
"Excellent! I think it's just the breath of fresh air our portfolio needed." Mary frowned. Money, money – the talk was all about money these days. And for good reason. "She's fully booked for this trip, you know," Matthew said in a low voice.
"Good. We'll need to shore up more funds before the boys get too old." Matthew cast her an alarmed look. Death taxes. "Just in case," she said with a lift of one shoulder.
The beckoning sounds of the ocean drew them to the railing, and they stood for a while watching the waves lap at the hull, both lost in their own thoughts.
"Sometimes I forget you've never been to New York," Mary said.
"No." His voice dipped downward with his eyes, a feline smile spreading as he eyed her rather enticing clavicles. "But I'm ever so looking forward to sharing that experience with you…." Launching his lips towards hers, he was soon rewarded with a mouthful of hair as Mary deftly swung her head to the side.
"Sybil!" she cried.
Matthew sighed into the glossy black mane. "And your sisters." He sighed again. "And their husbands."
Splendid, just splendid! Matthew inwardly groused. A romantic getaway for six.
iv.
Or six and a half, Matthew amended when he first caught a glimpse of his in-laws, Tom and Sybil Branson, debark off the gangplank and alight onto the deck.
Sybil was pregnant.
Again.
"Sybil, darling!" Mary called as she walked briskly over to her sister, her own variation of exuberant flinging. Mary always carried a well-lit torch of feelings for her younger sister, often decrying to her husband the distance between London and Dublin, and even more often her sister's terrible correspondence patterns. "And just look at you!"
Sybil looked down. "What? Is there something wrong?" She rubbed her belly with a frown. "Is my blouse inside out?" she asked with exasperation, that air of Not Again!
"It's perfectly fine, darling," Mary assured her, slipping an arm around her sister's shoulders. She began steering her down the narrow walk of the deck. "You did a marvelous job dressing yourself this morning. No, it's only that…" She gestured down, to Sybil's very properly dressed, though rather protruding, midsection. "We weren't expecting...that is to say we hadn't heard anything," she ended with a note of unmistakable reproach.
"No!" Sybil cried with a dose of surprise. "I suppose we haven't told any of the family!" shamelessly laughing as if she'd made a terribly funny joke. "Though another Branson baby can hardly be called big news anymore, can it?"
"Quite right. But even so, you ought to have told us. And I confess I'm rather surprised. I think we all assumed that you'd be done after three."
"So did we." Sybil smiled tightly. "Well! I did marry an Irishman!"
Bent over their suitcases, her husband's head snapped up. "What?" He pointed a finger in his wife's direction, wagging it fiercely. "Oh, you're not blaming that one on me!"
"It wasn't immaculate conception, darling."
"That's exactly my point," Tom replied with an implicating smirk.
"Is that Edith?" Mary cried. Practically undressing each other – really, they were as bad as Matthew sometimes!
Everyone leaned over the railing. True to Mary's words, the middle Crawley daughter, now Lady Edith Strallan, and her husband were some ways out on the gangplank – dashing red curls and a coal black cane crowned with a highly bedazzled handle – walking over to them in the distance.
Mary's demeanor infinitesimally but very definitely shifted. "Of course they would be the last to arrive." To say that the two eldest Crawley daughters did not get along in their youth would be selling them both short. But in adulthood Mary and Edith has settled into an uneasy truce, maintained mostly by their living in different houses.
"Don't' be unkind," Sybil whispered over with a smile.
Mary faced her with a piquant look. "I'm always just as kind to her as she is to me."
"Oh really?"
Mary couldn't stop her slight smile. "Almost."
But when the Strallans did arrive everyone was nothing but smiles and friendly greetings. Family did trump everything, after all. Backs were clapped, hugs were dispensed, and large bellies properly cooed over.
"Oh, Sybil, how delightful!" Edith cried. "You must all come for a visit as soon as the baby's born."
Anthony's eyes did a double take. "All of them?"
Edith pushed on. "Alexander would simply love a visit from all his Branson cousins. And you haven't seen him for ages, have you Sybil? He's grown marvelously large, big as a pumpkin!"
Tom came up around Anthony, still reeling at the thought of the Branson invasion his wife was currently detailing with Sybil. "So tell me Anthony," he said. He pointed down. "Why the cane?"
"Well I –"
"A fashion statement!" Edith cried.
Anthony chuckled. "Yes, that's right." After Sybil's brief stint with harem pants she had merged into her working class lifestyle with ferocity, putting aside the flashier designs of her old life and firmly planting Edith as the resident vogue of the family – something her husband dearly loved, often praised, and found highly difficult to keep up with. "She's trying to modernize my old self – though I put my foot down at knee breeches." He lavished his wife with a smile. "Edith actually made it for me. Jolly good of her, don't you think?"
He referred, of course, to the glittering mound adorning the top of the cane, the entire ensemble looking nothing so much like a rather delicious lollipop. Mary and Tom, the resident side-eyers of their tidy group, shot each other a discriminating look, a sort of ocular high five.
"I started a new hobby, you see," Edith explained. "A bit of crafting in my spare time. I've made several of them, with different designs, and they've received nothing but compliments in London. Anthony even thinks I could even go into business!"
"And what about your writing?" Tom asked with schoolmaster warning.
"Not to worry. I'm still writing my column, of course. This is merely supplemental." She flashed her brother in law and fellow journalist a feral smile. "I'm a modern woman, Tom – writer, mother, possible businesswoman. I don't like to limit myself to one thing the way you men seem to do. And besides," she said with a tap on the cane-handle, "they're terribly handy."
Mary lowered her gaze. "Exactly how?"
"Oh, you know." Edith shrugged. "They offer all kinds of support, for all kinds of things..."
"Why don't we settle into our rooms!" Mary cried. It seemed propriety was fast becoming a rare commodity in her family. She had barely expunged the image of Mama's gleeful look conjoined with that horrifying "Terrific fun!" from her mind before Sybil, and then Matthew, and then Edith, had decided "family" was simply another word for permission to openly discuss what should remain firmly behind locked doors. "Matthew and I will be in the smoke room before dinner," Mary said to the array of smirks – Anthony the only one with enough decency to look sheepish. "They've got an American bar, so that should please you, Edith. Then we can take a tour of the ship and you can all fawn over Matthew's business acumen."
"Spare us, Mary," Edith said. "We all know the idea for this ship was yours."
"A joint decision," Matthew conceded. "As are all of them. And dress up: tonight we'll meet for dinner – The Adams room, they've named it."
The porters had long collected the baggage and the party began ambling towards their quarters.
"First class dining…" Tom drawled.
"Are your socialist sensibilities offended at the notion?" Matthew asked.
"Hardly. To tell the truth, I can't wait. I can't remember the last time I've had a decent meal."
Sybil's brows narrowed as she rubbed her belly. "Is that so...?"
Mary and Matthew peeled away from the group, their relations' light hearted squabbling fading into their respective chambers. Matthew slipped the key into their locked door, and they wordlessly entered.
The suitcases stood in one corner. "Anna and Molesley haven't unpacked yet?" Matthew asked.
"They'll finish tomorrow. But they did lay aside our clothes for tonight."
Matthew came up around Mary, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. "It will be a pleasant time, I think. Dinner with your family."
"And our special guest?" Mary asked tartly.
Matthew sighed. "Yes. He shall most certainly be there."
v.
Most people did not know this, but Theodore hated sea travel.
It was why he left his suitcase unpacked and went straight to the window when he first entered his room. The clear glass revealed an aspect of endless blue waters shimmering with the setting sun, but did nothing to relieve him of the claustrophobic feeling of the large, tastelessly wallpapered room. It consisted of a centerpiece bed, a large wardrobe and dresser set, the obligatory vanity, and a comfortable desk. First class, to a tee. Very modern. Very English.
Theodore grimaced.
Another thing most people did not know: Theodore hated England.
It wasn't the weather, which was nothing remarkable and altogether quite pleasant in most regions. It wasn't even the cuisine, which some would decry as the highest offense ever committed by the Empire. To put it more accurately, Theodore hated the people of England, that branch of pretentious humanity who pontificated eloquently of their Rightness and Honorableness even as they cut large swathes of brutality across an unsuspecting world.
It was to escape the facile lifestyle of his compatriots that Theodore chose, for the past ten years, to make a permanent home in the subcontinent, tracking his way through the most deprived regions in order to offer up his services. He outright refused any venture to draw him back to England. Stuck like a fly on paper he would not budge, not even for his daughter's marriage, not even for the birth of his first grandchild – not even to accept the vast fortune that had some years ago been bequeathed to him. Indeed, when he first got wind of the inquiries as to his whereabouts he knew exactly the reason, that his dear friend Reginald Swire had died, that his lawyer sought to administer the estate per his friend's final will and testament.
Which could only mean one thing: If they were searching for him upon Reggie's death, that meant Lavinia, sweet Lavinia, with her sun-spun hair and skin like strawberry cream, had also died. He had gripped his heart when the realization struck, actually held his hand over his chest with the ache that resided within.
Lavinia and Reggie. Both dead.
An unfortunate turn of events. Unfortunate, yet unsuspicious.
But that was before he anonymously received the coroner's report.
Theodore walked to his suitcase and retrieved a thick file folder. He thumbed through the stack of pages, finally removing an official looking document – PROCEEDING BEFORE CORONERS written in neatly typed ink, followed by – INQUISITION. And below that dated and signed and notarized: DIED OF HEART FAILURE DUE NATURAL CAUSES.
And so of course there had never been an autopsy….
Theodore seethed. For of all things unknown about Mister Theodore Pullbrook, above them all stood this: that in reality he was Doctor Theodore Pullbrook.
And for many years he had been Reginald Swire's primary physician. He knew exceedingly well the intimate details of his friend's health, the flat feet that troubled him, that his heart had been as healthy as an ox's.
Heart failure, indeed!
Theodore laid down the report on the desk and began rummaging through his suitcase. He would have to dress for tonight. He had been invited to dine with his host, the man who had suggested he join his family on this excursion rather than meeting him privately in London. And tonight at dinner Theodore and his suspicions would meet, for the first time, the infamous Crawleys.
And the Bransons.
And the Strallans.
What was that old saying? Ah, yes: Murder always comes in threes.
Perhaps murderers did as well.