For as long as she could remember, Daisy Mason never saw much sense in curtains. After all, what was the sense in blocking out the light when one needed to be up and about in the wee dawn hours? And so she awoke that Thursday morning not from the scullery maid, Agnes, rapping upon the door (as had once been Daisy's own job) but from the simple pleasure of a ray of sunlight playing across her closed eyelids. Although it was still quite early and no one would have found fault with her if she were to luxuriate in bed until Agnes's arrival in another half hour, lingering images of fresh baked bread from her dream that night compelled her to start the day. As she dressed quickly, she mused to herself how pleased everyone would be by her thoughtfulness. Most mornings there wasn't adequate time to bake bread in time for the servants' breakfast-they usually made due with whatever was left uneaten by the Upstairs the day before-and to Daisy, such a state of affairs felt like a true injustice.
Practically skipping down the stairs leading from the attic bedrooms to the Servants Hall, the assistant cook began to day dream about how the others would react: Mrs. Patmore would tear up with pride as she offer Daisy a maternal smile; Mr. Bates and Anna would tilt their heads together as they inhaled the delicious aroma in one unified breath; Andy would declare his undying love for her; and Mr. Barrow would, with his usual dry sarcasm, declare that the bread was-
But she was unable to finish the thought for she suddenly found herself sprawled out on the floor having tripped over something.
At first, the sight before her didn't quite register in her still somewhat dream clouded mind. How odd that Mr. Barrow should be lying in the middle of the hall. As Daisy was pondering if he had been sleeping there all night, another part of her-a part that was now screaming at the top of her lungs as hysterics began to take hold-could now see the pool of blood congealing around the butler's head.
Was he dead? He certainly looked like he was dead. Oh God! He was dead!
And, seeing as how Daisy was now screaming loud enough to wake the dead, it should have come as no surprise to her when Thomas groaned and muttered with irritation, "Bloody hell, Daisy! My head hurts enough as it is without you puncturing my ear drums." If he could only think more clearly, he might have given the young woman a real telling off for doing whatever it was that she had been doing and why was it so difficult to think?
Attempting to shake the brain muddling cobwebs from his head, but only making himself quite dizzy, Thomas looked at the pool of darkening maroon and gasped, "Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?" He was more than a bit flummoxed to find that someone was hugging him with a vise-like grip. Someone-Daisy! Now when did she get here?-was hugging him and crying. "Daisy? Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" he asked her, deeply concerned, albeit somewhat disgusted by the rivulets of snot that were dripping from her nose as she sobbed.
The door leading to the outside courtyard suddenly burst open and a very winded Bates practically fell through the door frame in his hurry to gain entrance. "We heard screaming!" gasped out Bates as he leaned against his cane, trying to catch his breath. A short moment later, Anna joined her husband looking on with apprehension as she clutched their infant son to her chest. Her eyes widened with shock as she took in the sight of Thomas sitting on the ground, his butler's livery soaked in red and a large, nasty looking gash upon his forehead.
"Looks like you had a run-in with a burglar, Tho- Mr. Barrow," pronounced Bates. Although he still found it quite irksome that this longstanding thorn in his side was now butler of Downton Abbey, his strong sense of professionalism-not to mention Anna's cryptic admonishment that "he needs our support"-kept him from making his distaste readily apparent. "I'll go up to inform his lordship. Anna, ring for the police and for-"
"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?" interrupted Barrow, who was looking quite worse for wear.
"Ring for the police and Dr. Clarkson," supplied Anna.
By this time, the entirety of the Downstairs staff, having been unceremoniously roused from their sleep by the loud commotion below, were gathered in the narrow hallway and were now talking all at once in a cacophony of anxious excitement.
"What happened?!"
"Is he alright?"
"Someone broke in?!"
"Did they take anything valuable?"
"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"
Thomas blinked with groggy confusion as his vision swam in-and-out of focus. For some reason he was now sitting in his favorite rocking chair by the fireplace in the Servants Hall and Dr. Clarkson was inexplicably staring very intently at him. Ignoring Clarkson's admonishment to hold still, he looked about the room and out into the hallway where the sight there made him yelp with surprise, "Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"
To say that he felt a bit insulted by the chorusing groans of irritation that met his expression of genuine concern would be an understatement, and he might have made a sharp retort had a gentle hand squeezing his own not drawn his attention. "Try to not take it to heart, Mr. Barrow," whispered Miss Baxter, who turned out to be the owner of the previously mentioned hand, "You're concussed and have been asking the same questions all morning. I'm sorry if we sound a bit impatient."
It was then that Thomas noticed how unexpectedly crowded the Servants Hall was. All the usual suspects were present and accounted for-Miss Baxter, of course, as well as the Bateses, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and Andy, not to mention Paul the hall boy and Agnes the scullery maid-but he was at a bit of a loss as to why Mr. Carson was there so early (was it early? Thomas found that he wasn't entirely certain) or why Lord Grantham was presently speaking with Sgt. Willis or-
"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"
Lord Grantham groaned as he pinched the furrow of his brow between his fingers before turning back to Sgt. Willis, who was reviewing his investigation notes with the earl, "Since nothing appears to be missing or disturbed, I'd say that Mr. Barrow most likely startled the burglar just as he came inside-probably someone hoping to steal a little petty cash sight unseen-and he scampers off empty-handed after a short scuffle. We can still call in Scotland Yard to dust for fingerprints, but I have to warn you that the probability of making an arrest is low. Nevertheless, I do suggest that you have your staff make a thorough inventory to see if anything of value is miss-"
Without warning, Sgt. Willis was interrupted by a frightfully pale and wide-eyed Lady Mary. "Papa!" she cried out, her voice filled with abject terror. "Papa, it's George! It's George! He's missing! George is gone!"