They came for Anna – again – on a Tuesday afternoon in early April, three weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Carson were married, and four days after Andy managed to take a tumble down the stairs during the dinner service, leaving a trail of vegetables and Bechamel sauce in his wake, and breaking Thomas's foot when he stuck the landing. Andy, of course, emerged unscathed.
It had also been four days since Nanny Jenkins had run off with the groom's assistant. It had taken the better part of two panicked days for the staff and family to reach agreement on the question of where she had gotten off to, given that the most obvious answer – that the only two people missing from the estate were missing together – was simply inconceivable. The man was at least fifteen years her junior, and far handsomer than one would think might give rise to the levels of loneliness that could incline a man to go absent in the night with an old spinster nanny.
It wasn't that Nanny Jenkins was wholly unattractive. In fact, if observed from a silent distance, she might actually be considered a rather pretty woman. But her tendency to speak to adults in the same calm, condescending, sing-song tones that she used in addressing the children made her annoying, at best, and positively revolting, at worst.
Thomas had only come in contact with the nanny on a handful of occasions, but his mind had concocted a nightmare scenario in which he might one day have to serve at tea for an unlikely party that included Nanny Jenkins, Lady Grantham, and Phyllis Baxter. The mere idea of those three hens in one room pursing their lips and sympathizing in rolling whispers of high-pitched tones was enough to make his skin itch.
Thomas thought briefly about this imagined horror as he was sat in a chair in the butler's pantry, polishing silver to make himself at least appear useful. After three days trapped in his room reading and re-reading the same old newspapers and trying to balance on one foot to blow smoke out the tiny attic window, he had reached the conclusion that the best way to protect his oft-times tenuous position in the household was to make a very public attempt at staying productive while his foot healed.
Carson was seated at his desk, looking for all the world like he was pouring over the latest set of invoices and recording expenses, but Thomas wasn't buying the act. It was mid-afternoon, just about time for Mrs. Carson to use some bit of household business as a pretext to put in her appearance, giving Mr. Carson his opportunity to fawn over her. Carson was waiting, anxiously. He was so anxious for the appearance of his wife that the air around him nearly vibrated with nervous energy.
To say that marriage had changed Carson would be an understatement of the highest order. While Mrs. Carson certainly seemed to be enjoying a newfound level of friendly banter with her husband, it was Carson who was overwhelmingly taken with the implications of their new relationship. The man was absolutely and embarrassingly smitten.
Whereas the staff had always joked about the almost mythical ability of Mrs. Hughes to wrap Mr. Carson around her fingertips, it seemed that Mrs. Carson had actually woven the pompous, proper butler into a newly docile, wholly devoted version of his former self. Oh, the old man still put up the occasional fight for the sake of his dignity, to be sure, but, by and large, if Mrs. Carson wanted it, Mrs. Carson got it.
The change was evident to everyone – everyone it seemed, but Mrs. Carson, who continued to operate as if under the delusion that her husband was merely adequately fond of her, and that their marriage was to be largely one of convenience.
It was a peculiar dynamic. Thomas wondered how Carson had possibly managed to convince the woman to marry him whilst keeping her totally in the dark as to just how completely taken with her he actually was. Smitten.
Just as predicted, Mrs. Carson swept into the room within minutes to discuss her plans for averting the latest crisis. Since Nanny Jenkins had taken it upon herself to abandon her charges, it had fallen on the maids to take shifts watching over Master George and Miss Marigold until a suitable replacement could be retained. The situation, though not wholly unprecedented, had left the house in quite a tip and created one more point of irritation for Mrs. Carson to ruminate over with her husband.
"Anna is taking her turn now," Mrs. Carson said, "and Daisy has actually volunteered to sleep in the nursery this evening, but I'm not sure how long this can last. Our girls have their own work to do already. Of course, Lady Edith has been quite helpful, even relieving the maids herself. But do you think we might be able to get a young teacher in from the school to cover an occasional evening shift, just until a more permanent solution presents itself?"
Carson gawped at her for a long moment, wearing wide soft eyes and a soppy grin. Mrs. Carson was oddly oblivious to this almost zealous demonstration of devotion. Eventually, just about the time that his love-stricken countenance should have become blatantly evident to even the most naive schoolgirl, he opened his mouth to respond – undoubtedly, Thomas thought to acquiesce to whatever request Mrs. Carson placed before him today and into eternity – when Molesley stepped into the doorway to demonstrate the one skill he had perfected above all others: interruption.
"Mr. Carson, the police are here."
Carson leapt to his feet. Perhaps it was just Thomas's imagination, but it seemed that Carson instinctively reached an arm out in front of his wife in an attempt at a nearly-protective stance. Oh, good Lord.
The couple was still stood behind his desk as Sgt. Willis pushed past the footman and into the room. He was followed closely by a younger officer, who fairly fell into the room landing hard against the butler's table, driving the edge into Thomas's chest and rattling the silver.
Thomas glowered at the young officer and snarled low, "watch it, you bumbling..."
"Sergeant Willis," Carson greeted the officer with little apparent effort to cover his annoyance, "And what can Downton Abbey do for you today?"
"Ah, yes, this is my associate, Officer Taylor," Sgt. Willis said, pausing briefly as if for dramatic effect. An awkward silence filled the space as the group stared at each other. Surely, this clown did not come all the way out here to introduce us to his new playmate, so what is this about? Thomas wondered.
"Good afternoon, Officer Taylor," Carson said slowly, while maintaining eye contact with Willis. "And again, how can we be of assistance?"
"Well," Taylor started, just a tad too jubilantly for Thomas's taste, "we have come with an arrest warrant for one of your staff, a Mrs. Anna Bates."
Molesley emitted a sound from his mouth that sounded like something between a slowly whispered expletive, a hot panting dog, and a peahen cry.
Carson glanced quickly to his wife who was stood beside him blinking absently into the silver cabinet and gnawing on her lip. Finding no solace, but perhaps a purpose there, he quickly composed his facade and turned back to face Willis.
"What, may I ask, is the charge this time?" Carson intoned with all the imperiousness available to his muster.
"Thomas, run and fetch Mr. Bates," Mrs. Carson said, before the officer could answer.
He glanced at his foot, propped as it was on an overturned bucket, and opened his mouth to respond, but Carson interrupted.
"Mr. Molesley, ask one of the hall boys to run and fetch Mr. Bates from his cottage, please." Mr. Bates had been nursing a minor head cold for several days and had been ordered home for a short lie down by Mrs. Carson that very afternoon.
"Yes, yes, of course," Molesley stuttered as he tripped out the door.
Thomas thought for a moment about reminding Mrs. Carson of his position in the house, that it was 'Mr. Barrow,' not 'Thomas,' and that as under-butler it was well below his dignity to be sent on an errand to fetch anyone, much less the likes of Bates. He thought about it, but then he remembered that it was Mrs. Carson who held his hand and whispered words of comfort while he lay at the bottom of the stairs with a useless foot twisted in searing pain; it was Mrs. Carson who demanded the maids surrender aprons to be tucked between the hard stone floor and his ankle; it was Mrs. Carson who calmly told Phyllis to phone for Dr. Clarkson and bring them some ice; it was Mrs. Carson who glared white hot anger at Andy and ordered him to clean up his mess and keep his boisterous shenanigans to himself in future lest he actually manage to kill someone; and it was Mrs. Carson who visited his room after Dr. Clarkson had gone to invite him to come down as soon as he felt he could, with the utterly amazing suggestion that his presence below stairs might actually be missed. With all of this in mind, Thomas held his tongue.
"Mrs. Hughes..." Sgt. Willis began.
"Carson," Carson said pointedly.
The sergeant glanced from Carson to Mrs. Carson and back again.
Oh, good Lord, what difference does this make now? Thomas wondered with a roll of his eyes. But, of course, it would make a great deal of difference to Carson, and Thomas really would have expected no less. Smitten.
"What's that?" the officer asked, still not grasping the meaning of Carson's interruption.
"It is Mrs. Carson now," Carson stated, puffing out his chest and putting on his best butler air.
The sergeant glanced back and forth between the couple again before Mrs. Carson gave him a slight nod.
"Oh, I see. Yes, of course," Sgt. Willis said. "Ahem. Well congratulations to you both."
"Thank you," Mrs. Carson said, without a bit of sincerity while she pursed her lips and eyed the man through narrowing slits.
"Well now, Mrs. Carson then," Sgt. Willis again, "would you please fetch Mrs. Bates so that we may be on our way with as little disruption as possible, or must we find her ourselves?"
Mrs. Carson glanced nervously to her husband, as if awaiting guidance. Thomas found himself taken aback by what appeared to be her momentary indecision. The woman ordinarily appeared to be in complete control. Under most circumstances, she was exactly who one might go to with any crisis. He had certainly never seen her seek guidance or permission from anyone before acting – and most especially not Carson, married or not. Clearly, this ongoing Bates drama was beginning to take its toll. Mr. Carson might have been cowed under the romantic sentimentality of marriage, but Mrs. Carson? Certainly not. She was far too practical for such nonsense.
"I believe Lord Grantham is in the library," Carson said quietly. "See if you can ask him to join us as well."
She gave a tight nod, turned, and began towards the door without another word to the officers.
"Oh, and Mrs. Carson," Carson called out. She froze in the doorway. "I shouldn't think it necessary to bring any of the ladies downstairs for this."
Mrs. Carson blinked repeatedly as if she were trying to process his words and corral a lifetime's worth of thoughts. And then, rising to her full height, she walked on.
"Miss Baxter," she called with clipped tones into the servant's hall, where the lady's maid was addressing some mending. "I'll need you to come with me and watch the children for a few minutes if you are free."
"Of course." And their footsteps retreated up the stairs.
Carson stood quietly several minutes, observing the two officers from across his desk. The younger officer - what was his name? ah, Taylor – briefly attempted some manner of light banter; Carson responded with a glower that would have silenced a raging banshee. Or Miss O'Brien.
"Mr. Carson," Bates nodded as he leaned slightly against the door jam.
"Ah good, Mr. Bates, you're here. Do come in," Carson said, suddenly presenting an almost jovial and relaxed air, as if the assemblage hosted in his office was come for a lively tea rather than yet another attempt by the local constabulary to see a beloved staff member hanged.
Bates stepped cautiously into the room, eying the officers with all the openness and trust of one who had twice been convicted for crimes that even a simple-minded child would have recognized as the work of another.
"Mr. Molesley said you wanted to see me?" Bates directed his question to Carson while keeping his eyes planted squarely on the Sargent. "What's all this about?"
"Mrs. Hu..., er, Mrs. Carson has gone to fetch Mrs. Bates," Sgt. Willis said. "What say we wait until she arrives and discuss it all together, eh?"
Thomas, who was more than mildly surprised that no one had yet thought to ask him to leave the room, decided it best to draw as little attention to himself as possible, and so continued quietly polishing the silver while watching the strange assemblage from the corner of his eye.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Grantham began shouting well before he reached the butler's pantry. He bounded into the room to stand nearly nose-to-nose with the older police officer.
Anna trailed in behind him, glancing warily from one face to another before taking her place just in front of her husband. Mrs. Carson remained in the doorway, watching the scene in front of her unfold as if it were an obscure horror film running on some kind of bizarre repeating loop.
Mr. Bates wrapped an arm proprietarily around his wife's waist and took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was laboring to remain calm. If anyone knew how critical it was to stay calm in such a circumstance, it was, of course, Mr. Bates.
"Alright now, what is this about?" Mr. Bates asked. "We were given the impression that the matter with Mr. Green was concluded, and that his death had been ruled accidental."
"Oh yes," Sgt. Willis said breathlessly with a flourish of his hand. "The Green case remains closed for now, but it would seem that Mrs. Bates has left yet another body in her wake." The officer stared pointedly at Anna.
"Another body? Is this the latest trend in policing?" Lord Grantham bellowed. "Are the English police to just stop in at my home and round up a Bates every time a body is found between here and London?"
"This body was found near Stokesley," Taylor volunteered, failing in his attempt to feign an air of authority.
"Oh, I see, the Bates's bloody reign of terror has expanded north," Lord Grantham said, rounding on the younger officer and flailing his hands about in the air over his head. The officer clearly missed the sarcasm dripping from the earl's words.
"Now, Lord Grantham, that sounds fairly absurd if you think about it," he said. Thomas wondered if this man might be distantly related to Molesley.
"Yes, my point exactly," Lord Grantham said, rocking back on his heels and pressing his lips together. "This whole thing is, as you put it, fairly absurd."
"You will admit it strange," the sergeant interjected, keeping his eyes pinned on Anna. "Mrs. Bates certainly seems to know a fair number of people who have turned up dead."
"Well, just who exactly is it that has turned up dead this time?"
"Ah," Sgt. Willis glanced dramatically to his notebook, pausing as if to confirm the victim's name, although he clearly knew it. "One Mrs. Catherine Jenkins."
"Who?" three male voices rang out at the same time as Mrs. Carson asked, "Nanny Jenkins?"
Anna blanched and looked as if she were about to slide to the floor. Mr. Bates stumbled against the wall slightly in his attempt to steady his wife.
"Nanny Jenkins is dead?" Mrs. Carson asked distractedly as she crossed the room to pull a chair up for Anna to settle into.
"She is. Her nude body was found bruised and battered in a field last evening," Officer Molesley-alike said.
Thomas noticed Carson wince at the vivid description of Nanny Jenkins's remains. He briefly wondered if Carson's discomfort was for the dead woman or the women now hearing the description.
Anna seemed to be reminding herself to breathe as she made a glassy-eyed study of the floor and nervous glances were exchanged around her.
"All of us here thought that Miss Jenkins had just abandoned her position," Mrs. Carson said. "Anyway, I can't imagine what motive you would think that Mrs. Bates has for killing the woman. They hardly knew..."
"Well, as I said," Sgt. Willis interrupted, "if nothing else, it seems odd that Mrs. Bates should know so very many people who have turned up dead under such mysterious circumstances."
"As do we all," said Thomas. All eyes turned towards him with astonishment. Of course, no one was more surprised that he had spoken than Thomas himself.
They all studied him suspiciously, as if they were waiting for him to create some new and innovative version of hell right here in Carson's pantry. All of them, that is, except Mrs. Carson. Mrs. Carson rolled her lips and fought back the smirk that threatened to spread across her face.
"Are you suggesting that you all had a role in this murder?" Officer Molesley-alike asked. "Because that is interesting."
"Certainly not," blustered Carson, his eyebrows making a valiant attempt to burst forth from his head and alight on the ceiling. "No one has suggested any such thing."
Thomas calmly returned his attention to polishing the tray in front of him. He had the flittering thought that perhaps it was altogether odd the very number of people in this house who had even seen the inside of a jail cell. He wondered if there were more such stories than even he knew, but then dismissed the thought as unlikely as soon as it formed.
"I'm merely pointing out that we all of us in this room had knowledge of each of these people," Thomas said. "And I suspect if we thought about it, we could determine that there were a fair few more who came in contact with all of them."
The officers seemed to be ruminating on this new and intriguing idea as they shared in the study of a spot just beyond Thomas's left shoulder.
"So, why Mrs. Bates?" Thomas asked, continuing to buff the already spotless silver surface. "Why does it seem that you are so determined to build a case against our fair Anna here? She certainly seems the least likely of murderers, yet here you are, yet again, accusing her of just that."
"He's right," Lord Grantham said. "What more have you than the mere coincidence that Anna happens to have known more than one person who is now dead?"
"Well, there is the matter of the witness," Officer Molesley-alike stuttered out.
"Witness?" Mrs. Carson asked tightly.
"Yes," Sgt. Willis said. "We have a witness who says that he personally saw Mrs. Bates beating the victim, er, Miss Jenkins, with some sort of heavy lead pipe."
"It seems to me, you had a witness once before," Mr. Bates said pointedly.
"Yes, well, this witness knows Mrs. Bates. He has no question about what he saw," Sgt. Willis said with a nod towards Anna. "Or who."
Mr. Bates and Lord Grantham exchanged glances over Anna's head. The poor girl was so pale she seemed to be turning into a ghost right before their eyes.
"Well then, tell us, who is this supposed witness?" Mrs. Carson asked.
"Ah, yes," the sergeant's eyes returned to scan his notebook. He really is a one-trick pony, Thomas thought.
"The witness is one Harold Smythe," the officer intoned.
"Who?" Anna looked up sharply and asked, just as Carson was collapsing into his chair and muttering, "The groom's assistant."