If Carson had been in need of further evidence to convince him that his life had descended completely into madness, he received it the instant his wife and Bates conspired to ask Barrow's assistance with, well, anything.
They were stood in his pantry, the three of them, hemmed in by enough of Smythe's material belongings to overfill a large freight carriage, when this crazed idea was first proposed. Carson was nursing an injured knee caused by the clumsiness of a pair of Maloney's delivery boys, as well as an aching head and a crabby temperament caused by his own folly in missing not one, but two meals.
What had initially seemed a simply glorious plan – to dig through Smythe's belongings and find answers to all their questions about Smythe's identity and, hopefully, the key fact that would lead to Anna's immediate release – had quickly deteriorated into nothing more or less than an overwhelming fiasco. There were boxes and crates everywhere, leaving barely enough room for any of them to move. And within moments, a thin layer of grime had been transferred from the crates to cover the three inhabitants of the room, as well as nearly every inch of surface from the servants' entrance, down the corridor, and into both the servants' hall and the pantry. Finally staring the sheer magnitude of the job before them in the face, Mrs. Carson had broached the fact that, given that she, Mr. Carson, and Mr. Bates had their regular duties to attend, just a perfunctory glance through Mr. Smythe's belongings could take days and yield few results.
"There is nothing to be done about it," Carson said. "It's not like there is anyone else available to help us. We are stretched thin as it is, and even if we weren't I doubt many of the servants would be suitably qualified to perform this particular task."
They sat silently for a moment, ruminating on the dilemma and their grimy discomfort.
"We could always ask Barrow," Bates laughed. They all laughed. "He has nothing to do these days."
It was a joke. Obviously. When he said it, it was a joke. But within an instant, Carson watched as some sort of corrupt energy passed between his wife and Bates; with a glance and a nod, the two of them somehow transformed the joke – it was a joke, wasn't it? – into an earnest intent. Carson, glancing back and forth from his wife to Bates, was certain that he was seeing the genesis of a great fall for all of them.
"No. Absolutely not."
"Well, he does have the available time right now," Mrs. Carson said.
"No. I mean it. No."
"Barrow could actually be a help in this particular circumstance," Bates said. "You must admit that he is particularly attuned to the idea of discovering people's secrets."
"I admit no such thing. No."
"Now, Mr. Carson, we must keep this in perspective. The important thing here is seeing Anna freed as soon as possible. Surely we can all put our personal feelings aside for Anna's sake," Mrs. Carson said.
"Our personal feelings about Mr. Barrow are deeply rooted and wholly legitimate. He is not to be trusted. No."
"What have we to lose?" Mrs. Carson asked. "What is the worst that could come of asking Mr. Barrow to help us?"
"He could say yes."
"And, how would that do any of us harm?"
"I don't know, and neither do you. We have no idea what information may be found here about the family, or any of us," Carson looked at his wife pointedly. "We cannot blindly trust Barrow with whatever we may happen across here. No."
Then his wife had uttered the three word enchantment that he feared she could now use to bring an immediate end to any dispute they might have today and into eternity.
"Trust me, dear."
Bates smirked knowingly, clearly aware that the wind had been knocked from Carson's sails.
Carson wasn't quite sure if it was the entreaty itself or the endearment that did him in, but he could only hope that his wife never came to understand the power she could wield over him with that particular phrase. He was certain, of course, that she knew immediately.
"Oh, very well," he huffed. "I can't fight this battle all day. But, I warn you, if he somehow uses any information found here to discredit or embarrass Downton or the family in any way..."
"I think Thomas might be more loyal than you like to credit, Mr. Carson," Elsie cut him off. Carson's brows shot up and he tucked his chin to eye her skeptically. Bates quietly snickered.
"No, really," she said, eyes wide with sincerity. "Don't get me wrong. Clearly, he is a trouble-maker of the first order. He is slippery and ambitious and scheming, and would stop at nothing to walk over anyone below stairs to get his way, but..."
"But?" Carson asked, his lips curling into an ironic smile.
"But he has his loyalties, even amongst the staff. And I don't believe he would ever betray the family outside the house," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever else we might say about him, he knows how to present a united front to the rest of the world. He has known as many of the family's secrets as anyone through the years, maybe more given his penchant for seeking them out. I've never known him to divulge any of them publicly."
"Well, he's none too fond of Mr. Bates," Carson said, nodding his head in Bates's direction. "I believe it was his meddling, in part, that brought suspicion on the Bates in the Green matter."
"As I said, he is ambitious. He's always disliked Mr. Bates because he believed he stood in his way, but I think you will find that, if pressed, he has nothing in particular against Anna and would rather not see her imprisoned."
"I agree," Bates said quietly. "Whatever his ill-will, it has always been directed towards me, never towards Anna except that she is my wife. Whatever his feelings towards me, and mine towards him, I can easily overlook them if there is a chance he might help to see Anna freed even a moment sooner."
At that, Carson sighed, knowing he was beaten once again, and gave his wife a vague wave of his hand to indicate his permission that she might go fetch the scoundrel.
"Mr. Carson," she said, pausing on her way out the door, "I believe first I will step into the kitchens and ask Mrs. Patmore to make you some tea and sandwiches. We wouldn't want you getting peevish on top of everything already going on." Carson rolled his eyes at her retreating back. Sandwiches would be welcome sustenance, but he expected they would do little to decrease his skepticism regarding Barrow.
An hour later, Mr. Bates had gone upstairs for his appointment with Murray, while Carson, Mrs. Carson, and Barrow were well into the process of going through Smythe's belongings. And though every moment spent in this situation was setting Carson's teeth on edge, he had to admit (silently to himself, never to another living soul – and especially not his wife) that Barrow had unexpectedly brought a new level of order and efficiency to the entire process.
It was Barrow who suggested that they begin by going through the largest boxes and trunks, and then have those that had been searched removed to an outside storage building to quickly make more room to negotiate within the cramped pantry. It was Barrow who had begun a catalog of their discoveries so as to more easily locate anything they might decide would be useful in the future. It was Barrow who, far more politely than Carson might have expected, had asked Lily to fetch some hall boys to clean up the mess of dust and grime coating the corridor and the servants' hall. And it was Barrow who, just as Bates had predicted, had displayed an almost uncanny ability to reach past the mundane and merely odd to pull out those items most likely to embarrass and incriminate. As per the norm, it was not so much what Barrow did that actually vexed Carson, but the flourishing, oily, disingenuous condescension with which he did it.
"What ho?" cried Barrow. "What ever have we here?"
They had already gone through a trunk filled with what appeared to be music hall costumes, a box of cookery items, two cases of women's clothing – mostly undergarments (some of which Mrs. Carson was certain appeared to have aged blood on them), a large crate of largely-broken empty wine bottles (cheap, nasty stuff), and a case full of old newspapers (which Barrow insisted they must revisit more thoroughly later to determine if any articles had been circled or clipped).
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the findings had thus far raised more questions than they had answered, but they had cleared additional space in the room so that the three could now comfortably pull chairs around the latest discovery – a trunk brimming with what appeared to be private papers, journals, ribbon-tied stacks of letters, and small personal knick-knacks. After hours of plowing through a virtual treasure trove of pure trash that had failed to illuminate much of anything, the discovery of this trunk had heralded the possibility of a light at the end of the tunnel.
And now Barrow was sat, eyes gleaming, lips pulled into a triumphant smirk, arm partially extended towards the sky, grasping a single yellowed page between his fingers. Without even seeing the front of the paper, Carson knew instinctively what it was.
"The Cheerful Charlies," Barrow sniggered, "starring Charlie Carson and Charlie Grigg. Well, well, well."
Carson frowned. The flyer with their names on it had only been printed for one venue. Where was? Manchester, perhaps? Liverpool? All other flyers had simply listed the name of the act. It was just his luck that this miscreant Smythe had somehow gotten ahold of the one that listed him by name. And now, thanks to the brilliant planning of his wife and Mr. Bates, Barrow had managed to uncover his secret as well.
"Cheerful Charlie," Barrow repeated. "I'd wager it's been a long time since anyone used that designation to describe you, eh Mr. Carson?"
Carson sputtered and felt his face begin to burn. He found himself in the unusual and discomfiting position of being without words to address the subject of his shame. Glancing up from beneath lidded eyes, he saw his wife sat with a tight-lipped grimace, wearing an expression somewhere between sympathetic horror and embarrassed mirth.
"Trust me, you said," he mumbled.
"And just what kind of act was this?" Barrow asked. "Did you sing? Or did you perhaps dance as well?"
"That's enough, Thomas," Mrs. Carson snapped as she reached up to snatch the paper out of his hand. "If you recall, we are searching for information about Mr. Smythe's life, not Mr. Carson's."
"Why did you never tell us of your secret talents, Mr. Carson?" Barrow continued unabated. "Perhaps you could give us a performance after tea. I'm certain it would do wonders for staff morale."
"Enough!" Mrs. Carson barked. Carson briefly considered that he had not heard her use quite that tone in many years, perhaps since before the war. It was enough to cause even Barrow to start and give a final anxious laugh.
"Now, let's get on with the task at hand," Mrs. Carson said, smoothing her hands over her skirts before bending to pick up another item from the trunk. "I'd like to think we could find some answers sooner rather than later."
A tense atmosphere clouded the room as both Mrs. Carson and Barrow returned to the examination of the items before them. After several moments of silent, yet vigorous self-absorption, Carson shifted nervously in his chair, cleared his throat and attempted to pull himself to his fullest seated height before reaching into trunk and pulling out a stack of what appeared to be four bound journals of varying dimensions.
Glancing through the first journal, he found its pages had been filled by what was clearly a feminine hand. His brow furrowed in confusion. These entries had clearly not been made by Smythe. A quick perusal of each of the journals told him more.
"These are not Smythe's journals," Carson said.
"Oh? Whose are they?" Mrs. Carson asked distractedly as she continued to study what appeared to be a stack of shipping invoices addressed to a resort hotel in Blackpool. Blackpool! That's where the flyer was printed with their names. Of course! That was also where Grigg had tried to fleece some tourists rolling dice and ended up instead losing not only all his own funds, but those he had stolen from Carson's suitcase as well. Carson had been mortified at having to climb through the window of their hotel room to retrieve his belongings, after the owner (quite reasonably) locked them out for non-payment. He tore his best slacks in the process.
"Well, whose are they?" Mrs. Carson asked again, pulling him from his memories.
"Oh, beg pardon," Carson said shaking his head. "I don't know. They seem to be the work of different women."
"Women? Are you suggesting that Mr. Smythe stole these?" Mrs. Carson asked.
"I'm not suggesting anything other than that he did not write them. As far as who did, we would have to read them more carefully in order to try and figure that out through references and context. We might never know."
"Aren't they inscribed in any way?" Mrs. Carson asked.
"Journals are generally intended to be viewed only by their owners in private quarters. I wouldn't imagine most people see the need in inscription," Carson said flipping through one of the books. "I suspect that at least this one belongs to a Lady. There are references here to the season and dancing with one of Lord Edgington's sons."
"Why would Mr. Smythe have these ladies' journals?" Mrs. Carson pondered.
"Blackmail," Barrow said, without looking up from the stack of postcards he was flipping through. "Or at least the hope of finding something he could use for blackmail."
Carson felt both his eyebrows and the temperature in the room climb dramatically. Barrow's comments on blackmail seemed almost prescient given recent events upstairs surrounding Smythe, and Carson was still not prepared to discuss the matter.
"Yes, well, I will just put these aside to examine more closely later," Carson commented as he placed the pile of books on his desk with a forced calm.
Carson turned to watch Mrs. Carson pull from the chest a large yellow envelope with the name 'Harold Smith' scrawled across its front in bold letters.
"That's odd," she muttered through pursed lips, "I thought his name was Smythe. This says Smith."
"I've not seen anything I thought he'd written himself," Barrow said. "The distinction may not mean much to him."
"Do we really know what his name is at all?" Carson asked. "It seems to me that the more we see here, the more questions are raised."
Mrs. Carson reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of photographs. Carson and Barrow instinctively moved in on either side to get a better look, as Mrs. Carson began flipping through the stack. The first few photos were of street scenes in unidentified locales. Carson thought that one or two might have been taken in Blackpool, but as he had only been there the one time many years before, he couldn't be certain that his surmise wasn't just the result of his earlier musings about the city.
"Do either of you think this looks a bit like Nanny Jenkins?" Mrs. Carson asked as she came upon a photo of a woman and a young boy. This was a posed portrait with the woman sitting in a high backed chair while the boy stood resting his hand on her shoulder. The style of dress indicated that the photo was at least a decade old.
"She's younger, but I think it is her," Barrow said. "And, I've only seen this man Smythe once or twice, but that boy in the photograph looks just about the right age to be him. He certainly has his coloring."
"I believe you're right," Carson moved even closer to examine the picture. "I think it is the two of them."
Mrs. Carson turned to the next picture. Noticing that it was a photo of the same two individuals taken months or perhaps a year after the previous one, she placed the street photos back in the envelop and focused on those with human subjects. In all, there were twelve portraits of the two of them, appearing to have been taken approximately once a year. The most recent two or three photos left no question who their subjects were – the former nanny and the groom's assistant, whatever their names may have been. In addition, there were a handful of other photos scattered throughout. Most were group shots that included people whose identities were totally unknown. Some were taken on a beach; all were taken outside.
"Oh my," Mrs. Carson intoned as she reached the next photo in the stack.
This photograph was of only Nanny Jenkins. Well, only Nanny Jenkins and a rug. Her clothing had been inconveniently left out of the picture entirely. And she was laying posed on the rug in a manner designed specifically to display certain key areas of her body.
Mrs. Carson reddened; Carson paled. Even Barrow had the good grace to appear stunned by the discovery. Mrs. Carson quickly flipped through the rest of the photographs, determining all the remaining were similarly comprised. Mortified by his wife's action and his failure to stop it, Carson plucked the pile of photographs out of her hands and quickly thrust them into a half-empty box of stationery that he had earlier pulled from the trunk.
"I must go check on things upstairs," he said. "I will take these with me and discuss their discovery with his lordship. Surely, the police will see this shines some new light on Nanny Jenkin's murder."
Carson turned, and still favoring his bruised knee, began to limp out of the room.
"Mr. Carson," his wife murmured. He froze in the doorway. "You might want to change your livery before you go up."
Carson blinked repeatedly as if he were trying to process the words and glanced down to take in the thick coating of filth in which he found himself covered. And then, rising to his full height, he walked on.
After a quick wash and a change of clothes, Carson took the box of photographs and went in search of his lordship. He found him sitting alone at his writing desk in the library conducting his afternoon correspondence.
"M'lord, please pardon the interruption. Have you a moment?"
"Certainly Carson," Lord Grantham said looking up at the butler as he replaced the cap on his pen.
"The groom delivered several boxes of Mr. Smythe's belongings downstairs earlier this afternoon," Carson began. Lord Grantham looked confused.
"What kind of belongings? And why would he deliver them to the house?"
"Well, m'lord, it seems that Mr. Smythe had a large number of personal effects stored in the lofts above the stables. Mr. Maloney felt that he was no longer obligated to store his abandoned belongings since he had neither seen nor heard from the man since he, as Mr. Maloney put it, 'disappeared like a thief in the night nearly a week ago.'"
"Yes, but why would he bring them to the house? And why would you allow this?"
"Well, m'lord, I was initially inclined to refuse. As you know, we have no room downstairs to operate a warehouse. However, it was pointed out to me that a fair number of questions have been raised about Mr. Smythe's background and motivations in this recent situation, and it was decided that we might examine his belongings for...clues, as it were."
"We?" Lord Grantham asked with a look of bemusement.
"Yes, well," Carson imagined he felt a slight shifting below his feet, "myself, Mrs. Carson, Mr. Bates, and, ahem, Mr. Barrow have been looking through some of the boxes."
"Barrow? Well, now that is intriguing. It sounds like you have formed quite the investigative team below stairs."
"I'm not sure I would go quite that far, m'lord."
"Well, you certainly can't do any worse than the local constabulary at this point."
"A glowing endorsement, m'lord," Carson said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. Lord Grantham raised his eyebrows and fought back a growing smirk.
"Yes, well, Carson, am I to take it that you and your detectives have found something you wish to share with me?"
"Yes m'lord, that is correct," Carson said holding out the box for examination.
Lord Grantham eyed Carson with delighted mirth for a moment as he reached out to take the package. His amusement soon turned to shock when he glanced down and saw its contents, however.
"Is this...who is this?" Lord Grantham asked incredulously.
"It would appear, m'lord, that these are photographs of Mr. Smythe and Nanny Jenkins together and, er, altogether – before she was Nanny Jenkins, one would assume."
"Well, who was she then?"
"That, we cannot yet say."
Lord Grantham flipped slowly through the pictures one by one. He then flipped through them a second time, stopping to examine one particular photograph of the young woman in question for a bit longer than could possibly be entirely proper.
"Well, it would appear," Lord Grantham said tearing his eyes away from the picture, "that the nanny and the groom's assistant had quite the past together."
"Yes, I should say so, m'lord."
"Carson," Lord Grantham began after a moment's silence spent staring pensively into the box, "where did you get this writing paper?"
"Writing paper, m'lord?" Carson was openly confused. Of all the things to ask about, writing paper? "It was in with Mr. Smythe's effects. I was merely using the box to..."
Lord Grantham reached out to open one of the small drawers across the top of his desk. He pulled out and unfolded a sheet of cream-colored paper, which Carson recognized immediately as the blackmail letter the family had passed around the room the day prior. Without taking his eyes off the note, he reached into the box, removed a sheet of writing paper, and held them out to Carson for comparison.
Carson frowned. The paper certainly looked the same. Lord Grantham fingered the paper in each hand thoughtfully.
"This is a fairly decent quality paper. Heavy bond," Lord Grantham said. He held both papers up to the light. "Ah, look here, Carson. See this watermark." Carson moved behind him to confirm that the center of each page held a distinctive watermark featuring an elaborate insignia above the words 'Fenmore Mills.'
Carson was befuddled. He couldn't begin to grasp the significance of the papers being produced by the same manufacturer. He frowned briefly as he wondered if his lordship had happened upon some peculiar new hobby that involved a fascination with watermarks. Not so different from collecting stamps, he thought, but now seemed an ill-timed moment to begin to nurture such interests.
"Is Bates still in with Murray?" Lord Grantham's question pulled Carson from his musings.
"Ah, I believe so, m'lord."
"Very good," Lord Grantham said while folding the blackmail letter up and replacing it in the desk drawer, along with the box of pictures. "I'd like you and Bates to meet me back here at half six."
"Yes m'lord," Carson said as he fought a brief, but valiant battle against his eyebrows, which attempted to draw closer to his hairline. Surely at some point someone must realize that the work of the house continues, he thought with an inward sigh.
As Carson was descending the staircase to check on what new havoc might have been rendered below stairs, he encountered Lady Mary on the landing. He was instantly set on edge.
"Can I help, m'lady?" While the family was clearly free to travel anywhere within their house that they saw fit, Carson was always most uncomfortable when they ventured below stairs. These unexpected and unplanned moments of convergence between the upstairs and downstairs worlds caused him mild panic and always seemed to result in minor catastrophes and embarrassments for himself or the staff.
"No thank you, Carson. I was just here to see Mrs. Carson." Carson gave a brief nod as Lady Mary continued past. Perhaps at least this imagined disaster had been averted on this day.
Or perhaps not. After climbing two additional steps, Lady Mary turned and whispered to him, almost conspiratorially.
"Carson, I'm afraid I may have gotten you into some trouble," she said. He turned to look up at her with an open, questioning face. "I assumed you would have told her," she continued.
Oh, good Lord. Carson blanched. He sighed before pulling himself to his full height.
"And, if I may ask, what exactly did you tell her, m'lady?" Carson asked with all the deference he could muster.
"Everything. The moving of the body, the blackmail letter, just everything."
Carson wondered briefly how many misconceptions had been conveyed that he might have to correct. Lady Mary pivoted on the stairs as if to go, but then seemed to think better of it.
"Carson, I'm curious," she said turning back to him with a slight frown. "Why didn't you tell Mrs. Carson about all of this? I certainly wouldn't have expected you to tell just anyone, but given that she is your wife, and of course she has the family's utmost trust, and then there is her relationship with Anna, I would have thought..." She trailed off as if she didn't know exactly how to elaborate on just what she would have thought.
For an instant, Carson thought to bluster about the impropriety of gossiping about the family below stairs and about her assumption that he would have done just that, but he doubted that in that moment he could achieve a convincing level of indignation. He glanced around briefly, fully aware that he was having this conversation with a member of the family in a very public location on the stairs. His knee still hurt, and he very much wanted just to sit down.
"M'lady, I've hardly known what to make of all of this myself," Carson said with a sigh. "And the fact remains that some secrets are not ours to tell."
Lady Mary raised on eyebrow and looked at him thoughtfully.
"Interesting. Mrs. Carson just said essentially the same thing to me not ten minutes ago."
"I understand you had a visit from Lady Mary," Carson said as he limped through the open door to the housekeeper's sitting room. He closed the door behind him and dropped into the nearest chair. Best to address this issue head on, if there was to be an issue at all, he thought.
"Indeed," she said, spinning her desk chair around to face him. Her faced was adorned with a grin, as if she was fighting back an inclination at laughter. Perhaps this was not going to be as bad as all that.
"She says the new nanny will arrive on Saturday."
"Well, that should be a relief."
"Yes, it should. Of course, that is not what she was actually here for."
"Oh? Why do you say...?"
"She has never come below stairs to personally deliver staffing news before. She was here trying to confirm her suspicions about Anna's condition."
"You mean the child?" he leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially as best he could.
"Yes. She seemed to think that Mr. Bates might have told me if there was anything to tell."
Carson raised a brow and pursed his lips. "Well, she's not so far off there. What did you tell her?"
"Nothing really. I told her that if Anna and Mr. Bates had any such news to share, it would best be left to them to decide who they told in their own time. I was a little gentler than that, of course, but that was the thrust of it."
"Why not just tell her? You told me."
"Really, Charles, it's hardly the same. You're my husband. And Mr. Bates agreed I might tell you. He specifically did not want me to tell anyone else, including Lady Mary."
"Alright, so how was your secrecy received?"
"Well, we are talking about Lady Mary," she said with a laugh. "She wasn't particularly thrilled that I was less than forthcoming, but she handled it fairly well. I must admit, she has the best of intentions where Anna is concerned. She is quite worried."
He just nodded absently. He couldn't help but feel that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"She seemed to think that if she could tell her ladyship about Anna, about the child, it would be enough to convince her and Lady Edith to go to the police."
"She doesn't actually believe that Lady Edith is responsible for the nanny's death?" he asked with a start.
"No, I don't think so. I think she believes that if they went to the police and admitted their folly, took the blackmail note to the police, it would undermine Mr. Smythe as a witness against Anna."
"I see," he said. But he wasn't entirely sure he did see. The sketchy plan seemed an awfully big risk with little promise of the expected reward.
"About that note," he began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She released a tired, ragged sigh.
"Charles, I shouldn't think at this point you need explain why you didn't tell me about this. It seems we have been here before."
"Yes, it does," he said lowly, rubbing his hands nervously over his knees.
"Perhaps," she said, meeting and holding his eyes, "we might both take a lesson from this, since we keep ending up back at this same spot."
"Oh?"
"It's easier to be on the same side if we are both working with the same facts."
"I would hope we were always on the same side," he said.
She blinked at him with a thin weary smile. He was struck once again by how tired she looked, how tired he felt.
"We generally are, eventually, but we get there sooner when we help each other along."
He glanced away, resting his eyes on the fireplace. Of course, she was right, he thought, but he still wasn't sure he was prepared to discuss all the gruesome and prurient details Smythe had brought to their doorstep.
"Lady Mary said this letter mentioned you personally. I would have hoped you might have at least told me that." She was eying him with a steady, almost accusatory gaze, but he thought he detected a pained quality in her words.
"Elsie, I..." and then he found he didn't know what to say.
Without words to aid him, he stood and crossed to stand in front of her. In one fluid movement, he reached out, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet and into an embrace. They stood there leaned against one another in weary solidarity for a fair few moments before she spoke again.
"I hope it isn't your plan to change the subject by seducing me into your arms," she chuckled against his chest.
His body shook with silent laughter as he leaned down to place a kiss in her hair.
"I couldn't dream of such a plot," he said. "My wife is the plotter. I merely muddle through."
"Charles," she sighed, "is there anything else you would like to tell me?"
"No," he answered, probably too quickly.
"Is there anything else I would like to know?" she asked, her voice filled with an ironic mirth. She always was too smart for him by half.
"Undoubtedly."
"I think you should tell me then," she chided gently while tightening her clasp around his waist.
He exhaled slowly and rolled his eyes. There was nothing for it.
"Alright," he sighed.
"Alright?"
"Alright."