When Thomas used his crutches to push past the throng and into the kitchen, he found Mrs. Patmore sat in a chair in the corner, rending on a handkerchief and sobbing uncontrollably, with Mrs. Carson leaned over her frantically issuing tones that walked a fine line between exasperation and commiseration.

Andy, Molesley, Phyllis, and Daisy were stood in a silent knot watching the scene unfold from just in front of the doorway. They were wearing expressions that ranged from bemused to horrified to sickeningly sympathetic (naturally, that was Phyllis).

Lily was standing, wide-eyed and perhaps terrified, faced away from the entire room. She appeared to be making a valiant effort to completely deny the events unfolding around her as she continuously stirred a large spoon about in a pot on the stove.

Every drawer and cabinet door in the kitchen was standing wide open, and all the utensils, bowls, crockery, and cooking tools once contained within were now spread haphazardly across every counter, table, and surface of any sort within the room.

Carson was stood in the middle of it all looking for all the world as though he might at any moment spontaneously combust.

"All this over a missing knife?" Thomas leaned to the side to quietly address his question to Daisy.

"It were a gift from her nephew, Archie," Daisy divulged. "The one what died in the war."

A gift? Who gives a kitchen knife as a gift? Thomas wondered.

"Why not just use another knife?" Molesley asked pushing in behind them.

"It's sentimental," Daisy whispered harshly. Phyllis gave Molesley a look that rested somewhere between besotted encouragement and compassionate disappointment.

"Who gets sentimental over a kitchen knife?" Andy asked. Daisy glared at him, but Thomas wondered the same thing.

"And she just noticed it missing today? When was the last time this knife was used?" Thomas asked.

"I wouldn't know for certain. Only Mrs. Patmore uses that knife, but I think it has been at least a week. She only uses it when we serve poultry at dinner."

"What?" Thomas hissed. "Does all the kitchen cutlery have such specific purposes?"

"Of course not," Daisy groaned with a roll of her eyes. "That would be ridiculous."

"And this isn't?"

Thomas glanced past Daisy to see that one of the housemaids – what was her name? Ah yes, Molly – was leaned around the frame of the other door, nervously surveying the mayhem. There was something about her demeanor, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it was something that went beyond the mere curiosity or even outright frustration being displayed by the rest of the gathered staff. It was something that made him view her with fresh suspicion.

"Alright, everyone, let's get on," Mrs. Carson called out. "We all have work to get back to."

Thomas watched as Molly fairly bolted toward the backdoor. Phyllis, taking her cue from Mrs. Carson, began shepherding Molesley and Andy towards the servants' hall like errant sheep. Her efforts to encourage Thomas to join her flock were abandoned when met with uncompromising resistance.

Carson licked his lips and took one final shaky, red-faced look around the room before stalking out. It was perhaps the quietest paroxysm of pure rage any of them would ever witness.

"Daisy, do you think you and Lily can put the kitchen right on your own, or would you like us to ask some of the hall boys to come in and help?" Mrs. Carson asked. Daisy's eyes flashed with but a brief hint of insecurity before she answered with more authority than Thomas might have expected.

"We'd best make a good start on our own," she said. "The boys don't know where anything goes."

"You're probably right. Are things still on course for dinner?"

"I think so. We'll just clear the space to work for now."

"Good. Mrs. Patmore and I will be in my sitting room for a few minutes. I'm sure she will be back with you shortly, but if there are any problems, please come let me know."

Thomas measured his options and, realizing that it was unlikely he would immediately be able to negotiate the kitchen for a cup of tea, decided he might step out into the yard for a smoke. He hobbled through the door to find the housemaid sitting pensively on the crate in the middle of the courtyard. This could prove interesting, he thought.

"Molly, is it?" Thomas asked as he settled himself carefully onto the crate next to her. She gave a tight nod of her head and refused to glance in his direction, while sliding almost imperceptibly away from him to perch on the farthest edge of the box.

Thomas fumbled with his cigarette box, holding it out to offer the maid one. She wordlessly shook her head and wrinkled her nose with an air of disgust. He raised his eyebrows at her blatant insociability as he put a cigarette to his mouth and lit it. Taking a slow drag, he watched her out of the corner of his eye while she continued to wring her hands and glance nervously about.

"What do you know about this knife business?" he asked calmly after a significant pause. Her reaction was anything but calm.

"Why would you ask me that?" she very nearly shouted. She leapt to her feet and paced off the steps to the door, before turning and walking half-way back to face him. Her hands hung at her sides, clasping and releasing repeatedly. She was breathing heavily and eying him like a half-mad dog ready to attack. Thomas smelled fear.

"I notice you didn't answer my question," he drawled sedately before taking another pull on his cigarette.

"I don't have to answer you. You're not my superior. I answer to Mrs. Carson."

"Now, now. There's no need to be so sharp," Thomas said. "This is just a friendly chat between colleagues."

"Friendly chat, indeed," she scoffed.

"Are you opposed to friendliness on principle then?" Thomas asked. Strangely, Thomas thought he might be able to respect such a position if applied consistently.

"Of course not. What does that even mean?"

"Well then, good, we can have a friendly chat. Why did you take Mrs. Patmore's knife?"

"I never said I did," she seethed. Watching her as she continued to clasp and release her hands, he had the momentary impression that she might be about to begin bouncing up and down like a child throwing a tantrum.

"No, not in so many words, but you've not actually denied it either," he said in falsely sympathetic tones. "Let me phrase this another way. Molly, can you imagine why anyone might remove a knife from the kitchens?"

She closed her eyes and stood silently for a moment, seeming to force her body to calm. Her hands stopped flexing and she relaxed her posture just slightly before she spoke.

"Well," she said, stretching the word far beyond its natural length. "I imagine that with the household actively working to bring a murder suspect back here from prison one might – might, I say – feel the need for some sort of security in the privacy of one's room. One might not have ever thought that this knife was anything particularly special to anyone."

Oh good Lord. This again? If the girl was so fearful – of Anna Bates of all people – that she thought sleeping with a knife under her pillow necessary protection, he couldn't imagine how she might survive the comings and goings of this house.

"Molly, your Uncle Thomas is going to give you a bit of unsolicited advice," Thomas said while intently studying the red hot tip of the cigarette as he twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. "A life in service is not for everyone. It would seem to me, it might not be for you."

She barked out an ironic laugh.

"Service is not a life for any woman with self-regard," she snarled.

"Indeed?" Thomas asked with a raised brow and a wide grin. "And why are you here then? Are you lacking in self regard? I can't imagine."

She thrust out her chin and pulled herself to her tallest height, glaring at him contemptuously down her nose.

"Service is just a means of support until something better comes calling," she said.

"Something or someone?" he asked barely bothering to contain his laughter. She ignored the question entirely.

"What self-respecting woman would want to toil her life away with the best reward on offer to one day become a bitter, angry old housekeeper?" she asked with a haughty, meaningful jerk of her head towards the door.

"Yes, perhaps better to start early as a bitter, angry young housemaid," he answered sardonically. Again, she ignored him and plowed forward.

"Who wants to await death as a barren old spinster, forever untouched and unloved? Or even worse, be forced at the end of life into a marriage of disdainful convenience, trading services to some overbearing, blustering old simpleton for support in your dotage?" She looked at him pointedly as if she thought she had just made a particularly astute observation that she very much wished he should catch on to.

Thomas felt his eyebrows climb. He simply couldn't imagine concerning himself with defending the Carsons and their relationship to a housemaid (or anyone else for that bloody matter), but he was genuinely perplexed at the astonishing inaccuracy of the girl's assessment. A healthy level of cynicism was a thing to be cultivated, but this girl had virtually no idea what was going on around her. Her lack of basic observational skills rendered her utterly useless.

"I'll give you this: you certainly are confident in your ideas of the world, no matter how laughably inaccurate they may be."

"What's it to you?" she snapped.

"It's nothing to me. As I said before – just a friendly chat between colleagues. But unless it is your genuine desire to make enemies where you should at least create the illusion of making friends, I would suggest in general that you pay a bit more attention to observing the loyalties of those around you before you open your mouth."

"You're hardly well regarded here," she taunted. "It certainly never stops you expressing whatever fool thought comes to your head."

Thomas found himself momentarily taken aback. The girl was off her rocker.

"I admit to being somewhat fascinated by the notion that you imagine you know what thoughts are in my head," Thomas sneered. "I assure you I do not express even a small minority of them. And you, for one, might consider yourself quite lucky that is the case."

"Well, I'd say I'm equally fascinated that you might think I care one wit what your thoughts are regarding me or anything else," she retorted, affecting an arrogant air.

But Thomas still smelled fear. Fear, coupled with this level of self-important foolishness could only lead to a fall, he thought. Might as well squash her now and enjoy it.

Thomas stretched his legs out in front of him and gave her a sly smile.

"Molly," he began thoughtfully, "in just the past two days, and stuck as I am below stairs, I have watched as you have alienated very nearly everyone in this house to one degree or another. Ordinarily, I might find such antics as yours quite amusing, but there is something about you I find particularly repulsive."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he just hammered on.

"You remind me a bit of a rather simple-minded version of someone else I once knew – all self-important arrogance and suspicion, always with plans for something more. Only in your case, you don't have what it takes to see any of those plans through. If you had a brain in your head, you might have been capable of exploiting this whole situation to your advantage somehow, but as it is you're just not smart enough to carry this life off. Why, you don't even have the good sense to pretend to cultivate a friendship with the one person a housemaid is most likely to need on her side."

"Who, you?" she asked with a scornful laugh.

"No, the bitter, angry housekeeper," he said, echoing her words with a derisive smirk. "Mrs. Carson is hardly the most difficult person in the house to show a bit of occasional friendliness to, true or not."

"I know what I'm about,"she snapped.

He eyed her skeptically. What did that even mean? He wondered.

"Here is my advice to you, Molly," he said, drawing out her name with an indignant flair. "By the end of the day you are going to give Mrs. Carson your notice."

"And why would I do that? Because you told me to?" she laughed. "I think I made it clear I don't answer to you."

"Give notice today and Mrs. Carson is still likely to give you a good character. Choose to wait until tomorrow and I wouldn't be so certain that will be the case." He glared at her pointedly.

"And just what do you suggest I tell the old witch about why I am leaving?"

"What do I care what you tell her? Don't tell her anything," he said as he lifted his good foot to snuff his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. "The loss of one odious housemaid is hardly enough to worry over, much less question. The likes of you can be replaced before the ink is dry on your reference."

At that, a flush began to spread across her cheeks and down her neck, and she began to shake. Observing her, he got the distinct impression that she might be about to cry. Thomas did not blink. He merely continued to grin. After a moment, she turned abruptly and began to stalk violently back towards the house.

"Oh, and Molly," he sang out. She froze in yard and stood facing away from him, waiting for him to continue. "Return Mrs. Patmore's knife to her within twenty minutes or I will have your room searched. And if you doubt that for one moment, you are an even bigger fool than I credited. Heaven only knows what we would find in there."

Mrs. Carson stepped out the door just as the tearful maid pushed past her into the house. She clasped her hands in front of her waist and flashed Thomas a brief, but telling smile, before rolling her lips to adopt a more serious expression as she stepped towards him.

"Mr. Barrow," she said slowly, "did my ears deceive me or did you just dismiss one of my maids?"

He watched her cagily for a moment. Her general demeanor was nearly admonitory, but her eyes sparkled with an unexpressed mirth. He wondered just how long she had been listening from beyond the door.

"No, of course not, Mrs. Carson," he drawled around the new cigarette he was lighting. "I've not authority to dismiss anyone."

She stood watching him in silence for a moment, chewing her lip, eyes turning to slits as if she were trying to puzzle out answers to long-held questions.

"No, of course not," she echoed. "I clearly misread the situation."

"Clearly," he said, maintaing an even, level gaze.

She moved slightly as if to leave, but then seemed to think better of it.

"Thomas," she said softly.

"Yes?" He responded with a sigh, while he fought to keep his eyes from rolling about in his head.

"Thank you."

"Whatever for, Mrs. Carson? I'm just here trying to enjoy my cigarette in peace."

"Yes, of course," she smirked, turning to walk back inside. "There's tea in Mr. Carson's pantry whenever you would like to rejoin us."

Soon after she crossed the threshold and disappeared from his view, her laughter rang down the hallway and throughout the courtyard. Thomas just shook his head and smiled. Clearly, they had all gone mad. Absolutely mad.

"Murray said there is talk of holding a coroner's inquest," Bates was telling the Carsons as Thomas paused in the doorway a short time later. "There seems to be some question about the cause of death."

Carson was seated behind his desk with his fingers tented in front of his face, while Bates and Mrs. Carson had taken the armchairs and pulled them around to face him. Boxes and crates still filled the room, but in much less overwhelming numbers than previously.

"Shouldn't this all have happened before they made an arrest?" Mrs. Carson asked, waving Thomas into the room and indicating that he should take a seat in a chair situated near the door.

"Yes, that's what Murray said. He's not that clear on why they pushed forward with arresting Anna so quickly and with such meager evidence."

"If the police that showed up here are a representative example of Britain's finest, I expect the dowager will be serving time for the Whitechapel murders by the end of the week," Thomas muttered, reaching out to accept the cup of tea Mrs. Carson was passing him. Even Carson's lips twitched into a subtle smile in response.

"Well, there is that," Bates smirked, "but there also seems to be some notion that we got the better of them last time. More specifically, that I got the better of them with my false confession and escape during the whole Green mess. Murray thinks they wanted Anna securely away so that there was no chance of us fleeing during the investigation."

"That hardly seems reasonable," Mrs. Carson said through pursed lips. "I would have thought they needed to have completed the investigation, at least to a greater degree than this, before an arrest could be made."

Carson knitted his brow and murmured something unintelligible about the Magna Carta.

"Murray seems to agree, but he says it may still take quite some time to work this out and see her free. Even then, she may face charges if the police don't identify the real murderer."

"Speaking of the police," Mrs. Carson sighed, "Sergeant Willis phoned earlier. He would like me to come to York early next week to try and identify that bed sheet."

Carson blanched and began to slowly shake his head.

"No. I don't want you going to York to meet with the police alone," Carson said. "I don't like it at all."

Mrs. Carson turned her head to the side and looked as though she might at any moment burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

"And what exactly do you think is going to happen?" she asked.

"I don't know," Carson said, "but I am unwilling to find out. They've already spirited Anna off."

Thomas wanted to think Carson ridiculous in this, but even he wasn't sure he entirely trusted the situation. A vivid memory of Officer Taylor slamming a pistol down on the desk with the muzzle pointed toward him leapt to Thomas's mind.

"I don't want to be involved in this, but I did agree to look at it," she said throwing her hands up. "And you all but told them not to come back here."

"Fine, but you are not going alone. I forbid it," Carson said.

"You forbid it?" Now, this was going to get interesting. A sudden heavy silence engulfed the room. Bates moved seemingly instinctively to push his chair back away from the potential line of fire.

Mrs. Carson leaned her head back and closed her eyes; she gripped the arms of her chair until her fingers turned white. For several moments, no one said a word. Even Thomas held his breath, not out of anxiety, but out of barely hidden gleeful anticipation at what was surely to come.

"Mr. Carson," she enunciated slowly, "for the time being, I am going to choose to leave your final statement aside, and simply suggest that if you are that concerned, then you, as my husband, might accompany me yourself."

"You know that's impossible," he observed dismissively. "We cannot both be out of the house under the current circumstances."

"Well, then," she ground out through gritted teeth, "perhaps Mr. Bates could accompany me."

Carson sat back and studied Bates for a moment. Bates appeared somewhat less than enthusiastic at the prospect of dropping in on the police to help them in their attempts to build a murder case against his wife.

"I would be happy..." Bates began, although his tone demonstrated that he was anything but happy.

"No. I'll not send a man to assist in the prosecution of his wife," Carson said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mrs. Carson said. "If I thought that was where this was leading, I wouldn't go myself."

"Still, I hardly think..."

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Carson released an exasperated sigh. "Just what do you suggest I do then, Mr. Carson?"

"I don't know," he said, and then almost as an afterthought: "Take Barrow."

"What?" Thomas cried out. "Why would you...?" Mrs. Carson tossed up a hand to silence him.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I am interested in hearing this," Mrs. Carson said steadily. "Why Mr. Barrow?"

"I can't say precisely," Carson said, resting his eyes on a spot across the room. "Under the circumstances, our options are limited. And I don't believe Mr. Barrow would allow anything to happen to you if he could prevent it."

"Well, of course he wouldn't," she stated emphatically, slapping her hands down on her knees. Well, at least there was that. Whatever that was, Thomas thought.

"Have you noticed that Mr. Barrow is still in a cast?" she asked. "Travel is going to be rather a challenge right now."

Thomas looked to Carson just in time to see his entire demeanor change. For no more than a second, so short a period of time that one might have easily missed it, Carson's shoulders rolled forward, his posture loosened, and his face dropped. In that moment, Carson looked like a thoroughly defeated man. And then the moment was gone.

"Mr. Barrow," Carson intoned in his most professional butler's voice, "would you mind terribly accompanying Mrs. Carson on her visit to the police headquarters in York?"

Thomas's first instinct was to respond with some snide remark along the lines of, "well, well, two requests from you lot in one day. Whatever have we come to?" But he managed to reel himself in.

He tried to quickly evaluate this proposed arrangement for any potential downside. He could find none. He knew that this request was coming not so much from Carson the butler, but from Mr. Carson the husband, but he was certain that any potential goodwill earned through his cooperation might be repaid professionally. This, he thought, could offer a boon. If nothing else, there was always the potential for intriguing gossip to gained from the experience and, though travel with his injured foot might be tiresome, he thought he would rather enjoy getting away from the house, even under these circumstances.

"Mr. Barrow?" Carson said rather quietly, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright."