Everyone at the Abbey was feeling the strain of the investigation. Each day the newspapers were full of lurid tales of the Crawley family. It was suggested by one that the unfortunate Mr. Pamuk might have been an earlier murder victim. In another, it was hinted that the late magazine publisher and Marigold's father, Michael Gregson, was really a German spy. Even the deaths of Lady Sybil and Matthew Crawley were brought into question. Henry and Tom were able to escape to their business in York, but while there, they felt curious eyes on them. The Crawley women seldom ventured outside the gates, unwilling to face the veiled whispers and suspicious glances of the public.

Nor were the servants immune to all the unpleasantness. The prior conviction of Mr. Bates and the subsequent deaths of his first wife and Mr. Green were dredged up once more, causing the Bateses renewed distress. Miss Baxter's sentence for theft was published for all to see, devastating the timid woman who thought she had left her past behind her. After their initial surprise, the other servants rallied around her, but she remained downcast. Even the story of Mrs. Patmore's "house of ill repute" was once more a topic of unkind gossip.

It seemed to hit Bertie the hardest. He had grown silent and subdued since the murder, cringing whenever he saw himself or Edith mentioned in the papers. It was only a matter of time before the press unearthed the truth about Cousin Peter's secret life and his connection to the dead man—those weekends at Brancaster and trips to Tangiers. And what if they found out about Marigold whom he had come to love as a daughter? He shuddered to think what his mother would have to say about it all.

His wife was quick to notice. "Are you alright, darling? You mustn't let all this upset you."

"Maybe it's time we went home," he suggested hopefully. "Then perhaps the press would let us alone."

Edith appeared shocked. "We can't leave Mama and Papa now, not before the murder is solved."

"No. Of course, we can't. I wasn't thinking," Bertie mumbled apologetically, looking deeply troubled.

Robert set out for a morning walk with Tiaa at his side. He soon found himself at the Carsons' cottage. The former servant was seated outside in a chair in the garden but rose automatically upon spotting the Earl. "Your Lordship!" Carson was surprised at seeing him there.

"Please, don't get up." Robert lowered himself into the chair beside him, the one usually reserved for Mrs. Hughes.

"Is there something I can do for you, m'lord?"

"No, no. I found myself out this way and thought I'd stop by and see how you're getting on."

"That was kind of you."

"Not at all. I seem to have a lot of free time on my hands these days. Lady Mary and Mr. Branson have more or less told me that they no longer need my help in running the estate."

"I'm sure that's not true," Carson demurred.

"After the debacle with the housing project, they don't trust me. I don't blame them, really. I suppose everyone knows what a fool I was."

Carson kept silent. He had heard the story, of course.

"The Duke threatened to sue to recover his investment, but where would the money come from with no houses to sell?"

"They are going up now, though."

"Yes, but it meant taking out another mortgage. Happily, Mr. Murray was able to work out a deal with the Duchess that will allow us more time to repay the debt in exchange for a larger share of the profits when the homes sell. She's much more forgiving than her husband."

"If you'll pardon my impertinence, I must say I never approved of the man, not since he threw over Lady Mary before the war."

Robert nodded absently. "So there you have it. I'm just an old duffer who's been put out to pasture."

"I know the feeling," Carson responded dryly. "How is Mr. Barrow working out?"

"Barrow is competent enough, but it's not the same without you there."

The embarrassed pensioner quickly changed the subject. "Is there any news about the murder?"

"I don't think so. That little Belgian chap keeps wandering in and out, driving everyone mad with his endless questions. Sometimes I wonder if it'll ever be over."

Cora and Mary were alone in the drawing room. They hadn't really talked about the murder case, hoping it would be over quickly and all would be as it was, but now it weighed heavily on both of them. "Who do you think did it?" the Countess asked her daughter.

"One of the servants, I imagine."

"They didn't even know him. Why would they want to poison him? It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe someone paid them to kill him."

"Who would want him dead?"

"His wife possibly. I should think she's glad to be rid of him."

Mrs. Patmore had gone into the village after breakfast to purchase some personal items. Now she was hurrying back to the Abbey as fast as her short, plump legs would carry her. She entered the kitchen and promptly dropped down into her desk chair to catch her breath. "Are you alright, Mrs. Patmore?" Daisy asked her with real concern.

At first the older cook couldn't speak, but then she blurted out the news she had heard at the chemist's, "Someone found a body down by the river washed up onshore. It's Miss Denker. She's dead."

Insp. Japp and Sgt. Willis were already at the Dower House, having delivered the news to a visibly shaken Violet. "When did you last see Miss Denker?" Japp queried the aged Countess.

"Last night when I went up to bed."

"Did she mention that she was planning to go out?"

"No, she never said anything to me."

"Dr. Clarkson said she must have died sometime around midnight. What would take her down to the river at that time of night?"

"I couldn't tell you."

Sgt. Willis broke in. "It looks like she fell or jumped from the bridge."

"Suicide?"

"Did she seemed depressed to you, Lady Grantham?"

"Not that I noticed. Perhaps you should ask the other servants."

The Inspector closed up his notebook, and the two men descended downstairs. They spoke first to the cook, Mrs. Potter, and then to the maid, Betty. Neither woman could shed any light on the tragedy. Lastly, they met with Mr. Spratt. Japp asked, "Can you think of any reason for Miss Denker to be on that bridge last night."

"No," Spratt replied tersely.

"Did she often go out after putting Lady Grantham to bed?"

"She liked to drink and sometimes went to the pub, but that was only on her half-days."

"Was she seeing someone—a man from the village perhaps? Could it have been a secret assignation?" Willis inquired.

Spratt's eyes widened in surprise. "I shouldn't have thought so. No, Sergeant."

Japp closed his notebook. "I think that's all for now."

That evening, the two policemen were once more seated at the pub having dinner with M. Poirot. They were discussing the death of the Dowager's maid. The little detective nodded sadly. "I recall speaking to her at the Abbey on one of my visits there."

"The butler said she was fond of her drink. She could have been drunk and fell, or it could have been suicide, I suppose," Japp mused.

Poirot seemed to consider that. "It is possible, yes, or perhaps she was pushed from the bridge."

"A second murder—here in Downton?" Sgt. Willis exclaimed in disbelief. "It's not likely."

"Not unless the two deaths are somehow connected."

"What are you thinking, Poirot?" Japp saw the look of concern on his colleague's face.

"I think we are dealing with a most cunning, ruthless killer. Tomorrow I must certainly return to Downton Abbey."