A/N: Thanks to all readers and reviewers, especially: DAGuest , eyeon, Cc71, Ometsmommaaol , AlexisRose84 , and starliam.

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But then there was no time left to wonder, because they had reached Lady Grantham's door. Mary's face was so white, even in the dim light of the corridor, that Anna was afraid her mistress would faint. She didn't dare to knock, so she pushed the door open as quietly as she could.

Lady Cora sat up in bed, her eyes blinking, the luxurious sheets and coverlet moving around her shoulders, revealing her white lawn nightgown trimmed with lace. Lord Robert was lying next to her, Anna saw with a pang of fear. Unlike most married couples of the day, they nearly always shared a bed. And apparently, she and Mary weren't lucky enough for this to have been one of those nights when her husband was restless, or coming down with a cold, or perhaps there had been a minor marital tiff, and the couple slept separately.

"What on earth?" Cora began in a low, sleepy voice.

"Mama. I can't explain," Mary said in a low rush. "But you've got to come with me."

"But what—"

"Please, please don't ask, just come. We can't wake Papa," said Mary.

There was something about her enormous dark eyes and rigid face that seemed to stop whatever question her mother might have in its tracks. The two stared at each other, and in the brief silence, her husband's snuffling snore stopped. He grumbled something in restless tones and reached out towards his wife. There was clearly not a moment to be lost. Cora laid a hand on Lord Grantham's shoulder until he relaxed back into sleep. Then she got out of bed, slipping a pink dressing gown over her shoulders and fitting her feet into bedroom slippers.

"Anna, what is the meaning of this?" she hissed under her breath as Mary led them back towards her own room.

Anna couldn't even think of a reply. She only shook her head. Lady Grantham would know soon enough, and God help them all once she did.

Mary opened the door, and Cora walked in. Her footsteps slowed. Her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline when her gaze fell on the bed, and on the stiff, still body of Mr. Pamuk, spread across the mattress, his eyes open. She stared and stared until Anna wondered if her ladyship would ever move again, or if they were all destined to stand in the middle of the floor of Lady Mary's room for the rest of eternity with the Turkish gentleman's dead body laid out in front of them.

"What—happened?" Cora finally gasped, breaking the silence.

Mary moved around the bed, putting a bit of distance between herself and her mother. "I don't know! A heart attack, I suppose. Or a stroke. Or … He was alive and suddenly he cried out. And then he was dead."

"But why was he here at all?" Cora asked sharply. "Did he force himself on you?"

Mary hesitated. Then she shook her head.

Cora sucked in her breath and stood stock still.

That didn't seem like the entire story at all, Anna thought. But she didn't know what had actually happened, couldn't even guess. Except that Lady Mary and this man had been engaged in… something… and now he was dead.

"Well … we can talk about that later," said Cora. "Now, we must decide what to do for the best."

Yet they stood staring at each other, mother and daughter, and Anna understood that if nothing intervened, they really might stand until morning and discovery and horror and ruin. She herself was still moving in the cold detachment she had felt from the moment she knew what had happened. She hoped it would last long enough for her to say what must be said, and then to do what must be done.

"There's only one thing we can do," said Anna. When Lady Cora stared back at her, she knew that Mary's mother understood. They had no choice at all but to get Mr. Pamuk out of the house, quickly, quietly, and without being seen.

"I couldn't. It's not possible," said Cora, but without conviction.

Mary whirled on her mother. "If you don't, we will figure in a scandal of such magnitude it will never be forgotten until long after we're both dead."

Anna certainly knew that this was true, and that the lady of Downton Abbey knew it too.

"But I—" said Cora in one last hopeless protest.

"I'll be ruined, Mama. Ruined and notorious, a laughing stock, a social pariah. Is that what you want for your eldest daughter? Is it what you want for the family?"

Cora sighed, and then gave Mary a long, hard look. "We must cover him up," was all that she said.

The bedroom door opened, and the three women came awkwardly out the room, all glancing nervously from side to side. This was mad, thought Anna as she carried Pamuk's legs, Mary and Cora following behind her with one of the man's limp arms over each of their shoulders. The thin light of dawn was beginning to seep into the hallway through the high latticed windows, Anna saw. They had very little time.

"Hurry," whispered Cora, echoing her thoughts. "The servants will be up soon."

"We've got time," said Anna, trying to sound reassuring and feeling pretty sure that she had failed.

Pamuk's handsome head lolled sideways against Cora's neck, and she gave a little cry. Mary drew in her breath in a sharp hiss.

"Mama!"

"Sorry," muttered Cora, her eyes as wide and fixed as her daughter's.

They moved on and started towards the bachelor's corridor, their movements painfully slow. Hurry, hurry! thought Anna. But she could barely hold his cold, stiff legs and keep moving; she was staggering under the weight. As they struggled down the hall, Anna thought she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. But when she turned her head down the corridor, towards the door leading to the staircase from the servant's quarters, nothing was moving. Her imagination must be playing tricks on her. God knows, this is enough to make anyone take on bad, she thought.

Then they turned the corner, and finally, finally, Anna pushed open the door towards the guest room that had been assigned to Mr. Pamuk. She pulled off his dressing gown and hung it behind the door while the other two women lowered him to the bed. Mary arranged him in position, Anna drew the coverlet up to his chest, and Cora went to the door. Two candles flickered on the dresser, casting light and shadow over Mary's face as she reached down to close his staring eyes.

"I—I can't make his eyes stay shut," she gasped, her voice trembling.

"Leave that and come away!" hissed Cora.

"He was so beautiful," said Mary in a choked sob.

Anna went to Mary and took her by her shoulders. "Her ladyship's right. We must get back to our rooms."

She led Mary to the door, but Cora stood with her back to it, her carriage stiff and her face set.

"I feel now I can never forgive what you have put me through this night," Cora said in a voice of iron. "I hope in time I'll come to be more merciful. But I doubt it."

"You won't tell Papa," pled Mary.

"Since it would probably kill him and certainly ruin his life, I will not," Cora replied. "But I keep the secret for his sake, not for yours.

"Yes, Mama." Mary's head drooped to the floor.

Cora turned to Anna. "Anna, I will not insult you by asking that you also conceal Lady Mary's shame. Now, let us go."

She opened the door, and the three women slipped silently out.

At the door leading to the back stairs, Anna hung back, unsure if she ought to leave Mary alone with her mother or not. Surely she ought to give Lady Cora the opportunity to speak to her daughter further, if that was she wanted? But mother and daughter kept hurrying back towards their own rooms, and after a few moments' hesitation, Anna made her way towards the corridor where they'd both been headed.

Mary's door was not quite closed, and Anna tapped briefly before pushing it open. Mary was lying on her bed, as stiff and unmoving as Mr. Pamuk had been, her eyes staring at nothing. Anna had no idea what to say, or to do.

"Would you like me to stay until morning, my lady?" she whispered.

Mary continued to stare.

"Please…" Anna stopped, because she didn't know what she was pleading for. Except, perhaps, that anything at all would happen to stop Mary staring at the ceiling as fixedly as Mr. Pamuk had done a few minutes before, expressionless as any corpse could be.

"You really ought to go back to bed now, Anna," she said dully.

She did know that her mistress was right, that the moments were ticking down towards danger, towards morning. She had no idea what time it had been when Mary first clamped a hand over her mouth and then begged for her help, much less how much time had elapsed between then and now. The landscape outside the small window at the end of the corridor was still dark, but the sky was touched with so much light that Anna thought it had to be at least five-thirty, and probably later. Dangerously late. As lady's maid, she had every right to be in her mistress's room, but she had no desire to create an opportunity for anyone to put two and two together to make a disturbing sum.

And yet…

And yet, if a corpse could speak, Anna imagined that it would sound very much as Mary had just done. I can't just leave her!

"You'll be missed," Mary went on in the same completely flat voice. "Won't you?"

"Well… yes. Daisy will be up to the servant's corridor soon," said Anna.

"You'd best be in your own bed when she does."

"But—"

Mary turned her head away so that she was now staring at the wall, which didn't seem to be much of an improvement. "Please. Go. Leave me."

There seemed nothing else to say. Anna crept out of the room, Mary still staring at the wall as the door closed.

The next morning, Mary did not say a word as Anna brought her a tray for breakfast. She picked at the food, shoving it around the plate.

"Would you like to stay in bed today, my lady?" asked Anna.

Mary hesitated and then shook her head. "No. I'll go down." She allowed Anna to dress her in a simple morning outfit of a white and navy blue striped blouse and black skirt, but she did not speak further. Anna didn't speak either. She could feel the other woman's fragility, as if her very self were barely held together by a hair, her mind and body threatening to break into shattered glass at the slightest touch. She was afraid for her, but if Mary said nothing, then neither could she. Perhaps they would be bound by silence forever.

Mary leaned on her slightly and they walked down the corridor together, which certainly wasn't her mistress's usual habit. Her slight weight felt heavy and sad against Anna's arm. Anna wished that Mary wasn't insisting on going downstairs at all; it would have been better if she'd said she was ill and remained in bed for the day, surely? But she could see by the set of Mary's jaw that there was no point in trying to suggest otherwise.

When Mary rounded the corner and started down the grand central staircase, Anna lingered behind for a moment, watching her, really afraid that she might stumble and fall. If her mistress did stumble, then she herself needed to be nearby to rush out and catch her.

The dining room door opened, and a young man came out. Anna had to keep her eyes fixed on his smooth, unremarkable face to remember what he looked like; the instant she looked away from him, she forgot his bland features.

"I imagine you've heard what's happened?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mary. She stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at the man standing below her on the landing.

"Terrible thing. Awful. Ghastly for your parents. I don't suppose I shall ever make it up to them." He shifted position awkwardly but stayed where he was.

Evelyn Napier. Anna remembered him now; he was the guest who had brought Mr. Pamuk to Downton in the first place. He was pleasant enough, but he seemed a very forgettable man.

"It's not your fault," said Mary.

"I brought him here. If it isn't my fault, whose is it?"

What a strange thing to say, thought Anna.

"Breakfast's almost finished. Shall I tell someone you're down?" he asked.

"No, thank you. I had a tray in my room," said Mary.

"My mother never used to allow trays for unmarried girls." His voice was light, his manner diffident, but for the first time, Anna wondered if there was something else going on beneath the forgettable surface. She struggled to understand what it might be.

"Nor does mine. As a rule," Mary replied.

"I was wondering if you might show me the gardens before I go? We could get some fresh air?"

He was so clueless, though Anna, his unremarkable face so guileless and open.

"I won't, if you'll forgive me. I ought to stay and help Mama."

"Of course." He was clearly trying to lift Mary's spirits a bit, no matter how clumsy the attempt. He made a movement as if to turn away, then turned back. "I am so sorry about all this. I should never have inflicted him on you in the first place."

"Please don't say that. We were glad to have him here. Very glad," Mary said quickly.

"Lynch's taken a message to the local … " Mr. Napier checked himself. Funeral home, he was about to say, thought Mary. But it doesn't sound right, and at least he has the tact to realize it. "They'll be along to collect him in an hour or so. I'll wait until that's done."

Mary looked at the floor.

"I've told your father I'll deal with the Embassy. There won't be any more annoyance for you," he went on.

Deal with the embassy? Thought Anna. I wonder what that means? Oh—that's right. He said something about Mr. Pamuk's being the Turkish ambassador's son.

"Thank you." Mary's voice wavered slightly, so slightly that Anna wondered if anyone but herself would even notice it. Certainly not this oblivious, awkward young man.

"Actually, he was a terribly nice fellow. I wish you could have known him better. I took him on as a duty, but I liked him more and more, the longer I knew him."

At last Mary looked up, her face pinched, tears brimming in her eye.

"Perhaps you saw his qualities for yourself?" His eyebrows raised slightly.

Mary turned and stumbled back upstairs with none of her customary grace.

Mr. Napier looked after her, his face settling into lines of disappointment. "Which, obviously, you did," he muttered, just loud enough for Anna to hear.

Well, no need to wonder what he was thinking the entire time, thought Anna. He was jealous, of course, and she felt a bit foolish for not understanding it at once. Anna had overheard snatches of a conversation a few days before between Mary and her mother about this Mr. Napier before he'd ever arrived, something about writing a letter and coming up for the hunt. She had been fetching a shawl for Mary from the house and had come out to give it to her. While she hadn't heard everything, even a few sentences were enough to get a fair idea of what was going on. Anna had put two and two together and figured out that Mary's mother, at least, was angling to make him a possible husband for her daughter. Lady Cora had been much keener on the idea.

Anna studied him for a minute as he stood. His face was full of disappointment as he kept looking up the staircase, his eyes searching out where Mary had gone. Sorry, Mr. Napier, she thought with a trace of pity for him. He was the sort of aristocratic man she'd seen before, many times. Pleasant, nice, and forgettable as a glass of lukewarm water. He never would have had a chance with Mary, although it was as plain as the nose on his face that he'd wanted one.

Then he, too, turned and disappeared in the other direction. Anna closed the door completely and went down the corridor the other way towards the servants' back stairs.

"I had an uncle who went like that. Finished his cocoa, closed his book and fell back dead on the pillow," declared William.

Anna nodded and mumbled something inaudible, putting down the tray with the breakfast dishes. The snatches of conversation she'd heard downstairs all seemed to be along these lines, at least so far. She was listening intently to every word that was being said, even though she felt silly for doing so. Nobody else could possibly know anything, so there was no point in trying to figure out if anybody did. There was no reason for her breath to come short, for her senses to tingle with apprehension. None at all.

But with the next spoken sentence, she knew that there was.

"I don't think Mr. Pamuk bothered with cocoa much, or books," said Thomas. "He had other interests."

Did he flash her a glance after that, or had she only imagined it? Anna wondered. Thomas Barrow couldn't possibly know anything—or at least, she didn't see how he could. But then, Thomas always seemed to know everything. He was like water lapping at the stern of a boat, and so was O'Brien, who thankfully wasn't there at the moment. You always had to keep them outside, and it wasn't easy. Give them the slightest leak, and they'd weasel through. Before you knew where you were, your boat would be sinking.

"I meant you can go just like that. With no reason," William went on. Anna wished he would shut up.

"That's why you should treat every day as if it were your last," said Gwen, standing next to her.

"Well, we couldn't criticize Mr. Pamuk where that's concerned," said Thomas, casually. Too casually.

Anna shivered and hoped that nobody had noticed. Daisy glanced up sharply from the end of the table.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Nothing. Careful with that." He picked up the empty tray and left, followed by William.

"You're very quiet," said Gwen, studying Anna.

Anna tried to force a smile but stopped halfway through, realizing that any kind of cheerful expression would look even more suspicious. "There's a corpse upstairs," she said tightly. "What would you like me to do? Sing?"

She couldn't stay there another moment. She could feel the suspicion and interest, the desire for gossip and chatter and nervous laughter, the range of emotions that were natural enough after the unexplained death of anyone at all, much less a handsome young stranger. But was there more? What had Thomas's words meant? Was suspicion stirring behind his deliberately bland features? And why did Daisy seem disturbed?

Anna gave a shake of her head as she hurried up the stairs. It didn't matter, of course. None of it did. What had happened the night before had happened, and now must be forgotten and ignored and gone round like an immovable rock in a field cleared for plowing. She would stop thinking about all of it immediately.

She would.

Author's Notes:

I think that this is a pretty realistic scenario for what was most likely going through Anna's head during this entire sequence. Her loyalty was to Mary, and there was no way that she was going to gossip about the incident or let anything slip to anyone else, downstairs or up. If this was all there was to it, then I think that her thoughts at the end of the chapter would have been more or less the end of it. She would have forced herself to forget what she'd seen and experienced surrounding the death of Mr. Pamuk.

However, as we're going to see in future chapters, the evidence shows that there was more to that mysterious death than what is immediately obvious. That's the apart which I think is canon. To turn Anna's story into a fictional narrative based on fact, I had to look at the question of exactly what it would take to goad her out of her determination to forget the Mr. Pamuk disaster and never go any further with trying to figure out what had happened. What we'll see in the next chapter is that a specific inciting event is enough to tip Anna over into deciding that she must solve the mystery of what really happened. There's only one thing that I think would be strong enough to get her to that point, and I also think it's believable that this event actually would have happened behind the scenes, a part of the plot that we never got to see.

So what is this deciding factor? And what's the mystery that Anna begins to investigate? Well, we'll just have to wait for Chapter 3 to find out. Things are really going to start to get interesting… 😉