"Things are seldom all they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream…"
Gilbert and Sullivan, The Mikado
Anna had believed that the truth about who had really been responsible for Mr. Pamuk's death didn't matter now. In a way, she supposed, it still didn't matter to her, no matter how wrong that feeling might be. But it meant everything that Bates wanted her to know that truth. Looking into his face, she nodded and leaned back against the wall, ready to listen to whatever he had to say.
"First, you need to understand that I've known Evelyn Napier for a very long time," said Bates.
"You said that he was a small boy when you worked in Lord Branksome's house," she said, because he seemed to want some sort of acknowledgement from her.
"Yes, he was. He sighed. "I saw him day in and day out when he was a child in short trousers and sailor suits. And there's something that I'm not sure if you know, Anna. In these great houses, any young children will spend a great deal of time down in the servants' hall. The lord and lady of the manor may never set foot downstairs from one year to the next, but children are a different story. If any of the daughters at Downton were ten or fifteen years younger, you'd see it clearly. That's why Carson has such a place in his heart for Lady Mary. Everyone downstairs has a favorite. She was his. And in Lord Branksome's house, young Master Evelyn was mine. He was such a shy little boy, and he always had such a hard time fitting in with the other children. But he was so clever, and so loving."
Anna pictured Mr. Napier as a young boy, and it was easy to do. She could almost hear his shy lisp, could almost see his small form hanging back at games.
"I glimpsed him much later as a grown man here and there, of course, mostly when I was at that house with Moseley. And then I saw him again here, at the house party." Bates sighed. "After that hunt, I saw so clearly how upset he was, and how unhappy."
"Because he knew that Lady Mary wasn't interested in him at all?" ventured Anna.
Bates nodded, his face sober. "He's more than clever enough to have figured that one out right away. And worse, it couldn't have been clearer that the second she laid eyes on Pamuk, any chance Napier might have had with her was over and done with. " He lapsed into silence, and Anna waited.
"Mr. Napier sent me a message that night, asking me to come upstairs," Bates went on. "I did it without a second thought. It was after eleven, so… I was the man whom William and Thomas saw." His face spasmed in pain. 'I'm sorry, Anna. I should have told you at once. Instead, I lied to you, and you've never deserved anything from me from the truth."
"It's all right," she said. "It doesn't matter now."
"No—no, I suppose it doesn't. So I'd better move on to what does." He looked into the distance, seeming to steel himself.
"I went up the stairs to the guest bedrooms as quietly as I could, and as stealthily," he said. "I knew there was a chance I'd be seen, as indeed I was, but I had no choice except to take that chance. I thought it might be enough to go there after all of the gentlemen were bound to be in bed, so I waited until the coast seemed clear."
Anna tried to picture Mr. Bates lurking near the foot of the stairs, glancing from side to side, taking his first chance to slip silently up to Mr. Napier's room. And yet… and yet, she couldn't quite manage it. She'd been able to fall so easily into both William and Edith's descriptions over the past couple of days, to lose herself in the imagined scene being described. That wasn't happening now. The pictures drawn by Bates' description were too shadowy and vague. Well, never mind about that! It's hardly what matters now. She turned all of her attention back to what Bates was saying.
"Napier was so agitated when I came into the room, pacing back and forth," said Bates. "He started talking to me, and it was as if no time at all had passed, as if he were still my favorite." He looks sad. "I knew that he was going to ask me for something, and he did."
Anna felt an echo of the emotions that must have been swirling in that room. She concentrated hard, but she just could not fall into the scene.
"He started talking in a rush, his words disjointed, but I understood well enough. He had a small glass bottle that he said was laudanum, that he'd taken off the table in the guest bedroom, and he wanted me to go back and pour it into the brandy decanter. He said that Pamuk was bound to drink it as soon as he came back from wherever he'd gone, and he couldn't be the one to do it, that I was the only one he could trust. I knew why he wanted Pamuk out of the picture; he couldn't bear to watch the way he was pressuring Lady Mary that night. And I agreed." Bates went on over Anna's gasp. "I did it because… well, the moment I was in the same room with him, not just a glimpse here or there, I recognized the boy I'd known so well in the man he'd grown up to be. That sad little boy, left out of games and fun. I couldn't say no. And he was right in that if anyone saw him, it would look suspicious, to say the least. He'd got away with it when he went to get the bottle, I suppose, but he didn't dare go back. I could come up with a reason why I was in the guest room if I had to- Lord Grantham asked me to find a pair of boots he wanted that had been accidentally left in that closet, or some such nonsense. So it was a good deal safer for me. And I hadn't liked the way that Pamuk had been constantly at Lady Mary all day long either, although I certainly didn't expect anything like what he ended up doing. It seemed harmless enough."
But it wasn't, thought Anna.
"So I went to the other guest bedroom, and Pamuk hadn't returned yet," said Bates. "I think now that he must have been out getting the lay of the land, finding where Lady Mary's bedroom was. I poured a teaspoon of the laudanum into the decanter and then left as fast as I could. Mr. Pamuk was heading back up the stairs less than a minute after I got back down to the landing, so I did cut it close. I left as fast as I could and didn't look back." He gave a long sigh. "It's pretty clear what must have happened then. Pamuk went back to his room for a bit of brandy before going to Lady Mary, just as Mr. Napier guessed that he would. If it really had been laudanum, then he might have fallen asleep before he ever left the room, depending on how long he waited. But…"
"But it wasn't laudanum," said Anna.
"No, it wasn't, as it turned out." Bates shifted position so that his face was entirely in shadow. "You were right, Anna. It was the tincture of aconite instead. Pamuk really did take a few drops of it every night as a tonic, because heart trouble ran in his family. So he had that with him. The two bottles look the same. But the dose is completely different. Aconite is titrated with a dropper, no more than a couple of drops in a glass of water. Laudanum is taken by the spoonful. Evelyn Napier got the bottles wrong, mixed them up. He thought the laudanum had to be the one sitting out on the dresser, but it wasn't."
"That explains It," Anna said slowly. "Why I found that laudanum in the dresser drawer. That's where it was. The aconite tonic must have been sitting on top of the dresser when Mr. Napier went in there, and he thought it was the laudanum. Aconite works much more slowly, doesn't it?"
Bates nodded. "Even a high dose could take hours to kill, which is what happened."
Anna licked her lips. They suddenly felt very dry. "But Mr. Napier knew the aconite was dangerous, very dangerous. Didn't he? And that it was at least possible the bottles could be mixed up, because they looked so similar? He must have known that he should have checked."
Bates hesitated. "Yes. But he was… distracted. You wouldn't think it to look at Mr. Napier, but his feelings run deep. He wanted to marry Lady Mary, desperately. But he knew that she was infatuated with Pamuk, and some young men high in the Turkish ministry have married British women. It's happened before. I think Napier believed it could happen again. He thought that if Mr. Pamuk was out of the way for the night, then that chance would be lost, and he himself could then pick up where he'd left off before Pamuk ever entered the picture. Lady Mary would realize that what she thought she felt for Pamuk was only a moment of madness, and given time, she'd fall in love with Napier. With the field clear for him, I think he believed he'd succeed."
Anna had not planned to ask the next question, but somehow, she heard the words leaving her mouth anyway. "So was it really a mistake?"
Bates hesitated, then spoke. "I'm sure that Mr. Napier believes now that it was a mistake. I think that he isn't aware of any other possibility. Do you understand what I mean?"
Yes, she understood, all right.
"I'll never tell anyone, you know. You don't need to worry about that," said Anna after a moment.
"Why not?" asked Bates. His eyes very steady on hers.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to think about what would happen if she told, but then she realized that he already knew. He was asking her why she was choosing to keep silent, which was not the same question.
"More than one reason, but—well, the entire truth would probably come out," she said, a bit evasively. "Right now, nobody knows what happened with Pamuk that night except Lady Cora, Mary, and then me—and you— but I think it wouldn't stay that way."
Bates nodded. "Go on."
"Thomas suspects something," she said. Her throat was suddenly very dry. "And O'Brien. I can't believe they know… but they suspect. We'll all be the center of a scandal if it came out. It could ruin the family. It would ruin Lady Mary."
Bates nodded. "You're right. But Anna, please understand that I don't believe that Mr. Napier meant for Pamuk's death to happen. I really think that he had a moment of a sort of madness, once he saw that Lady Mary would never choose him." He's a sensible chap about everything else and a real gentleman, but he was always mad about Lady Mary. Obsessed, really. He couldn't be rational on the subject of her."
"But what if he ever comes back here?" whispered Anna.
Bates shook his head decisively. "He won't. Lady Mary won't have him. I think… I think he knows that he went too far. We've seen the last of him."
"I suppose it seems wrong," murmured Anna.
"It is wrong," said Bates. "But we have two choices, as I see it. Either we keep quiet, and Evelyn Napier isn't punished for an unwise choice made in a moment of madness, or…"
"Or we do tell. And my lady is ruined. Yes, I understand," said Anna. She lapsed into silence.
"You said there was more than one reason," he prompted her.
"I won't have you blamed," she said quietly. "And you would be, even though it wasn't your fault." That, she did believe, and she would never allow it to happen. Deep in the part of her where there were no lies, she knew that keeping him safe was even more important than protecting Mary.
She felt almost calm. The choice was easy, now. It might have been a bit more difficult, she supposed, if she could be sure that Mr. Napier had meant to murder Mr. Pamuk. But as Bates told the story, she didn't believe that it had been deliberate. At least, Napier must have convinced himself in that moment that there was little danger, and his feelings for Mary had run deeper than his good sense. Nobody can say for sure what they will do for love, she thought. One can't judge until they've gone through the fire that is jealousy. I don't know what I would do. I can't sit in judgment on Evelyn Napier.
"I think we shouldn't tell anyone, ever," said Anna.
At last, Bates smiled, and it was the rare smile she had waited so long to see. "I'm glad," he said.
He had moved closer, she realized, although she was not sure when it had happened. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek.
. "Mr. Bates, I wish…" she said, not even knowing what she meant.
"So do I, Anna," he whispered. "But sometimes, we're not free to speak what's in our hearts."
"No, we're not."
They sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time, holding hands.
He left the room first, and a few minutes later, so did she. Anna made her way to the servants' staircase with a light heart, Perhaps it's wrong to feel that way, she thought. But I can't help it. He is a good man, and if there's anything I can do to stop him from getting in trouble, I will. She would never tell what she now knew, because if she did, the two people she loved the most in the world would be harmed, in ways that could never be healed. She loved Mary in one way, as the friend of her heart for all that they were mistress and maid, but John Bates… well, she had used the word love in her mind for him, and she understood, too late to take it back, that she meant it. How he felt about her, she did not know, but in the future, anything at all might happen.
MARY'S LAST NIGHTMARE RUTABAGA
Anna opened her eyes. The village clock was striking three; she heard each toll of the bell faintly in the distance. A soft sobbing sound was coming from the other room. It's time, she thought. She rose silently from the little bed in the dressing closet and slipped through the door.
Mary was sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching the coverlet to her breast, whimpering quietly. An all too familiar figure sat in the red chair next to the bed. Mr. Pamuk looked the same as he had the past several nights, but again, the unnatural stiffness of his muscles, the rigidity of his carriage, the marble cast to her skin, all hinted that he was the ghost of a corpse. Anna no longer cared. She went to the bed and knelt by Mary's side.
The other woman whipped her head round. "Anna!"
"Yes. I'm here," she said firmly.
Mary's dark eyes shot to Pamuk sitting in the chair, a knowing smile curving up his lips. "He's come back," she whispered anxiously.
"I know. But it's the last time." Anna ignored the contemptuous chuckle from the chair. "My lady, I know what happened. He was poisoned."
Mary gasped. "How? Who did it?"
"It's not my secret to tell. But I know you weren't responsible."
"Really?" whispered Mary.
"Really."
"Ah." Mary's face relaxed, all the lines of strain smoothing away, one by one. She slipped back to the bed, laying her head down on the pillow, and her eyes closed. A few moments later, she was breathing deeply and evenly.
The ghost in the chair shook his head, looking displeased. That's not what I wanted.
Anna didn't know if the words were somehow sent directly to her mind, or if she simply guessed them by the expression on his face, but either way, she was sure of what Pamuk had said. "Hard cheese all round, then," she said without flinching.
Pamuk's face darkened. I'll come back. This isn't done.
"Oh, yes it is. Get out. You have no power here," said Anna.
His lips curled into a snarl. Who do you think you are to defy me, girl?
"I'm Anna Smith. Friend to Lady Mary. I'm the one who outsmarted you." She looked straight at him, the handsome face. "And you… you are nothing at all. Now go away."
At one moment, he was staring at her, his handsome face twisted into a furious scowl. In the next, he was gone. The chair moved back and forth for a moment, and then stopped. In the next breath, it, too, had disappeared.
Anna let out her breath and sagged backwards.
As soon as she was sure that Lady Mary was deeply asleep and would not wake, she made her way back to the dressing closet. Was it always that easy? she wondered, getting back into the little bed. If I'd told him to get out at any point, would he have done it? I don't know; I suppose I'll never know now. It doesn't matter, anyway. It's over.
Had any of it been real, she thought sleepily, pulling covers up to her shoulders. Were there truly ghosts at Downton? Well, maybe there were. The old cloister that had once been part of the abbey still stood on Downton grounds, near the brook. There had been an earlier Saxon church, too; she'd heard that it had stood where the family mausoleum was now. She had even heard that the use of this site went much further back than that. Druids had danced in their rites at the solstice, people said. Then there were the rumors that the Old People had gathered here, retreating into their hollow hills when the Romans first came to Britain. It had been a holy place before stone was laid on stone. Perhaps Edith dream\ed about Patrick Crawley because his ghost walked the halls, sometimes, that unfortunate young cousin who had gone down with the Titanic. So perhaps there really were ghosts. If so, then one of them, at least, had been laid to rest. She knew instinctively that the shade of Mr. Pamuk would never return.
She slipped into sleep with an easy heart, her last thoughts of Mr. Bates, melding into a dream where they walked by the brook, his warm hand holding hers.
A/N: Thanks to all readers, reviewers, likers, and favorite-ers, especially: eyeonIt seems like we have the solution to Mr. Pamuk's death, doesn't it? But there are at least two chapters left, so… I don't think it's that simple. 😉 Next Saturday, we'll get a lot more answers… and we'll finally find out who that watcher really is.