CHAPTER 6 The Sprat to Catch the Mackerel
A Spark of Interest
Barrow was beginning to realize that he'd been underestimating Mrs. Carson for years. Not three weeks later he found himself squeezed into the front seat of a luxurious touring car. Next to him the Viscountess Gillingham's lady's maid and her hat box and the Gillinghams' driver took up more space than Barrow thought necessary. He wondered if the hat box had travelled up front all the way from London and why it couldn't have gone in the boot with everything else. They'd picked him up at the village station in a remarkably well-timed rendezvous with his train down from Yorkshire and then headed for their final destination, the grand house at Chesley Park.
He did wonder how Mrs. Carson had managed it, but he supposed he could put the pieces together. Lady Mary had summoned him to inquire if he wouldn't mind serving as valet to Lord Gillingham for a weekend at a posh country house, that gentleman not having seen fit to replace the late and unlamented Mr. Green. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Carson had been in the room for this interview, but Barrow recognized the guiding hand of the housekeeper nonetheless. At first he thought Lady Mary's cooperation showed Mr. Carson's influence, as the butler and the eldest daughter of the house shared an affection that lent them to each other's service. But it occurred to him that Mrs. Carson's capacity to secure cooperation from even the most reluctant sources - as his own case showed - probably worked even on Lady Mary. Although the real reason for this odd request was not mentioned, Barrow recognized it for Mrs. Carson's plan and agreed to the proposal. And then he packed his bag for Cheshire.
His job was intelligence gathering and his objective to collect anything at all of the history of the elusive Edna Braithwaite and her covert relationship with the dead valet, but it was his practice to gather whatever news, gossip, or knowledge that came to hand and assess its worth later. There was none of this to be had from either the lady's maid or the chauffeur, who remained completely silent, not indicating by word, gesture, or even eye movement that they knew of each other's existence, let alone of his presence or that of their employers behind them. This left Barrow free to listen to the conversation between the Gillinghams and it took him only a few minutes to determine that they were rather tiresome. That did not put him off. Even boring conversation could yield informational gems. In the much more spacious rear seat, the Viscount and Viscountess obliged him in this by bickering almost all the way to Chesley Park.
"So, Lady Mary Crawley snaps her fingers and away we go. Really, Tony, I thought we'd put all that behind us." The Viscountess Gillingham, formerly Mabel Laine-Fox, had an attractive voice, but her tone was not a congenial one.
"So did I," Lord Gillingham muttered, his words suggesting an entirely different meaning. "I've told you," he said, and there was a testy note to his words, "this is a matter of some importance that has absolutely nothing to do with Mary."
"Even though she raised it with you. And even though I'm not allowed to know what it is." Barrow had the feeling they'd been arguing about this since they left London. It sounded like they were on the eleventh round of a boxing match.
Viscount Gillingham sighed. "I will tell you when it is safe to do so, but we haven't reached that point yet."
"So you say." Lady Mabel was not convinced.
"In the meantime, Jonathan is an old friend and we are here for a weekend of relaxation from the cares of life in the City. And it is of the utmost importance that you play along and keep Mary and our true reason for being here a secret."
"Yes, yes," she said tiredly. "Well, at least you got a proper valet out of it. I only regret that it's only for this weekend. You should be looking to taking someone on permanently."
Yes, Barrow thought, good idea. Hire me. Lady Mary had as much as hinted at the fact that a favourable impression here might be useful. And as Mr. Carson didn't look like he was retiring any time soon, Barrow had to be on the look-out. And while they might be boring, the Gillighams had their advantages, among them a life in London.
"You know my view on that," Tony Gillingham said. "I think we should learn to live more simply."
"Oh, Tony. People only say things like that when they don't have the money to do things up right. My fortune has made that possible for you again."
"Yes," her husband said tiredly, "I know."
All things considered, Barrow was glad to see the back of them for a little while when they arrived at Chesley Park.
Money didn't appear to be a problem at the great country house that stood at the end of a long tree-lined avenue in the middle of a great park. Wouldn't mind a job here, Barrow mused, as his eyes fell on the formal reception party awaiting them at the front door.
Chesley Park was, he had gathered from additional information supplied grudgingly by Mr. Carson, the home of Jonathan St. Claire, Lord Bracken, and his wife, Caroline. Lord Bracken was the younger brother, having inherited the estate and the title on the death of his elder brother more than three years earlier. He was not a particularly good-looking man, in Barrow's estimation, a thickset man of medium height who looked like he spent too much time in an office and not much time out walking the estate, although what gentleman did that anymore anyway? He had a a full head of dull brown hair and brows that rivalled Mr. Carson's in thickness. But he was dressed in clothing that had Savile Row written all over them and the high end of it, at that. Barrow took only cursory notice of the man and even less of his wife. His business, he was certain, lay with the staff, not the lord and lady of the manor.
The butler's rigid stance and the crispness and brilliance of his attire had Barrow thinking that Mr. Carson might be losing his edge. The sartorial perfection of the two footmen also caught his eye. As the main party greeted their guests and ambled off to the great hall for refreshments and conversation, Barrow and the lady's maid - whose name he still did not know - attended to the luggage, assisted by the footmen, who rushed forward, under the brittle glare of the butler. That great man - Mr. Wendover (more information from Mr. Carson) - saw that they were about their duties before he followed the family and guests into the house.
Best to get right to things. Barrow reached for one of the larger cases, intending to mark himself out as a helpful visitor, only to be brushed aside by the older of the two footmen. He was as tall as Barrow and about the same age, but powerfully built, and he looked capable of handling all of the luggage himself. His manners, however, were less congenial.
"I'll take that," the man said sharply, almost elbowing Barrow out of the way and grabbing the case. "You get those others," he said peremptorily to the other footman, fixing Barrow with a distasteful glance. So much for trying to be helpful. Barrow gave a tight little smile to the man's back and then turned his attention to the younger man. The fellow must have been in his early twenties, but looked and acted younger still. Andy's got more poise than this one, Barrow mused, taking in the slighter man, who was altogether too jumpy for such a mundane task. Not particularly good-looking either. Well, not everyone could be beautiful.
They both reached for one of the remaining cases and their hands came together over the handle. And this contact shocked them both like a mild electric current. The footman caught his breath and shot a look of wide-eyed alarm at Barrow. So adept at hiding his reactions to anything, Barrow managed to contain the surprise that flashed through him. In that moment of eye contact he thought he saw ... something. He couldn't be sure.
"Christopher!" It was the other footman. "Get a move on!" Christopher hastily grabbed the bag and headed off around the house at a steady trot. "You!" the footman bellowed, and Barrow understood that he was being addressed. "Follow me."
"Cheery sort," he muttered under his breath as he grabbed the smallest of Lord Gillingham's bags and the only one left in the boot. He hadn't noticed the lady's maid and where she'd gotten off to, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. Striding after the footmen, he pondered what had happened in that electric moment. Did anything happen? Well, now he knew at least one thing to look out for.
He caught up to the footmen and followed them through the corridors of the lower reaches of the house to the usual door to the servants' stairs. Of course the layout was different from Downton Abbey, but all these houses had the same facilities, the servants' passages and stairs, dull hidden mirror images of the grander versions in the public eye.
"Come on!"
The older footman was piece of work. Barrow didn't see in the man's grating impatience any resemblance to his own treatment of second footmen past at Downton - like William, for instance, or the hapless Molesley. Here he saw only the effect on Christopher, who jumped at the other's words as if cut by a lash. He wasn't sure yet, but Barrow had a feeling the younger man needed someone to look out for him.
"His Lordship's room?" he asked politely, speaking to Christopher's back as they marched up the stairs. He needed - and wanted - to establish some kind of rapport with the fellow.
"With me!" the other footman responded roughly, turning into a room off the gallery.
Not going to be easy. But Barrow didn't expect things to be easy, even if he was confident of success. Eventually.
"May I introduce myself?" he said briskly, stepping accidentally-on-purpose in front of the older footman as the man, having deposited the bags, turned to go. "I am Mr. Barrow, Lord Gillingham's valet."
The man glared at him. "We know who you are." He stepped around Barrow and left.
Before the other one could slip out, Barrow put an arm in front of him. "Christopher," he said, and the younger man stopped short and gave him another of those wide-eyed looks. Barrow smiled. "I heard him say your name," he said easily, trying to disarm the man. "What's Mr. Cheery's name?"
"Michael." This seemed a bit of information Christopher felt comfortable with.
"Is he always that charming?"
His sarcasm was wasted. Christopher wavered for a moment, as if unsure whether he had to answer to this valet's authority, too, and then, looking alarmed, he ducked under Barrow's arm and was gone.
A Fishing Expedition
There was no opportunity to make inquiries before the servants' tea, but Barrow took the time to orient himself to the house and prepare his approach.
At first glance the servants' hall looked much like the one he'd left that morning. Here at tea time everyone was lined up at their appropriate chairs including, he noted, Lady Mabel's elusive maid. She didn't look at him. He didn't care. He had no business with her. There was an empty space for him near the head of the table and he moved into it and looked around for the butler. They all waited. In silence. Barrow took the opportunity for a preliminary once-over of them. The only one who met his gaze was Michael, the abrasive footman, who wore a belligerent aspect. They were going to have it out at some point, Barrow told himself.
After some minutes Mr. Wendover strode into the room and lingered for a moment at the head of the table. His severe gaze traversed the assembled staff who had all straightened up at his appearance, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. It was like a general reviewing the troops, Barrow mused. The atmosphere in the room was morose. They behaved, Barrow thought, as if at any moment one of them might be singled out to be shot. The only ones who seemed impervious to this performance were Michael and the man who sat to Barrow's right who, because of his position at the table, Barrow took to be Lord Bracken's valet.
Having completed his inspection, Mr. Wendover sat. The staff scrambled into their seats and a hasty meal began. They didn't even say grace. Barrow noted this only because no such omission ever occurred at Downton Abbey, upstairs or down. Things were certainly different at Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson did not deliberately keep the staff waiting for anything; nor would he have exercised his authority in this petty manner.
"We have two visitors." At Mr. Wendover's words, the clatter of cutlery immediately halted. "This is Barrow, acting valet to Viscount Gillingham, and Miss Spencer, lady's made to Her Ladyship, the Viscountess Gillingham."* Apparently that was all he meant to say, and consumption resumed.
The novelty of a new face usually elicited interest at Downton and drew questions or comments. Not so here. The business of eating took precedence as if the staff were concerned their food might arbitrarily be taken from them at any moment. Making headway here might be more difficult than he had thought.
"Acting?" said the man beside Barrow, turning slightly towards him. "What's that mean?"
Barrow half-expected a repressive intervention from the butler, but none came. "I am the under-butler of Downton Abbey," he said politely. "But Viscount Gillingham was temporarily in need of a valet and asked if I might serve him, which I was glad to do."
"Not much need for an under-butler these days," Mr. Wendover said, his tone suggesting that this was a frivolous extravagance on the part of Downton Abbey. "I understand your Mr. Carson has recently been married. To the housekeeper." It did not take a sensitive ear to hear the disdain in his voice. "How is that working?"
"Very well," Barrow said heartily. He did not care in the least about the Carsons' marriage and had noticed no meaningful difference in the way the Abbey operated in the wake of their union. But outsider criticism always got his back up, and so he added, "The atmosphere at Downton is quite pleasant under their stewardship."
Mr. Wendover snorted. "It's not possible to run a great house as it should be run with the distraction of a woman to contend with."
Looking at the housekeeper who sat to Mr. Wendover's right, Barrow doubted she would be of much distraction to anyone. He did not often have the opportunity to see servant life in other great houses, but this first glimpse into the downstairs of Chesley Park fostered a new level of appreciation for his own circumstances. Mr. Carson governed the staff with a firm but light hand. Here the atmosphere was oppressive and Barrow could see that the housekeeper was as downtrodden as the rest. There would be no spirited banter here, no voice of reason to challenge an imperial butler unlike at Downton where Mrs. Hughes had tempered Mr. Carson's excesses long before she became his wife.
"Aren't you a little uneasy working for Viscount Gillingham?" The question came from the valet. He spoke lightly, unaffected by the mood in the room. "Wasn't the last one murdered?"
There was a shocked hiss around the room and the butler turned on the man.
"That's enough, Moore!" he snapped.
The valet ignored him and grinned impudently at Barrow. He was, Barrow thought, someone who had more authority in this place than his specific position allowed for.
This wasn't quite the direction Barrow had wanted to take with his inquiries, but at least they were on a related subject. He would have to guide the conversation into more profitable channels. "That's right," he said coolly. "Mr. Green met a sticky end on a pavement in Piccadilly." As he spoke, he looked casually up and down the table, looking for something, anything and...was rewarded. Seated on the other side of the table next to the first footman was the younger one, Christopher. He started convulsively at Barrow's words, spilling soup from his spoon as he did so. He stared into his bowl, blinking rapidly, nervously, and looking for all the world as if he hoped no one would notice he was there. Barrow filed this away for further investigation.
"We'll have no more discussion of that," Mr. Wendover declared emphatically. Barrow did not feel bound to obey this butler's every command, but for the moment desisted. He'd gotten what he needed from that reference - a place to start. Best to turn to his main concern.
"It's been an uncertain world since the war," he said conversationally. "Used to be you got your job in one of these great houses and you were set for life. But now it's all to and fro and no stability at all. Or loyalty. At Downton we've got housemaids coming and going for all sorts of reasons. One dare not ask why..." He didn't know why he'd put it like that.
"Shut your damned mouth!"
Barrow had been scanning the table, feigning inclusiveness, looking for telling reactions. This innocuous statement had an unsettling effect, he thought, prompting several uneasy glances, especially from the maids at the lower end. But it was the first footman who had erupted and was now staring at Barrow with a face flushed with fury.
"Enough, Michael!" the butler said harshly.
"Really, Michael." This was the smooth and unruffled valet, who fixed the footman with a slightly irritated gaze. "You've forgotten your place. Again."
Michael shot a look of pure hatred at the valet, but swallowed his words. Barrow suspected he'd had a lot of practice with this, and that the antagonism between the men was of long-standing.
"You were saying?" Moore prompted Barrow.
"Only that a Miss Edna Braithwaite worked as a maid for us at Downton for a while, came here for a few months, returned to us, and then moved on again. She's an extreme example, but it shows that the world is changing when even a maid's life can be so volatile."
"Braithwaite was here only briefly," Mr. Wendover said curtly. "And your employers were fools to take her back. She had no experience and was highly unsuitable. And that is quite enough on that subject or any other, Mr. Barrow. We've no interest in the gossip of the Downton servants' hall and the business of Chesley Park is of no concern to you."
"I was only..."
"I will have silence."
The First Son of Chesley Park
"How are things downstairs, Barrow?
Barrow had the impression that this was a perfunctory query on Lord Gillingham's part, a reflex nicety which neither required nor anticipated a substantive response. But it spared him the necessity of raising a delicate subject himself.
"A little tense, my lord," he said frankly. "Chesley Park is not a happy house." He would never have been so forthcoming in response to a like question about Downton. It was never a good idea to draw upstairs attention to downstairs goings-on. But Barrow had no investment in the household at Chesley Park and no interest in the people who lived and worked there beyond his own narrow purposes.
Lord Gillingham paused, staring unseeing across the room for a moment. "That wasn't always the case. There was a time when it was a pleasure to spend time here. But Chesley Park has had its tragedies."
Barrow helped Lord Gillingham out of his vest and pressed on with a dispassionate air that belied his interest. "What happened, my lord?" He spoke quietly, respectfully, but Lord Gillingham looked at him sharply for a few seconds nevertheless. And then relented.
"Lady Mary has asked me to assist you in...whatever it is you're up to here, Barrow. I'm presuming such information would be relevant?"
"I believe so, my lord." He didn't know that it would be relevant. As Mrs. Carson had put it to him, he would recognize what he needed only when he actually encountered it. In the meantime, he was always prepared to gather information. You never knew when it would come in handy.
"I came to Chesley Park many times before the war, Barrow. I went to school with Jonathan St. Claire, the current Lord Bracken, and his elder brother - Arthur St. Clair - I was closer to him of the two. When the war broke out, I went into the navy, and my friend went to the western front. It...damaged him...his war experience. Terrible conditions there, you know. In the trenches."
It took a large measure of Barrow's considerable reserves of self-control not to react to this. He, Barrow, had served in those trenches as a medic and yet it never occurred to Viscount Gillingham that the man before him had done so. "So I understand," he murmured.
"And then he returned to a number of sorrows and strains here at Chesley Park. His fiancee died in the flu epidemic, breaking his heart. Then his father died in a riding accident the next year and the whole burden of the estate fell on his shoulders. It was a brutal blow and the melancholy that had gripped him from the war years deepened."
It was difficult to feel sorry for men whose problems took the form of having to accommodate to a lower level of wealth, but Barrow nodded sympathetically.
"Still, I thought he was beginning to come out of it. They made some financial adjustments with the estate and it seemed Lord Bracken had turned a corner. I had become a regular visitor here after the war and things looked promising."
"But it didn't last?"
"No. Lord Bracken took a sharp turn just around Christmas 1921. I was here for a shooting party at New Year's and he was hardly the same man. Anxious, agitated. There was something on his mind. I had an impression that it might be..." Lord Gillingham paused, as if trying to work something out, and then looked up and met Barrow's dispassionate gaze. "Well, whatever it was...he never said."
Lord Gillingham, Barrow understood, had reached the limits of his ability to confide in his temporary valet. He hung up the vest and tails in the wardrobe and busied himself with folding up His Lordship's tie.
"He killed himself, Barrow." Gillingham said this flatly and, glancing up at him, Barrow saw that the thought of his friend's death still pained Gillingham a great deal. "It isn't a secret," he went on brusquely. "Everyone in this house knows and many beyond it as well. But I would appreciate your discretion in the matter."
"Of course, my lord."
"I can't imagine what possible connection this might have to your pursuits, but there you have it. Lord Bracken's death was a terrible shock to his family, to his friends, to...to anyone who knew him. It was almost as if something had...happened...to prompt him to this action."
Barrow wanted to ask Like what? but had the wherewithal to know when to draw the line.
"And it didn't end there. His mother was devastated. She'd lost her husband, then her son. She died shortly thereafter, for no reason, really, except that she lost her will to live."
"Things were different for all of us, after the war, of course," Lord Gillingham mused, almost to himself. "Almost all the great estates were in peril, and Chesley Park was no exception. It's quite hard to imagine if you haven't faced that kind of uncertainty yourself."
Once more Barrow found himself struggling to find a grain of sympathy for this problem. "The family fortunes appear to have taken an upturn, at least," he commented carefully, knowing this to be courting impudence. "The estate seems a prosperous one."
Despite Mr. Wendover's remark about the superfluity of an under-butler, Barrow had noted that the servants' hall had a full complement of live-in staff - at least in post-war terms - and his reconnaissance of the house had not turned up any cut corners. He held his breath, hoping he had not gone too far.
But the cross expression on Tony Gillingham's face was not a product of Barrow's words, at least not directly. "No," he said shortly. "The money problem's been resolved. The current Lord Bracken is something of a financial wizard. He had a condition that kept him out of the war and he took the opportunity to make money." There was, in the Viscount's voice, that aristocratic disdain of the man who made his fortune through his own efforts rather than inheriting it, and yet, Barrow mused, the whole system made it impossible for a younger son to do well otherwise. "His personal fortunes have been in the ascendent every since. His assumption of the title restored the family, although whether he'll keep the house is another story."
He seemed to have gotten lost in his own reveries.
Barrow moved about quietly. Reading cautiously between the lines he discerned a bitter sibling rivalry at Chesley Park, no doubt an additional burden on the already fragile older brother.
"Will that be all, my lord?"
Lord Gillingham started. "It will. Thank you Barrow. Seven-thirty in the morning?"
"Very good, my lord."
The First Bite
Barrow had not had the opportunity to determine which room in the men's quarters Christopher inhabited, but he thought it prudent not to pursue his inquiries in that direction at this hour of the night. It was possible that the footmen shared a room and he wanted neither to confront the disagreeable Michael nor to frighten the easily-spooked younger footman. The latter was his best bet so far with regard to Mr. Green, if not Edna Braithwaite, and he wanted that interview to go as smoothly as possible.
Preoccupied with sifting the complex layers of conflict he had already discerned at Chesley Park, Barrow foolishly let his guard down. Opening the door to the room he had been assigned, he was just thinking that he was glad to have accommodations to himself when a strong hand grabbed him from behind, slammed the door shut, and flung him against it. A muscular arm ramped up under his jaw so hard that he choked for air. As he flailed for breath, he hardly noticed the broad body that crowded his, making it difficult to move.
His first reaction was an instinctual one, a wave of panic sweeping over him. He was blinded by the darkness of the room and pinioned by an unknown assailant at whose hands he was almost certainly going to suffocate. His body tensed and he struggled to break free, a cry for help dying in his strangled throat. And then his rational mind elbowed aside his panic. In a few frantic seconds he calculated the sensory clues before him and realized that he recognized his attacker. And though his position was hardly an enviable one, he understood that his life was not in danger. He relaxed a little.
"You keep your filthy scandal-mongering little innuendoes about my Lord Bracken to yourself, you oily bastard!"
"Michael, isn't it?" Barrow rasped, glad he could manage speech with the other's forearm so dangerously positioned over his windpipe. He felt a slight diminishment in the tension as though Michael was unnerved with this shattering of his anonymity.
Barrow took advantage of the moment. "I didn't say a thing about Lord Bracken." And that was true as far as it went. But clearly Michael thought otherwise.
"You know exactly what I mean!" Michael's snapped. "And if you want to walk out of here in one piece, you'll shut the hell up about my gentleman, God rest his soul." The savagery of the footman's threat almost disappeared as he uttered the last four words.
"Your... What?!" Even in these peculiar circumstances, Barrow was startled. Butlers and valets spoke proprietorially about the lords they served, but footman did not usually do so. And what was that other bit? "Do you mean Lord Bracken's older brother?" Usually Barrow did his mental computing silently, but things were moving quickly here.
"I don't bloody mean His Lordship, do I?" Michael snarled. "He's no gentleman." He shoved his forearm more sharply into Barrow's throat at that, as if to drive home his scorn, but he had also lowered his voice as he spoke. Despite the vigour of his feelings with regard to the original Lord Bracken - and his successor - he clearly felt uneasy in voicing his sentiments too loudly.
Suddenly the footman dropped his arm and stepped back. Barrow, not expecting this release, almost fell into him and Michael smoothly caught him by one arm and flung him roughly across the room. Before Barrow could regain his footing, the footman had pulled open the door and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Barrow reached out to the bed frame to steady himself and then dropped down on the narrow mattress, rubbing his bruised throat and trying to catch his breath. He coughed. And then, even before he could breathe evenly again, a smug smile took form on his lips. A colourful phrase Mrs. Patmore had once employed flashed into his mind. He had cast some sprat to catch the mackerel and he had just secured his first bite. Tomorrow, he thought, suddenly looked more promising.
*NOTE: Following the practice indicated in the Season 3 Christmas Special episode and the trip to Duneagle Castle in Scotland, and in the Downton Abbey house party episode (4.1) in Season 4, the visiting valet and lady's maid ought, perhaps, to be Mr. Gillingham and Miss Gillingham, but for sake of the flow of the text I'm taking the more direct, if incorrect, route.
