CORNERING A KILLER

Chapter 15 A Killer Cornered

Barrow on the Edge

He was poised on the edge of a precipice. Below him, so very far away on the gravel path, the crumpled frame of a small body lay in a heap. Master George! His own situation drove the anguish he felt about the little boy from his mind. That would be his fate in a matter of seconds.

He dared not push himself up on his arms - the resistance of his body on the roof surface was the only barrier between him and immediate death. Edna was behind him and he could not surrender the search for a possible hand-hold before him. He tried to kick out at her, but she was at his side, out of range. He dragged his feet, looking for any catch that might save him. There was no rational thought to any of this. A primordial instinct for self-preservation had taken over, although a rising tide of panic was evidence that at some level he had lost hope of survival.

And then salvation beckoned from a different direction.

Even as he felt the momentum of his body accelerating toward oblivion, his left hand, stretched out before him, grasped something. It was an iron bar protruding from the mortar on the side wall of the gap. The masonry men, it seemed, had thought to reinforce the new wall in this way before laying the stone once more. Barrow's left hand closed tightly about it. Never had he clung to anything with such desperation.

This stalled his progress over the side - he could now brace himself against the pressure from behind - but did not end Edna's efforts. Obstructed at the upper part of his body, she released her hold on the back of his coat and his waistband and instead seized his pant legs. His legs flailed in her grip, but she was strong, stronger than she looked, and had the advantage of him. In one great heaving moment, she swung his body almost parallel to the roof's edge and then, with another extraordinary effort ... tipped him over.

But he did not fall cleanly. Both his grip on the bar and the rough surface of the roof slowed him so that as he slid, painfully twisting his left arm, he was able to shift his upper body and catch the bar with his right hand even as he was forced to give way with the left. That hand scrabbled desperately along the roof edge, scraping his fingertips raw before slipping - miraculously - into some hole or crevice that the renovations had opened up. His lower body hung heavily along the stone face of the Abbey, his upper body taxed beyond anything he had ever asked of it. Both arms were bent, his head almost level with his hands. He was holding on by a hair's breadth, but he was holding on.

There was nothing coherent in Barrow's usually calculating and clear mind. Sheer terror and instinctual self-preservation obliterated everything else. His grey-blue eyes, more often narrowed in a cool appraisal of the situation, were wide and vulnerable. His breath came in short sharp gasps that sent alarming tremors through his body and threatened the stability of his so tenuous position. He was too frightened to sob.

A shadow fell over him. He had the wherewithal not to look up abruptly, but instead eased his gaze upwards. The light was with him and he could see the face above him clearly. She was so close, crouched on the edge, the safe edge of the roof, looking down at him. And then gone again.

"Wha..." It was almost a whimper. Salvation, help, had been there. And then disappeared. He almost gave up in the devastation of his disappointment.

And then the shadow was back. She was back. Edna. Crouching on the roof's perimeter and now brandishing in her hands a narrow length of iron rod like the one to which he clung for his life. Only this one wasn't going to save him. He saw that right away. She was going to use it to knock him from his precarious perch.

His mouth opened with a wail of anguish, a plea for mercy and then ... it caught in his throat with the sound of something he knew and understood viscerally to be a real hope. The grating of the door on the roof terrace. And a different appeal issued from his mouth.

The Race to the Roof

"What is it? What's going on?"

Perhaps the anomaly of the housekeeper appearing in the library had alerted Robert Crawley to the extraordinary nature of the circumstances. Or it might have been the look in Mrs. Carson's face. Whatever had drawn his attention, there he was at the door, having flung it open in time to hear the terror in his daughter's "Oh, my God!"

Lady Mary whirled on her heel. "Papa! We must go to the roof immediately! George is in danger!" There was much more to it than that and Lady Mary was aware of it, but her son was not only her primary concern but also the easiest way to galvanize the troops without a long explanation.

The occupants of the library were now all crowding the doorway behind Lord Grantham - Her Ladyship, the Sinderbys, and the Edgertons - shocked reflections of Lady Mary's words etched in their faces. His Lordship whirled on them. "Come on!" he shouted, signalling the men. Andy was already in motion before His Lordship had spoken. Neither Edgerton nor Sinderby hesitated, pushing forward. Molesley was a little slower, but hurriedly divested himself of the pastry knife he'd been using to serve cake and followed the others. They brushed by Mrs. Carson and Lady Mary and stormed out into the Great Hall. The two women followed them, leaving Her Ladyship to deal with Lady Sinderby and Lady Edgerton, all of them bewildered.

Mrs. Carson had summoned help and done her duty to Lady Mary and now wanted only to get to the roof herself to be assured that the worst had not happened - to Mr. Barrow or to her husband. Apprehension gripped her heart. They were very capable in so many ways and ought in any cool assessment of the situation to have been able to handle Edna Braithwaite. But that cunning woman had proved herself more than a match for several men already and Mrs. Carson would not be calm in her mind again until she had set eyes on both of them and knew they were well. So though she stepped aside to let the men pass, she was hard on their heels.

Carson's Dilemma

Carson had never climbed the stairs to the servants' quarters so quickly. By the time he reached the landing with the three doors - and mere seconds had elapsed in his doing so - he was heaving for breath. Rattling around in his head were four elements - Mr. Barrow, Edna Braithwaite, Master George!, and the roof! How had they not seen this coming?!

The door to the stairs leading to the roof was wide open, Mr. Barrow's work. And when his eyes fell on the small shoe, knocked into a corner of the second stair by Barrow's manic ascent, Carson was seized with the same frantic alarm that had spurred the underbutler on. The murderess Braithwaite had Master George on the roof! The child had nothing to do with the lady's maid, but Carson groaned at the foolhardiness that had not anticipated this - Thomas Barrow's weakness. Everyone downstairs at Downton - and upstairs, for that matter - knew how fond Barrow was of the little boy. It was not at all surprising that that minx Braithwaite should have picked up on this, even if she had been in the house less than twenty-four hours. Why hadn't this occurred to him! He who knew the vulnerability that affection for a child of the house incurred! Elsie had warned about some innocent getting caught up in their machinations and now one had.

If anything happens to Master George..., Carson thought grimly.

At the top of the steps it was Carson's first impulse to throw open the door and plunge into the midst of whatever was happening. But as he flattened his hand against the closed over door, he paused. Barrow was there ahead of him. If there was some delicate negotiation unfolding in which Master George was being held as a pawn, then Carson did not wish to shatter the fragile equilibrium. So, fighting his instincts, he took a deep breath and leaned up against the door, straining to hear what lay beyond. He heard nothing. That is, nothing other than the sounds of nature. The roof was extensive. And no one was yelling. That, at least, was a good sign. So he proceeded carefully, pushing the door open slowly, flinching at the grating sound of the lower edge dragging against the stone terrace. In the quietude of the moment this came alarmingly loudly to his ears. Again he paused to listen, straining to hear any indication of what might be going on ahead of him. And suddenly Mr. Barrow's voice came to him clearly.

"Wait! Wait!"

It chilled his bones to hear even this simple word and its echo. Barrow, in Carson's experience, did not frighten easily. Which was only as it should be given that Barrow was an Englishman. But in his voice now, even in just that brief snippet, the butler heard terror. And as he eased the door open more widely, Carson understood what had stirred Barrow to such extremes. There was Edna Braithwaite, perched on the roof's edge, an iron bar in her hands, staring downward. Carson could not see what she was looking at but knew it must be Mr. Barrow, over the edge but still hanging on to something, though God alone knew what there was to hang on to. The sight was so shocking that in the moment Carson could think of nothing but the man beside whom he had worked for almost two decades. And of the evil woman who looked about ready to finish him off with that poker. He tensed to spring forward and then Barrow's voice came again, an agonized and urgent cry.

"WAIT!"

Wait! Not Help! This was not a plea for his life from Barrow, but more of an anguished order, and though he was unaccustomed to following orders from a subordinate, Carson paused. It seemed unlikely, but ... was Barrow speaking to him? He put one foot forward cautiously, quietly. And then took another step gingerly and so slowly. Surely he could only help Barrow by going forward, but he could not not listen to the man.

"What?!" This was Edna, callously demanding an explanation from Barrow as though she could not imagine what he might ask. Carson bristled at the calculated smugness in her voice.

"Help me." This time Barrow's voice was small and plaintive and faint.

Carson put another foot down silently. Edna's back was toward him. If only he could get there before...

"Help you!" she spat contemptuously. "I'm going to kill you, Mr. Barrow." She spoke with a matter-of-factness that turned the butler's blood cold. Oh, they had known in their heads for some time now that Edna was their killer, but here and now, in word and deed was manifest evidence of this fact. And it was frightening to behold.

So saying, she stood up and turned the iron bar over in her hands, holding it as one might wield a staff against a foe and raising it just a little. She was going to jab Barrow in the chest and knock him from the ledge.

"Like you did Mr. Green?"

Barrow was almost whimpering in his fear and yet he remembered this? Carson didn't know whether to admire the cheek of the man or think him deranged.

"He was spur of the moment, Mr. Green was," Edna said off-handedly, though there was a cool eagerness in her tone that contrasted sharply with Barrow's gulping terror. "It happened so fast, I didn't have time to enjoy it. But I'm going to watch you fall." And then she raised the bar.

"NO!" Bellowing this, Carson charged forward

Edna responded instinctively, swinging around to meet this new threat that came from behind. Carson saw her bring the bar around in a wide powerful arc, aimed at him now. He dodged but caught the end of it, a hard, painful blow to his side that knocked the breath from him and sent him careening to the side. Then she was scrambling by him. He might have flung out a hand to catch her, but he let her go. In this instant, it was Barrow he must catch. Regaining his feet he dashed to the roof edge, stumbling a bit in pain, and felt an alarming swooping sense in his own stomach as he took in the underbutler's predicament. There was not even a flicker of relief in Barrow's eyes. The man was far too aware that anything could give and his life slip away in the fraction of a second

Now Carson hesitated no more. Immediately he dropped flat on his face, seeking purchase with his left hand and his feet on the same broken surface that Barrow had slid over only moments before, anchoring himself to the edges of the battlements, looking for a way to brace himself before extending a hand over the rim. He would help Barrow, but he must be sure of himself. A frightened, desperate man might take them both to their deaths below.

"Mr. Barrow?" There was a tentative note in his voice. Barrow held on by the most fragile of margins. Carson eased his arm over the edge. He did not want inadvertently to jar Barrow. He must feel his way very carefully.

"Here!" The pitch of Barrow's voice was three times higher than normal, but it was vigorous enough.

"Take my hand." Carson surprised himself with the firmness of his own voice.

"Can't!"

Of course he couldn't. He was holding on for dear life and who would give up a firm grip, even for a second? Carson nodded and then remembered that Barrow could see him no more than he could see Barrow. "All right. I'll find you." He felt carefully along the gutter edge until his fingers brushed the back of a hand. In the clenched knuckles of the other's grip he could feel the depth of Barrow's dread. He slid his hand over Barrow's and then folded his fingers firmly around the tense wrist.

"Hold on now, Mr. Barrow," he said firmly, surprised to find his voice so smooth. His own fear could only be a fraction of Barrow's and yet he had to make a conscious effort to quell it. This could not be happening at Downton Abbey! And yet it was. "Hold fast," he went on, in a voice of enforced calm. "I've got you now. You'll be all right." Only in a situation where Barrow had, a moment before, been hanging alone by his fingernails could the addition of another person holding him while he dangled over the edge of the Abbey roof be considered an improvement. And yet ... Barrow had hung on a minute, a few minutes, on his own, which was almost impossible to believe, making it plausible that they might hold on together until help came.

Barrow's breath was coming in great gulps. The man was petrified. Carson must try to reassure him.

"Help is on the way," he said, trying to affect his usual tone of authority. "Mrs. Carson knows we're here. She'll be along in another min ... in a few seconds."

How had it come to this? The point of this adventure had been to catch Edna in the act of attempted murder - it had been his idea - and now so they had. Her words and actions, if ever they got out of this and found her again, would convict her. But in the moment their own ignorance at playing detective had landed them here, with Mr. Barrow clinging to some rubbish at the roof's edge, his life in the balance, a casualty of their collective foolishness.

But Elsie had gone for help. She would, she must have disrupted the afternoon tea and even now the men - footmen, His Lordship, and guests alike - would be charging up the stairs. Their deliverance was at hand. It must be.

Barrow had been supporting his whole weight by gripping the bar with his right hand, his other hand, clawing some handhold, providing balance more than anything else. When Carson took hold of his wrist, Barrow shifted some of his weight to that hand that Carson might bear it. The butler was in a far stronger and more comfortable position to sustain that burden, but he felt it keenly enough. How Barrow had managed thus far was simply beyond belief.

Carson felt a tremor run through Barrow's arm and heard the man gasp in fear. Carson realized he had to do more than maintain his viselike grip on the younger man's arm.

"Mr. Barrow," he said firmly. It was an odd feeling to be speaking to someone he could not see, but Barrow's presence was real enough. "You are a survivor. You've seen worse," he went on bracingly. "You were in the trenches. You came through that and you'll come through this." All he had was words and their shared history of superior and subordinate. Barrow hadn't always followed his commands, but he'd always obeyed those that were in his best interests. Never had those interests been so much at risk as in this minute and yet the man needed encouragement, too. Carson sought other arguments that might infuse Barrow with that necessary strength to cling to life.

"You're not going to be undone by Edna Braithwaite," Carson said, hissing the name with all the contempt he could muster. "She's tried and failed once before with you and she will fail again. And we've got her now, you know. You did that. You made her say it and we both heard it. We'll have her, Mr. Barrow. We will have her."

He did not know if it was helping or not. It beggared his imagination to think what must be going through Barrow's mind.

"You're very strong, Mr. Barrow," he went on. "And so am I." He tried to tighten his grip on Barrow's wrist to let him feel this, though he was holding on so fiercely as it was that he doubted Barrow could sense the difference. And yet he felt even more was needed. "Steady on. I won't let you go and you will hang on."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." It was barely a whisper but they were the first coherent words Barrow had spoken since Edna had fled and the very conventionality of them gave them both a few seconds' boost.

Then there were other voices, male voices, behind them and the door which had fallen to again after Edna had escaped through it flew open with a bang.

"My Lord!" Carson called out, his voice shaking a little from the proximity of relief. He didn't know who was behind him, but who else could it be? And it didn't matter, really. What was important was that there was not a second to lose.

The Rescue

"Good God!"

Carson's cry had drawn the attention of the rescue party and immediately they were scrambling over the debris that lay between the roof door and Carson's prone form. It was a puzzlement to them all why Carson was so situated. Robert Crawley reached the edge first and from him came the first horrified reaction. And then he took command.

"Andrew! Find the rope that was supposed to have cordoned this area off. Molesley, start clearing a path from Carson back about fifteen feet. We'll need an uncluttered area to pull from. My Lords, if you could help with that." Robert was shouldering himself out of his jacket as he spoke. Behind him, Sinderby was doing the same. Robert tossed his aside and then dropped to his knees beside Carson, peering over him to where Barrow was suspended.

"Barrow, hang on. It won't be much longer. Carson." Robert did not dare to touch Carson lest he disrupt the delicate balance already in place. "Carson," he said again, in a quiet voice. "It won't be a minute." His first impulse was to reach for Barrow, but he could not see how this could be managed without pitching headfirst over the battlement himself.

"The rope, my lord." Andy held out a length of coiled rope.

"Is it sound?" Robert asked, though he was already examining it himself.

"I tested it as I coiled it," Andy replied quickly. He was distracted, his eyes straying to the roof's edge and to the white-knuckled grip of Thomas Barrow on the thin iron rod and the fingers still dug into the gutter beneath Mr. Carson's arm. Beyond this Andy could see only the top of Thomas's head. Just the sight of this perilous situation threatened to turn his stomach. He did not like heights.

"We'll tie a noose and get it looped around Barrow," Robert declared, pulling out a length of one end of rope. "Then we'll pull him up."

"If I may."

Robert looked up to find Lord Edgerton, a man who was well into his late sixties but quite vigorous, holding out a hand for the rope. "I was a naval officer, Lord Grantham. I wager I would tie a better knot than a soldier any day."

Over a drink in the library, Robert might have disputed this. In the circumstances, he handed over the rope without hesitation and then watched as Lord Edgerton rapidly executed a solid noose.

"There."

"Thank you." Robert accepted the rope. He uncoiled it and threw the straight end back along the now cleared space behind him. Lord Sinderby grabbed it up. The broadest of all of them, he took the anchor position, passing the rope across his shoulders and then holding it up that Lord Edgerton and Molesley might also take their places. Sinderby, who Robert could not have imagined in such a scenario, operated with a practiced ease that might have made one suspect him of engaging in rope-tug contests in his spare time. Molesley was willing if not wholly comfortable. Lord Edgerton, taking his post, was clearly prepared to put his back into it.

Noose in hand, Robert cautiously approached the edge once more, taking care not to step on Carson as he did so, and signalled Andy to take up a position at Carson's feet, so that he could look down on Barrow as well. Thus situated, Robert began to lower the rope, relying on Andy's instructions as to where to place it as he tried to loop it around Barrow one way or another. It was a challenge.

"Kick your leg out a bit, Mr. Barrow," Andy called. "If you can. The left one. The rope is right there. If you can just give us something to hook on to..."

Several agonizing seconds ticked by and then ...

"You've got him!" Andy roared.

"Success!" Robert cried exuberantly. "Can you feel the rope tightening on your thigh, Barrow?"

A muffled "Yes" reached their ears.

"We're on our way," Robert murmured, perhaps to himself or for Carson's benefit. He hazarded another glance over the edge. "The rope is by your hand now, Barrow. Your right hand." Robert had expressed his shock in the first words he had uttered on the roof. Since that exclamation, his voice had been calm, brisk, moderate. The peril of the situation took second place to the orderly organization of relief. Robert played with the rope. "I've got it up against your hand. Can you feel it?"

"I can!"

"Good. Now, let go of the bar and see if you can grab it. We've got you firmly in the rope and Carson's got your other arm, haven't you, Carson?"

"I have, my lord," Carson said, panting a little from the exertion. Both Barrow and Carson were tiring, but Robert's quiet authority steadied them and made the impossible seem possible.

"Do it now, Barrow."

With one great heaving cry, Barrow let go of the bar that had saved his life. He lurched downward on the right side and his now free arm went swinging wildly. But the rope around his leg and the grip on his other wrist held and kept him in place as he scrabbled frantically with his hand to find the rope and then did so.

"He's got it!" Andy shouted even before Barrow could tell them so. At Robert's signal, the footman joined the other men on the rope, taking a firm hold with both hands and looking for footholds against which to brace himself.

Robert leaned over the roof's rim again. "We're going to draw you up now, Barrow. It'll be over very soon."

The men began to pull and Barrow began to inch upward at an achingly slow rate. He had to let go of the gutter, but Carson kept hold of his wrist. Barrow's grip on the rope might be tenuous after holding hard for so long. And as Barrow's head came level with roof floor, Carson began to ease himself over on his side, drawing Barrow along with him. And then, as soon as practicable, His Lordship seized the back of Barrow's collar and helped to haul him up bodily, sprawling him across Carson who had rolled over onto his back. With Barrow safe, and only his toes just scraping the gutter to which he had clung for so long, Robert dropped to his knees beside the two men, with one hand on Barrow's back and the other on Carson's shoulder.

"Well, done!" And then he glanced up at the four men who had relaxed their hold on the rope and were now, themselves, catching their breath from their efforts. "Well done, everyone!"

While the others dropped the rope and dusted themselves off, Barrow and Carson moved more slowly as though in a fog. Barrow, his aching arms offering him little support, struggled to push himself off of the butler. Robert gave him a hand and then took Carson's left arm, the one that hadn't been holding Barrow, and helped him into a sitting position as well. The two men sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, for a long moment, breathing heavily, not moving otherwise.

The terror of his close call with death was still etched in Barrow's countenance and though he did not notice it himself, he was trembling. His breaths were shallow and rapid though he tried, by forcing himself to breathe through his nose to slow them down. For several minutes he had believed he was about to die and that was a sobering thought for any man.

Carson, who had not at any point felt his own life at risk, was shuddering himself over Barrow's ordeal. He had seen death in his time, but it had always been of a natural or accidental nature. Coming face to face with a deliberate attempt to take another's life chilled him to the core of his being. Awkwardly he placed a hand on Barrow's shoulder and tentatively patted him in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Barrow glanced his way sharply and their eyes met. In the younger man's eyes Carson saw raw fear and knew that to be mirrored in his own gaze. He had never been so afraid in his life. But it was Barrow, after all, whose life had been in the balance.

"You're safe now, Mr. Barrow," Carson said quietly. This was self-evident, but death had been so close that Carson, and perhaps Barrow, too, needed an overt affirmation.

In any other circumstances, Barrow would have found Mr. Carson's touch intolerable, but for several minutes past the man's hold on him had been his lifeline. He did not shake off the other's hand, only nodding at the words, more responsive to the soothing tone than to what was said.

"What in hell is going on here?!"

This strident demand, emanating from Lord Sinderby, jarred them all.

"I don't know," Robert responded, still breathing heavily. He looked at Carson and at Barrow. From the moment he had set foot on the roof, Barrow's plight had wholly absorbed his attention. Now he recalled why he and his guests had rushed upstairs in the first place.

"Where's George?"

Robert addressed this question to no one in particular, but his gaze almost immediately fell on Barrow as the most likely source for an answer. The response came in a look, rather than a word. Barrow, only lately delivered from his own nightmare, returned to the instant before he had tripped, before his own life had hung so starkly in the balance, and he remembered the small form in the blue wool jumper that Edna had shoved from the roof top.

As a look of dread descended on Barrow's face, Robert's own colour drained and it seemed his heart had ceased to beat. George is in danger! Mary had said. Barrow began to scramble. Robert moved more quickly, although in his own mind it seemed time had slowed to a crawl. In an instant he was at the roof's margin and with his heart in his throat in a whole new level of terror, he looked apprehensively over the edge.

Edna Thwarted

The men had the advantage of dress. No matter that all were formally attired, the fact was that trousers allowed them to race across the Great Hall, through the green baize door, and up the servants' staircase far more quickly than Mrs. Carson in her serviceable but still confining dress. Lady Mary's garb was even less conducive to emergency action. Through the fog of fear of not-knowing about what was unfolding on the roof, Mrs. Carson was aware of Lady Mary calling out something to the three women who remained in the library. Though the words were indistinct, she hoped that Lady Mary was issuing a deterrent. There were already enough people heading for the top of the Abbey.

Lady Mary joined her at the door to the stairwell and they started upwards together, each holding their skirts high to take the steps as quickly as possible. As they reached the first landing, however, Lady Mary suddenly fell hard to one side and Mrs. Carson automatically reached out to her.

A look of mingled rage and frustration came over Lady Mary. "It's my damned heel!" she cried out in fury. "Go on!"

Mrs. Carson did not hesitate to do so. Above her the men had already reached the landing where the doors branched off and were pounding up the stairwell to the roof. As the intervening doors fell shut behind them, they seemed so far away. And then all sounds of them ceased.

She gained the landing herself and paused for a few seconds to catch her breath. And then lunged for the door leading to the roof. What was happening up there? The door at the top was closed over and the one behind her swung back as well, dimming the stairwell and in that semi-darkness her foot came down on something on the second stair and she fell awkwardly into the wall and would have lost her balance entirely had she not crouched quickly instead. Steadying herself, she groped for the thing that had tripped her up and her hand closed on a shoe. A child's shoe. Master George! The bile rose in her at this evidence of Edna's malevolence.

In this moment of furious but silent contemplation she heard an odd sound behind her, below on the landing. Long experience had made her an adept at interpreting the sounds of the house and she knew this immediately to be the clicking of a door latch. It would not be from the attic, which was still securely locked, and so must have come from the men's quarters. But who was there to be coming or going from there? The adult male servants were on the roof. And the houseboy was never so silent. It must be ...

She crept back the way she had come and silently eased open the door at the bottom of the stairs. A slight figure was moving stealthily toward the stairs leading downwards, the slight sinister figure of Edna Braithwaite.

"Oh, no you don't!"

Mrs. Carson sprang through the doorway onto the landing with an agility that startled herself and certainly surprised Edna Braithwaite. Seizing the woman's arm, Mrs. Carson hauled her back.

Caught unawares, Edna almost fell toward the other woman. But she quickly regained her senses and then was twisting and turning in an effort to break the grip on her wrist. They were fairly evenly matched, two small but wiry women who were accustomed to physical labour, though Edna had the edge of youth. And of desperation. Unable to pull herself free, she balled the fist of her unfettered right hand and began to bludgeon Mrs. Carson.

"Let go of me!" Edna hissed, punctuating her words with blows.

Holding one arm above her head to shield herself from Edna's punishing assault, Mrs. Carson yet maintained her hold.

But Edna was fighting for her life and not about to be thwarted by a woman twice her age and, giving up on beating her off, tried to grapple with her instead. This brought the women face to face and in the younger woman's glare Mrs. Carson was able to take her measure. She saw there the ferocity of a cornered animal. The housekeeper was seething herself, but there was something more elemental in Edna's eyes. She had killed before and had perhaps done so again this very afternoon. Her survival depended on making good her escape. And Mrs. Carson's indignation could never match this. She felt Edna gaining the upper hand and then was shaken as the lady's maid managed to thrust her backwards, banging Mrs. Carson's head against the wall. The housekeeper's hold involuntarily faltered. Edna pulled herself free but did not run. Instead she struck out again, driving Mrs. Carson against the wall a second time.

The last time Elsie Carson had fought hand to hand with anyone was as a girl in a schoolyard fifty years before and she'd been more resilient then. But bullies never changed. Having thrown her off, Edna ought to have run for it, but characteristically she chose to pause for a moment to gloat.

"Did you really think you could stop me?" she demanded, her hissed words infused with smugness.

Unaccountably, Mrs. Carson managed a crooked smile.

Sniffing derisively at what she mistook for confusion or stupidity, Edna turned to flee and ran right into Lady Mary's oncoming fist. Edna staggered and before she could regain her balance, Lady Mary hit her again, and then tackled her. They fell to the floor, Lady Mary clambering awkwardly on top of her quarry, her fashionable dress wholly unsuitable to the purpose, but not preventing her from gaining the advantage. Her dark eyes were aflame with a primal imperative that rivalled that mirrored in Edna's gaze. Drawing back her fist in readiness for another blow, she demanded, "Where's my son?"