Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Four: Escaliers & Escalation

Thomas had never taken the stairs so quickly in all his years at Downton. He'd waited until Bates was well away, feigned to Daisy that he'd forgotten something upstairs, and then rushed up so he could 'return promptly' to see their guests out. Sheer panic fueled his climb, and was probably the only reason he wasn't gasping for breath halfway up.

Thankfully, he'd also long practiced taking the stairs silently—the better to move, or tarry attentively, without calling attention to himself. And so he gave no one the knowledge, much less Bates the satisfaction, that he was thundering up to his room in the obvious haste that was the reality.

Slowing only as he reached his own door, he glanced around for anyone else about, knocked and slipped inside, whispering, "Ian?" as he did so.

Back against the closed door and finally breathing heavily, he looked about frantically, seeing only a pile of clothes in one corner, and a disheveled bed. No sign of his visitor, or of anything other than what might be his own lack of house-required tidiness.

"Ian?" he barked a little louder, as if the summons would somehow make the guest visible when he was clearly not there.

Did I imagine the whole thing? No, he was cold, but very real; and he was here this morning! Where had he gone? Where could he have gone? In a strange house? Injured? Oh God, who would see him?!

He was just about step out into hallway, to begin searching room to room, top to bottom if he had to, when a muffled cough and a light scratching sound caught his ear.

"Ian?" he hoped aloud, checking under the bed, at the window, and finally turning toward a clearer knock… from inside his heavy wardrobe. He pulled it open, only to see to his hanging shirts, slacks and jackets.

"Here," a low voice scratched from behind and below his clothes.

Squatting, he found his battered roommate crammed tightly into the box's bottom, knees tucked tight against his chest.

"Can't get up. Stuck. Sore…," Ian admitted through clenched lips.

Thomas helped him gingerly unfold and stretch himself out into the room, mindful of the only slightly settled cuts and bruises that dotted him, like a living map of misadventures.

Flushed and warm from having been cooped up, Ian wavered a little on standing. Seeing his mix of stiff and swoon, Thomas settled him on the bed's edge, and perched beside him, holding his good, left hand, and supporting his back. More injury, or noise, is just what they didn't need. "What happened?" he asked, not being able to guess the details.

In his longest sharing since they met, Ian shared with more energy, if similar scratch in his voice. "There was an odd… shufflin' at the door, and then a knock. A man's voice called out, lookin' for someone… All I could think was to hide. I barely fit," he smiled weakly.

"You did well," Thomas smiled back, with a mix of relief and pride. But, "Did he see you? The hobbled man?"

"I don't think so. I'd closed myself in, and so only heard the door open. He seemed to chuckle; and then closed the door and walked away."

Thomas sighed. So Bates had only seen the unacceptable state of the room, not its inexplicable and inexcusable occupant. The mess was what he was threatening me with…

"Could I have some water, please?" Ian coughed.

"Of course." Thomas poured him a glass from the nightstand, and returned to his side, remembering an additional treat. "And, I brought you a little something to eat, just until I work out something more substantial." He offered the hastily-made sandwiches, which Ian hastily tore into.

"How are you feeling?" He could see Ian still moved stiffly; still favored his left arm; and his eye was even worse looking this morning.

"I am warmer," Ian smiled a positive development at him through his ailments, "thanks to you."

That warmed Thomas to know, to hear, in a way he wasn't expecting. However, he didn't like that Ian was actually warm to the touch this morning. His hiding ruddiness hadn't faded entirely. And the cough was new as well.

Ian continued, through a mouthful of mushy bread and spread, "The man was lookin' for 'Thomas'; that you?"

A nod and smile, as the mutual introduction had finally been made. And Thomas liked the way this odd arrival pronounced his name, too.

"Then, thank you, Mister Thomas," Ian offered, without breaking single-eye contact. "I expect you saved me from the storm last night, though I don't really know why. Or where I am… What town I'm in, or what room in the palace. Is this really yours?"

"The palace?" Thomas laughed. "You're not in a palace, Ian. This is a grand manor house, to be sure; but it's just the country estate of the Earl of Grantham."

Ian's expression showed that meant nothing to him.

"You don't get out much, do you?"

Ian's expression turned to concern, as if he'd done something wrong.

"Not to worry. It's not my house; but this is my room. I'm just an… indispensable member of the Earl's staff. And speaking of," he stood, "I have to get back downstairs, else they'll be looking for me again soon enough."

Brushing a stray curl off the discoloring eye, Thomas suggested, "For now, just know that you are safe, I promise… if very much a secret to the rest of the house. So, for a little while longer, I must ask you to stay put; try to get some rest. And until I get back with more food and time, I'll make sure no one else comes looking for me. But maybe put the chair in front of the door, just in case? We can talk more later." Getting a nod as Ian chewed another smashed bite, he headed to the door, and looked about for any unwanted eyes or ears.

"Mister Thomas?" Ian called out softly behind him, in keeping with his laying low instructions.

He poked his head back in, to see the pale, blond, white-draped stranger sitting tall in his dark room. "Yes."

"Thank you," the man nodded, exuding earnestness and trust in word, tone and look.

"My pleasure."

"Lady Grantham, Lady Edith," the man entering behind the Earl stopped short and checked that his hat was still in his hand, was not on his head.

"Sorry to interrupt," Robert said, as he resumed his walk to his desk across the room. "We didn't realize you'd be in here at this time of day."

"Hello, Jarvis; good to see you," Cora smiled over her book, before answering her husband. "The light, and the fire, are good in here on a chilly autumn afternoon. And Lady Edith is doing some… research."

As he rifled through papers on his desk, Robert asked out of sheer politeness, and perhaps a hint of morbid disbelief, "Is that Burke's Peerage?"

"I'm looking up families whose names or titles start with 'G', in hopes we can identify our mystery handkerchief," Edith reported matter-of-factly from the sofa where she was surrounded by a huge tome and hand scrawled pages.

Her parents shared a knowing look, as their estate agent smartly gave no reaction at all.

Edith sighed as she read, "But beyond 'Grantham,' we've 'Gage, Gainsborough, Galloway, Galway, Gambier, Gardner, Gerard, Gifford, Gillingham…'" She sat back, overwhelmed. "There must be nearly four dozen here! And that's before I even check the family names under other titles… Surely there's a simpler way to narrow this down."(1)

"Your grandmother is a veritable walking Burke's," the Countess reminded. "She might be able to help you strike off extinct titles, or know which families have living male members, able to drop their hankies where we can find them."

"That's a wonderful idea, mama," Edith brightened, while Robert shook his head at the problematic encouragement. Knowing him already disapproving, Edith lost nothing by adding, "And, as none of you believes me regardless, there's no harm in asking her for any recollections of a relative, or guest, who might have died in or around Downton. In case it were a ghost or figment I saw…"

Cora blanched at the suggestion, and dropped her widened eyes back into her book.

"Well in the realm of reality," Robert redirected, happily finding the papers he'd been seeking, "Jarvis reports we had only a little flooding in low spots, and some holes in a few roads, but nothing worse than that."

"That's wonderful news," affirmed Cora, happy to support the change of topics. "I hope that's the last of the bad weather for a while. Quite the fireworks in the sky…"

The door beside the nodding man opened, and Carson stepped in with quick nods to all but him, "I am sorry to disturb your Lordship, but there's a… caller whom I think you'll want to see, sir." His addendum was the epitome of gravitas: "In the study."

"Very well," Robert accepted, before walking over to dismiss his current visitor. "Thank you again for the update, Jarvis; here are the figures you'd asked for. And please do keep us updated if you find anything else of note."

"I will, milord. Ladies," the man bowed and stepped out past the butler.

"Now, if you'll both excuse me, it seems this living, handkerchief wielding 'G' is very popular in his own right…" He smiled back at his wife, and to his unamused daughter.

"I'll see myself out," Jarvis had just told the nodding butler, before the latter joined Lord Grantham on the brief steps to the private room.

"That was rather cryptic introduction at a time when mystery and suspense are the last things we should be feeding here," the Earl half-joked.

"I am sorry, sir," Carson said, pausing before the study door. "But for exactly that reason, I hadn't wished to say in front of their Ladyships… It's a police constable who has come calling…"

"Good afternoon, your Lordship," the local law enforcement representative began, stepping forward immediately to introduce himself, a presumptive initiative earning a scornful glower from Carson. "I am sorry to trouble you, sir. I'm Sergeant Willis."

"Sergeant," Robert acknowledged with an obligatory handshake, and quick glance at the large leather bag on the floor beside the bobby. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, sir, I am hoping you can help with a bit of a mystery… You see, a few hours ago, one of the villagers called our attention to an item just along the north road; and I wondered if you might recognize it."

From his bag, he carefully pulled out the ripped, dirtied, dark-stained, but nonetheless recognizable remnants of a slim man's quality travelling jacket.

"I say, sir," Carson started at the audacity to whip out such a soiled and still-damp rag in the presence, and pristine home, of the Earl.

Ignoring the butler, but still careful not to move it away from the catchbasin satchel, Willis nodded Robert toward it. "As you can tell, sir, it was a well-tailored, high end gentleman's jacket."

"We are not the county's lost and found, constable," the mystery-sated Earl reminded, with a supportive 'harrumph' from his chief servant. "I'm not sure I understand, or care for, where this is going…"

"No sir; of course not, sir. But you see, sir," Willis hurried, exposing the sewn-in label on the lapel's interior, "the tailor is a high end shop in Manchester; not something anyone in the village is likely to patronize. And given its condition, we worried that a gentleman seems to have come to some misfortune along our road."

"Well, I am relieved to report that none of us has been out or injured along the north road or anywhere else. Moreover, we haven't had anyone small enough to fit that apparent size in a long while. And our family's had most of its fashion from London establishments for several generations."

An almost guilty cough turned their attention to one addition. "If I may, sir, Mister Crawley… is, until recently, of Manchester."

"True, Carson; but beyond being a little… thicker… than I believe this fit suggests, he was here all night last night. He was well, and well-dressed, when he arrived; and was so again when our car delivered him and his mother home safely today, within the village."

Carson nodded that fact was also very true.

"So, while I share your concern at what this seems to suggest, you'll find it has thankfully not occurred to anyone of or in this house. I wonder, is it not possible that some animal, a dog perhaps, dragged this off from some home or laundry line as a plaything, and left it snarled when it grew tired? Or the storm scared it home? Or the storm itself, ripped this from its owner or washer?"

"Astute ideas, your Lordship; but we feel that the… nature of the damage is more consistent with that of a… knife or physical fight. And these spots… they are blood, sir."

The confirmation settled harshly over both members of his audience, but did not seem to change the facts they had already shared: that the last owner or occupant of this apparel was not amongst this noble family.

"The storm seems to have brought down some trees in the area," the sergeant persisted, hoping to evoke some shred of helpful information from these, his local finery experts. "But at the spot where this was firmly wet to the ground, there was no sign of cart or car; nor of anyone who might have been wearing, dropped or… otherwise been relieved of it."

"I am sorry, sergeant. I share your concern for this poor chap, and do so appreciate your checking that we all were well, and fully-outfitted."

Carson made the dismissal more tangible, by opening the door and holding it for their departing visitor.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir," Willis agreed, carefully packing up his evidence. And, while they were being so direct with one another, he asked, "If your Lordship or your staff do come across any information, in your social circles for example, that might be helpful in our making sure that there has been no injury or crime, we would be most appreciative."

Across his bended form, Carson raised his eyebrows as Robert smirked, sighed silently and slouched ever so slightly. "Actually, constable, and you have no idea how much grief this will cause me later… While I truly know nothing about the jacket…, we did find something last night. Something we'd tried to dismiss, even after my daughter claimed to have seen a figure out in the storm."

"A figure, sir?" the sergeant's own head and eyebrows shot up as he realized his trip might not have been in vain after all. "What did she see? What did you find?"

Pinching his nose at the righteous indignation he would have to suffer shortly, Robert nodded Carson to go and fetch their physical discovery. "At the height of the storm last night, as we prepared for dinner, my daughter claims to have seen a wounded man out on our drive. And when we checked, simply to humour her, we found no sign of him or anyone else, save a bloodied handkerchief on our front step, monogrammed with the letter 'G'."

"'G' for?" asked the policeman, as Carson opened the box into which they'd deposited their find.

"God help us…," Robert shook his head.

tbc...

NOTES

1. Indeed, a quick online, and therefore incomplete, search yielded these additional "G" peerages of Great Britain and Ireland around the time of the story: Glasgow, Glenconner, Glenlyon, Glossop, Gloucester, Godolphin, Gordon, Gorell, Gormanston, Gort, Goschen, Gosford, Gough, Gower, Grafton, Granard, Granville, Greenock, Grenfell, Greville, Grey, Grey de Ruthyn, Grey de Wilton, Grey of Codnor, Grinstead, Guernsey, Gueterbock and Guilford. However, like Grantham, "Gillingham" was invented for the series.