Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Thirteen: Groundwork
Isobel was not especially proud of herself, for agreeing to accompany Edith on the "quick trip" to where the police had found their first evidence along the north road. The day was certainly a chilly one, as they walked slowly around the car on the edge of the narrow, isolated and wooded stretch of the second-most traveled route toward Newcastle. But beyond that discomfort, she felt bad for stretching her agreement with Earl Grantham by participating in this goose chase, and for giving Edith hope that she might find some connection between the police's hypothetical crime and her own, uncorroborated visions of an injured man-become-angel. Just thinking about it made it seem so absurd.
And while the two male servants were comforting in the unlikely event that some ill-doers still lurked there, those men were also witnesses to the fact that she'd gone along with her impassioned younger cousin. They and the two cars that had stopped to ensure they were not in distress. "Just taking a stretch break. Thank you so kindly for your concern. Travel well!" she'd smiled to each puzzled passer-by.
Still, she hadn't recognized either set of gawking occupants, and hoped they might not recognize her if there were to meet again. And, in the meanwhile, she was earning some appreciation from her cousins, while indulging her own curiosity about her new town, and occupying herself against the isolation the move here had had brought. Not a bad set of goals for a fall Saturday morning.
"Are we quite sure this is the spot the police indicated?" Edith wondered aloud.
"I believe so," Isobel turned in place, pointing out, "We're about the correct distance from town, where the road curves around a stand of trees, and where a tree fell across the road before being pulled clear. Unless your Mister Taylor knows a similar collection of road conditions…?"
The Downton chauffeur shook his head, as he stood by the car, at the ready.
Edith pouted at the complete lack of anything more than the combination of signs to indicate they were in the right location. While she hadn't expected to find something, given what her father and now cousin Isobel had shared from their conversations with the police, she had so hoped to learn more.
"Your Ladyship," called Thomas, who'd asked permission to have a smoke, and walked a little farther off the road. "Do I remember correctly that the police said the storm had downed trees in the area?"
"Yes," she agreed, disappointed he was repeating information they already possessed. "I believe Jarvis said we'd had some large branches down around the house; so the wind must have been considerable."
He continued to stare down at a point along the treeline, drawing a long drag on his cigarette.
"Why do you ask, Thomas?" Isobel joined in, sensing he wasn't simply confirming the obvious.
"Well, I'm no scientist; but if this is the tree that supposedly blocked the road here," he pointed to the horizontal trunk and flattened canopy just beside the roadway, "then it didn't fall. It was cut."
"What?!" the two women gasped, and hurried over, as the footman squatted beside the alleged blockade.
He pointed from the tree's splintered base to its former site along the edge of its sibling growths. "See for yourselves; but I don't think this tree is tall enough to have crossed the road if it just toppled over on its own. And while it definitely fell, there are axe marks on the opposite side of the stump."
As Edith examined the clear cuts in the wood, somewhat obscured by the splits and cracks, Isobel stood back to gauge the distances he was questioning.
"Cousin, he's right!" Edith exclaimed. "Someone had taken a blade to the tree, at least to get it started. There are chips here around the stump!"
"Thomas," Isobel called, "You have good, long strides. Would you be so kind as to count your steps along the tree itself, so we can have some measure of its height? Excellent. And now, count out that many steps from the stump out toward the road? Splendid."
"They don't match, not by quite some distance," Edith summarized.
"Even if the woodsman only started on the tree at some point, and the storm did finish it off," Isobel agreed, "it could not have blocked the road without some assistance. If it weren't cut down for that purpose, it was certainly placed there by someone…"
"That suggests someone laid a trap for our Mister 'G'!"
"Milady," Thomas interrupted softly, his own head spinning from the apparent targeting of Ian's car.
Edith looked over to him, elation still lighting her face; and saw he was looking at his pocket watch. "Luncheon, of course!" Turning to her cousin, she apologized, "I am sorry, but I've promised to return us to Downton in time for midday meal with the family."
With a longing look over her shoulder at their encouraging, if troubling discovery, Edith joined Isobel on the back bench.
Setting off to deliver Mrs Crawley home before speeding back to Downton, Edith clasped her hand on her cousin's, nearly unable to contain her joy, "I so appreciate your being open to sharing this adventure with me. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that we've found a physical clue the police seemed to have missed…"
Isobel smiled politely, working hard not to be caught up in Edith's exuberance, and reminded, "Oh my, I don't believe we've solved anything yet, however astute Thomas' forest physics indeed are. I think it best that we not celebrate or share this insight yet, as we need to see what the police learn from the Manchester cobbler. As today's find suggests there was some malicious intent, perhaps we shouldn't alarm them; we can simply be cautious for them. Especially, as you pointed out, the family is none too keen on our curiosity. For now, let this be our secret?"
Edith sighed and sat back, her bubble burst. "You're right, of course."
"It's agreed, then? We shall avail ourselves of Thomas and Mister Taylor's discretion, and hold our analysis and any announcements until we have more, and more definitive results to share."
Isobel could tell Edith was unhappy at being pulled back from her validating quest, and again regretted squelching that empowering exercise. But, she'd given her word; and they really did need to be careful to what conclusions they leapt, and how quickly. So, she reminded, "Matthew and I will much look forward to joining you all for luncheon tomorrow."
"Perhaps we can find a few moments to speak more while you're with us," Edith's spirit buoyed back, as they pulled up to the House.
"Patience, my dear," she laughed so as not to commit. "We're more Watson than Holmes."
"We'll see you at church then," Edith waved, dropping back into the seat, still swimming in success and possibilities. She had evidence of an intentional trap set on the road, something the police seemed to have missed in their quick glance at the possible crime scene. A jacket there, and a lone shoe found along a rough line between that spot and Downton—someone had escaped, or been carried, and somehow reached the house during the storm. That now seemed certain. All that remained were the details of who he was, why it had happened, and what ultimately had happened to him—a ghost outside her bedroom, or… Or what? The mystery was delicious!
The men up front traded knowing looks as they headed home.
But the footman quickly turned his gaze out the window, and his thoughts to what his morning's impromptu jaunt had gained him: A simple suit on order for his "nephew." Provisions ordered for the house cook and gathered for his own hideaway. Treats for a few colleagues to keep them happy, and happy to help.
And, most unexpectedly, more information on how Ian had come into his life, and potential steps leading others to them now. He knew enough about fine clothing to guess that the police would easily find the shoemaker in Manchester who'd made Ian's lost shoe. Given the size and its lack of wear, the cobbler could deduce that it was recently bought, if not made; and that would narrow down the possible buyers, and thus wearers. Especially if they inquired after the "G" initial, and connected all that to the jacket's tailor, they could be close to finding the "gentleman," and through him, about Ian.
Even if someone really had laid a trap for "G," and not for Ian himself, this "G" had abandoned him to the thieves and so was no better. Either way, Thomas could understand why Ian wouldn't want to be pulled back into whatever that mess was. Especially given how fatalistic he'd been the night he barely escaped it.
So, while happy now to be counted among Lady Edith's and Mrs Crawley's investigative inner circle, he had both greater insight, and an altogether deeper mystery to solve. And whether or not he got more answers soon, he did have a small window tomorrow morning to enact the next stage in his plan to protect Ian from everyone else who might be interested in finding him, whatever their reason.
"Good afternoon, Wink," Thomas smiled back at the face that greeted him on his return to their room just after the luncheon service. Setting down the box he carried and re-locking the door, he turned to find the bed neatly made and all the previous evening's hanging laundry folded into neat piles along its foot. "You've been busy."
"I'm feelin' much better," Ian explained, while trying not to show how his right arm still seemed to bother him. "I wanted to help. I told you I could…"
"I believe you; and I thank you," he patted the good shoulder, and nudged them both toward the sitting chairs. Bringing over the small crate he'd brought and opening it, he produced a bulging chicken sandwich, an apple and a few biscuits. "Here," he draped a napkin across Ian's lap, and lay out the feast for him. "Nobody was paying much attention to the leftovers today. I hope you like it all…"
Bulging cheeks and a gaping corner gone from the sandwich suggested as much as the smile and nod did.
"Careful now. Let's not have you choke so soon after turning back from death's door downstairs." Thomas got him a glass of water, and kept a stern eye on the more tempered eating as he worked. He used the straight chair to reach and open the high window above them, and then slipped the re-closed crate out onto the roof.
Swallowing and then taking a sip when that instruction was mimed to him, Ian finally was able to ask, "What's that?"
"A surprise that just needs to be kept cool, in me own personal rooftop larder," Thomas explained in a mock posh accent. Moving to his next task, he also redirected their attention to the pencil and paper beside Ian's chair, "Were you able to jot down some favorites?" To help him pass the time alone in the room, he'd left a few books, an older newspaper, and some stationary for Ian to write down foods he liked—the better to cater for him later.
"I'm not much good with letters and numbers," Ian confessed through his chewing, with a slightly embarrassed look.
"What did you spend your day doin', then?" Thomas wondered aloud as he changed out of the morning plus travel plus luncheon shirt.
He noticed Ian trying not to obviously look his way, as the diner explained, "Just… drawin' a little…"
"I didn't know we had an artist in the house now," Thomas grinned at the attention and revelation. "Can I see?" he asked as he dropped the fresh shirt and strode over quickly.
Hands covered in sandwich remnants, and the stack of materials on his bad side, Ian scrambled to reach them first, or at least block access. But Thomas was too quick, unencumbered and curious.
Stepping back and flipping through the sheets, Thomas saw multiple small, scattered sketches of the bed, the wardrobe and a large building he didn't quite recognize. And at the bottom of the pile, on the last piece of paper, in fine detail and shading, was a mirror image of his own face, as if he were looking up at himself.
He sank into the seat across from Ian, and wondered how obvious was the blush creeping across his face for once. He stuttered to a smile, "Ian… I- I thought you said you had no trade or skill. I'd prefer you didn't lie to me…"
"I'm no artist. Just somethin' I've always done to pass the time. Somethin' I can do on me own…"
"It's beautiful," Thomas looked up at him, almost overwhelmed.
"I just draw what I see."
This is going to make tonight, and the morning, so much harder… But that will be then! He gently placed the stack back on the small table, swallowed hard and willed himself to keep his seat as he looked at his remarkable find. "You are an… amazing man, Ian Colson. I hope you know that."
Now Ian blushed, his slowly healing injuries popping like Dalmatian spots as he squirmed in his seat under the unfamiliar praise.
"Will you do one of you?" Thomas asked, pointing at the mirror across the room. "Only fair we both get immortalized… But," he said, as he stood and threw on his shirt and headed back to work, "do leave one sheet blank, as I'll need to draw you a map tonight."
"A map? To what?"
"To a little more freedom."