Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Twenty-one: Fuel

Thursday, 21 November 1912

"Edith?" Mary asked in the moment's pause after the previous dinner conversation subject had been exhausted, "I noticed that you received another stack of post this afternoon…"

Everyone at the table knew that the tone and look meant much more than a casual observation or passing curiosity. The eldest Crawley daughter had clearly just dragged in a large pot of no good, taken off its lid, and begun stirring.

Stuttering only just perceptibly in spooning her soup, Edith reinforced her pleasantest smile and fired back, "Perhaps if you were friendlier to people, more would deign to write you."

William nearly grinned across the room at Thomas, as both snapped to more attentiveness, if not attention.

Carson blanched.

Lady Cora smirked.

Lord Robert tried not to roll his eyes, while realizing he had been curious about the unusual number of letters Edith had been arriving over the past week or so.

Ignoring it all, Mary pushed on as she dabbed the corner of her all-but-smirking mouth. "Sudden greetings from Gordon, Grey, Gillingham… Are you working your way methodically through your address book, or just Burke's?"

"Carson?" Edith redirected, without hiding all the fire in her voice or face; but not caring, "Since my dear sister has become so frail as to be upset by the mere idea of someone other than herself receiving more than the occasional letter, will you please instruct the staff to deliver all future correspondence to me in private? I should strongly suggest the rest of the family show a similar concession to her fragile self-esteem."

The head of the household actually clinked his cutlery on his plate as he made the intended connection to the cause of the upsurge in mail. "Edith, I thought I had been quite clear that the subject was to be left alone," he said tersely, glaring side-eyed at the table, rather than so boldly at any one member of the family around it. His uncouthly upright, if now quiet, spoon quivered in show of his anger.

"Actually, you ordered that we should not speak of it, papa. And so I haven't spoken of it since, even if I have written in relation to it." While daring to contradict her father publically, she kept her voice calm. Even when she charged her sister with the same offense. "And it's actually Mary who brought it up just now, not I…"

"Edith…," Cora shushed, less chastising her, and more trying to head off any further irritation to the reddening Robert.

Sybil squirmed in amused nervousness, much as the breathless staff wanted to.

"Enough!" Robert barked, tossing his spoon into the nearly full bowl. "Carson, next course!"

As the butler and footmen burst into action, Robert's glare circled the table, face to face. "Not that it's any concern of anyone in this house, but the constable who stopped by earlier this week did so to let me know they'd closed their investigation into the 'mystery' of Guy Fawkes' Night. It seems they were able to track the odd shoe and jacket to a gentleman outside Manchester who explained he'd dropped the items fussing with his stuck car the night of the storm. The police have encouraged him not to travel in such weather, and not to litter so in the future, given the drama it has caused. We searched this house thoroughly and found no one, because there was no one harmed or wandering that night. So, let me clarify again: This matter is closed; completely, finally."

Taking a breath, perhaps his first in the whole monologue, he spoke more calmly, if no less absolutely. "Edith, you will destroy your now useless lists and stop bothering good people in any manner on this pointless matter. And, Mary, I will advise you not to cross my instructions again, even for so allegedly magnanimous a motive as to implicate a sister who is doing likewise."

Thankfully handy and ready, the fish course made its appearance, giving everyone something else to focus their attention on.

But the Earl wasn't quite finishing dishing out his own verbal intermezzo. "Sybil, do sit up straight. And, Cora, pray give us something less ridiculous to occupy the remainder of our lovely dinner."

Certainly shocked and almost insulted to be the final stop on his carousel of rebuke, Cora swallowed, and sputtered out. "Well… I—I've heard that we may have seen the last of the Wheelers' Christmas parties at Canningford Grange…"

"Thomas?" Edith called him back as the others moved through the main hall. "I fear that I have been too harsh on Lady Mary."

He didn't have time to look surprised at that suggestion before her gaze turned icy as that same sibling tittered happily as she passed into the drawing room, "But in case not, I should hate for her to feel undervalued by the Royal Mail. So, if you could please gather for me, discretely—perhaps in small bundles, every newspaper and magazine in the house?"

"Every one, milady?" he confirmed.

"Yes. And any that arrive in the next week or so. They're simply brimming with send-aways and samples lists; if Mary is bitter over the quantity of letters I'm getting, we'll have to ensure that she isn't overlooked by a single available correspondent…"

Thomas couldn't help but smile at the petty, if on point, intention on sending away for every offer in Mary's name. He was liking this middle sister more all the time. But… "How thoughtful of you, milady. And… if I understand correctly from Mrs Crawley, you'd drawn up a list of noble titles and families whose names match the monogram on the handkerchief? That's to whom you're writing?"

She caught her smile quickly, thrilled at the reminder of having a confidant in the house; but cautious given her father's expanded prohibition on the subject. And so, she nodded matter of factly, and let him continue on the subject of his own choosing.

"I would be happy to see to the destruction of that list… With a glance at it on the way to the fire, I can see whether I might have contacts in any of the houses or areas you'd not heard from. Another, final angle on the inquiry, as I doubt his Lordship will share the name of the gentleman the police found, if he even knows it; and we know there was much more to that evening than a mud-stuck car."

The glimmer of excitement and guilt on her face indicated he'd struck the desired balance between their being dutiful to the Earl's instructions, and their continued pursuit of their clandestine sleuthing. She agreed, "His Lordship will want a cigar after that meal. So I'll just go up now, and bring everything down to you in front of him-"

"Actually," he interrupted respectfully, aware that they both needed to move on with their expected duties this evening, "he may just set fire to it all himself with matches handy. Perhaps wait until he's moved on, and then bring it to me as we all break for the night. I'll ensure there are many witness to my burning it after I've had a quick look…"

She smiled and nodded appreciatively, both at his wise suggestion, and more generally his wily presence. While Mary could obviously be malicious, she was a rival in this household, not a partner. And Edith's own mischief was so much easier, and more fun, when shared.

While Lady Edith had been writing every family on her substantial list of noble "G" titles and surnames, Thomas needed only see the full catalog briefly—on the short walk down from the main story-to identify the one relevant name: "Greenhalgh."(1) Not quite spelled as he'd assumed from Ian's mention of it, but unmistakable and unique among the others. And not one she'd written to, as the family had no connection to the old, minor baron; so this lead had no more knowledge that he was known, than his apparently successful ruse to the local constabulary.

With this confirmed focus in mind, Thomas marched down to the servants' hall, asked the heads of staff to join him, and tossed Edith's list and stack of related correspondence into the fireplace as others watched. "Mr Carson, if you could please let his Lordship know that some good has come from that wicked, wet evening…"

"And whatever might that be?" the surprised butler asked through his eyebrows.

"Our evenin' just got a little warmer for the fire's fuel…," he smiled, rubbing his hands together over the hungry flames.

NOTES

1. Not an actual peerage, this is the name of a long-ruined castle outside Garstang, Wyre, Lancastershire, northeast of Manchester.