Nobody really felt like eating, not at 3 o'clock, but it was an unspoken rule that no one left Mrs Mason's sandwiches uneaten and regardless, those who had been through a war were not inclined to leave food behind. George, Ralph and Sybbie conversed enough between them to prevent an oppressive silence settling over the dining room and with Tom's occasional interjections, Mary was free to eat lunch with her thoughts for company. Richard, dead. Not that she was sentimental; of all people, she was well acquainted with death, but Richard had been oddly stoic in life and the sort of man one imagined would exist forever. A Cicero quote came to mind, something to do with achieving immortality through memory, but studiously learned orations had long since faded and somehow she doubted that most people's memories of Richard would afford him the kind of immortality one would normally desire.
But all the same, his death was another thread cut loose, another old face she'd never look on again. Laughter bubbled up in her throat at the sudden memory of him wading through grass in heavy tweed aeons ago, of his mortified face and stilted actions during charades… Despite it all, despite the rough kisses, the debt she owed him, the acrimonious departure, he had been good to her. Wanted to buy her a house, keep her comfortable, give her a position in society. Had things been very different, she supposed that she might have been content with him- happy, even, but then if things had been so different it wouldn't have been a prospect she would have had to consider.
He's dead, chin up and don't dwell.
Vaguely, she heard Sybbie ask what Ralph would do next, heard the boy reply that he wasn't sure and he might go back to London, only he'd wanted to tell them all and that he wasn't sure how one went about arranging a funeral. Heard George tell him not to be a fool and that he was to stay at Downton. Heard herself and shocked herself by promising to help Ralph with the arrangements.
No one understands funerals like I do.
Inspector Bank's office was as meticulously kept as every other aspect of his life was. There was nothing extraneous, very little to provoke comment and beige was the overriding colour scheme. His desk, a sturdy oak affair, supported only lined paper, the fountain pen that was his only extravagance, blotting sheets and various encyclopaedia for bettering himself. The newspapers he had asked for and the paper contents of Sir Richard's office had been promptly delivered by a sergeant, and sat on the desk in an orderly pile of his own making. Bank was not a man comfortable with the whizzings and whirrings of the modern age; he had no typewriter, no complicated intercommunication system and a telephone was perched on the far end of his desk only at the insistence of his superior. A new officer dared to rifle around in Bank's drawers might have stumbled upon a yearly calendar and an autograph book containing the signatures of the cricketers the Inspector had idolised as a child, but the key he slipped into his trouser pocket whenever he exited the room prevented such a happening.
And so, he tore a sheet of crisp paper from the pad, aligned it neatly with the embossed leather writing pad and drew up four columns, in a perfectly legible hand:
Name of individual of interest. Means. Motive. Opportunity.
Setting the plan aside, he began the arduous perusal of the newspapers, Carlisle's records and his crisp edition of Debrett's.
Parker had, in many senses, expected the telephone call from Yorkshire, to the extent that when it rang he knew the source without having to respond to the caller. Yes, sir, he would give the staff the day off. Yes, he would see that anything delivered to the house was taken care of. And will you be staying long in Yorkshire, sir? Yes, sir, he would have the luggage on the next train and he would be sure to pick up the new suits from Turnbull & Asser. Yes, sir, if the solicitor arrived he would direct him to Yorkshire. Very good, sir.
And Parker, as had been his wont in the trenches, followed his orders to the letter. The valet packed the trunks, complete with the pleated trousers Sinatra was making popular and the Brylcreem that had been the cause of many trademark Carlisle eruptions. It was Parker's job to give the dressing room a once over before the trunks left; it was Parker's job to tuck the monogrammed revolver, glimmering with residue, inside the eiderdown, ready to be cleaned once the staff had been dismissed. Housemaids, footman, hall boys and kitchen maids departed Eaton Square in a mumbling, grumbling crowd and Parker mulled over the events of the day.
Not an overly religious man, Bank was nevertheless convinced that some epiphany had occurred in the time it had taken him to read the Crawley entry in Debrett's, to research the Turkish Embassy and to gain an obscure vantage point into the lives of the elite through the society pages. Well, it all made more sense now; but at the same time, made things a great deal more complicated. At least now, though, the chart he had studiously drawn up hours ago could be partially completed:
Ralph Edward Carlisle - likely in possession of a firearm (N.B distinguished aviator with Royal Air Force) - antagonistic relationship with Deceased, likely provoked by a) death of Mother and b) relationship with Miss Sybil Branson - unchecked access to Deceased's office, unable to account for whereabouts, witnesses unable to establish firm time line.
Ruth Victoria King - access to firearm not unlikely - motive as yet unclear, Daily Mail indicates relationship between Deceased and aforementioned - unchecked access to Deceased's office, found body of Deceased.
Mary Josephine Crawley - also likely to have access to a weapon - previous engagement to Deceased, involvement in Turkish and Bates Affairs - opportunity as yet unclear.
George Matthew Crawley - in possession of a firearm (N.B record in Intelligence Corps) - motive as yet unclear, potentially linked by Mother's connection and R. Carlisle's relationship with Miss Sybil Branson - opportunity as yet unclear.
Sybil Niamph Branson - likely to have access to weapon - motive potentially linked to relationship with R. Carlisle - opportunity as yet unclear.
Bank sat back in his wooden chair and absorbed the information in front of him. Downton Abbey, he suspected, beckoned.