"I've asked them to keep me apprised of the case," Robert said as they drove away from Grantham House. "Although I'm not sure how much they're going to find unless they can turn up more witnesses."

"Have you heard anything more?" Cora asked. They had lingered in London yesterday, Robert not wishing to give the appearance of running off, but set out for Downton the next morning.

"A bit. He died of oleander poisoning—they found some of the powder on his dishes."

"Oleander, the flower? Is it so very poisonous? I didn't know that."

"Nor did I, but it's apparently one of the most deadly plants in existence. You haven't got to ingest very much at all."

"We don't grow any, do we?" she asked, and he read her uneasiness at the thought that the police might find a healthy supply at Downton.

"Not in our own gardens," he assured her. "I can't swear that there isn't a tenant farmer somewhere with a bush of it, but we're certainly not growing any up at the house."

"Have they no other leads?"

"They did question the poor cook, and the other servants—he's only got a butler and a housekeeper. The cook certainly had the opportunity, but I'm told the woman seemed genuinely ignorant of the matter. And then of course there was the neighbor's story, of the man she noticed."

"And you? Who do you think it was?"

"I imagine it was some other woman's husband, or a father or brother. I don't think for a minute that you and Baxter were the only women that animal assaulted; I would bet there's quite a string of them." He could not bring himself to feel anything more than a passing sorrow for these unknown women as he grieved for the pain of the angel seated beside him. "I gather the police agree with that theory, but with no other victims who've come forward, they're at a bit of a dead end." And he was glad of it. He wanted to shake the killer's hand, not see him thrown in prison.

Cora nodded. "Robert," she said, "if you hear any more, if they ever find out who it was, I don't want to know. I don't think I want you to tell me anything more about it. He's dead, and I'm glad he's dead, and I don't ever want to think about him ever again."

He laid a comforting hand on her knee. "Of course, darling. I think that would be best for you." He did not want her to pollute her thoughts with worry over the bastard's death. He would brood on Bricker; she should think of nothing more than healing for her mind and her soul.

She looked up at him, something near fear in her eyes. "Do you think me wicked for being glad he's dead? Because I am glad, and I know it's wrong to be pleased at a man's death, but I can't seem to help it."

Good God, Cora thought she was wicked for being glad to never see or hear of her rapist again? "There is nothing wrong in that," he said firmly, "nothing at all. Of course you're glad he's dead after what he did to you. He's gotten what he deserved. I'm glad he's dead. The world should be glad he's dead. It's a better world without him."

She smiled sadly, and Robert felt the familiar sensation of his own guilt once again. He would never forget that it had been his own neglect of his wife that had made her receive Bricker's original attentions so warmly. Perhaps Bricker would have attacked her regardless, but perhaps he had seen an opportunity in Robert's distraction. He knew Cora was far too generous of heart ever to blame him, but he knew his own conscience would always insist that part of the blame was his. He would not add to her burdens by asking for a forgiveness she would never agree he needed, but he would carry the knowledge of his own guilt for the rest of his life, and he had vowed that he would love her better, would speak and listen to her more gently, would ensure that she would never again have cause to wonder if his affection had grown cold.

"Baxter," Lady Grantham began as the maid fixed her hair before dinner, "I've had more information from his lordship about Mr. Bricker's death, if you'd like to hear it."

"I do, my lady." Baxter had thought of little else since she'd received the news two nights ago, and the return to Yorkshire had not altered her uneasiness.

"He was poisoned—by powder from oleander flowers, it seems, mixed in with his dinner. There seem to be very few leads—his lordship, I am told, is quite in the clear, and the only witness couldn't tell the police anything more than that a man, whom she never saw clearly, slipped in and out of the back entrance just before dinner."

"So will nothing come of it?" Baxter slipped the last pin in and stepped away to retrieve the evening's jewelry.

"I'm not sure. It seems the police are rather at a dead end, although I'm sure they won't give up just yet. I've asked his lordship to keep anything else he learns to himself—whatever the outcome, I don't think it will have much to do with us at Downton, and I'd rather not hear any more about Mr. Bricker. But if you'd like, I'm sure you could ask Mr. Carson if—"

"Oh no, my lady," Baxter said quickly. "I won't need to know anything more." She paused, chewing her lip as she fastened her ladyship's necklace. "Don't you think it's odd, though, that it happened when it did? In the midst of the trial?"

Lady Grantham considered for a moment. "I wouldn't say odd, no. It's only a coincidence—a lucky, happy coincidence so that we didn't have to suffer through the rest of the trial. It's particularly fortunate for you, not having to testify at all. So I suppose if you think of it that way, everything does happen for a reason."

Baxter nodded. "I'm sure you're quite right, my lady."

But she could not help but think that of course Lady Grantham would think it was a coincidence. For women like her ladyship, everything must seem a divinely ordered coincidence that gently guided her from happy circumstance to happy circumstance. So much in Lady Grantham's life would have fallen into place thanks to her wealth and her position, and it had likely left her blissfully unaware that anything could ever have gone another way. Of course she would shrug the timing of Mr. Bricker's death off as luck and coincidence.

But in Baxter's world, things did not fall into place properly unless you pushed them there, and there was no guiding hand to arrange a comfortable life for you. Women of Baxter's class did not believe in lucky coincidences.