Chapter Text
The old house creeks beneath his feet and he curses it bitterly under his breath.
He’s a bit squiffy, he’ll admit, from the bottle of wine he’s been into (one of many stolen bottles) and still smarting from Pamuk’s earlier trickery. He blames both on why he's sneaking about upstairs, hoping to rummage in Pamuk’s empty room whilst he’s… visiting Lady Mary.
What he wasn’t expecting, as he crept down the hall, was to meet a Lady and her maid in their nightgowns creeping in the opposite direction.
“Thomas!” Anna exclaims, glancing quickly to Lady Mary who only trembles slightly, looking sickly and startled in the dim light.
“My Lady,” Thomas says carefully, ignoring Anna, “Is everything alright here?”
Lady Mary lets out a pitiful sound, a hiccup or sob nothing like her bold character, and covers her mouth. For a moment, knowing what he does about the Turkish diplomat's call, Thomas worries that he has done something utterly dreadful (even for him). He makes a quick decision.
“This wouldn’t happen to involve Kemal Pamuk?”
Mary’s eyes widen a fraction, “How did you…”
“I… caught wind of what his intentions might be when I was dressing him earlier.” It's not quite a lie. Thomas hesitates, this could get him sacked but he has to know. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn but I hope he has not, ahem, done something against your wishes.”
Lady Mary purses her lips so tightly they turn white but shakes her head. He wonders why she would admit anything to him but he supposes she must be in shock.
“Then what..?" He hesitates, and looks to Anna.
She sighs, knowing it is within Thomas’ nature to find the truth of a bad situation, “I suppose you better come with us."
“What happened?” Thomas whispers, looking upon the unsavory corpse of the former Kemal Pamuk, wrapped only in a sheet.
“I don’t know!” Lady Mary cries, “A heart attack, I suppose, or a stroke or… he was alive and suddenly he cried out and then he was dead!”
When she calms slightly Anna adds quietly, but sure, “Well, we know what we have to do.”
“We have to,” Lady Mary agrees, suddenly sober, looking to Thomas “If we don’t, the house will figure in a scandal of such magnitude it will never be forgotten until long after I am dead. I’ll be ruined. Ruined and notorious…”
“You don’t have to convince me, m’lady” he interrupts, startling the Lady and earning a scowl from Anna, who looks increasingly like she’s come to regret involving the mischievous footman.
He approaches the bed and turns Pamuk over. Thomas thinks the wine must still be emboldening him because he feels unfazed by the site before him; the wide, empty eyes, the cold skin still covered in a sheen of sweat. He could leave, wake up Carson, wake up His Lordship, absolve himself of responsibility.
He wraps his arms around the dead man’s chest.
“Hurry up then, the others will be waking soon.”
They pack him into bed quickly, efficiently almost, before Thomas yanks the sheet from her Ladyship's room from beneath the body, turning to leave.
“I can’t make his eyes stay shut.” Lady Mary sobs, and she’s a quivering mess again.
“My Lady,” Anna says, so gently (her compassion will never cease to startle him), “We must get back to our rooms.”
Thomas opens the door to go with the sheet before Anna grabs his arm.
“Thomas- Thomas, please, you mustn’t tell a soul.”
He understands what she is really saying is “You must not use this to your own ends.” And what is strange about this situation, besides hauling the corpse of the diplomat who was apparently struck down by Lady Mary’s grace, is that he hasn’t once thought of how he might exploit the situation.
It is not like him at all.
“Cross my heart.” Thomas smirks. Best to keep up appearances.
(He tells himself, later, that his silence and aid is down to self-preservation. If Anna cared to question just a little further she would know who led Pamuk to Mary's room and, worse, why. At least this way he's protected. But no, that's not quite true.)
It isn’t until he is back in bed that Thomas realises that it is he who will have to discover the body tomorrow morning.