A Somewhat Larger Death, Indeed
Thomas had never minded the excitement of a hunt coming to Downton, even when he didn’t get to go out with it to load the guns. It was a nice change of routine, and the sound of the horn and the yapping of the dogs and the thrum of hooves on the wet dirt stirred something in the breast when heard over the distant hills. He had gotten to watch the hunt go out, all the riders in their fine red jackets, plus the Turkish ambassador, or whatever his title was, dressed in stately black.
The Turk’s hair was curly and dark, and he was young, his gaze curious as it traipsed across the stones and roofs of Downton, and the figure of Mary, gracefully poised on her horse. He ignored Thomas and the servants, as all the riders did, but Thomas had enjoyed the sight of him while offering refreshments to the riders.
As soon as the horn blew and the horses and dogs set off, Carson was right in Thomas’s ear: “Bring the bags up, Thomas.”
“Are these all Mr. Napier’s, then?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Pamuk will be staying the night.”
“Oh, I didn’t see he had a valet. I thought he might be staying at the Grantham Arms.”
“His valet has been left in London, for reasons that were not explained to me,” Carson said, then headed back indoors, leaving Thomas to sort out the suitcases and haul them upstairs. This provided ample time for Thomas to idly wonder, if Mr. Pamuk’s valet had been left in London, would he be needing one for the duration of his stay? Even if it was only a night, that was more novelty than Thomas had begun the day expecting. After all, there was plenty of interesting things that could happen in a night, especially if Mr. Carson let him valet for the man.
Although nobody was expecting the hunt back until later in the day, at around noon there was a great commotion at the front of the house, a group of horses and riders rushing up to the doors. First among them was Evelyn Napier, with a pale and wobbly Lady Mary held gently against his chest. The Turkish gentleman trotted up behind, looking more consternated than concerned.
It seemed like the whole household turned out to see what was going on, or almost. Seeing the horses approach, Thomas went to open the doors. Since the riders were back unexpectedly early, Carson went out to mitigate the disaster and to see if there would need to be some kind of early lunch. When Carson saw that the reason that the riders were back early was that Lady Mary had been thrown from her horse and broken her arm, all hell broke loose at the front door. He called for Bates to fetch Lord Grantham, Gwen to run into town to fetch Dr. Clarkson, Anna to help Lady Mary, and so on, until everyone was outside, watching the rather anti-climactic moment of Mr. Napier helping Lady Mary down from his horse onto Carson’s supporting arms. She could stand perfectly well under her own power, after all, which she told everyone.
“Really, I’m not on death’s door!” Mary said, though her face remained pale.
“What happened?” Lord Grantham asked, looking her over. Standing, it was more obvious that she was covered head to toe in mud. At least there wasn’t blood mixed in with it.
“We were taking a jump together,” Mr. Pamuk offered. “I had gone over, but Lady Mary’s horse spooked, and she fell.”
“And I landed on my arm,” she said. “I did say I hadn’t ridden in weeks and wasn’t up for a hunt.” Although her voice was its usual assertive tone, she was grimacing as she spoke.
“Doctor Clarkson will be here soon, m’lady,” Carson said. “Can you make it up the stairs?”
“It’s my arm, not my legs, Carson,” Lady Mary said. “Anna—”
And she headed indoors, hovered over by far too many people. In the sudden strained silence outside, where Evelyn Napier and the Turkish gentleman were still standing around on their horses, unsure what to do with themselves, Thomas picked up the slack. “Sirs, if you’d like to come inside, there may be some lunch, or you can change out of your riding clothes.”
After Doctor Clarkson came and went, it was nearly dinnertime. Though Lady Mary was now asleep and not to be disturbed, there were still guests for the house to entertain, and good English hospitality to show to the foreigner. Things had almost settled back down from the excitement, and Thomas was sent to help Mr. Pamuk dress for dinner.
Mr. Pamuk looked Thomas over as he came in the room, finding his dinner clothes laid out and ready for Thomas to dress him in. He had just freshened himself up, and this revealed one of the most foreign things about him, aside from his distinctly un-English look: his cologne was powerfully scented and unfamiliar.
“You’re very efficient, I see,” Mr. Pamuk said as he picked up his shirt.
“Thank you, sir. It’s the English way.”
Mr. Pamuk made a noncommittal noise. “It does seem that everyone is doing their best to impress me with the delights of the English way. Not much point in it, though.”
“Really, sir?”
“I studied in London for several years,” he said. That explained why he spoke English with so little of an accent, at least. “I’m quite familiar with the English way.” Mr. Pamuk seemed amused as he said this, for some reason that Thomas couldn’t figure out.
When serving as the valet for someone new, it was not immediately clear what the expectations were. This left Thomas to fish around for appropriate conversation as Mr. Pamuk pulled on his shirt.
“It’s a pity that the hunt was ruined,” Thomas said.
“Yes,” he said. “Lady Mary was good company, while she was around. She won’t be joining us for dinner, will she?”
“I doubt it, sir. I think Doctor Clarkson gave her something to help her sleep.”
“A pity, indeed.” He shrugged on his vest and fiddled with the buttons for a moment.
“Shall I adjust that for you, sir?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Pamuk turned so that Thomas could fix the strap across his back. This close to him, his perfume was almost overpoweringly strong. Thrillingly so. Thomas adjusted the strap, tugged everything into place, then tested the water, laying his hand along Mr. Pamuk’s side as he turned back around. There was no reaction whatsoever.
“I shall have to trust you to make sure I look appropriate for this type of English dinner,” Mr. Pamuk said as Thomas dropped his hand.
“Of course, sir. I have sharp eyes. I won’t let anything be out of place.”
“Then I put myself entirely in your hands.”
That made Thomas smile, a tiny, stifled expression. “You do right, sir.” He handed Mr. Pamuk his tie.
He turned around to do it up himself in the mirror, but gave up after only a few seconds. “My man always does this for me. Can you?”
“Of course, sir,” Thomas said. He was face to face with Mr. Pamuk now, taking the tie in hand. “I should like to visit Turkey, someday. I’m very attracted to the culture.” He took his time with the knot.
“Perhaps you’ll get the chance to sample it,” Mr. Pamuk said. He was looking at Thomas, whose hands remained at his throat.
“I hope so.” Thomas finished the knot and met Mr. Pamuk’s eyes for a moment, one which stretched on far too long. He should have turned and gotten his cufflinks, but instead he reached up towards Mr. Pamuk’s face.
Dangerous. Stupid, even. But he couldn’t help it.
“You forget yourself,” Mr. Pamuk snapped.
Thomas started back, like he had been burned. “I’m sorry, sir.” The words came in a stutter, sweat rising to his face.
“Again and again, I find that for every story that Englishmen tell about foreigners, there’s no shortage of men here who are eager to see if the stories are true,” Mr. Pamuk said, turning away. “What were you hoping to achieve?”
“I think you mistook—”
“I mistook nothing.” He was still fiddling with his tie. He undid the knot that Thomas had just made, and then he tried to tie it again himself. He looked at himself in the mirror, smirked, and turned back around. “It seems Englishmen, be they schoolboys or servants, have the same things in mind.”
Thomas wasn’t sure what to say. Strangely, the only thing his mind could fixate on at that moment was how frustrating it was to watch Mr. Pamuk fail completely to do the tie properly. He stared at his hands.
“I ought to report you,” Mr. Pamuk said, his eyes lighting on Thomas, who was keeping his face as still as he could. There wasn’t that much rancor in Mr. Pamuk’s voice— just practicality.
“Please, sir—”
“Fix this,” he demanded, pulling at his haphazard tie. Thomas had no choice but to do so, but now he tied the knot as quickly as he could and stepped back away. Mr. Pamuk kept staring at him the whole time.
“It’s a pity,” Mr. Pamuk said, “that Lady Mary will not be down for dinner.” He did his cufflinks on his own, then put on his jacket, running his hands down his sides. “The evening will lack its entertainments.” His voice was weirdly contemplative.
Again, Thomas was at a complete loss for words.
“Well?” Mr. Pamuk asked.
“Well what, sir?” Thomas choked out.
“Am I fit to go downstairs?” He gestured at his outfit. “Or do I need more of your tender ministrations? Such as they were, anyway.”
“No, sir,” Thomas said.
“Good.” He gave himself one final look-over in the mirror, running his fingers through his long hair, and then strode past Thomas, out of the room.
Serving at dinner was exquisitely painful, and Thomas kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was sure Carson would smell his nervousness, but Carson was too distracted by the thought of poor, dear, injured Lady Mary asleep upstairs to pay any attention to his staff aside from reprimanding them when they got in his way. And Thomas was good at keeping a blank face, anyway. Not that any of the family would have noticed if he hadn’t, not unless he had dropped his tray of fish right on Matthew Crawley’s lap, which he didn’t.
He watched Mr. Pamuk out of the corner of his eye through the whole meal. The man never ceased to be his relentlessly charming self, despite the lack of Lady Mary to entertain him. The family was bending over backwards to make sure that they salvaged what was left of his visit, to make the best diplomatic overtures. Thomas wasn’t sure there was a point.
Although he was relieved when the dinner finished and the family and guests withdrew to the other room, as the evening crept on, the anxiety of needing to undress Mr. Pamuk began to grow. Through the door, Thomas could hear the voices of Evelyn Napier, Matthew Crawley, and Mr. Pamuk as they talked about the politics of the day, ignoring Lady Edith as politely and thoroughly as they could, though she made her best attempt at conversation with each of them in turn. Without Lady Mary, her three suitors were content to speak among themselves.
Eventually, though, Matthew Crawley and his mother excused themselves from the gathering, leaving their hopes for Lady Mary’s health, and then the dowager countess found her way out the door, and then, at long last, the family and two remaining bachelors said their goodnights and went to their rooms.
“For an evening short on entertainment, that did stretch on,” Mr. Pamuk said, standing again in front of the mirror in the dim bedroom. Thomas stood near the door, not sure what was going to be expected of him.
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it haphazardly onto the chair. He was looking at Thomas in the mirror.
“The English are so stiff-necked, it surprises me that any manage to do anything interesting at all.” He tugged at that damn tie again. “Don’t you think?”
“Don’t I think what, sir?”
“That things could stand to be more interesting.”
“As you say, sir,” Thomas said.
“Come here.”
“What for?” Oh, now he had found his boldness again. Only when the opportunity arose to be contrary. It simply came out.
Mr. Pamuk turned again. Perhaps they had been orbiting each other in this room. The Earth and moon, spinning around and around. “You do know how to make things interesting, even if it’s to your own detriment.” He held out his arm, tapped his cufflinks. “Undress me. Isn’t that your job?”
“Sir.”
Thomas stepped forward and undid his cufflinks. He didn’t meet Mr. Pamuk’s eyes. He laid the cufflinks on the side table, then pulled the tie off of him, and then wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“Keep going.”
So, then it was the buttons on his vest, and that was discarded over with the jacket, and his shirtsleeves. And that perfume lingered in the air, even hours after it had been put on. Thomas was sure the smell was on his fingertips.
This time, Mr. Pamuk reached for Thomas’s face as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. He took Thomas by the chin, tilted his head up so that he had little choice but to look into his eyes. “You are pretty, at least,” Mr. Pamuk said.
The squirming, hot feeling in Thomas’s stomach redoubled.
Mr. Pamuk pushed Thomas down, and Thomas went to his knees. He undid Mr. Pamuk’s pants with excruciating slowness. Mr. Pamuk let out a dark little chuckle and grabbed Thomas’s hair, not gently at all, and Thomas found his haste when it came to the underwear, dropping everything down to Mr. Pamuk’s ankles. For some reason, it amused Thomas that his sock garters kept his socks up on his legs, when everything else was in a puddle on the floor.
Not that he had much time to be amused, because Mr. Pamuk was pulling his head forward, Thomas’s nose ending up in his thick and curly hair. He was used to the mechanics, of course, but Philip in the last year had never been so rough, holding Thomas’s head with both hands, having his way. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, and thinking of Philip in contrast did nothing but make him melancholy, but Thomas lived in the moment, and he made the best of the moment that he could.
At the very least, it was hard for thoughts about Philip to distract him much, when this moment felt so urgent .
Mr. Pamuk’s fingers curled in Thomas’s hair, and every muscle in his body tensed. That was all the warning that Thomas got. He gave a strange, choked cry as he came in Thomas’s mouth, and then he shuddered.
And then he collapsed, knees crumpling and falling forward onto Thomas. The unexpected movement did not give Thomas any time to react in a way other than reeling backwards, and they both ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor, Mr. Pamuk twitching wildly for a moment. Thomas was coughing and choking, having half inhaled spit and cum in surprise, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath. His only thought was to get out from underneath Mr. Pamuk, and he did, scrambling backwards.
It was only when he had gotten himself out from underneath him, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and taken a deep breath, that he realized that Mr. Pamuk was not moving at all: not trying to get up, not twitching, not even breathing. His eyes were wide open and staring blankly, and his jaw was slack, tongue lolling out with drool.
Thomas stared at the body on the floor, horrified. He just sat there and stared at it, that thing that had, until a moment ago, had been Mr. Pamuk. He didn’t know how long he contemplated it in silent horror. It probably was only seconds or minutes, but time stretched on and on. He knew that Mr. Pamuk was dead right away, but still he stared, hoping that a finger would curl, or his mouth would close, or his eyes would look around the room once more. For how little he felt like he was breathing, Thomas might as well have been dead himself.
But there came a moment, spurred on by some creaking footsteps in the hallway outside, that snapped Thomas into action once again. He couldn’t leave any evidence that he had killed Mr. Pamuk, which he was sure that he had done. The only thing he could do now was finish undressing him, clean him up, and put him in bed so that he looked like he died in his sleep.
Once this idea had settled over him, Thomas was efficient. He pulled himself off the floor. He grabbed the body by the armpits and tried to hoist him up onto the bed. Mr. Pamuk was so floppy and heavy, this took more strength than Thomas had known he possessed. He ended up needing to use his legs to stabilize the corpse, hauling and shoving to get him up onto the blankets.
He had to take his shoes off. That wasn’t difficult. He laid them by the door.
Then his pants and socks came off easily. Thomas folded them and put them with the rest of the clothes. While he was over there, he hung the suit jacket up properly, put the cufflinks back in their box, made everything as neat as he could. Like he had come in here and done his job properly, so that no one would know the difference.
He wasted time on this, somewhat desperate to avoid returning to the corpse. But return he did. He used one of Mr. Pamuk’s handkerchiefs to wipe the body down. He did this as carefully as he could, cleaning up all the rapidly drying spit and cum before it crusted on. When he was done, he tossed the handkerchief into the fire. No one would miss it, he was sure. He tried not to let it remind him of other evidence going up in flames, but the comparison was unavoidable.
It took some effort to pull the underwear back up into place, shuffling it inch by inch, since he couldn’t lift the body up easily to make it move freely.
Similarly, he had to wrestle Mr. Pamuk’s nightshirt over his head and fish his limp arms through the sleeves. This was a near impossible task, made worse by his dead, staring eyes that nevertheless seemed to follow Thomas. He didn’t try to close them, because he didn’t want to try and then have them remain open against his efforts.
Finally, he could pull the sheets over the body. It didn’t look natural, at least not to his eyes, but what was natural about this situation? It was the best he could do. He experimented with tucking the hands over and under the blankets, turning the head this way and that, but none of it improved anything. He gave up and left it as it lay.
Thomas surveyed the scene. The clothes were all in order; the body was in bed; there was no evidence left, except for himself. He looked in the mirror and smoothed his hair down, trying to steady his hands. He was as white as a sheet, and he could see the reflection of the corpse in the mirror behind him.
He tugged on his jacket to straighten it. He pulled his back straight. He listened for footsteps in the hallway, and heard nothing. He slipped out of the room. No one saw him; no one heard him. It was as if he had never been there at all.
The only thing that remained was the secret, and he could carry that out with him. It was barely even a heavier one than usual. And perhaps it was a strange burden: lighter when carried alone.