This is beyond fantasy and of course it wouldn't be one of my stories if it didn't star Tom Branson. I had a request to write this, so here goes. Anyone want to weigh in with more theories? I own nothing!

Tabloid Tales

In early spring 1920 Malachi Rourke looked up from the tabloid paper he was reading when he heard the door to the Dublin Daily Mirror open. One of the political reporters walked in and went to sit at his desk.

"You reading those trash rags again, Malachi?" said the reporter.

"Yeah, you never know what you might find. Didn't you used to work for some posh family in Yorkshire? There's a piece here about a Turkish diplomat who died in some ladies bed."

Malachi got up and handed him the paper.

"Maybe you saw her before."

Tom Branson glanced at the paper. When he recognized the photograph of the aristocratic young woman pictured in the article his eyes narrowed. "Well, well, the high and mighty Lady Mary wasn't made of steel after all. After all the mischief she had caused trying to keep him and Sybil apart, she needed a good dose of her own medicine. All the nonsense about what a scandal they were causing because his wife chose to marry the chauffer! What a bunch of hypocrites," he thought. He did feel sorry for Anna being drug into the mess.

"Yes, I've seen her. Typical aristocrat if you ask me," In the next instant he thought to himself, "Christ, how am I going to tell my wife."

Matthew Crawley was working at his desk in the Ripon law offices of James, Wells and Bradley. He had a huge pile of land transfers to get through this morning. It was the most boring work possible, but it was work and filled in the time between the more interesting cases. He moved to answer the bell of the telephone that had been installed in his office just over a year ago.

"I wonder who could be calling this early in the morning?" he thought to himself.

"Matthew," came the rounded soft tones of his fiancée.

"Yes."

"Carlisle has printed."

Matthew closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He just wanted to get on with his life, put the war behind him and marry the girl he loved. Carlisle was like a peevish child that had his shiny plaything taken away. His revenge had begun.

Anna May Bates sat across the table from her husband at a prison in York.

"How are you my dear?" John Bates inquired. "You look as if you are the bearer of more bad news." His normally morose face was even more so when he saw the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh John. Carlisle has printed the story of Lady Mary and Mr. Pamuk. He hated me as well for refusing to take his bribe. It's awful."

She drew a copy of a newspaper clipping out of her handbag and handed it to the guard to give to John. There part way through the article was a full description of Anna May Bates, nee Smith wife of the convicted killer John Bates helping to carry the deceased Mr. Pamuk through the corridors of Downton Abbey.

"Then it was all for not," John murmured with downcast eyes. "That bastard will stop at nothing."

The Crawley family was gathered at the formal table at Downton Abbey for their evening meal in late summer of 1920. It was a warm night and the candles were making the room even warmer. Tom Branson stuck a finger in his collar in an attempt to loosen it a little. He seemed to always be seated between the Dowager Countess and Lady Grantham as though his mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law were attempting to fend off any inappropriate comments he might make to their guests. It was getting on his nerves.

His paper had assigned him to cover the parliamentary debates in London. They had accommodations arranged at a press club in the city and he was free to come back to the Abbey on weekends to see his wife and child. He and Sybil had come for Mary and Matthew's wedding. Their reception had been cool but polite. They had decided to stay on for his work and Sybil's health while she was pregnant. It wasn't a bad arrangement as things in Ireland had been quite different than he had anticipated when he had returned with Sybil as his intended. His family had not been overjoyed with his choice of bride. They were civil to her but there was always an undercurrent of distrust and disparaging comments that never seemed to fade.

Tom had had to tell a number of his family members off and put a stop to his mother inviting girls from the neighborhood over at any chance she had while Sybil stayed with her before they married. It was outright insulting to Sybil as the girls kept trying to touch him and push themselves between the two of them. When one of his uncles had said in front of Sybil that he didn't see why Tom couldn't marry a girl from "home", Tom had blown up. The aftermath had been a stop to the outright insults but the tension when they were with his family was always there.

Tom's work had been an eye opener. He had received death threats from both the English and the republican sides. If he submitted an impartial report on an event that put either side in a bad light the threats started. He was all for home rule, but little seemed to be changing for the poorest of the poor. The starving still begged at the door of the Bishop's house for table scraps. Families in the worst parts of the city still shared one toilet among ten or more families, and the threat of yet another famine was ever present. They were people dying in droves from what was termed the "Irish Disease" or by another name, tuberculosis.

His lot from working to middle class had come with a lot of work and at some cost. His life was now much easier that it had been in the past and he hadn't felt cold or the pangs of hunger in years. Tom looked at the plate in front of him and rolled the peas around with his fork. At times all the decadence of his wife's family made the food stick in his throat. Was he turning his back on whom he really was? Was he setting a bad example for his child by buying into this life style? He still believed in social reform, but now the direction of how to achieve it seemed blurred.

He wasn't really listening to the dinner conversation around him until the conversation turned to John Bates and the appeal Matthew was involved in.

"The case against him is circumstantial at best but the odd pieces of information tend to be damning," Matthew was saying. "We still can't explain the scratch on John's face"

"He got it when Carlisle hit him," said Tom not looking up from his plate.

"What did you say?" Lord Grantham exclaimed.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned towards Tom. He looked up looked directly at his father-in-law and repeated, "I said John Bates got the scratch on his face when Carlisle hit him."

The description of poverty in Ireland is based on an interview with Pulitzer Prize Winner Frank McCourt about his childhood in depression era Limerick. I found it on YouTube.