And now comes the final chapter of Renoir's Ghost. You will have to wait until the very last part of the story to find out the reason for the title!
The Irish Chauffeur
Chapter Eight
Next Year In Jerusalem
Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Matthew ran his fingers through his greying hair before lofting a quizzical brow at Alice.
"Aren't you forgetting what I once told you ... I mean about trying to interfere in other people's lives?"
Her eyes dark and luminous, Alice smiled.
"Pas du tout!"
"But are you really quite sure about ..." began Matthew, clearly perplexed by what it was Alice had just asked of him.
She smiled again.
"Yes, mon chéri. Perfectly sure. Et, vraiment, I would like it so very much to meet both with your son ... and his artist friend".
Matthew nodded.
"Very well then. If that's what you want. Here, I presume?" Spreading his hands wide, he indicated the villa. "That is, assuming, of course, that Simon and his artist friend would be willing ..." Matthew paused; took stock. "Yes, I don't see why not. If I tell him how things stand ... I'm certain that it can all be arranged. Even so, why on earth this?" He held up the hastily drafted codicil.
Alice sighed.
"S'il te plaît As for that, put it down to the capriciousness of a woman! Given the circumstances ..." Alice coughed; reached about for the glass of water standing beside the carafe on the table. Matthew made to move forward but having found the glass, Alice waved him back into his chair. Matthew did as he was bidden but not before he saw how pale Alice was; her skin was waxen, like parchment, and tightly drawn.
"Why do you think? My ... my fortune can do nothing for the past, but it might do some good for the future".
"Then, if that is what you wish, so be it".
Alice nodded her assent.
"As to where ..." Alice now chose deliberately to make use of the French form of his name. "Matthieu, I am not yet so ill that I am no longer able to travel. If it is not too far. And at this time of year, I know that Antibes is particularly beautiful. So, if you would kindly make the necessary arrangements ..."
Which, shortly thereafter, Matthew duly did; indeed, that very same afternoon, booking a suite in the name of the comtesse de Roquebrune at the luxurious Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, and dispatching from the post office down in Menton, a telegram, this forwarded to a far more most address address which Edith had given him ... of a house in nearby St. Paul de Vence.
And which was why, subsequently, despite, or perhaps indeed because of, the laconic nature of the reply he had then received - and which took the form of just two words -
Yes
Simon
but a matter of a couple of days later, in pouring rain, having descended from a First Class coach of the Marseille express, thereafter, Matthew came to find himself standing in the shabby salle d'attente of the railway station at Cagnes-sur-Mer, awaiting the arrival of Simon and his chum from St. Paul de Vence.
Rua da Judiaria, Lisbon, Portugal, late summer 1949.
While the water still trickled softly down into the circular pool from out of the mouths of the two marble dolphins, here outside in the courtyard it was now full dark. With Gideon having left his father and gone into the house, after a while Jacob did likewise; rose wearily from where he had been sitting, making his way across the time worn flagstones, before stepping over the threshold of the rear door of the house and coming inside. This, just having done her very best to calm both a distraught Hannah and an equally upset young Stefan, still all-of-a-do, Esther, her face yet aglow, bustled back downstairs and into the brightly lit kitchen. Having satisfied herself that in her absence Miriam and Rachel had done what was needed and that nothing for this evening's meal had taken harm, having shooed their two daughters out of the kitchen and firmly closed the door, Esther now addressed herself to Jacob.
"Gideon told me what you said out there in the courtyard. And Hannah too, when I could manage to understand what it was she was saying. What you said to her ... was unforgivable!"
Shamefaced, Jacob nodded.
"Yes. I know. And I will apologise. But, Esther, try and see it from my ..."
"But try and see, nothing. And yes, most definitely, you will apologise. Immediately. To the both of them". Stone faced, arms akimbo, Esther stood facing her husband across the laden table here in the kitchen of the house on the Rua da Judiaria. For all of his bluster, Jacob knew when was beaten.
"Very well. So you think I should ..."
"Jacob, since the war ... the Shoah ... times have changed. Young people ... want to get on with their lives. And who can blame them? That said, where is the harm in this? Any of it? From what Gideon tells me ... these friends of the Zhdanovs ... they are very respectable people. Apparently, before the war, the mother of this boy did her best to help a group of Jews in Leopoldstadt".
"Really? I didn't know that ..."
"Sometimes, Jacob ..." Esther shook her head in disbelief.
"You seriously believe I should permit this ... correspondence ... to continue?" Jacob jabbed forcefully at the letter which he had brought in from the courtyard and was now lying beside him on the kitchen table.
"Why ever not? Earlier this evening, Gideon told you, and has also explained to me, how it was that they both came to meet. So, I ask you again, where is the harm in it?"
"None, I suppose". Jacob sighed. "Very well then. Have it your own way".
Esther laughed.
"Ya'akov, how long have we been married? Forty years. In case you haven't yet realised, I usually do! And, in the meantime, tomorrow, I myself will write to Frau Schönborn, accepting her kind invitation to Hannah to stay with them at their home in France".
Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
Seven o'clock in the morning.
A moment or two later, and Captain Matthew Crawley gave yet another cursory glance at the face of his wristwatch, as if he was doing nothing more prosaic than standing enjoying the warm sunshine of a summer's day on the platform of the railway station at Downton, waiting to meet his mother off the afternoon train from Ripon; as opposed to being where in fact he actually was, here in a dark, foetid, muddy, part waterlogged forward trench on the Western Front.
The time on the fogged dial of his watch showed that it was but a few minutes after seven o'clock, with Zero hour, when they would go over the top, being set for quarter past. Earlier, and very wisely making use of a trench periscope in order to do so, Matthew had taken several furtive, hasty peeps over the sandbagged parapet in order to try and see for himself how the land in front of them lay; only to find that he could see ... nothing. For, shortly after dawn, a dense fog had rolled in, damp, grey, and impenetrable, blotting out the sun, and smothering the battlefield of the Somme like a shroud.
With the earth under his feet constantly aquiver, ever shaking from the relentless detonation of the barrage of exploding shells being fired at the invisible German trenches from the rear of the British lines by their own artillery, resisting the quite understandable urge to cover both his ears with his hands, it was now, that Matthew glanced, surreptitiously, along the whole length of the forward trench, first one way and then the other, as far as where, in each direction, it turned a right angled corner and disappeared out of his line of vision. Apparently without seeing, now took in the entrance to the dugout in which on the morning of Bowen's execution, after the deed had been done, Matthew, by the flickering light of the stub of a candle, had written the letter home to the private's family. Saw too the buckled, rusty sheets of corrugated iron lining the walls of the trench, the wooden duckboards mostly submerged beneath several feet of water, and above all, everywhere, the thick, cloying, glutinous mud of Flanders' fields.
Now caught sight of the pale faces of some of the men under his command, among them that of William, standing quietly, seemingly hearing nothing maybe save perhaps the pounding of their own hearts, their features inscrutable, set as if in stone, their eyes staring blankly into space, their thoughts focused perhaps on the clock hands creeping inexorably forward towards the appointed hour, no doubt wondering what was shortly to become of them. Here and there, a handful were checking their kit. Most were smoking cigarettes, something which Matthew himself had never done, not even at school, some drawing the smoke deeply down into their lungs. Others appeared both carefree and relaxed, were even cracking jokes, almost as if they were sitting together in some grimy Third Class compartment on a day excursion organised from one of the mill towns of Lancashire, such as Accrington, Bolton, Oldham or Rochdale, heading over to Blackpool during Wakes Week; or else to Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast on August Bank Holiday. But then, was that really so surprising, given the fact that they were all supposed to have been home in time for Christmas?
Christmas 1914.
And now, nearly two years later, here they all were; at least those of them who were yet still alive.
With thoughts of home, of his mother, of the house in Manchester where he had grown up, of Downton, of ... Mary, flashing through his mind, Matthew now fell to wondering if this time the repeated salvoes of shells being fired by the British artillery had done their work properly. Or had they failed once again to destroy both the enemy wire and the defences lying beyond it? Had the German machine gun emplacements been blown to smithereens? Or were they still intact? And what of those tasked with manning them? Were they sheltering safe within their own deep dugouts, simply keeping their heads down, ready to re-emerge just as soon as the British barrage ceased? Then to lie in wait, ready to mow down the advancing enemy infantry as they picked their way slowly through the labyrinthine coils of barbed wire protecting Fritz's own positions?
Suddenly, completely without warning, the barrage ceased and now an eerie silence descended upon this exposed sector of the British front line.
But only for an instant.
A moment later, the whistle sounded.
And in an instant, with Matthew at the head of his men, given what they were all used to - who can possibly imagine the feelings of those used to trench warfare suddenly finding themselves completely devoid of refuge - no doubt, feeling utterly exposed, were all hastily scrambling out of the water logged trench, over the crumbling, sodden, torn sandbags of the parapet, and walking forward into the mist.
So began their hellish, slow advance across the blasted desolation of No Man's Land, towards the, as yet, still invisible German lines. As Matthew was later to recall, once they were out of the trench, those of them that made it thus far, both he and his men stumbled blindly forward, enveloped by the mist that with each step they took seemed to grow ever thicker, the squelching mud sucking greedily at their boots. With his pistol at the ready, knowing that this was madness, that in all likelihood every one of them would die here in this grey darkness, Matthew pushed grimly on while from somewhere up ahead there came the incessant chatter of machine gun fire.
And then all hell broke loose, as the Germans now opened up with everything else they possessed: artillery, rifles, mortars, and grenades. Indeed, so great became the noise that when Matthew gave the order to his men keep in touch with him and with one another, it could only be passed on, by both Matthew and those that heard him, shouting at the very top of their voices. Behind him, Matthew heard a man cry out. Someone died. And then another. There were more screams and shouts, voices crying, pleading for stretcher bearers who would never come.
Suddenly, out of the fog, there loomed the shattered remains of a tree and for one brief instant hereabouts the mist rolled back only for Matthew to find himself wishing that it hadn't; as now, around the splintered stump, he glimpsed a score or more bodies, both British and German, or rather, after bullets, shell fire, hooded crows, fat, squirming maggots, and buzzing swarms of black flies had done their work, what little it was that was left of them, casualties of earlier fighting. Then mercifully once more the fog thickened, hiding from Matthew's sight other more unspeakable horrors.
The barrage of fire from the German artillery intensified still further but in the all pervading mist and murk, neither Matthew nor William ever saw the huge shell that, when finally it exploded directly above them, was to suck the very life out of the one and cripple the other. But as the force of the blast detonated, flinging them backwards into a huge shell hole, what, before he lapsed into unconsciousness, Matthew saw last of all was the wooden post in the abandoned farmyard and tied to it Bowen's sagging, bullet ridden corpse.
Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"Really? Are you quite sure?" This time Alice had indeed managed to surprise Matthew with what it was she had now also asked of him.
"Oui".
"When?"
"As I said a moment ago, n'importe quand. That ... I leave to you. But I fear it must be soon".
Now, as he considered the matter further, Matthew had to concede that it did all make perfect sense. There was a kind of symmetry to it all. And, moreover, Alice had always loved art. Glancing round the Drawing Room, Matthew took in some of the pictures lining the walls, among them a Cezanne, a Monet, and close by where he was now seated, a small painting of St. Paul de Vence, evidently sketched from somewhere within the town, looking out over the rooftops, to the open countryside beyond. Matthew stood up and gave the painting further study.
"A Renoir. It is beautiful, is it not?" asked Alice from the depths of her chaise longue.
"Indeed it is".
"Vue sur les toits de St. Paul".
Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"There you are. And everyone in the family, your Uncle Tom especially, thinks me to be an honourable man! Now the two of you know the truth of it all. So, while I may not approve, who am I to sit in judgement on you two because of how you choose to live your lives?"
Here in the crowded Bar Nicolas, seated opposite him, side by side, both Simon and Alec sat stunned into silence by what Matthew had related, both the horrors of the Western Front and among all that death and carnage, an innocent life snuffed out, to safeguard the reputation of an aristocratic family. For the moment neither of them spoke.
"Father, I'm certain that you did your best," said Simon quietly.
"That's very kind of you my boy, but I don't really think so. I could have ... should have ... done more. Much more".
"Although the result might very well have been the same". This from Alec, who found himself feeling far more kindly disposed towards this softly spoken man than ever he would have thought possible.
"Perhaps. It's a damned odd thing, and I know you'll both think me fanciful, but all the same it's perfectly true, when that shell exploded overhead, before I lost consciousness, the very last thing I remember seeing was indeed the scene of that execution in the farmyard. An honourable man? No, I don't think so!"
Matthew shook his head; looked glumly down at his glass and swirled what yet remained of his wine.
"My God!" Alec shook his head in disbelief, seemingly unaware that he had invoked the name of the deity in whom he no longer believed. "Evidently the Honourable James found out ... what had happened to his lover ... and why. And, also ... the part his own family had played in the affair?"
"Presumably, yes".
"And then took his own life?"
Matthew nodded. Took back the dog eared, yellowed newspaper report, refolded it and placed the cutting within his wallet.
"Indeed. That would be my understanding of it all. A ruddy awful business. In which, however unwillingly, I played a part. Something of which I remain ashamed to this very day. To round off the tale, so to speak, and for what it's worth, not long after after Seymour's elder brother inherited Blakeney, that, I suppose, would have been back in the late '20s, he sold the estate and went out to Kenya, or so I have been given to understand. Became a member of the Happy Valley Set, don't you know. I take it you've heard of them?"
Evidently mystified, Alec and Simon looked blankly at each other before shrugging dismissively and then shaking their heads in unison, reminding Matthew immediately of a pair of nodding porcelain Chinamen which stood together on the mantle piece of the Blue Bedroom in Downton Abbey.
"No? You do surprise me. They, my boy, were one of the reasons why your mother didn't want you going out to East Africa when we learned of ... how things stood between the two of you".
"Oh? And why was that?"
"The Happy Valley Set were a group of degenerates ..."
"Like us you mean?" asked Alec wooden faced. He lit another cigarette; inhaled deeply.
While he was unused to being interrupted, ever the diplomat, Matthew took Alec's intrusion in good part. So, he merely paused, smiled affably, before finally draining his glass and setting it down on top of the table where it was promptly re-filled, this time by Simon. When it came, his father's response to Alec was matter-of-fact.
"As it happens, Mr. Foster ... no".
"Alec, please".
"Very well then ... Alec. No. Not at all like you. Either of you. As I was about to say, the Happy Valley set were indeed a group of degenerates. A pack of feckless, louche, English, Anglo-Irish aristocrats who went out to Kenya in the 20s. Later, in the 30s, they became well known, some would say infamous, for their decadent lifestyle and exploits. What they were alleged to get up to in the rainy season, drug taking, sexual promiscuity ... It all more or less came to an end in 1940 with the murder of Lord Erroll. As for Seymour he died a year or two later, in a Nairobi hotel ... of a cocaine overdose".
Again Simon and Alec exchanged glances. Tonight, here in the Bar Nicolas, it was indeed proving to be a time of surprises as never before could Simon ever recall his father discussing such matters so openly.
"How do you know all of this?" he asked; his father's store of unexpected knowledge never ceased to amaze Simon.
"From an old acquaintance of mine; someone who, as it happens, would very much like to meet the two of you. That is, if you are agreeable to doing so".
"Who is he?"
"Not he. She".
"Who then?" asked Simon.
"A very dear friend. You may have heard your mother speak of her: Alice, comtesse de Roquebrune".
Memory stirred. Simon nodded. If he remembered aright, Mama had, to put it politely, been rather disparaging of the comtesse. What he was thinking must have been reflected clearly in his face as Simon saw his father smile.
"Whatever your mother may once have thought, my relationship with the comtesse, while I love her dearly as a friend, has never been anything other than what it should be. Entirely proper".
Simon nodded. Despite what his father had told them, he would have expected nothing less; still thought him to be an honourable man.
"So just why does she want to see the two of us?"
Matthew smiled; shook his head.
"As to that, my lips are sealed. You'll have to meet her to find out why".
"Didn't you first become acquainted with her in Switzerland?"
"Yes, that's right. Many years ago now. In Geneva. Where I was working for the League of Nations. And, in part, it's because of her that I am here now".
"How so?"
"Firstly, because she is dying and secondly because it was she who convinced me that the breach between us must be healed ..."
"Dying?"
"I wish it wasn't so. But very sadly it is".
"And repairing the breach ... is this for you? For Mama? Because if so ..."
Matthew shook his head; sighed wearily.
"No, Simon. Not just for me. Nor for Mama. For all of us. There must be a way of leaving the past where it is. Before it's too late".
Even in the wan light of the bar, watching his father, it was with a distinct sense of shock that Simon suddenly realised just how old Papa looked; his hair flecked with grey and there were lines on his face where there had been none before. Maybe it had something to do with the strain of recounting what he had told the both of them here tonight. But then again, of course, none of them were getting any younger. After all, he and Alec were both pushing thirty. Yet, like Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil, Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, foolishly, he had taken it for granted that his parents would always be there, come what may.
Only of course they wouldn't.
None of them would.
"I promised you that I'd think about it".
Matthew nodded.
"Indeed you did. But having told you what I have, I was hoping the pair of you now appreciate that when I say I understand your situation, I do. And there's something else too, which Alice told me ... and which I myself should have realised a while ago".
"Which is?"
"That following the end of the war the world has changed, perhaps even more markedly than it did after the Great War. That if they so choose, those who wish to live their lives differently should be allowed to do so without fear of censure by so called polite society. After all, the world would be a very much poorer place if we were all the same. And now, if you don't mind, it's been a very long day. Tomorrow, if you're both agreeable and can spare the time, I should like very much to see some of the country hereabouts".
Another olive branch.
Simon looked at Alec; saw him nod.
"Of course. We'd be delighted to show you round".
"Then, thank you. And after that, there's a letter I have to finish writing ..."
"To Mama?"
"Yes, to your mother".
There was nothing more to be said and a short while thereafter all three of them set off through the darkened, cobbled streets of St. Paul de Vence, bound for the Maison des Colombes.
St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Somewhat earlier, the game of boules had drawn to a close. And, in the fading warmth of the summer's evening, as the shadows now lengthened and the dark drew down, here, just outside the old town wall, beneath the shade of the umbrella pine, having watched a short while earlier old Maysonet stomp off in a temper and disappear beneath the gate leading to the Rue Grande, Toussaint at last turned to his friend, Pascal.
"Crois-tu vraiment ..."
"Qu'il l'a vu?" Pascal shrugged. "On ne sais jamais; Le Bon Dieu peut-être! En tout cas, il existe depuis des années, des histoires autour de cette maison. Et, après tout, à l'époque de Bonnemort ... Le Vieux ... il y était de temps en temps. Alors, c'est toujours possible ..."
"Qu'en penses-tu?" Toussaint's voice sank almost to a whisper.
"Moi? Je n'en sais rien!" Pascal gave a loud guffaw and shrugged.
Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.
On their return from the Armistice Service held in the parish church, the Seymours were confronted in the hall of the house by their butler, ashen faced, who evidently had something to impart to them.
"Yes, Ellis, what is it?"
"It's Mr. James, sir. He's locked himself in the study".
"Locked himself in the study?"
"Yes, sir. It was Edward here who heard the shot. He then came to find me sir"
"Shot you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Eustace".
But Eustace didn't hear the butler; was already off, hot footing it down the flagged passage leading to the study.
Maison de Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"So what did you make of all of that?" asked Alec as, sometime after all three of them had returned to the house, and Matthew had gone upstairs to bed, Alec and Simon were now climbing the stairs to their own room.
"What?"
"Your father ... wanting to know about my plans for the art school?"
Simon shrugged.
"I've no idea. I expect he was just being polite".
"Maybe. But why on earth does this French countess want to meet us?"
"Search me. Hallo! Alec, did you leave a light on up there in the attic?"
"No, of course not!"
"Then what's that?"
Glancing up, Alec saw coming from his studio, the unmistakable glow of lamplight.
"I'll go and see".
But having left Simon on the landing, as Alec now rounded the last spiral of the stone staircase, ahead of him, the light in the attic suddenly went out. And when Alec reached the doorway of his studio, it was to find the room before him was in complete darkness. He assumed it must have been something to do with the problem which had arisen earlier with the electrics. Made a mental note to himself to have Maysonet or one of his sons check the circuit again in the morning.
Yet, for all that, Alec could have sworn that there was movement there in the shadows.
"Hallo ... is there someone there?"
But answer came there none.
St. Nicholas Church, Blakeney, Norfolk, England, December 1919.
The view from the churchyard here at Blakeney was just as sombre and depressing as it was from the study window of the hall; looking out as it likewise did over the bleak expanse of the salt marshes, northwards towards the distant sea. It was here, towards the end of November, on a cold, wet day, under a veritable sea of black umbrellas, that the Honourable James Alfred Seymour was laid to rest in the family vault.
The verdict of the Coroner's Court, finally given a week or so earlier, had been one of suicide, while the balance of mind was disturbed. Something for which the huddle of family mourners standing in the pouring rain by the steps leading down to the entrance of the Seymour vault was exceedingly thankful. Even more so, that James had not left any letter explaining why he had chosen to do what he had done.
Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
The young Englishman gave them his name as that of Oliver Harding.
A short while later, chatting amiably about this and that, with Mr. Harding ambling along at a steady pace beside the two horses, Mary and Danny trotted into the yard of the neighbouring farm which lay but a mile or so distant. Here, while Danny went inside the house and made the necessary arrangements to have Mr. Harding conveyed back to his yacht moored in Kinsale Harbour, Mary sat her horse outside. A short while later, Danny came to tell her that all was in order and that the farmer would take Mr. Harding down into Kinsale, where Danny himself had certain matters to attend to. Would Aunt Mary be all right to ride back to Skerries on her own?
Having feigned mock outrage, that she was being abandoned and in a foreign country too, Mary smiled. Said that she was more than perfectly capable of finding her own way back to the house. Then, having made her farewells, as if the Furies were after her, sparing a fond thought for Matthew who with his love of things Classical had told her all about the three infernal goddesses of Ancient Greece, - Alecto, Megaera and Tisiphone - even if on more than one occasion he had said that both he and darling Tom were of the firm opinion that the Furies they had been re-incarnated in the three Crawley sisters, Mary set her heels to the flanks of her mare and galloped back as fast as she could to Skerries House.
Maison de Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Two days later, early in morning, before they left for Antibes and the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Jules and his brother Pierre duly arrived at the house to tackle what building work yet remained, most of it being to do with the colombier. Mentioned in passing that their father would not be returning - some indisposition - and assured Simon and Alec that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with the newly installed electrics. What they had taken for lamplight must have been moonlight, shining in through the attic window. That vanished when a heavy bank of cloud had descended.
It was only when the battered 2CV was approaching the railway station down in Cagnes-sur-Mer, that Matthew suddenly remarked that on the night in question there had been no moon.
Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
The picture stood propped on the mantle piece in the sitting room of Alice's hotel suite. And as Matthew continued to gaze at it, realisation suddenly dawned.
"Well I'll be damned," he said softly. Hearing footsteps, Matthew turned to see Alice coming out of her bedroom, wearing an elegant Dior "New Look" dress. He recognised the style - now that rationing of clothes was officially over, Mary had insisted on purchasing, at great expense, several when last they were up in town.
"Will I do?" Alice asked.
"Perfectly!" Matthew smiled and straightway offered her his arm. "But before we go down, there's something I think you should know ..."
Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
Having quickly unsaddled and seen to her mare down at the stables, once back up at the house as Mary hurried into the hall in search of both Tom and Sybil she saw, coming slowly down the staircase, Emily, arm in arm with Dermot who was evidently now feeling rather better than had been the case when he had been brought back here on a stretcher semi conscious last night.
"Now, I'm not going too fast for you, am I? If you need to, lean on me".
"No, not at all. I think I could get used to this!" Dermot grinned at his cousin.
In the normal course of things, Mary would have had something to say about this burgeoning romance. Not that she objected to Dermot per se but one marriage in the family between cousins was quite enough thank you very much. However, if only for the present, giving Emily a piece of her mind would have to wait.
"If you're looking for Da, he and Ma are in the study," volunteered Dermot.
"Thank you, Dermot".
Leaving Emily and Dermot to their own devices, Mary hurried on across the hall, only to find the door of Tom's study unexpectedly closed from behind which there came the swift rise and fall of several voices. That of Tom, of Sybil too, and of someone else who for the present Mary could not identify. She knocked sharply and then opened the door.
Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"... but it would be a very great kindness to me if you did. And, after all what I am proposing, is for the benefit of many. Surely that accords with your Socialist principles, does it not, Monsieur Foster?" The countess smiled.
Here, seated out in the sunshine on the terrace, in the beautiful surroundings of the luxurious hotel, Alec was about to demur. To point out that he was a Communist not a Socialist. But it seemed a churlish thing to do. And, if the truth be told, just like Jacob Abastado, he knew only too well when he was beaten; as earlier with Simon's father. For, despite the privileged background and wealth enjoyed hitherto by this beautiful, now dying woman, Alec found himself warming more and more to the comtesse de Robquebrune who had turned out not to be at all what either he, or for that matter Simon, had expected. Alice, as she had insisted they both call her, was a cultured, sophisticated woman. A true artist, in every sense of the word.
And the money she was now offering Alec, would permit him to do what, in his wildest dreams, he had always wanted to. Something which, back in England, he had spoken about before many times to Simon but never thought he would ever see realised. That being to set up a studio, in perhaps Cornwall or else Devon; a school for budding artists. But which now would, instead, be established here, down in the south of France. The monies being placed at his disposal, of which Simon's father was to be Trustee, would enable the purchase of a suitable building and Alec knew just where - an old barn, on the edge of St. Paul which Maysonet had said was up for sale - its renovation, and equipping, in order to provide a large studio. far larger than that at the top of the house which would remain instead his own private domain. And with a substantial sum also to be invested so as to provide bursaries for those individuals not possessed of the means to fund themselves.
To have tarred all of the aristocracy, whether English or French, with the same brush Alec would readily now concede had been grossly unfair, even if it had taken him, someone who had grown up in the filthy slums of Leeds, nigh on twenty years to realise.
"Very well then. But in return, the studio, it must bear your name. Now and for all time".
And with this, Alice herself likewise had to be content. But she had not quite done. Not yet.
"And one thing more ..."
Gare de Biarritz-Ville, Biarritz, south west France. late summer 1949.
Here in the forecourt, seated in the motor, watching Kurt hot footing it into the station with Hope gambolling along beside him, Friedrich laid a restraining hand on Edith's arm.
"Let the boy have his head. Liebling, in case you haven't realised, love is like chicken pox. Best to catch it early!"
Edith smiled; shook her head and sighed.
"Were either of us ever that young?"
"Probably! Edith, he's seventeen ..."
"For what it's worth, I seem to remember you saying something very similar about darling Max. That he was seventeen, ... and look where that led".
"To, however brief it was, a very happy and loving marriage. And to the birth of our grandson, Josef!"
"You surely don't mean that Kurt ..."
Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
Mary closed the door firmly behind her. Now saw the owner of the third voice, and which she had not, so far, been able to place, to be that of Mr. Bradley, the gentleman from the Lake District, here at Skerries for the fishing. Only ...
"This," explained Tom rising from his chair, "is Chief Inspector Bradley, of Scotland Yard. "Chief Inspector, may I introduce my sister-in-law, the countess of Grantham".
Mary inclined her head.
"A policeman?"
Tom nodded; indicated that Mary might like to sit down and which she duly did.
The Chief Inspector smiled.
"Indeed. I must apologise for the subterfuge but, as I was explaining to your brother-in-law here, Mr. Branson, it was, I assure you, absolutely necessary".
"I see. Or rather, I don't ... Tom, just what is going on?"
"The Chief Inspector is here in Ireland as a result of an attempt being made to smuggle a large quantity of arms into the Republic from West Germany. They were on board the steamer which ran aground off the cove".
"I see. Arms you say?"
"Yes. Rifles, revolvers, ammunition, and so forth. All stolen, over a year ago, and rather embarrassingly, from a British army base near Hamburg. Ever since then we and our Irish colleagues in the Garda have had those we believed to be involved under surveillance; waiting for them to show their hand. Including the owner of that fancy yacht moored down there in Kinsale Harbour and who, along with all the others involved over here, is now in custody down there in Kinsale".
Mary nodded.
"You mean Mr. Braithwaite?"
"Just how the devil do you know his name?" asked the Chief Inspector, clearly amazed by Mary's unexpected knowledge.
"Earlier today, my nephew, Mr. Daniel Branson, helped rescue him from off the cliffs overlooking the cove. Although he gave his name as Harding, the young man reminded me of someone we all once knew. I came back here to let my brother-in-law know. Tom, you remember Algy Braithwaite and his wife Millie?"
"Millie Anstruther? Whose family once owned Cullen Hall?" asked Sybil.
"Yes".
The Chief inspector nodded his agreement.
"Oliver Braithwaite. The son. Yes. None too bright".
Tom smiled.
"Like father like son then!"
"Actually young Braithwaite is small fry. All of this is way above his league. Apparently, he only got involved to pay off his gambling debts. Of course, they hadn't bargained on a mechanical breakdown".
"Mechanical breakdown?"
"One of the engines of the tramp steamer ... What with the currents hereabouts, on half power, in a heavy sea, in thick fog, going hard aground off Skerries Cove, was, I would say, almost inevitable. Before that happened, the arms were to have been off loaded out at sea onto Braithwaite's yacht, brought ashore further down the coast, and then stored, as far as we can gather, in the cellars under the ruins of Cullen Hall, destined eventually for ..."
"The IRA, no doubt".
The Chief Inspector smiled.
"I see you are well informed, Mr. Branson".
Tom smiled.
"As a former newspaper editor, I still have my contacts".
"Indeed. And as you are doubtless well aware, there are those who want a united Ireland and will use violence to achieve that aim. You mentioned your nephew ..."
Mary nodded.
"A week or so ago, it was he who put us on to the fact that there was something going on at Cullen Hall which, putting two and two together, we decided might well be connected with this business ... reporting to the local Garda that he'd seen several men acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the ruins of the house".
"He never said anything to us".
"He was asked not to". The Chief Inspector glanced first at Mary and then at Tom and Sybil. "If I may say so, he's a very personable and resourceful young man. And a credit to all of you".
Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, France, late summer 1949.
"I have something else for you too. Matthieu, would you ..." The earl of Grantham nodded; reached down and picked up a package wrapped in brown paper and handed across it to Alec.
"I don't understand".
"If you open it, perhaps you will".
Alec untied the string and tore off the brown paper to reveal within a small picture.
"Well, I'll be ..."
Gare de Biarritz-Ville, south west France, late summer 1949.
The long train of the luxurious brown and cream coaches of the Sud Express drew finally to a complete stand in the platform of the Gare de Biarritz-Ville. While Gideon had accompanied his young cousin Hannah on the train, north from the Rosso station in Lisbon en route to Paris Austerlitz, breaking his journey here in Biarritz where it had been arranged that the Schönborns would meet Hannah, he had the innate good sense to stay on board the express while Kurt and Hannah met again for the first time since they had parted several weeks ago on this very same platform.
Not that either Kurt or Hannah could have known it, but history was about to repeat itself. Nearly a decade had now passed since that long gone day back in June 1940 when, all unsuspecting, Kurt's brother Max had climbed down from the Exeter train at Wrangaton station in Devonshire, to find waiting there on the platform the young woman who was destined to become his wife.
Now, in the very same instant as Kurt looked up to see Hannah climbing down from the express, and she saw him standing there before her on the platform, both of them knew that their feelings for each other had not changed.
And never would.
Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
From the woods, where Danny and Claire were keeping an eye on Ailis and the four young boys playing in the tree house, there came the sound of shouts and laughter while here on the lawn at the front of the house, as Tom saw Dermot and Emily strolling hand in hand across the grass, he chuckled.
"Ah, young love, to be sure!" Tom turned back to Mary. Nodded towards the letter she was holding. "There now. What did I tell yous?"
"Oh, darling Tom! I really don't deserve him, do I?" Her face radiant, Mary glanced again at the letter from which she had been reading and which had arrived here at Skerries this morning all the way from Menton in the south of France.
"Yes you do. And he you. Remember what Tom said all those years ago?" This from Sybil.
Because I'll tell you this: yous won't be happy with anyone else while Lady Mary walks the earth.
Memory stirred. Mary smiled then nodded.
"Matthew goes on to say that he's hopeful that Simon will be at Rebecca and David's wedding! Now isn't that wonderful news! David will be delighted. Matthew's staying on down there for the funeral. Well, that's perfectly understandable of course. And that after he's settled what needs to be done I'll be on my way home to Downton!" Oh, I feel such an awful heel. If only he'd told me all of this before ... I don't know how on earth I shall ever make it up to him".
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way!" Seated out in the bright sunshine, Sybil smiled; mindful of the fact that some of her and Tom's best bedsport had come in the aftermath of arguments or misunderstandings, each then doing his or her utmost to make it up to the other by showing just how much they really loved each another.
"Sybil! Don't! You're making me blush!"
"I don't t'ink Matthew will need much enticing to let you make it up to him for sure ... I mean after what yous just read ... about him drinking champagne, eating caviar, and oysters," drawled Tom, lapsing into a thick Irish brogue,
"Yes, but as he said, that was only for a celebratory meal. To mark the completion of the renovation of the house in St. Paul".
Tom grinned.
"For sure".
"So why the charming smile?"
"Why do yous t'ink? Grand, it is".
"What is?"
"Matthew being the honourable man that he is".
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, Mary, t'ink about it, for sure. There he is, down there on the French Riviera, eating all those aphrodisiacs, deprived of your love and companionship for several weeks on end, surrounded by all those demoiselles and unable to ..."
"Tom! You make Matthew sound like some kind of sex maniac!"
"What with him being a red bloodied male of the species, I should t'ink Matthew will be ready to forgive yous anything if yous plays your cards right". Tom winked broadly at Mary.
"Well, perhaps".
"No perhaps about it, for sure!"
They all laughed.
Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes, France, late summer 1949.
Alec peered at the signature, a single word, painted in black letters, in the bottom right hand corner of the picture.
"A Renoir?" he gasped. "And you are giving it ... to me?"
Alice nodded.
"Then, thank you. It's wonderful".
"De rien. You, I think, Mr. Foster, perhaps more than most, will appreciate its true value, which has nothing of course to do with money. Do you recognise the location?"
"Of course. It's St. Paul".
"Bien sur. And from where it was painted?"
However, before Alec could answer her, he felt Simon, who had come to stand behind him, rest his hands lightly on his shoulders.
"But that's the view from your studio, at the top of the house ... our house!"
Alice nodded enthusiastically.
"So your father has now told me. Did you know that Renoir was a frequent visitor to St. Paul? That he and the old man, Bonnemort, were friends?"
Alec shook his head.
"No, I didn't know that".
"Well, they were. And, evidently on at least one occasion, the great man used the attic which you intend shortly to use as your own studio to paint that picture".
"So what I told you all ... about what I thought I saw the other night ..."
"Perhaps a blessing for your future endeavours - from one artist to another?" suggested Alice with the merest ghost of a gentle smile.
Matthew likewise smiled.
Now quoted from memory:
There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy
Author's Note:
Built in 1869 as a private mansion, the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Cap d'Antibes opened as a hotel in 1887 and is still in business today.
Wakes Week - once widely observed in north west England, when the working classes, especially those from the cotton mill towns of both Lancashire and Yorkshire, went on holiday by train to the coast.
During the nineteenth century, Chinese clay figures with movable, nodding heads were made in Canton for export to the West where they proved very popular as depictions of both Chinese dress and customs.
In Great Britain, clothes rationing had ended only recently - on 15th March 1949.
Up in town - in London.
That, during the last part of his life, the artist Renoir both visited and painted in and around St. Paul de Vence is well known and was the inspiration for this whole story.
There are more things ... Hamlet, Act One Scene Five, by William Shakespeare.
