Chapter Seven

A Postcard From France

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, January 1937.

Following a most distressing telephone conversation with Sybil, regarding this business of Danny, on coming out of the Blue Room, seeing Barrow leaving the Library, not wishing herself to be seen, Mary paused, waiting in the shadows, until the butler had disappeared through the green baize door, before resuming her steps across the Entrance Hall.


Library.

Seated at what had been his late father-in-law's desk, on hearing the door open, Matthew looked up from the letter he had been writing.

Despite the fact that Robert had been dead six years, Matthew never felt comfortable using the old boy's desk for, try as he might, for some strange reason, Matthew could never entirely rid himself of the notion that, even after this length of time, he was still the interloper. That at any minute, along with Isis thudding out a tattoo on the carpet with her tail, Robert's spectre would appear beside him, and ask he be allowed to sit at his desk. This being so, Matthew much preferred the one he used regularly down in the Estate Office, and to which he could at least lay personal claim; for it was the desk which had once graced his solicitor's office on Deansgate, across the Pennines, in the wet and windy cotton metropolis of Manchester. However, when Matthew was up at the abbey, and he found he had to write a letter, as had been the case tonight, he usually sat at the elegant nineteenth century escritoire which stood, as it had done time out of mind, in the Small Library - so named because it contained the overflow of books from the room in which he was now sitting.


Many of the volumes at Downton were old, some very rare editions, covering an eclectic range of subjects: history, geography, politics, biographies, even religious discourses, and no doubt other specialisms too. In all, there were said to be some thirteen thousand volumes in the two rooms. Not that there was anything like a reliable catalogue; something which, when Matthew found the time, he intended remedying. However, this had nothing to do with altruism on his part but, as was so often the case with Matthew, for reasons financial. After all, one never knew what might have crept into such a large collection of books; perhaps a fourteenth century Psalter or even a Shakespeare First Folio, which could be sold for a goodly sum to a worthy repository such as the British Museum Library where they would find a far more appreciative readership than ever they had done here. For, Matthew had come to the inescapable conclusion that most of the books here had never been read. That, as was often asserted regarding English country house Libraries, the volumes they contained had been bought by the yard, merely for show, and, despite the presence of library steps, never once taken down from the shelves on which they reposed.

Lending weight to this supposition was the fact that from their titles, printed in now faded gilt lettering on richly embossed bindings of calf, vellum, or russia, the contents of many of the books were clearly arcane. And while, on occasion, Matthew had delved into the printed works of the writers of Classical Antiquity such as Pliny and Tacitus, none of the Crawley family were great readers. Only Tom had made any real use of the books, and this but once or twice a year when the Bransons came to stay and even he, bibliophile that he undoubtedly was, could see the merit in reducing their number.

Not so Mary who, while freely admitting that she couldn't remember the last time she had taken a book from off the shelves, if ever - fashion plates in Vogue were much more her style - insisted that the volumes were part of Downton's history, and so sacrosanct. Of course, this made no sense whatsoever, but as Matthew knew, it was often the way of things here at Downton, where tradition held sway, and common sense flew out of the nearest window.


What had caused Matthew to use Robert's desk tonight had been the absence of a fire in the Small Library, something which he had brought upon himself, as several years ago he had given instructions that rooms were not to be heated unnecessarily. So, in the winter months, much to Mary's chagrin, the family found themselves confined to but a fraction of the ground floor of the great house; the remainder being shut up, with the furnishings swathed in dust sheets. Given that since 1931 the domestic staff had been significantly reduced, this made eminent sense, but it did not allow for last minute changes of plan, as had occurred tonight. Of course, Mary had not been impressed. When Matthew had said Friedrich and Edith did the same at Rosenberg, Mary had countered by saying they were often away for long periods at a time on one of their digs; although to be fair, since the birth of Kurt, and now given the worsening state of affairs in Austria, Edith usually stayed behind at Rosenberg, so as to be ready to leave the country at a moment's notice, along with their two boys.


"How did it go?" Mary asked, perching on the edge of the desk, just as she had done earlier, in the Estate Office.

"As I told you it would. Like the proverbial lead balloon. Not that our esteemed butler said anything; knowing it was not his position to make any comment. However, I could tell he wasn't pleased; something in his eyes. Oh, by the way, at the end of our little chat, Barrow asked if he might take a few days off. Something about visiting a cousin down in Sussex, a village near Arundel so I believe - I forget its name - close to the south coast".

"Does he have a cousin?" Mary asked, eyebrows lifting.

Matthew smiled.

"I'm not certain. A sister, so I believe, but as for any other kin ..." Matthew shrugged dismissively. "However, with Ribbentrop's visit not until later next month, I didn't see there was a problem".

"So then who will serve tea?"

Matthew laughed.

"Don't worry! Apparently, Henry will step up into the breach. Barrow was at great pains to assure me that he is perfectly competent. Oh, and by the way, that new lad we took on a few months ago, the one who came here from Witley Court ..."

"William?"
"Yes, William. Well, you were right and I was wrong. Barrow spoke of him in glowing terms ..."
"Did he now?" Mary raised her ever expressive eyebrows.

Matthew could not fail to notice the intonation Mary's voice had taken on. He smiled; shook his head.

"No, nothing like that".

"Really?"
"No. From something Wainwright said last week, when Tobias Armitage came in to pay his rent on White Beck, I'm given to understand that our new footman's rather sweet on one of the Jeffcock girls over at Harebell Farm. Apparently, he met her in the village on market day; so Wainwright said".

"Well, that's a relief, I must say!"

"Quite".

"Did Wainwright say if Armitage had heard from his brother? The one you helped join up".

"Since he made no mention of it, I assume not".

"So, he doesn't know ..."
"About his mother? No. Earnshaw let slip earlier today that she's unlikely to last more than a few months".

Mary nodded.

"How utterly wretched. I called in to see her down at the almshouses shortly before Christmas. Her daughter was with her at the time".

"It's terrible sad, but, there's nothing to be done".

"No ..."
"And as far as Barrow is concerned, you've no objection?"
"Not at all. In any case, I expect the rest of the staff will breathe a collective sigh of relief. He does seem to have perfected the knack of getting under everybody's skin. My own included!"

They both laughed.


Butler's Pantry, about the same time.

Below stairs, seated at his own desk, Thomas smiled.

That had proved somewhat easier than he had expected but then Mr. Crawley, for all that he might now be called Lord Grantham, was not a patch on his late lordship. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast was over, while everyone else went about their duties, Thomas would saunter down to the Post Office from where he had an urgent telegram to despatch.

A moment later, there came an unexpected knock on the door.

"Yes?"
Billy - William - stuck his head around the door.

"Mr. Barrow, may I have a quick word?" Thomas now feigned an elaborate show of looking about him as though wanting to be certain no-one else was lurking in the four corners of the room. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded.

"It would appear that you are the only member of staff presently seeking my undivided attention. That being so, I can spare you five minutes. No more".
Billy nodded.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow".

"Then come in and shut the door".

Billy did as he had been told.

"Now, how may I be of assistance?"

"Well, it's like this, Mr. Barrow …"

"Like what, precisely?"

"Would it be possible for me to have an afternoon off next week? My brother Edwin's paying a visit to Leeds, unexpected like ..."

Not, of course, that Billy had a brother by that name.

Unsuspecting that he was being played for a fool, after his recent meeting with His Lordship, Thomas was feeling in a magnanimous frame of mind.

"I don't see why not. Just which particular afternoon did you have in mind?"

"Well ..."


Somewhere out in the Atlantic, January 1937.

In the dimly lit cabin, with Develin having ceased his Hail Marys and scrambled hastily from his knees, Danny and the other boys now struggled into their kapok filled lifejackets, passing them hurriedly over their heads, and securing the ties. This done, the young crewman indicated they should all follow him, which they did, clawing their way up the steeply sloping floor of the cabin, and clambering out through the open door, into the passageway beyond. Here they had to brace themselves against the walls, the narrow passage being awash with water, struggling along it towards the companionway, which led upwards to the open deck of the heavily listing steamer.


South of Scarborough, Yorkshire, England, February 1937.

Few people ever used the quiet country station; which was why, apart from being the closest one to his destination, he had chosen it.

However, when in the fading light of the February evening, having been given the right away, the two coach train pulled away from the station bound for Scarborough, the guard saw nobody on the platform, threw up the droplight, turned from the window, and resumed counting tickets in the privacy of his own compartment. Nor, engaged as he was in attending to the stove in his isolated cabin by the level crossing, did the signalman see anyone either. But, nonetheless, someone had descended from the train, on the side away from the platform, clambering down onto the ballast, where he waited, unmoving, in the gathering darkness, so that as the train puffed off northwards, neither the guard nor the signalman saw a living soul.

Then, with the train once more in motion, and with the signalman now occupied making his tea, Armitage shouldered his heavy kitbag and set off down the lane, heading briskly away from the station, towards the distant sea.


Somewhere out in the Atlantic, January 1937.

Having reached companionway, and made it up on deck, in the teeth of the howling gale, along with several other of the Volunteers, Danny and his three pals were now ordered towards one of the two lifeboats. But, before they reached it, an enormous wave swamped the deck, the deluge of the water tearing the lifeboat from its davits, smashing it to pieces, and washing the wreckage over the side.


Coast of Yorkshire, England, February 1937.

Amid the salt laden air, perched right on the very edge of the headland, with a sheer drop of some three hundred feet down to the jagged rocks below, devoid of any human habitation, the old battery was indeed an isolated, lonely spot, the crumbling buildings populated, so it was rumoured, only by ghosts. But if that was true, they didn't bother Armitage. Down a slippery flight of steps, below ground, in a room which had once been the magazine - long since cleared of explosives - with both a fire and a storm lantern lit, with a bed made up, and a good supply of both wood and provisions in tins, he would do well enough. And, while he had every intention of lying low - quite literally - until he had to travel up to London, he intended paying a visit to the old lady over at Downton. However, given the fact that he was well known over there, he would have to take certain precautions.


North Wall Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, February 1937.

When, in the second week of February, the SS. Llandough, a collier with a cargo of coal from South Wales, moored alongside North Wall Quay, Dublin, ironically in the very berth from which the Dutchman had set sail, it was with the dreadful news that wreckage - fragments of a lifeboat and a couple of lifebelts - bearing the name Pieter had been found floating in the sea west of the Isles of Scilly. Knowing that this was the name of the vessel on which the Irish Volunteers had sailed for Spain a week or so earlier, the news spread round Dublin like wildfire, reaching the offices of the Irish Independent on Talbot Street an hour or so after the collier had docked. Tom was appalled. While there was no proof that the Pieter had indeed foundered, it seemed the only possible explanation, given that a distress call from the Dutchman had been picked up. Thereafter there had been no further word from Pieter and all attempts to raise her by radio had proved in vain. As the Indy prepared to run the story as its lead, Tom knew he had to let Sybil know what had happened, before she saw the afternoon edition of the newspaper or the billboards. If he left now, he could reach the hospital before Sybil finished her shift.


Leaving the offices of the Indy at a run, on O'Connell Street Tom caught the first northbound tram as far as the Rotunda where he got off and went and stood on Parnell Street opposite the imposing bulk of the hospital, waiting for Sybil to emerge; something which he had done many times before. It was a long standing joke between the two of them that if ever Tom came to meet her at the hospital and waited outside on the pavement, according to Sybil, he always managed to look as if he was loitering with criminal intent, although with what precise nefarious act in mind she had never specified. This afternoon, scarce five minutes after his arrival, Tom saw Sybil walking briskly towards the tram stop; now hailed her from where he was standing.

Hearing him call her name, Sybil paused and looked about her and, having caught sight of Tom, she waved; then crossed the street and walked to meet him.

"I didn't expect to see you here".

They exchanged a brief kiss.

"I hadn't intended to be".

"So, why ..."
"The thing is, Sybil, there's news. I wanted ya to hear it from me first ..." Tom's voice faltered. He looked down at the pavement and shuffled his feet. After all these years, Sybil could read him like a book.

"Oh, my God! It's Danny, isn't it?" she gasped. Sybil's hand flew to her mouth.

Tom nodded; proceeded, as gently as possible, to explain, briefly, what he had learned, before both burst into tears, sobbing, one against the other, and in the process drawing unfavourable looks from several passers-by.

"There's no hope, is there?" whispered Sybil, when they had somewhat recovered themselves, lifting her tear-stained face to that of Tom.
"Of course there is".

"Thank you for that good lie". Sybil shook her head. "But there isn't. You know there isn't".

It was Tom's turn to shake his head.

"Nonsense. There's always hope. If the ship ran into a storm, then perhaps she's put into port somewhere".

"Didn't the ship have a radio?"

"Yes".
"Well, then ..."

"Maybe it's broken".

But, in his heart, with the wreckage sighted out in the Atlantic, on the course of the Pieter would have taken, Tom knew it was more than likely the ship had foundered. That those on board, among them darling Danny, were now all dead.

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm doth bond the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee

For those in peril on the sea.


Entrance Hall, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, February 1937.

"Ah, there you two are!"

Masking her true feelings, Edith somehow contrived a smile and then, had she but known it, doing just as Sybil had done a week or so earlier, summoning up every ounce of sang froid that she could muster, taking firm hold of the bannister with one hand and holding Kurt just as firmly by the other, she made way gracefully downstairs and into the Entrance Hall. At a glance he took in Weismann and a couple of the footmen busy with all the luggage and there in the middle of the well ordered confusion attending their departure, there stood Friedrich and Max.

"Mama!" Max looked up from where he had been kneeling fondling Fritz and, rising to his feet, he smiled. Now watched as his young brother, and his mother still slender as a lily, came down the staircase. On the very last step, Edith paused, thus enabling her to do something which, had she come down straightway into the hall, she would not have been able to do. Leaning forward, she kissed Max gently on the top of his head. These days he was all but her equal in height.

"Oh, my darling boy, how I do so wish I was coming with you".

"Dearest Mama, so do I. But someone has to stay behind and ..." With a grin and a broad sweep of his hand, Max indicated the house. "Anyway, you'll have far too much to do looking after Kurt and running Rosenberg to even notice that Papa and I aren't here". Max winked at his little brother. Kurt grinned; tried to wink back but unable to do so, ended up by blinking both his eyes.

Edith stepped off the stair and onto the floor of the hall.

"You think so?" she asked. She had no intention whatsoever of giving way to her emotions in public and the cultured discipline of a lifetime, instilled into her by a succession of governesses, now stood Edith in good stead, as deftly, she contained a rising sob which threatened to overwhelm her carefully crafted defences. Max smiled at his mother before kneeling down on the floor and looking Kurt squarely in the eye.

"Will you miss me?"

Kurt nodded. Letting go of his teddy bear, which fell to the floor to be sniffed at by the ever inquisitive Fritz, Kurt flung his arms tightly about his brother's neck.

Of course Trieste, let alone Palestine, were places of which Kurt, aged but four, had never heard, and even if he had been told of them, he would not have understood what or where they were. So, instead, Max had told his little brother that he was going sailing on a big ship and that where he was going there was a lot of sand. To Kurt, who had seen photographs Mama had taken of the beach in Scarborough - not that he knew what or where that was either - it could only mean one thing.

"Are you going to the seaside?" Kurt asked, having been handed back his teddy bear which he stuffed firmly under his right arm.

Max laughed.

"Well, in a way, yes, I suppose I am".

"Will there be donkeys?" Kurt asked hopefully.

"Donkeys?" Max looked up at his mother for enlightenment; who promptly explained that, in the photograph she had shown Kurt, of the beach at Scarborough, there had been children taking rides on donkeys.

Kurt nodded his head firmly.

"Donkeys," he repeated stoutly.

"Yes, I expect there will be. Would you like me to bring one back for you?" Max grinned.

Fortunately, Kurt was not especially enamoured of the idea.

"Well, perhaps ..." The little boy sounded doubtful.

"Darling, don't make promises you can't keep".

"Wait and see!" Max laughed.

"When does ..." began Edith, taking hold of Kurt's hand.

"... the ship sail? Mama I told you that only yesterday". Max sighed.

"Then, darling, humour me, by telling me again".

"We're sailing from Trieste tomorrow, on board the Conte Biancamano".

"Thank you, my darling".

"My pleasure".

"And Robert is joining you there in Trieste?"

Max nodded.

"Yes, Mama. At the railway station. Oh, I do so wish that there was some news of Danny".

"I know you do".
"Master Max ..." Brigitta, one of the younger housemaids, laid her hand briefly on Max's arm. Seeing her do so, knowing that Max was a favourite with the domestic staff, choosing to ignore the presumption, Edith smiled. While she would readily admit that where Max was concerned she was hardly impartial, as a young boy Max had always been good looking, with a winning smile, he was fast becoming a handsome young man, one who in the normal course of events, would undoubtedly have turned girls' heads. Had things been different ... Edith caught snatches of Brigitta saying something about knowing how Master Max liked to sketch, that the servants had bought him a box of pencils to take with him out to Palestine. Not wishing to appear to be eavesdropping, Edith turned to Friedrich; saw him smile.

"I promised myself I wouldn't cry".

"There now, we'll be back before you know it. A month no more; which will pass in no time. And, I promise, everything will be all right". Friedrich chuckled; nodded his head in the direction of Max who was still chatting to Brigitta. "It looks as though someone else will be missing him too!"

Again Edith smiled, but before she could say anything else, the post boy arrived at the front door of the house. With Friedrich here in the hall, it was he, and not Feist, who took in the morning's post. He leafed through the sheaf of letters.

"And what have we here? Well, I'll be damned! So, you're still convinced, are you, that it was the Duke of Windsor whom you encountered at the Christkindlmarkt?"

"Yes, but why mention that again?"
"Because now you'll be able to confirm your suspicions".

"How so?"

Friedrich handed Edith the envelope he had just opened and what it contained: in copperplate script, an invitation to dinner, extended to the Schönborns, at the Schloss Rothschild.

RSVP


Leeds, Yorkshire, England, February 1937.

Time spent in prison leads to making all kinds of contacts, some surprising, and some useful. It was, after all, how Billy Price had first met Joe Arkwright and Edwin Sugden, each serving a sentence for housebreaking which, in the case of the latter, included a stretch for causing grievous bodily harm to a guard with the London, Midland, and Scottish Railway Company. Finding Sugden travelling without a ticket, the guard had ordered him off at the next station, only to find himself being flung from the moving train.

Originally from the West Riding, Sugden knew of Downton Abbey; considered the place was likely to present rich pickings but, until Billy obtained a position there, he had not given any serious thought of breaking in. However, with someone now on the inside, who knew the layout of the house and the habits of those living there, it made such enterprise a great deal easier to accomplish.

Following his release from prison, Billy kept in touch with Arkwright and Sugden and, on learning that Billy had obtained a position at Downton, the die was cast; the three men meeting up in Whitelocks Ale House in Leeds to decide how best to proceed.


Camaret-sur-Mer, Brittany, Republic of France, February 1937.

In the early morning light, while making their way down to the cluster of fishing boats drawn up on the shore, men of the small Breton port of Camaret-sur-Mer on the often storm wracked, rocky, far west coast of Brittany, were amazed to see, anchored a short distance offshore, a much battered tramp steamer, from which a skiff was putting out. With her funnel and masts thickly caked in salt, the windows of her wheelhouse smashed, and from bow to stern grim evidence, in the form of missing railings and wrecked deck fittings, it was obvious that somewhere out at sea the steamer had run into a storm of considerable ferocity. Clearly audible was the sound of a great deal of banging and hammering; of work in progress, presumably attempting to right some of damage the vessel had sustained. However, unknown to those on shore, none of the repairs now being undertaken could make good the loss of the Pieter's lifeboat.


Not that anyone on the steamer would have known it at the time, but the huge wave which swept away the lifeboat proved to be the final act of the storm. Following this, just as quickly as it had arisen, the storm died away, allowing the tramp steamer to slowly right herself, and for the pumps to begin the long process of ridding the vessel of all the unwanted seawater she had shipped.

As for those on board, it was time to give heartfelt thanks for their deliverance to whatever deity they believed in or, if they did not, then for the undoubted skill and seamanship of the crew. And for those aware of the fact, perhaps also to spare a passing thought for Messrs. Hall, Russell & Company, shipbuilders, of Aberdeen in Scotland which, in 1920, in a yard on the north bank of the River Dee, had built such a strong vessel.


Once ashore, here in the tobacconist's, thanks to some half remembered rags of the French he had learned in school, Danny managed to explain that he wanted to buy a postcard and with it a stamp for Ireland; the price of the card and the postage being loaned him by Pim who had a scattering of francs in his pockets left over from a previous voyage. From the handful of dog-eared cards on sale, because it reminded Danny of home, the one he eventually chose showed, in faded sepia, a man standing beside a cart loaded with vegetables, drawn by a donkey.

Borrowing a pencil from the old woman behind the counter, Danny scrawled a brief message before handing back the card and the pencil. The woman nodded her head, repeating several times, Irlande, oui, Irlande, before setting the card aside with the rest of the day's post, although quite when it would be collected remained to be seen. It all rather depended on whether or not the little train to Carhaix ran.

Sometimes it did.

Then again, sometimes it did not.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, February 1937.

In the chill of the February morning, with their luggage safely stowed, once Matthew and Robert had climbed inside, driven by Chapman, the motor drew away from the imposing bulk of the abbey; Mary and Simon - he, for once, without Oscar - standing at the front door of the great house to see them go. Thereafter, father and son travelled up to London by train where, having stayed overnight at Matthew's club - Arthur's, on St. James's Street - they met up at Victoria with Hugh Cavendish, Matthew's colleague from the League, who was to see Robert safely through France and into Italy, as far as Venice from where Robert would travel on alone the short distance to Trieste, to be met there at the railway station by Friedrich and Max, before all three embarked for Palestine.

With farewells made - Robert treating the whole trip, much as he had Danny's going out to Spain to fight in the civil war, as a grand adventure - Matthew took a cab to Harley Street to see the specialist, a consultant by the name of Trefusis, with whom Earnshaw had made an appointment. Thereafter, Matthew had another rendezvous to keep: with Eccles, back at their club.


8 Rue d'Anjou, 8th Arrondissement, Paris, Republic of France, February 1937.

To be honest, Thomas didn't much care for Maundy Gregory; all the same, there was something undeniably fascinating about the man.

"So, my dear chap, what news have you brought me from England?"

With his baleful, bulging eyes, leaning forward with his hands clasped together, Maundy Gregory looked like a praying mantis scenting its prey. Gazing expectantly at his guest over the gold rims of his pince-nez. Gregory sighed. Had he himself been a younger man, then perhaps there might have been ... But as he wasn't, to matters of a more practical nature.

"Well, it may be of no interest to you whatsoever ..."

"My dear Tommy ..." Gregory made deliberate use of the diminutive form of Thomas's name knowing that it irked the younger man. "As to whether what you bring me is good news from Ghent and so of interest, I will be the judge".

Thomas was nonplussed.

"Good news from Ghent? But I came here from Calais ..."

Gregory sighed; shook his head.

"No matter".

"Then ... in a week or so's time, the earl and countess of Grantham are playing host to the German ambassador".

"Are they indeed? Herr von Ribbentrop. Now, that is interesting news". Gregory nodded his head. He had not forgotten the part the earl of Grantham had played, indirectly, in his recent incarceration in Wormwood Scrubs. The speech that the new earl had given in the Lords, in 1932, expressing his thorough detestation of the practice of selling of peerages which, he said, had brought the House into disrepute, had once provided Gregory with a lucrative income; even if, following the passing of the Honours (Prevention of Abuses) Act 1925 the practice had been made illegal. That speech had been made shortly before Gregory had been arrested for having attempted to sell a knighthood. The intended recipient, who had acted as an agent provocateur for the police and reported the matter to Scotland Yard - was known to the earl of Grantham.

Given what Tommy had let slip, the time had come for Gregory to repay the honourable earl in full measure for the debt Gregory considered owing him. Now, as he thought about it, he knew just how that might be achieved, without what ensued being traced back to himself; Gregory long since having perfected the art of covering his tracks, as in the matter of the dead and, as far as he was concerned, decidedly unlamented Grayson.

While it was many years since, given the extensive cache of information Gregory had amassed on all manner of people, there had, he recalled, been that matter of a Turkish diplomat, found dead in the bed of the countess of Grantham, and which had been hushed up. To resurrect the business, nothing need be spoken of or written overtly because Gregory knew that a traducement merely noised at is far harder to suppress than something shouted from the rooftops, and to this end, he still had contacts in Fleet Street. One of the rags would do for what he had in mind; the News of the World, or else perhaps the News Chronicle which was covering, in some detail, the worsening civil war in Spain - its reports bitterly opposed to Franco and his Fascists - and the ongoing Arab revolt in Palestine.

From what Gregory recalled of Crawley, he was well nigh unassailable; was held in high esteem, had a good reputation, both in the Lords, and in the League of Nations, however tarnished its own had now become. But in the matter of the slut he had married, Crawley was far more vulnerable. An article penned concerning the decadent and effete nobility, hinting at sexual depravity, of lewd improprieties committed by a female member of the British aristocracy, which had led to the death of a foreign diplomat ... This denunciation couched so that the identity of the individual concerned was intelligible to those who moved in such circles, with, given the circumstances of which Gregory was now aware, a copy forwarded, anonymously of course, to the German embassy in London. Knowing von Ribbentrop's reputation for making social gaffes, no doubt he would, in his own inimitable way, make refence to the matter, and at the most inopportune moment.

All the same, Gregory would have to move quickly

"You said a week or so's time. Just when is Ribbentrop's visit to Downton to take place?"


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, February 1937.

Even though it was a journey Sybil did most days, she never forgot the one she made with Tom on the afternoon when news of what had befallen the Pieter reached Dublin: from the hospital, riding on top of the crowded tram down the length of O'Connell Street as far as the Column, crossing the O'Connell Bridge on foot, and walking as far as Westland Row, where at the station billboards and newspaper vendors were already making public, stating as fact, the loss of the ship which had taken a contingent of the Volunteers out to Spain.


The train to Kingstown, as Sybil still thought of it, was slow at the best of times, but that particular afternoon it seemed to take forever, crawling along, stopping first at Lansdowne Road, then Sandymount, Sydney Parade, Merrion, Booterstown, and finally Blackrock. Fortunately, while slow, the service was not very busy, which meant the Bransons had a compartment to themselves and for the most part Tom and Sybil sat in silence, each alone with their thoughts.

At Blackrock, having stepped down from the train, it was as they made their way along the pavement to the house, wondering how on earth they were going to break the dreadful news to the children, that Sybil saw, running towards her, Willy Byrne, one of Bobby's friends.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Branson. Ma told me to bring this round to ya fast, she did. The number on it was all smudged, and the postman put it in our letterbox by mistake, for sure!" announced Willy, brandishing aloft what looked suspiciously like a postcard.

And so it turned out to be.

A faded sepia picture of a man standing beside a cart loaded with vegetables, pulled by a donkey.

Sent all the way from France.

From a little place called Cameret-sur-Mer.


Despite what those on board the Pieter had been through, Danny's hastily pencilled message was laconic to the point of brevity.

Dearest Ma and Da,

All is fine. We have been anchored off this little place some days. We leave today, for where I mustn't say.

Your loving son,

Danny


"Well, from the date, we know they were all still safe and sound on the 15th".

Sybil nodded.

"But he doesn't say why they were anchored there. In fact, he doesn't say much at all".

"I told ya, that tramp was a right rust bucket. The time I sailed to Nova Scotia, we did just the same; hove to for repairs. That's probably all it was. And even if Danny wanted to say more, maybe he was told not to, or else thought better of it".

Sybil nodded.

Yet this did not account either for the lifebelts or smashed wood bearing the name of the Pieter, reported by the collier which had docked earlier this afternoon down on North Wall Quay.


Bay of Biscay, February 1937.

The southerly voyage of the tramp steamer across the wide sweep of the Bay of Biscay took several long days and, while the waters here were choppy, mercifully those on board were spared any repetition of the storm they had encountered off the Isles of Scilly.

Having had Pim explain to the Chief Engineer that he had an interest in all things mechanical, Danny spent much of the voyage down in the engine room where, among a mass of pipework, valves, and dials, midst the pulsating throbbing of the triple expansion steam engine, with a knotted handkerchief on his head, stripped to the waist, and wearing a pair of greasy overalls, Danny helped stoke the furnaces of the two enormous boilers. With his face and bare torso streaked with coal dust and stained with oil, it was doubtful if either of his parents would have recognised in the begrimed stoker the form of their eldest son. And with his stint down in the engine room finally at an end, by way of thanks, Danny was given an introduction to the delights of Dutch beer.


Far to the south, close to the Spanish border, the Pieter put in at St. Jean de Luz. Here she picked up yet further cargo; more food for the beleaguered citizens of Bilbao, in the form of flitches of ham and cartons of eggs, before putting out to sea, in the company of two other merchant vessels, both British and flying the red ensign. With the waters hereabouts being patrolled by Nationalist gunboats, by agreement of the three skippers, the Pieter positioned herself between the two British ships. However, just when they might have thought their troubles were over, a thick mist descended, blanketing the sea, shrouding the Spanish coast, and forcing the three vessels to reduce speed for fear of a collision or else running aground.

On board the Pieter, with one of the crew stationed in the chains, the word was passed for everyone else to keep silent so that the soundings being taken could be heard. Then suddenly, the crewman standing next to Danny began yelling, pointing frantically towards the surface of the sea. What on earth, wondered Danny, was the matter?

The mist swirled.

"Mijn God! Mijnen!" went up the despairing cry.

Leaning over the side of the tramp steamer, Danny saw, bobbing along on the surface of the sea, two large round black objects, wet and glistening, each studded with what looked like a profusion of rusty spikes.

Mines!


The running swell quickly brought the two mines hard alongside the Pieter where up on deck crewmen and Volunteers now sought frantically to stave off the deadly menace with all they had available: half a dozen antiquated boat hooks.

A moment later, there came the most enormous explosion.

Author's Note:

In my stories Robert died at Downton in the summer of 1931 while on a fishing trip with young Danny.

russia - a type of leather - from Russia hence its name - used for the bindings of books in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Messrs. Hall, Russell & Company Ltd. were in business between 1864 and 1992. While the Pieter is fictitious, the company did build two trawlers - the Galerna and the Vendaval, for the Basque company Pesquerias y Secaderos de Bacalao de Espana (PSYBE, Salt Cod Fishermen and Driers of Spain) both of which became caught up in the Spanish Civil War.

Carhaix - Carhaix-Plouguer - a town in Brittany and, at the time of the story, the hub of the Réseau Breton, a narrow gauge railway system, which once served the department of Finisterre.

Arthur's Club - founded in 1811 but having much older origins, and dissolved in 1940. It was a non political club, a particular favourite with country gentlemen, and so would have suited Matthew.

"Good news from Ghent" from How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, a poem by Robert Browning, describing a fictitious madcap night ride on horseback between the two towns of the title. What the good news brought was, no-one knows.

Grayson - Albert Victor Grayson (1881-1920) a brilliant orator and maverick left wing politician, famous for his sensational win of the Colne Valley (Lancashire) by-election in 1907 and for his unsolved disappearance in 1920. It is said he had been blackmailing Maundy Gregory who, fearing Grayson revealing his involvement in the selling of titles and knighthoods, had him murdered.

In 1933, Maundy Gregory served two months in prison for having attempted to sell a knighthood. However, because he pleaded guilty, he did not have to give evidence in court; which no doubt came as a relief to those for whom he had obtained peerages in the past and who feared being exposed.