Chapter Eighteen

Some People Care Too Much

Former Pleasure Gardens, rear of the Rotunda Hospital, Dublin, Irish Free State, late April 1937.

Beyond the bare, black, skeletal branches of the shrouding trees, which, despite it being late April, were only now finally beginning to come into leaf, the constant hustle and bustle that made up the daily life and grind of Dublin continued unabated. Its citizens were, after all, singularly unaware of the private drama unfolding in the quiet and solitude of the once manicured but now sorely decayed pleasure gardens formerly associated with that most striking feature of the buildings of the adjoining hospital and from which it took its name: the Rotunda. And, to be perfectly frank, even if, by some hitherto unimagined means, the denizens of Dublin's fair city had become aware of what was taking place here, there was little any of them could have done, assuming that they had been minded to do anything at all, other than to lend a sympathetic ear.

Built as long ago as 1757, during the course of its long life the large, circular building had seen many uses, first as an elegant set of assembly rooms for the leisured classes of Dublin, before becoming a theatre, and most recently the Ambassador Cinema. In 1913 it had been where the Irish Volunteers, another band of brothers, not to be confused with those who, more recently, had sailed for Spain, among them Danny Branson, had launched their appeal for help "to secure and maintain the rights and liberties common to the whole people of Ireland". And after the failure, three years later, in 1916, of the Easter Rising, the former pleasure gardens of the Rotunda had been used as the site of a large temporary building from which postal services were resumed and run in Dublin following the burning and destruction of the then but newly refurbished GPO down on O'Connell Street which had, at last, been rebuilt in 1929 on the orders of the government of the Free State.


Tom continued to sit quietly beside Sybil. Watched in a hushed silence as she now read and then, as if she could not believe what the words were saying to her, re-read the piece in the newspaper concerning what had taken place in Guernica. As she did so, and unremarked by Sybil, a sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves left over from last autumn whirling along the path in front of the bench on which the two Bransons were seated.

Several times Tom saw Sybil trace the image of darling Danny upon the printed page with her fingers, as if by doing so she, as his mother, could somehow reach out and caress his face as she might so easily have done had he been here seated beside her. Tom felt his heart lurch. Never had he felt so impotent, so powerless to do something that might help ease Sybil's pain. Despite what he had said at the time of Danny's leaving Ireland, it was only now that Tom found himself wishing that he had tried again to dissuade Danny from joining the Volunteers, and then from sailing for Spain. However, what was done was done, and whatever Tom might now wish, he knew in his heart that like as not the end result would have been exactly the same. For gentle as he was, something which Danny had inherited from his mother, not that there was anything soft about him, Danny was also very much his father's son. Like Tom, he hated injustice which, making allowance for a certain degree of naivety on his part, was what had impelled him to join the Volunteers and go out to fight in the civil war in Spain.

What the newspaper article had to relate was truly appalling, but with its haunting photograph of Danny for the Bransons it obviously had a special resonance. At length, Sybil set aside the paper, and sat staring, seemingly at something which had attracted her attention over on the other side of the neglected pleasure gardens. Tom knew her better; knew that she was in fact trying to make some semblance of sense of what had now come to pass. Seeing her do so, Tom once more found his voice.

"There's something else, for sure," he said softly.

"What?" Sybil asked, immediately on the alert, and turning her head to look at him. Her eyes glistened; wet with tears which so far, fortunately, had failed to fall.

"This," Tom said laconically.

It was now Sybil's turn to sit and watch Tom as he rummaged about in his pockets. From one of these he now pulled out a much creased and stained envelope. He heard Sybil's rapid intake of breath which was understandable enough, seeing that the postage stamps affixed to the envelope bore the portrait of Alfonso XIII, the last king of Spain. The portrait of the now exiled king had been over-stamped, prominently and vertically in red ink with the words Republica Española. Sybil saw too that the envelope had been torn open but, and rather more importantly, she had recognised the writing upon it straightaway. Seeing that she had done so, Tom nodded.

"Yes, it's from Danny. It arrived here this morning at The Indy, from the American Embassy over in London. I assume it was forwarded there by Steer by means of the diplomatic bag from Madrid; else I doubt it would ever have reached us. For what it's worth, Danny's doing just fine". Tom saw Sybil raise a quizzical brow.

"Is that a fact? Really?"

"Well ya know what I mean. Here, take it". Sybil did as she had been bidden. Taking the proffered envelope, she pulled out the letter from within, written on paper that was likewise both creased and soiled. While dated - there was, unsurprisingly, no indication from where it had been written.

Dearest Ma and Da,

I am writing this letter in haste as I have no way of knowing when or if I will have the chance to do so again. Mr. Steer has promised to see that it reaches yous. Quite how I'm not sure. Out here it doesn't do to ask too many questions...

... and for all your loathing of the British, Da, save for Uncle Matthew, for sure, it will no doubt come as a surprise for ya to learn that I owe my life to the Royal Navy...

And so, eventually, we arrived off the coast of Spain. More I cannot say. Nor where we are now. Not that it would mean much to me if I did know. As for Jimmy, Liam, and the rest, the truth is...

"Oh, my God!"

Tom saw Sybil shaking her head in evident disbelief. Realised that she must have come to the part of Danny's letter which told of what had become of those who had sailed with him on board the Pieter.

"He says here that..."

Tom nodded.

"I know. Nearly all of them are now dead, including Jimmy McCloughlin. Most were drowned when the Pieter went down off the coast of Spain". While Sybil continued reading Danny's letter, Tom carried on with his commentary.

"From what Danny says, along with Liam and a sailor, a Dutchman named Pim, they were then picked up by the Royal Navy while Jimmy was rescued from the sea by the crew of a Republican gunboat. All four of them were afterwards reunited, presumably in Bilbao; then later Jimmy was killed in fighting somewhere east of the town, not far from Guernica. I must go and see his parents and break the awful news... before they hear of it from anyone else, assuming they haven't already done so".

That the Pieter had been lost and so too nearly all of the young Irishmen who had sailed on her, eager to do their bit for the republican cause, came as no surprise to Sybil. After all, rumours, that the ship had gone down somewhere off the Spanish coast, had reached Dublin several weeks ago but until now there had been no confirmation of her loss or what had become of those on board.

Sybil read Danny's letter to the very end before replacing it in the envelope and thrusting it deep into one of the pockets of her uniform. This done, she shook her head.

"No, we'll both go". Sybil stood up. "I'll have to let the hospital know what's happened. While I do, wait for me outside in the forecourt". Sybil glanced at her watch. "If we then catch the tram down to Westland Row, we should make the 1.30 train out to Blackrock".


Simon's bedroom, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.

Still dressed in his flannel dressing gown and blue and white striped pyjamas, Simon knelt down on the bare boards of the floor of his bedroom so that he was at exactly the same height as little Oscar. After all, to have done otherwise would have been singularly impolite. Simon looked directly at the small teddy bear seated on the chair beside the nightstand.

"So, then, Oscar, what do you make of it all then?"

The little bear's brows puckered and he frowned. Well, as far as Simon was concerned, he had. Oscar now spoke, concisely and to the point, just as he always did.

"Are you asking me for my opinion, old boy?"

"Yes, of course I am".

"About what, precisely?" Oscar asked. Then, as so often it did, his tummy rumbled; embarrassingly so. Oscar growled. "I'm so rumbly in my tumbly."

Simon chuckled.

"I think you need some honey".

Slowly Oscar nodded his head and pointedly rubbed his furry tummy several times with both his front paws.

"Indeed I do".

"So, have you anything to say?"
"About what?"

"You know..."

"If I did, would I have to enquire of you as to what it is you are referring?" Oscar sighed. Whether they were young or old, at times humans could be so very, very trying. Given what he had to endure, Oscar considered himself overdue for a holiday, a long holiday and, with this in mind, made a mental note to write to his good friend Winnie and enquire about going to stay in his charming little house in The Hundred Acre Wood.

"No, I suppose not. Well, before you sit down and..."
"In case it has escaped your notice, I'm already seated".

"What I mean is before you write to Winnie then, would you be a good sport and give me your considered opinion of what happened here last night".
"Oh, you mean that!"
"Yes, that! Something's going on, Oscar. And whatever it is, I'm sorry to have to say this, but it's a great deal more important than your tummy".

Oscar scoffed derisively.

"What could be more important than a little something to eat? What's more, why should my opinion matter? After all, as both your brother and your Irish cousin so acutely observed, and on more than one occasion, I'm just a stuffed bear".

"No you're not. Anyway, Oscar, you're much smarter than you think. And, besides..." Simon's voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "It isn't much good having something exciting happen, if you can't share it with someone!"


Now, to what Simon was referring was that late last night there had been a decided kerfuffle here at the abbey when, under the cover of darkness, a motor had arrived unexpectedly, screeching to a stand on the gravel outside the front door. This in turn was followed by the sound of several pairs of heavy footsteps and gruff, and equally unfamiliar, voices. Roused from his slumbers, bleary eyed, and still half asleep, Simon had wandered out onto the gallery overlooking the Entrance Hall. Looking down from the balustrade, he saw, somewhat surprisingly, his father, as opposed to Barrow, greeting two men at the front door and who, it transpired, were detectives from the West Riding Constabulary.


Downton Abbey, the previous night.

With its Winkworth bell ringing fit to wake the dead, as the police motor swung at speed onto the drive leading up to the great house, the two men inside were still discussing what had occurred. A bad business by all accounts, what had taken place at Lower Hall Farm, made even worse by the fact that the Mason woman, a miserable, curmudgeonly creature by all accounts, was now lying dead in the morgue over in Leeds Infirmary. Miserable or not, she had not deserved to die the way she had. Pity that. At some point she might have been in a position to tell them something of what had happened out there in the back of beyond. Now Mrs. Daisy Mason couldn't tell anybody anything; as a result of which this investigation was now was a murder inquiry.

In fact, come to think of it, during these last couple of months the district hereabouts had become positively deadly, what with two, as yet unsolved disappearances; the young reporter from The Yorkshire Post and then that German hiker, both of whom seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Now this. And there had been that earlier, nasty business of the young lad knocked down in the street. At least there was good news on that front: the boy had been released from the Cottage Hospital and was now well on the way to making a full recovery.

And somehow, so it seemed, the earl of Grantham was mixed up in this latest business.


An officer and a gentleman. A friend of the Chief Constable, so treat him with courtesy and respect, the Superintendent had said. Recalling what he had been told, the police inspector curled his lip. Stuff and bloody nonsense. The old boy network at its best. Still, from what the inspector had heard tell, before he became a Peer of the Realm, the chap had proven himself, in this case under shell fire on the Western Front. So, a fine, upstanding record dating from the Great War. Won on the field of honour so to speak. These kind of people still believed in all that tommyrot. So, whatever the circumstances of this present business, he was unlikely to turn tail and run like a common criminal; would stay and face the music. Of course neither the inspector, nor for that matter his sergeant, had fought in the Great War. Both of them had been too young. The sergeant brought the car to a stop in front of the abbey. And, now that he thought of it, there was something else which the Inspector had been told...


Seconds later both men were out of the car and crunching their way noisily across the gravel towards the front door. As they did so, the sergeant peered up at the ornate facade of the great house and whistled audibly through his front teeth. Christ all bleedin' mighty! How the other half lived, eh! Well, not precisely other half, but those who, in the aftermath of the Depression were still in the enviable position of possessing both money and position. A moment later and they were at the door, where the Inspector now tugged hard at the white enamel bell pull.

"Course, it won't be His Lordship who answers, just some ruddy flunkey!"


The heavy front door duly opened, revealing to the two standing outside their first glimpse of the magnificent interior of the great house.

"Inspector Burgess and Sergeant Hook, West Yorkshire Constabulary, both here to see Lord Grantham. Would you inform him we've arrived," explained Burgess curtly. Then added as an aside to Hook. "See, what did I tell you?"

The fair haired man standing in the doorway nodded affably to each of them in turn.

"Inspector, sergeant, won't you both come in. I am Lord Grantham".

"You're Lord Grantham?" Burgess asked, disbelieving and clearly nonplussed by the unforeseen turn of events. This was not how he expected the nobility to behave but then he had heard that this chap wasn't quite pukka. That he had had inherited both his title and this place through his wife. All Burgess himself had was a semi detached house on North Road in Ripon for which the wife's father had advanced the deposit. It wasn't quite the same. Burgess contented himself with the thought that like most of his kind, this toff was no doubt an inbred with five fingers on each hand and webbed toes on his feet.

"Indeed".

Lord Grantham held out his hand in turn, first to Burgess, and then to Hook, and as the three men shook hands, the inspector noted that of the earl possessed only the customary four fingers. It was now that the inspector remembered the something else; that the Chief Constable had said he was under instructions from above to see that this business out at Lower Hall Farm was dealt with quickly and discretely. That the stakes were too high for what had occurred to become common knowledge which was why, presumably, the story was being spread that the perpetrator was an escaped lunatic with people on farms, in hamlets, and in villages, including Downton, now dreading nightfall and locking their doors.


Up above the Entrance Hall, in the gallery, Simon heard his father confirm his identity and, having shaken hands and closed the front door, asking that the two officers follow him through into the Library. As the three men made their way across the hall, there was a slight movement in the shadows directly below where Simon was standing. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Simon saw that it was none other than Barrow standing silently, all but motionless, in the darkness. The same sound which had alerted Simon to the presence of the butler now also attracted the attention of Simon's father. Catching sight of Barrow, Matthew's tone was decidedly peremptory.

"I thought I told you that I would attend to these two gentlemen alone?" Simon's father was not known for losing his temper but, from his tone, it was clear that he was on the point of doing so now. To find Barrow lurking in the shadows when he had been dismissed had clearly irked Simon's father in the extreme.

"I thought Your Lordship might want coffee for..."

"Barrow, I am not in the habit of repeating myself. Did I not say that would be all for the present? Should in due course either I or my guests require refreshment, then I will ring for the same". Matthew's tone was curt and brooked no further discussion. Given what had had happened, Matthew was not in the best of moods. This apart he was certain that somehow Barrow had played a part in Armitage's escape from the farm. But, being the lawyer that he was, Matthew knew also that certainty did not equate to proof.

"Yes, my Lord. Perfectly clear".

Even at this distance Simon could sense the butler's displeasure. From his high vantage point, he saw Barrow turn sharply on his heels and walk towards the green baize door which separated the hall from the stairs leading to the offices below. As he did so, something akin to a low growl came from Oscar, the sound causing Barrow to glance up in the direction from whence the sound had come and Simon to draw back into the shadows, hoping fervently that his own presence had gone unobserved.


Simon's bedroom the following morning.

"Haven't you really any idea, old chap?" Simon asked, stroking the little bear's furry head.

Answer came there none.

Of course, Simon would be the first to admit that in these sort of situations Oscar could always be relied upon to be the soul of discretion. After all, he was the most dependable of bears, who kept his own counsel and Oscar did so now, sitting silent, saying nothing, and continuing instead to look at the bedroom window where something outside seemed to have piqued his interest.

"Well, you're a fat lot of help, I must say!" Simon exclaimed. However, it seemed that either the little bear hadn't heard his young master or considered he had nothing further useful to contribute to the matter presently under discussion. On balance, Simon thought it to be the latter.

"I don't know what's going on, Oscar, but something's definitely up!"

The little bear sat silent, inscrutable and immutable, upon his chair.

"So as I don't know what's going on, and you clearly don't know what's happening or, if you do, you're not prepared to tell me, I'll jolly well have to ask someone else!"


Simon rose to his feet.

Having slipped off his dressing gown, he unbuttoned the jacket of his pyjamas and pulled it over his head, walked over to the wash basin and half filled it with piping hot water. Although he was now sixteen, having inherited his father's colouring, Simon had only recently found it necessary to begin shaving each day. Having lathered his face with shaving cream, he reached for his safety razor which, like his shaving brush had been a present from his father on his last birthday, purchased by Matthew from Messrs Truefitt and Hill on Old Bond Street up in town.

Having finished shaving and then washed and dried his face, Simon padded over to the wardrobe, untied his pyjama trousers, and let them fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them and stood looking at his naked body in the full length mirror set into the door of the wardrobe. Unlike Rob and Danny, and even his younger cousin Bobby, Simon was not as knowing about matters concerning the vexed question of sex. Yet, while this was undoubtedly so, Simon had found himself decidedly uninterested in some of the things which Rob had told him he had heard or learned from Danny. This being so, Simon wondered if there was something wrong with him.

He looked down at his manhood; saw it respond and stiffen.

No, everything there seemed to be in perfect working order, just as it had been last night. So, why did he feel the way he did?


Schlossplatz, Darmstadt, Hesse, Weimar Republic, summer 1927.

Suddenly, sensing that Max was no longer following close behind them, Edith spun round and saw that her instinct had been right. He had stopped by the fountain in the middle of the square to drag his hands in the water. A moment later, hearing her call his name, he looked up and, seeing his mother, he gaily waved his hand before, with a young boy's unconcern, trotting towards his parents across the square. Seeing Max do so, Edith held her breath. This was so often the way of it; a simple reaction, one that for any healthy boy would cause no problems. But for Max, happily skipping across the uneven surface of the square could so easily spell disaster. Oblivious to anything other than catching up with his parents, Max continued running forward, his booted feet clattering noisily on the cobbles. Then, realising he had left his little cap lying on the lip of the basin of the fountain he turned round, intending to go back and retrieve it...


The motor came as if from out of nowhere.

Indeed, the first that either Friedrich or Edith knew of its arrival upon the square was the thunderous rumble of its wheels, then sound of shouts of alarm, the continuous blaring of a horn, a sickening screech, and then a tremendous bang as the front of the lorry collided with the stonework of the fountain.

"Max!"

Edith saw that two young men, both of them in military uniform, had pulled Max out of harm's way away but a split second before the fountain was struck by the runaway lorry. Had they not done so, Max would undoubtedly have been killed.

The image Edith had conjured in her mind dissolved, faded away, and was gone.

M. Alphonse nodded.

"Yes, yes, I see. And then what happened?" Even though he had not spoken, Edith heard both his confirmation of having seen what she herself had recalled and then his softly posed question.

"I..."

Once more the veil parted.


Edith saw the two young men - she judged both of them to be in their early twenties - shepherding Max slowly across the square. A moment later the three of them were standing beside her and Friedrich where the Schönborns were profuse in their thanks for what the two had done. Although no formal introductions were made, it transpired that the young men, brothers by the look of them, were named Don and Lu who, having made their farewells, set off back from whence they had come. But exactly who they were, Edith never found out.

Nothing made any sense but, with a certainty that was chilling, Edith knew that what she had glimpsed in the doomed 'plane was somehow connected to the incident that had occurred all those years ago in Darmstadt.

"Entirely possible".

Edith would concede that anything was indeed possible. After all, who would have thought that, some sixteen years after the last tsar and his whole family had been slaughtered by the Bolsheviks during the Russian Civil War, that a woman now living in Germany would be being accepted and feted by some as Grand Duchess Anastasia, the youngest of the murdered tsar's four daughters.

But where did this leave Edith?

For the face of the elder of the two young men as an older man was one of those she had glimpsed on board the ill-fated aeroplane.


Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.

Later that same morning, with Rebecca and Emily taking breakfast upstairs in the nursery with Nanny Bridges as was customary, and with Robert still away out in Palestine along with Uncle Friedrich and Max, when Simon came down to the Dining Room, it was to find only his father and mother seated at opposite ends of the long mahogany table. These days, rather than having Barrow hovering in attendance, they served themselves; something for which Simon was very thankful indeed. He didn't much like the saturnine, supercilious, dark haired butler. Neither for that matter did Robert; especially after that incident of the photographs which Robert had purchased from a dingy wooden booth just off of the sea front in Scarborough. The faded sepia pictures showed a series of scantily clad demoiselles of the demi-monde, which Robert had intended showing Danny when next the Bransons came to stay at Downton.

Several days later and those self same photographs somehow mysteriously found their way down onto the table in the hall, where they had been discovered by Mama, squirreled away amongst the morning post. That had led to both the Crawley boys receiving a severe dressing down from their mother, even though Robert had protested that it was all his fault and that Simon had had nothing to do with the purchase of the photographs. Papa, as was his way, had been rather more forgiving and Mama had said something about Papa being middle class and that the boys should be sent away to school which Simon found very worrying. In all of this, the strange thing was that upon their return to Downton Robert had hidden the photographs at the back of the drawer containing his underclothes. Quite how they had then ended up down on the post table in the hall neither of the boys could begin to imagine but both Robert and Simon believed the butler to have somehow been responsible for what had happened.

And speaking, metaphorically, of Barrow, Simon knew too that his parents only tolerated the awful man because he was undoubtedly good at his job. After all, these days with less and less people willing to go into service, finding a new butler would not be at all easy; even when the position was at Downton Abbey.


This morning, hidden away behind his copy of The Times, Papa seemed more preoccupied than ever while Mama, who long ago had eschewed taking breakfast in her bedroom, was looking at a magazine. Of the two of them, Papa was far more approachable but with him seemingly disinclined to talk, Simon knew better than to ply his beautiful mother with questions. So, he confined himself to making the usual pleasantries that one does at the breakfast table. Nor had he brought Oscar with him as Simon was well aware that, at least for Mama, the constant presence of the little bear was akin to the effect a red rag was said to have on a bull.

"Good morning, Father. Good morning Mama".

"Good morning my boy," replied the front page of the newspaper.
"Good morning, Simon. Have you written to Robert yet?"
Simon shook his head. He over reached for the coffee pot.

"Not yet, Mama. No".

"Why ever not? The girls have. In case you've forgotten, he's returning home in a couple of weeks so, may I suggest that you do so today, without fail. Have the letter ready by midday, place it on the table in the hall, and it can go off with the afternoon post".

"Yes, Mama".

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about writing to your brother".

"There isn't much to tell. Round here nothing ever happens".

From behind his newspaper, Simon heard his father clear his throat.


In the warm glow of the mid morning spring sunshine, with his hands thrust deep inside the pockets of his trousers, something which, should she see have seen it, would have annoyed his mother greatly, Simon stood gazing up at the ornate front of the abbey which had so impressed the police sergeant the night before. Not that this morning there was any fear of Mama catching him with his hands in his pockets as, scarce an hour since, she had taken the train to York.

Simon was undeniably envious of Robert who in this business of Palestine seemed to have the Devil's own luck. First to have been asked by Uncle Friedrich to go out to Palestine along with their cousin Max. This Simon could understand. After all, Danny, Robert, and Max were undeniably a triumvirate. And while, when the Bransons came to stay, Simon rubbed along well enough with his cousin Bobby, they had never been as close as were their elder brothers and their cousin Max. There was no especial reason; it was just the way things were. All the same, one day, barring the unthinkable, all of this, the great house and the estate, would devolve to Robert, and in this particular, Simon was not one whit envious.


As he often did on baking day, Simon went down into the servants' quarters, to see if he could scrounge a bite to eat. Mrs. White usually took pity on him. Here, below stairs, as he made his way towards the kitchen, in one of the several passages, many of which these days, and the rooms to which they gave access, long since disused, he bumped into John - Johnny Ellis - talking with William - Billy Price - in hushed tones.

Billy and Johnny eyed Oscar held in the crook of the boy's arm but neither said anything; after all, it was more than their jobs were worth to pass comment on the singular incongruity of a boy, aged all but sixteen, carrying a teddy bear.

Both of them had heard the rumours, that young Master Simon was not quite right in the head. That, in the butler's own words, he was "a right little nancy boy" which, coming from Mr. Barrow, whose sexual proclivities were well known among the domestic staff, even if they were never voiced out loud, was decidedly a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

"Master Simon".

The two young men acknowledged the boy's presence; nodded affably, before standing to one side to let him pass. Whatever the butler might say, Simon was known to be both good natured and kind hearted, and was a firm favourite with all the domestic staff who, by and large, treated his attachment to Oscar Bear with gentle amusement.

"And how is Master Oscar Bear this bright morning?" Johnny asked with a grin.

Simon smiled and Oscar waved a paw.

"He's doing just fine, thank you. Do... do either of you know what's happening?"

Apparently they did.

Or, rather like Simon, they knew something was going on, as Billy now explained; for when young Sam Bulstrode had ridden up to the house on his bicycle bringing the morning's newspapers he had been full of what was happening down in the village and out in the countryside hereabouts. There were police everywhere, including down at the station where their presence had given rise to the story that a lunatic had escaped from an asylum, and that a dismembered body had been discovered in a trunk in the Porters' Room, just as there had been several years ago in the Left Luggage Offices at both Brighton and at King's Cross.

"Golly!"

Simon swallowed hard. After all, it was only a few hours ago that Chapman had driven Mama down to the railway station to catch the mid morning train into Ripon.


"What's all this? Nothing to do?"

As if from nowhere, in a trice, and silent as a cat, Barrow had appeared from out of the shadows. He had in fact been just around the corner, listening to the conversation between Billy and Johnny and now Simon. Listening on the telephone, at keyholes, and so forth, was second nature for Thomas. It was, in part, how he kept himself so well informed, and he had a particular interest in the present conversation since indirectly it concerned that bloody bastard Armitage. Thomas winced and rubbed his jaw. Although the bruises had now more or less disappeared from his face, from time to time, his lower jaw still pained him. If ever the part he had played in warning Armitage of the impending raid on the farm became known, let alone his involvement with Maundy Gregory...

"No, Mr. Barrow. We was just..."

The butler nodded.

"Yes, of course you were". Barrow was condescending. He nodded. "Now, if I were you, assuming that you know what's good for you, I'd be about my duties pretty damned quick. Unless, of course, you want to find other employment... without characters. If so, the door's just down there, at the end of the passage".

Billy and Johnny shook their heads.

"No, Mr. Barrow".

"I thought as much. Right, be off with you, and be damned quick about it!"

The two young men skiddadled down the passage, leaving Simon alone with Barrow.


"I'm.. sorry, it was... my fault, Mr. Barrow. I asked... Johnny and Billy... if they knew what's been going on..."

"John and William," Barrow corrected peremptorily. He had little time for the children of the house but reserved a special loathing for Simon Crawley, disliking intensely the boy's easy familiarity with the staff; one of the many things about the boy which annoyed him. Quite why he should dislike him so much, Barrow couldn't say. Save for the fact that Master Simon reminded Thomas of himself at the same age the boy was now. And there was something else too. On more than one occasion, Barrow had woken from a pleasant dream, the details of which were always hazy, but which somehow involved this boy.

"Why on earth should they? In future, Master Simon, I would ask you, please, not to hinder the staff in the performance of their daily duties. Not that I would expect you to understand but the running of a great house such as Downton is a difficult task especially these days, when I have to make do with a very much reduced staff. Of course, in your late grandfather's time, there were sufficient servants employed here at Downton to enable it to be run as it should be. But then, your grandfather was Old School. A proper member of the aristocracy he was". Barrow gave a supercilious smile. "Not some ersatz, johnny-come-lately".

Simon recognised the last remark for what it was; a couched, thinly veiled insult levelled at his own father. All the same he tried to be conciliatory for in some things he was very much his father's son.

"Perhaps if you made my father aware of just how you feel..."

"How I feel?" Barrow mimicked. "And just what do you think His Lordship would do about it if I did, eh?" Somehow, the butler managed to make the spoken title sound like an insult.

"I don't know..."

"No, of course you don't". Barrow was at his most sarcastic. "Now, let me give you some advice". His voice sank to little more than a sibilant, menacing hiss.

"Which... which is what?" Simon asked haltingly.

A moment later Barrow shoved Simon forcefully back against the wall of the passage where he held him with the full weight of his body pressed against the boy, the palms of his hands hard against the wall so that, short of ducking down beneath the man's arms, Simon was trapped and powerless to move. Despite the dimness of the passage, their two faces were now so close that Simon could see the sweat beading the butler's upper lip. And there was something else there too in the older man's eyes, something base and primitive, like an animal scenting its prey.

"Let go of me!"

Barrow laughed softly; then did something completely unexpected. He gently stroked Simon's cheek with the back of his good hand.

"A bit of spirit! I'll let go of you, but not until you've heard what I have to say. If you're going to go sneaking about the place, listening in on conversations which don't concern you, just like you did last night up there in the hall, you'd better make damned sure that bloody bear of yours doesn't give you away. Understood?" Barrow released his hold; jabbed Oscar hard in his tummy The little bear growled his protest, the same sound emanating from within him as last night. "Well I never! See what I mean?"

Surprisingly, Simon stood up for himself.

"I think... you're... you're forgetting just who I am".

"Really? Well, I know exactly who you are Master Simon and what you are".

"I don't know what you mean. If either of my parents heard you speaking to me like this..."

"Your precious Papa and your Mama, eh? Well, they haven't. And they won't. Not unless, of course, you're a bloody little snitch, as well as being a..."

"Being a what? I'm no snitch".

"We'll see about that. Mind you, if you're stupid enough to go bleating about our little chat, I'd deny it ever took place. Now, unlike you, I've things to do".

Leaving Simon alone in the passage, Barrow returned whence he had come and shut himself away in the Butler's Pantry. Here, where he would not be disturbed, he poured himself out a generous tot of whiskey, and sat staring into space.


While Barrow disliked Simon Crawley, it was that and no more. This said, Thomas reserved an almost visceral hatred for the boy's father whom he detested with an unbridled passion, one which, to be frank, bordered on the irrational.

This was not only on account of the new earl having upset what here at Downton Barrow saw as the settled order of things, but also because of the numerous changes Matthew had wrought, not least in the reduction in the domestic staff which Thomas Barrow considered to be a personal affront; both to himself and to the dignity and standing of the butler of Downton. In this it has to be said that Matthew was himself in part to blame. For while the neophyte earl of Grantham always preferred consensus to confrontation, as he had shown in his dealings with the tenant farmers, who were equally resistant to change, he had not sought Barrow's views on the reduction in the domestic staff; although, from the other butlers with whom he came into contact, Barrow must have been only too well aware that the days of running great houses such as Downton, as they had been run before the Great War, was no longer possible.

Not that any of the house servants had lost their employment. Far from it. Matthew was not that hard hearted; mindful, as he was, of just how hard times had become for so many people during the Depression.

Instead, after he took over the reins at Downton, when an individual retired from service, or else found a new position, he or she was not replaced as had once been the order of the day; Matthew requiring Barrow to make out a case for the employment of any new member of the domestic staff. To be fair, he had done the same regarding the outside staff - the gardeners, gamekeepers, grooms and so forth who of course did not answer to Barrow but to Wainwright, the Estate Steward, or Manager as Matthew preferred to call him, having told Mary that the appellation of Steward sounded like something out of the Middle Ages. That a more modern approach needed to be taken to running the estate, it being Edward VIII who now sat on the throne and not Edward IV. However, it has to be said that with Matthew's hands on approach in all things, poor old Wainwright often found himself at something of a loose end.

To Matthew, all this made eminent and perfect sense as, apart from the cost saved in wages, with much of the great house now shut up, an army of servants was no longer required. Partly with this in mind, he had called in a firm of plumbers from Ripon to overhaul the antiquated cast iron radiators which heated, badly, part of the abbey. To be perfectly frank, from their installation the radiators had never worked properly and nor had they been maintained. All this apart, Danny's boyish, enquiring experimentation with the abbey's ancient pipework in the summer of 1928, by turning a large brass stop cock he happened to find down in the cellars and then waiting to see what happened, had only contributed to the woes of Downton's antiquated plumbing system. In fact, nothing did happen, at least for a while, and by the time it did, Danny had forgotten all about the stop cock and along with Robert had gone outside to play. The result was only all too predictable: with water pouring unchecked into upstairs basins and baths, then overflowing, before bringing down a large part of the ceiling of the Morning Room. Not that anyone ever found out that Danny had been to blame for the ensuing flood which had been of well nigh Biblical proportions.

At length, with the existing radiators duly overhauled, and others newly installed, Matthew had the same firm of plumbers pipe hot water up to those bedrooms which were still used and presently did not have this facility, including those occupied by those servants still resident up at the abbey. At a stroke, this did away with necessity for the lighting of fires in all the bedrooms, thus reducing the coal bill, as well as reducing the chance of a chimney fire or something far, far worse. And piped hot water to the bedrooms also put an end to the need for large jugs of hot water to be carried upstairs on a daily basis.

The advent of modern, labour saving devices such as the installation of a new AGA cooker down in the kitchen, replacing Mrs. White's range which had been installed in the aftermath of Danny's experimentation with the stop cock - Mrs. Patmore's replacement was delighted with it - and a new boiler, contributed to there no longer being any need for a phalanx of servants, liveried or otherwise. So too did the arrival of vacuum cleaners, kettles, toasters, and so forth; although, while Matthew authorised the expenditure on all such items, he left their purchase to the butler and to Miss Fanshaw the capable successor to the redoubtable, if now decidedly dotty, Mrs. Hughes.

This was something else which rankled with Thomas. By long established custom, whether or not she was married - which invariably she was not - the housekeeper in an establishment such as Downton was always accorded the title of Mrs. even if it was brevet rank. Here again Matthew broke with tradition insisting that Miss Fanshaw be given the form of address which reflected her marital status.

As to whether old Mrs. Patmore would have accepted the loss of her own dearly loved kitchen range - its replacement remained in situ - with such equanimity was open to question. However, given that, shortly after her own retirement, she had sadly died - of food poisoning - meant that she was in no position to comment.


Barrow's disdain extended to both Lady Mary and Lady Edith; found both of them condescending and patronising and his contempt encompassed their offspring even though he had never met Lady Edith's two boys. However, at the end of the year, all that was set to change when Lady Edith and her Hun, along with their two brats, were expected at Downton for Christmas. A pleasure which Thomas could damned well do without, given the extra work their visit would entail.

Only for Lady Sybil did Thomas have any fondness and she had chosen to run off with that bloody Irish tinker and in quick succession have his fucking kids. Christ! There were four of the Catholic bastards now. Mind you, if the Nationalists were victorious in the civil war in Spain, the end of which was now surely in sight, then with any luck there might be one less of Branson's Irish bastards.


Excavation site, Samaria, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.

"There," Harriet said, having finished bandaging Robert's injured hand. "That should do. You were lucky. A glancing blow, no more. But that kind of scorpion rarely stings". She nodded towards where, by the light of a hurricane lantern, Tibor was showing Friedrich the insect which he had found in the boys' tent and then trapped in a jam jar. "So, while your thumb will be painful for a while, much like a bee sting, that will pass". Not known for her maternal instinct, Harriet smiled; stroked Robert's cheek and swept his tousled hair back from off his forehead with her fingers; something his mother had never done, not even when he was a little boy and had been ill. "Here, take these". Harriet handed Robert some aspirin and a glass of water.

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble".

"Don't be. You're the one that has the trouble. Now, try and go to sleep".


After the others had gone and they were alone, Max seated himself beside Robert and forced a smile.

"How do you feel?" he asked, clearly concerned.

Robert ghosted a smile.

"Kind of you to ask, old chap. As it happens, bloody awful. It throbs like hell".

"Can I get you anything?" Max asked.

Robert shook his head.

"No, I'm going try and do as Harriet suggested and get some kip".


"What was that?" Tibor asked. "I thought I heard..." A moment later and he felt the muzzle of a revolver jabbed hard against his spine. Saw the shadowy forms of several Arabs flitting throughout the camp.

If Friedrich and the others thought that, having beaten off the attack on the road, their problems were over, then they were about to find out that they were not.


Railway Station, York, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.

Having hurriedly made her way across the footbridge and down onto the far platform, glancing at her wristwatch - it had been a present from Matthew following Emily's birth - and seeing that it was now just after two thirty without further ado Mary boarded the London express. Catching sight of some other passengers who were doing the same, she found herself wondering how it was that such people had the means to travel. Taking in her elegant attire, the young porter who held open the door for her of the Third Class carriage looked at her decidedly askance.

"'Ere, lady, ain't you wantin' First Class?" The porter touched the brim of his cap respectfully.

Mary shook her head.

"No, thank you. I'm looking for someone". The porter nodded, waited beside the carriage until Mary had climbed aboard, and then firmly closed the door behind her.

A few moments later a whistle blew and then the express was in motion, gliding swiftly out of the station, bound for London, scheduled to stop only at Grantham, and due to arrive at King's Cross in just under four hours.


It was a long train, and there were many passengers on board, but Mary was methodical in her approach. Starting from the rear of the train, she began working her way slowly forward along the swaying corridors of the coaches, glancing cautiously into each compartment as she went, just long enough to take in the identities of those seated within. In one, on seeing her, a small boy promptly stuck out his tongue. Two could play that game and Mary responded in kind. The little boy giggled.

Eventually, when she had almost given up hope, seated in a Third Class compartment, she came upon the man whom she had been seeking.


Bath Place, Blackrock, Irish Free State, April 1937.

Much like the Bransons' own home on Idrone Terrace, the modest house belonging to the McCloughlins here on Bath Place possessed a wonderful view out across the often storm wracked waters of Dublin Bay. Standing on the pavement outside the house - it lay but a short stroll along the seafront from Idrone Terrace - Tom and Sybil looked at one another before, reaching forward, Tom snicked up the latch and opened the gate. Having let Sybil pass through, closing the gate firmly behind him, Tom fell in behind and followed her up to the house; the path being too narrow for the both of them to walk abreast. As they reached the house, Tom saw Roisin, Jimmy's twelve year old sister, standing in the bay window. Seeing the Bransons, Roisin raised her hand and waved a friendly greeting before calling to someone out of sight of Tom and Sybil that the Bransons had come calling.

Scarce a moment later, Tom and Sybil reached the front door, whereupon Sybil raised her gloved hand and made to grasp the knocker. However, before she had even touched it, the front door now swung open, and there, framed in the doorway, stood Jimmy's parents: Seamus and Clodagh. Sybil lowered her hand, forced a weak smile, but afore either Tom or she had said a word, Clodagh spoke.

"It's Jimmy, isn't it?" she asked softly.

Author's Note:

The Ambassador was Dublin's longest running cinema, opening its doors as such in 1910 before finally closing in 1999. The building is now used to host a variety of events such as exhibitions and concerts.

Alfonso XIII, king of Spain from his birth in 1886, his father having died the previous year, until 1931 when, with the municipal elections being won by the Republicans, he and his family went voluntarily into exile, eventually, settling in Rome. Alfonso died there in February 1941.

Those of you who have read the Winnie-the-Pooh stories will realise, the "chat" between Simon and Oscar includes several of Winnie's more famous utterances.

Winkworth bell - the type of warning bell fitted to British police cars and ambulances from the 1930s until the end of the 1950s.

The phrase an officer and a gentleman long predates the 1983 film, and is attributed to the British author, Rudyard Kipling.

Pukka - a Hindi word used to describe something that is genuine.

The Brighton trunk murders had taken place in 1934. While unconnected, each murder involved the placing of a woman's body in a trunk. In the first, the body was dismembered, with parts being found in the Left Luggage Offices at Brighton and King's Cross railway stations. Neither the victim, nor the murderer, were ever identified.

Edward IV - king of England 1461-83 and father of the two boys known to history as "The Princes in the Tower".

In the television series, Violet's reluctance to have electricity installed in the Dower House may have made viewers laugh. However, despite Matthew's modernising zeal, at this time, the electricity supply throughout the country was unreliable - save for powering domestic lighting, and with fuses and insulation in their infancy, led to deaths caused by electrocution, as well as many house fires. The advent of electric cookers, refrigerators, washing machines, and the like would not become widespread until the 1950s. It also needs to be recognised that great houses such as Downton required an enormous number of servants to enable them to function. In the television series only a fraction of these were ever depicted, with no attempt being made to portray the outside staff, tenant farmers, and so forth.

For more on Danny's experimentation with the abbey's ancient heating system, see Chapter 11 of my story Reunion.

The woman in Germany claiming to be Grand Duchess Anastasia, to whom Edith refers, was Anna Anderson. She had begun legal proceedings to obtain recognition that she was the Grand Duchess in the United States in 1928, although most of the long running legal case would take place in Germany and, after WWII, in the new state of West Germany. The decision of the court at Karlsruhe in 1970 did not refute her claim but ruled she had not established her identity. DNA evidence has since been adduced to confirm Anna Anderson was not Anastasia, but the reliability of this has been questioned. As Anderson herself said, she would go down in history as the eternal question mark and so it has proved.

Most of Bath Place, Blackrock, where in the story the McCloughlins have their home, situated beyond Idrone Terrace and towards the railway station, has long since been redeveloped.