Chapter Twenty Four

A Shockingly Bad Correspondent

Smoking yet another cigarette, Captain Miles Stathum sat alone in the rear seat of the bullet scarred Crossley staff car watching disinterestedly, as in a cloud of choking fumes, the two lumbering army lorries finally turned into the entrance gate leading to the Richmond Barracks. It was here where the interrogation of the four prisoners from this evening's little ruckus would begin later tonight. Then, assuming of course they survived that particular experience, thereafter they would all be moved to Kilmainham Gaol to await trial.

As the second of the two heavily laden military lorries trundled noisily over the granite setts and disappeared through the imposing stone archway leading into the barracks, Miles tapped his driver smartly on the shoulder, indicating that he was now ready to be under way, telling the private to make the best possible speed he could, as Miles was impatient to be back at the castle soon as possible. That, thought Miles, should present no problem, as at this late hour, the streets were likely to be all but deserted. The private nodded his assent, got out of the car, and began furiously to crank the engine.

With Cooke now in the tender care of the Royal Army Medical Corps, his place as Miles's'driver had been taken by a private from one of the three platoons who had been in the lorries when they had been ambushed earlier that evening. As a driver he was competent enough, but still not a patch on Cooke. But no matter, as long as the lad drove safely and got them both back to the castle in one piece. As if to confirm Miles's blunt assessment of Cooke's temporary replacement, with the engine now turning over nicely, and the private back in the driver's seat, Miles heard the gears of the Crossley crunch sickeningly. He winced inwardly; Mr. Branson would not be pleased.

Moments later, and the heavy motor gathered speed, heading back through the lamp-lit streets of the now slumbering city, passing Kingsbridge station, thence along the quays lining the south bank of the Liffey river, and so on to Dublin Castle, centre of the British administration here in Ireland.

Apart from drafting out, correcting, and then finally submitting his report on the failed ambush out at Howth, all of which could wait until later tomorrow; Miles now had a private letter to write; one that had at all costs to be ready so as to catch the first mail boat leaving Kingstown Harbour the following morning.

As the Crossley purred through the silent streets, Miles continued to reflect on all that happened that evening. The attack on the army convoy had been foolish, had led to needless casualties - on both sides, as had been pointed out to him somewhat forcefully by none other than Lady Sybil Crawley herself.

It was odd. Damned odd. Indeed, singularly so.

There really was no other way of describing it.

His encounter with Lady Sybil Crawley ...

The young boy.

Yes, it had been an awful business. Damned ... He apologized for his use of language, saw her smile. Don't apologise she had said. Not on her account. He'd laughed. Then he had become serious again. The young boy … she shouldn't have to have seen that. No, quite right. No-one should. Was she recovered? Glad to hear it. The Volunteers … Fighting for their country she had said. But surely she didn't sympathise with them? After all, what had happened here tonight, it had all been their fault. But they had sustained casualties too she had said. Did they not have a right to medical attention? Not if his men had anything to do with it thought Miles. But he then had merely nodded his head, said that of course they did. He would ensure that they were properly attended to in that regard before they were questioned. He thanked her profusely for what she had done for the wounded … of both sides. He saw her glance over to the farmyard where the boy's parents were kneeling by their young son's body, wracked with grief, a black clad priest kneeling beside them in the dirt and the dung on the straw strewn farmyard.

Yes, Lady Sybil recognised him. Of course she did. Remembered too, that when he'd had the great privilege of meeting her for the first time, it had been at the London home of her aunt, Lady Painswick. How was she by the way? Fine. Glad to hear that. Yes! That was right. Miles laughed. He had indeed been making … or rather attempting to make … conversation with her eldest sister and … getting precisely nowhere!

He'd then proceeded to ask all the appropriate, quite proper, questions, that good manners dictated. How were her two sisters, Lady Mary? Lady Mary was engaged to be married? Really? Sir Richard Carlisle. In newspapers? How interesting. Not that Miles himself had much time for the press. Just look at how certain newspapers over here - the Independent for one - reported some of what was going on in Ireland. Didn't Mr. Branson agree? Mr. Branson demurred, said that the truth was rather like God, not always on the side of the British. Even he'd had to smile at that. Well, even if Miles disagreed most vehemently with what the young Irishman had just said, he was too well mannered to say so. He did not want to spoil this most delightful and most unexpected of reunions.

Then Miles found himself having to apologise profusely ... for not being able to remember the Christian name of Lady Sybil's other sister. In fact, if the truth were told, Miles couldn't even remember what she looked like. Definitely not as imperious as Lady Mary; certainly not as beautiful as Lady Sybil. Mousy little creature, somewhat insipid - not that Miles said so. Edith. Ah, yes, of course. Lady Edith. How was Lady Edith? He remembered her name now, but only after Lady Sybil had reminded him of it; not that he still had the foggiest as to what she looked like. Unmarried. No-one special then? Hardly surprising that - although of course Miles didn't say so.

Her parents? Lord Grantham? Very pleased to hear that her father was so well, but awfully sad to learn that her mother had been dangerously ill. Tragic that … about Captain Crawley's fiancée. One of his own cousins, he'd been no more than twenty as well, had also died of the 'flu.

Very pleased to hear that Lady Grantham was now well recovered. Recovering then, Miles hastily corrected himself - when Lady Sybil herself had explained that her mother was still recovering, was therefore unable to travel; would not be able to attend her forthcoming wedding here in Dublin. But her father … He wouldn't be attending either? Miles hoped he hadn't sounded too surprised by that particular revelation. Estate business. Oh, really.

But, even so, that was singularly odd. Not that Miles said so of course. But, the youngest daughter of a prominent peer of the realm marrying, and her own father not attending the wedding. Perhaps he didn't approve of …. Mind you, the young Irishman seemed personable enough. It was odd, but now he came to think of it, Mr. Branson looked familiar. But if they had met before, Miles couldn't for the life of him presently recall where it had been, or under what particular circumstances. And yet …

Lady Sybil's grandmother, the Dowager Countess, was well enough too, thank you, although beginning to feel her age. A particular friend of Miles's great aunt - Lady Maud Ferrers. Oh, Lady Sybil had not known of that. She sounded somewhat put out by the seemingly small disclosure. Not that Miles could see why. As far as he was aware, the two old ladies didn't correspond that often. Although, come to think of it he himself really ought to write to his great aunt. He was such a shockingly bad correspondent.

So, where was it that Lady Sybil and her fiancé had met? Miles naturally assumed it was over here in Ireland. But no, not in Ireland. In England then. Oh, in Yorkshire. Really? Well, well, well. And at the end of the war? No, before that. But was that where Mr. Branson had seen service then, in Yorkshire? The Irishman had smiled at that; merely nodded his assent.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. In Yorkshire". He'd smiled again - the same lop-sided grin as before, but thereafter had volunteered no further information about his war record.

Well, Miles knew perfectly well that some of the men, both those already serving and those who'd joined up, only then to find themselves seeing out the war serving in England, guarding the home front, when so many others had been posted overseas, to France, to the Middle East, to elsewhere in the Empire, even over here to Ireland, considered that they'd missed out on the real show; felt that they hadn't quite done their bit. Perhaps the Irishman was one. Well, never mind. Miles didn't see it that way. Not at all. He didn't mind himself. Just so long as they had served. Not a shirker or worse still a conscientious objector. No better than a coward. Done their bit for King and Country don't you know. Of course, good manners prevented Miles from asking exactly in which regiment it was that the young Irishman had served. He could always find that out if he was minded to do so. What made him think of that, at that precise moment he never quite knew, but think of it, he most certainly did.

So, they were living over here in Dublin then? And with Mr. Branson's family? Really. Miles had been somewhat surprised to learn that. Again he hoped that his surprise at the news hadn't been too obvious. But then what with the war, things had changed so much, were still doing so; were not what they once had been. And they intended to settle here too? Really? Despite all of the present troubles? But of course, Mr. Branson was Irish. How silly of him. Stupid question that. Miles apologized profusely for his blunder.

Branson … now he was sure he'd come across a family of that name, down in the south, near Cork. Was he related to them by any chance? There was a slight pause, but a pause nonetheless, and then Mr. Branson had shaken his head. Lady Sybil had said he was a writer? Yes, of sorts. The Irishman had been as laconic about that as he had been about his war record. It was quite remarkable, given how loquacious Mr. Branson had been about matters to do with the motor, that he was now so seemingly reticent both about his war record and his profession.

And Lady Sybil had trained as a nurse during the war. Good Lord! Well, very well done indeed. A convalescent home had been established at Downton Abbey? Really, well good for her parents. Several of his own parents' friends had offered their homes for use as such. Damned glad to get them back at the end when it was all over though.

The Morris was not in a remotely driveable condition, so once Miles had had some of his men push it off the road and into the empty cart shed at the farm to await collection as and when arrangements could be made to get it back to Dublin, he had done the only thing he could and offered them both a lift in the staff car into the city. And yet they'd both seemed remarkably reluctant to take up his offer. They did so in the end. After all, they had no real option - it was a long walk back to …

The Crossley purred into life and with the two lorries following close behind the short convoy set off back to Dublin. By now a slight breeze had arisen and borne on it, as they passed on down the lane, in a sudden lull in the wind, all three of them in the open motor heard distinctly a thin keening wail which as they listened dwindled, faded, and was gone.

Later …

Just exactly was it where they were living, they hadn't said? Miles noticed that Lady Sybil didn't reply directly to his question. Instead, she'd asked that they be dropped on Sackville Street, by Nelson's Pillar. They could then get the tram from there. The tram? The earl of Grantham's youngest daughter riding on a tram? God Almighty, Miles wouldn't be seen dead riding on one of those things. Mind you if he got on one now in the uniform of a British officer he probably would end up dead and his body dumped in some remote spot well outside the city.

Then, on the journey back into Dublin, neither of them had said more than a handful of words between them. Miles had put it down to delayed shock - given what they had both witnessed. But afterwards he was not so sure. And when his driver had stopped the motor on Sackville Street as requested, their thanks to him had been perfunctory at most.

He'd turned in his seat, watched them slowly cross the street in the gathering dusk, heading for the Pillar, saw how solicitous he was of her, saw her turn and look at him. And, oh that look. Why, if Lady Sybil Crawley were ever to look at him like that, Miles had no doubt that he'd have melted into his very boots!

Much later, long after most people in Dublin were in their beds, back in his room at the castle, Miles sat himself down at his desk, turned up the lamp, then reached for pen and paper …

"Dearest (that would sweeten the old girl he thought) Aunt Maud,

You will I am sure be somewhat surprised, if indeed not amazed, to hear from me after such a long time, but I am, I confess, urgently in need of your advice. You remember the earl and countess of Grantham? Well, of course you do. I believe you know the present earl's mother? Well, that being so, today I had the most curious encounter on the outskirts of Dublin …