Chapter Eighty
"Hold The Front Page"
After...
Galway bound, the little branch train puffed on resolutely through the swirling mist. Beyond the grimy carriage window, Tom could see nothing; everything beyond it was lost to sight, hidden beneath a damp, impenetrable veil of grey muslin. Somewhere beyond Ballynahinch and before Recess, sated and unaccountably tired, helped by the gentle rocking motion of the train, Sybil had fallen asleep with her head resting on his shoulder.
By fits and starts, Tom had dozed himself, or else mulled over the contacts he had met and the information he had gleaned so far. Occasionally he glanced at one or other of the local newspapers - the Tuam Herald or the Western News - copies of which lay beside him on the seat. While the headlines were, predictably concerned with matters of local interest, and not especially noteworthy, Tom was very thankful that it was no longer he himself who was making the news.
Of course, neither Tom or Sybil were at Downton to see what transpired after Sybil's hastily despatched telegram announcing his disappearance had reached her former home. They learned about all that later, in a long letter from Mary, who added by way of a postscript that despite Papa's studied opposition, she herself was now a subscriber to the Irish Independent, prompting Tom to guffaw and observe that he was "still an employee of the bloody Crawleys".
When Sybil and Tom had announced their engagement and shortly afterwards left for Ireland, the Crawley family and their servants had managed to maintain a dignified silence.
As the Dowager Countess had so acutely observed at the time, if everyone carried on as if nothing had happened, then both the county and society at large would soon lose interest in the then forthcoming marriage of the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham to a neophyte journalist on the staff of the Irish Independent.
That the same journalist had once been in the employ of the Crawley family as their chauffeur need not be noised abroad. True, there had been some gossip but that was only to be expected, there was a snigger here, a snigger there, the odd snide comment, and rumours of bets being placed by some of the local gentry on the likelihood of the noble earl of Grantham going into partnership with his humble, mechanically minded son-in-law and opening a commercial garage down in the village at Downton, but by and large, what was then considered to be a shocking mésalliance, proved, at least locally, to be but a nine days' wonder.
However, sitting in the kitchen of Ma's house in Clontarf, from Mary's letter Tom and Sybil learned that the disappearance of the earl of Grantham's son-in-law over in Ireland was an entirely different matter; one which achieved far greater notoriety and attracted much greater local interest.
Within a matter of hours of the receipt at Downton of Sybil's telegram from Dublin, despite the very best efforts of the Crawley family and those of Carson and Mrs. Hughes to stop the story leaking out, the news of the disappearance of Tom Branson, presumed kidnapped, and now in all likelihood murdered by members of the so-called Irish Republican Army had become public knowledge not only up at the house, but also out on the estate, down in the village, and, indeed regrettably, even further afield.
Not surprisingly, said Mary, the whole affair had cast a sombre pall of gloom over everyone at Downton, and while the family and their servants waited nervously, if only for confirmation of their worst fears, earlier that same morning, it had fallen to Edith to break the appalling news to their grandmother, when Violet had telephoned to confirm the arrangements with her younger grand-daughter for tea that afternoon at the Dower House. Violet had asked that she be kept informed and had said to Edith that, despite the sad news, nothing as yet was certain, she was confident all would be well, and that she would expect Edith to come and take tea with her as arranged.
At that particular revelation, Tom and Sybil had glanced at one another. Edith taking tea with granny, on her own, at the Dower House was a most unusual, not to say unheard of, occurrence.
As for Papa, after the arrival of Sybil's telegram, despite what was presumed to have happened, he had not deviated one iota from his usual routine, for as Cora had related later to her two elder daughters, he had observed caustically to their mother that when the late emperor of Austria Hungary, Franz Joseph, had received news of the assassination of his heir at Sarajevo in June 1914, as if nothing of note had happened, the then eighty three year old sovereign had stoically continued with the business of running his empire. That being the case, for his part, Robert saw no need to alter his own schedule.
So when Cora had suggested that the dinner party arranged for that evening be cancelled, Robert would not hear of it; several of their guests were coming some distance to attend, including the Archbishop of York, therefore, said Robert, the arrangement would stand. He had nothing further to say on the matter and, shortly thereafter, had taken himself off for his customary morning walk with Isis, leaving Cora to sit in bed and fume over her husband's seeming total indifference as to what had become of his son-in-law, let alone the effect Tom's assumed death would have on their youngest daughter.
"Jaysus! He must really hate my guts" said Tom with a chuckle. "What else does Mary have to say?"
Sybil smiled, squeezed his thigh comfortingly, and then continued with her reading of her sister's letter.
Later that same morning, completely devastated by the news, Cora, Mary and Edith had all been sitting together in the Morning Room, trying to come to terms with what had happened, when Carson had knocked and entered, to announce that there was a telephone call, from Dublin, for Lady Mary. Before Carson could inform her of the caller's identity, Mary had sprung up from her chair, was out of the Morning Room, had crossed the hall and had the receiver held firmly to her ear. Much to her intense disappointment, she had found the caller to be Sir Richard Carlisle's secretary, James McBride.
McBride was telephoning from Dublin, on his employer's behalf, to convey, at Sir Richard's request, a warning for Lady Mary Crawley as to what both she and the rest of the Crawley family could expect at the hands of the Press once the story of what, in all likelihood, had happened to Tom Branson, got out, as of course it inevitably would.
Tom had whistled at that; he hadn't known Sir Richard Carlisle was in Dublin.
McBride told Mary that the disappearance of her brother-in-law had made headline news over in Dublin. While, thankfully, there was no mention made of the Crawleys or Tom's connection to them, there were rumours that the owner of the Irish Independent was proposing to offer a reward for information leading to the discovery of Mr. Branson's whereabouts. Whether that would do any good, given what was happening over in Ireland, was anyone's guess. McBride hoped it might prove efficacious.
"Just as well it wasn't ever paid" said Tom. "Harrington would have docked the bloody money from my wages!"
With Sir Richard's unexpected business over in Ireland now concluded - exactly what that was neither McBride, nor indeed Richard himself ever actually divulged to her, his secretary added that Sir Richard was leaving Dublin for England the following day and, if the earl and countess of Grantham were agreeable, once again proposed himself for the week-end, arriving by the four o'clock train on Saturday.
If the weather at the end of the week continued fine, then perhaps Mary would be agreeable to Sir Richard's suggestion that they take a run out to Haxby to look over the house again and see what might suit by way of furnishings. Thanking McBride, on Sir Richard's behalf for his timely warning, and confirming that while it would indeed be agreeable for Sir Richard to visit at the week-end, with the uncertainties of the present situation Mary said she had demurred at the prospect of a spin out to Haxby; given what might have happened to darling Tom, let alone the state in which Sybil herself must be, furniture and wallpapers were the last things with which Mary wished to concern herself.
Then she turned her attention to what she herself had observed happening beyond the boundaries of the estate. That had been quite intolerable. There was no other word for it, said Mary, as she went on to relate how later that same day she was driven back by Pratt through the imposing entrance gates and on up to the house. Despite what had happened, explained Mary, she had felt obliged to honour a long standing obligation and had been down to the village to see an old servant of the family who was ailing.
Yet, despite Sir Richard Carlisle's admittedly kindly meant telephoned warning, even if it had been conveyed to her by his secretary and not by the man himself - how typical of Richard said Mary - the sight of an unruly crowd of journalists - "Tom, please to take note" - hanging round the imposing ornate gates at the entrance to the Downton Abbey estate had still come as something of a shock.
According to Mary, Tom's disappearance "was not reported in the Times" nor as far as she could learn in any other British national newspaper. The so-called "gentlemen of the press" hanging round the gates of Downton were representatives of local newspapers, albeit from as far afield as Leeds and York, as well as Ripon and Thirsk. Not only did they persist in loitering round the entrance gates for most of that day, but some of them had made it their business to ask impertinent questions about the Crawley family down in the village, and had generally " made a bloody nuisance of themselves".
Cousin Isobel had telephoned to ask if there was any news of darling Tom and said that "there was a gaggle of the wretched individuals outside Crawley House".
Matthew had been incensed, apparently muttering dire warnings as to what would happen if any of the journalists so much as set one foot on his property and had said something about "going in search of his service revolver" which, said Isobel, was thankfully packed away with the rest of his army kit in a trunk up in the loft.
When she regained the safety of the abbey, Mary found to her consternation that one of the journalists had even been as bold as to telephone the abbey itself, asking to speak to Papa about his missing son-in-law. Did the earl have any comment to make on the story that Mr. Branson had also once been in his employ as his chauffeur? Fortunately, said Mary, Papa was still out on his rounds of the estate, otherwise she dreaded to think what might have happened, taking the precaution of asking Carson to ensure that the Gun Room was kept locked, at least for the present, else Papa might well have found himself incarcerated along with the unfortunate Bates.
Naturally, said Mary, it had fallen to Carson to take the telephone call and the elderly butler had soon disabused the young journalist of the error of his ways, reprimanded him severely for his presumptions, and sent him soundly on his way with the proverbial flea well and truly in his ear.
Although neither Mary nor Mr. Carson ever knew it, sometime later the young journalist concerned took ship for France and joined the French Foreign Legion. Had it always been the young man's intention to join the Foreign Legion, or whether he had felt it a wiser course to put as much distance as was physically possible between himself and the irascible butler of Downton Abbey, only the young legionnaire himself ever knew.
As a postscript to this particular episode, several years later, in 1924, at Christmas, Mr. Carson received an unexpected package through the post. There was no clue as to the identity of the sender, but the packet bore an array of French postage stamps and was post marked from Tangier.
Within, wrapped in a sheet of paper, bearing unsigned Christmas good wishes, was a wooden box, which when opened by a much mystified Mr. Carson, he was much pleased to find, contained a delightfully sticky slab of the finest Moroccan dates, a delicacy to which the old butler had always been especially partial.