Chapter Two

A Conspiracy Is Unmasked

Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, afternoon, Thursday, 11th June 1936.

Holding Dermot tightly by the hand, together they slowly walked the short distance back up to the house from the railway station in Blackrock, to where she had taken little boy to watch and wave to the passing trains, with Sybil deep in thought.

There was no denying it. Tom and Danny were up to something. Like Matthew and Tom when they were together over at Downton, here in Blackrock, the more so as Danny grew to manhood, with his burgeoning interest in all things mechanical, he and his father were well nigh inseparable.

Even so, what had alerted Sybil first to the fact that something was going on had been the saga of the kippers and then, as if any further proof was needed, the telegram, which had arrived here late this afternoon, all the way from Austria, addressed to both Mr. and Mrs. T. Branson, in itself a minor thing, but which, even after all these years, seeing their names conjoined together on something as mundane as an envelope, still gave Sybil a pleasing frisson of delight.

As to the kippers, while Tom often cooked breakfast for himself before leaving for the office, preferring to do so rather than risk one of Sybil's burnt offerings, he always did bacon and eggs, which Sybil would have been the first to admit both smelt and tasted delicious. This morning however, as she had made her way downstairs, yawning repeatedly, after working a late shift the previous day at the Rotunda, a different aroma assailed the nostrils of the lady of the house: that of kippers, which Tom had never cooked before. That Sybil recognised the smell immediately was hardly surprising with kippers having been served at Downton when she was a little girl. Not that either of her sisters or she herself had cared for them until years later when Mary had been expecting Robert and had developed an insatiable craving for the smoked fish.

Pushing open the kitchen door, which always squeaked, even though she was befuddled with sleep, Sybil caught the tail end of the conversation which Danny, seated at the kitchen table in his vest and pajama bottoms, was having with his father and who was standing barefoot, in front of the gas stove, in just shirt and trousers, braces dangling.

"Will I like them, for sure?"

"Son, you'll never know if you like something or not until you've tried it. They're very popular on the ... Oh, morning, love". Tom gave Sybil a perfunctory peck of a kiss. "I'm cooking kippers," he said shyly, as if an explanation of what he was doing was somehow required.

"So I can see. Why not bacon and eggs?"
"Oh, a change is as good as a rest," said Tom airily.

Croydon Airport, London, England, Sunday, 14th June 1936.

Having been cruising at an altitude of nearly 12,000 feet and at speed of just over 100 mph, the enormous Junckers G.38, its tail fins emblazoned with swastikas, banked heavily through the sudden squall of rain and began its final descent through the clouds to Croydon Airport. With an unrivalled view through the glass windows directly in front of him of all that had happened since the huge aeroplane had taken off from Berlin's Tempelhof Airport just over five hours previously, seated in one the two seats in the nose of the aeroplane, with his blue eyes glistening, alight with excitement, the young, sandy haired boy now turned to his father.

"Papa, this has been the best birthday ever!"

"I'm very glad that you're enjoying it" said his father, smiling fondly at his son's youthful exuberance. "Not long now until we land and then, once we're through customs, we'll take the train directly up to London".

"Is that where you're giving your lecture?"
"Yes, tomorrow afternoon, at the British Museum".
"Where are we staying tonight, Papa?"
"At the Russell Hotel, in Bloomsbury; Mama and I stayed there once, a long time ago, before either you or Kurt were even born; it's not far from the museum".

Max nodded, then grimaced at the heavy droplets of rain as they drove hard against the glass, momentarily obscuring the view.

"Papa?"
"Yes?"

"Does it really always rain here in England?"

His father smiled at him.

"I'm sure that your darling Mama would tell you that it does. So, in answer to your question, Max, yes, a very great deal".

"Papa?"
"Yes?"

"Is everything all right?"
"Of course it is, why do you ask?"

"Well, earlier, this afternoon, when we took off from Berlin, you were very quiet".
"Was I?"
"Yes".

"Well, I was probably thinking about my lecture, running through in my mind all that I am going to say tomorrow. There will be a large number of professors both from Oxford and from Cambridge in the audience tomorrow, so you see, I must be word perfect and not make any mistakes".

"Don't worry father. I'll be there too!"
"Yes, I know you will; there's seat reserved for you in the front row of the lecture theatre!"

"Oh!" Max grinned broadly.

"And then ..."
"And then what, father?"
"Wait and see!"

Friedrich smiled fondly at his thirteen year old son and gently ruffled his hair as the huge aeroplane now commenced its final approach to the distant, grass runway.

Given the ever precarious state of Max's health, Edith had been extremely nervous about letting him make this trip over to England at all but, since their stay with the Bransons and the Crawleys at the Villa San Callisto some four years ago, both his parents had agreed that there was absolutely no use wrapping the boy up in cotton wool. What would be, would be. And if, as seemed likely, Max would not live beyond his twentieth birthday, then both Friedrich and Edith were firmly of the opinion that, as far as he could, Max should be allowed to live his life to the full. Fortunately so far, this long trip, first by train from Vienna's Westbahnhof, via Prague in what was now Czechoslovakia, to the Anhalter Bahnhof in Berlin, and thereafter by aeroplane from Tempelhof airport over to Croydon in England, while tiring for Max, had proved completely uneventful.

Not that Friedrich had been entirely honest with him over why it was he had been so quiet. That he had been running through what he was going to say in the lecture that he was giving tomorrow afternoon at the British Museum was true enough. However, Friedrich was a seasoned enough speaker, as well as an expert in his own particular field - the excavations at both Nineveh and Ur which, in the company of other archaeologists, among them the Christies and Sir Charles Wooley, both he and Edith had undertaken together - not to be worried by the distinguished credentials of the eminent members of his largely academic audience.

No, if the truth be told, what had worried Friedrich more than he cared to say was what he seen while they were en route to their hotel from the railway station and thereafter from a bedroom window of the magnificent Hotel Adlon, where he and Max had spent the previous night, and which stood opposite the Brandenburg Gate, overlooking the Pariser Platz, and the Unter den Linden in Berlin.

Hotel Adlon, Berlin, Germany, Saturday, 13th June 1936.

Having telephoned Edith at home at Rosenberg in Austria and so set her mind at rest that all was so far well, with dinner having been served to them in their room, then with some difficulty having persuaded an excited young Max to go to bed where at length he had at long last finally drifted off to sleep, for a long while thereafter his father had stood gazing pensively out of the window of their fourth floor floor suite.

Beyond the windows of the hotel, Berlin was lit up in a blaze of electric lights. Even at this late hour, down below him on the once leafy Unter den Linden, Friedrich could see that the wide boulevard, like the entrance to the wooded Tiergarten was thronging with people; crowded with pedestrians. No doubt the same was true of all the other main thoroughfares of the city; as well as the vast squares such as Pariser Platz on one corner of which stood the Adlon itself, flanked by the American and French embassies and the Academy of Arts. The sprawling, vibrant city was truly en fete, and with one very good reason.

In less than two months' time, the Olympic Games would open here in Berlin and it was obvious to Friedrich, as it would have been to any other onlooker who shared his liberal politics, that the Nazis were doing their utmost to present to the watching world the image of a new, strong, and united Germany; while at the same time masking the regime's antisemitic and racist policies. To this end almost all anti-Jewish signs had disappeared from the city's streets and, leafing through the German newspapers down in the hotel lobby when he and Max had arrived, it was equally clear to Friedrich that their editors had been instructed to tone down their hitherto virulent anti- Jewish rhetoric; that every effort was being made to present foreign journalists, spectators and visitors attending the Games with the wholly false picture of a peaceful, tolerant Germany.

In this same regard, no expense had been spared. Some five miles west of the capital, the Nazis had built a huge sports arena, on the very same site that had been chosen for the Olympic Games of 1916, but which had never been held because of the outbreak of the Great War; the centrepiece of which was a gigantic stadium built of natural stone which could seat 110,000 spectators.

Now, in whichever direction Friedrich looked, as indeed had been the case when they had been driven here from the railway station, whether up or down the Unter den Linden, or simply across the square, he saw yet more public buildings, monuments, and private houses all bedecked as elsewhere both with Olympic flags and draped with huge swastikas; the latter seeming to predominate, evidence if any other was needed that the Nazis intended to make use of the forthcoming Games as a showcase for their regime.

Yet, beyond all the flags, the bunting, the colourful posters, and the pages and pages devoted to the Olympics in German magazines, where appeared images based on the entirely false premise of there being a link between Nazi Germany and Ancient Greece, thus implying that German civilization was the rightful heir of classical antiquity, there was no escaping the fact that since April 1933 an "Aryans only" policy had been instituted in all German athletic organizations. And all "non-Aryans" had been excluded from using German sports facilities, among them the German Boxing Association's amateur champion, Erich Seelig, expelled simply because he was Jewish.

Thoroughly depressed by what he had seen and witnessed, Friedrich quietly closed the window and readied himself for bed.

On the far side of the Pariser Platz, the black uniformed officer of the SS now likewise turned away and, with the door having been opened for him, climbed into the rear seat of the waiting motor; told his driver to take him to the Reich's Main Security Office on Prinz-Albrecht Strasse not far from Potsdamer Platz. Of course, had it not been for that unfortunate incident some years earlier, he would have been perfectly able to drive himself there to his meeting with Reichsfuhrer Himmler.

But, following that encounter, in an attic room on the Ponte Vecchio in distant Florence, he had never quite fully regained the use of his left arm.

Estate Office, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Thursday morning, 11th June 1936.

It was with a renewed sense of both disbelief and wonderment that, for the umpteenth time this morning stretching languidly, then scratching his head, Matthew Crawley sat back in his swivel chair in the Estate Office here at Downton and once more contemplated the calendar standing before him on his desk.

No, today was definitely a Thursday: 11th June 1936 to be precise, which meant that yesterday ... had been a Wednesday. Nor had it been his birthday. And yet, last night ... as well as earlier this morning ... Or had it all been just a dream, albeit one that had been both vivid and sensuous?

Correction, extremely vivid and very sensuous.

At the remembrance, Matthew smiled broadly: no, it had definitely not a dream, for, on catching sight of his bare back in his dressing room mirror earlier this morning, it looked like he had been in a fight with an otter. Not that he had of course. But the sight of those scratches had served to provide him with the raw, physical evidence that what could otherwise have been explained away as nothing more than a pleasurable dream, had indeed actually taken place. Where, in one of many moments of shared ecstacy as she writhed beneath him in their bed last night and again earlier this morning, Mary's long, beautifully manicured nails had repeatedly raked his skin. Matthew smiled again; that he was capable of inspiring such abandoned, wanton behaviour in the aristocratic and refined Lady Mary Crawley was a source of wonderment.

Nonetheless, however pleasurable last night's unexpected bedsport had been, it did not help him with the seemingly intractable problem of how, given the geographic nature of the terrain, both a mains water supply and mains drainage could be installed up at Lower Woodseaves Farm.

Of course Matthew was well aware that something had to be done. Citing the provisions of the Local Government Act of 1894, as amended by the provisions of the Local Government Act 1929, the democratically elected - something they were repeatedly at pains to point out and so thereby attempting to claim the moral high ground over the unelected earl of Grantham - members of the local Rural District Council had made their position on the matter very clear. Mains water and mains drainage to be installed up at Lower Woodseaves Farm within the next six months otherwise they would serve a Statutory Notice condemning the property as unfit for human habitation. The august guardians of public health had the earl of Grantham over the proverbial barrel and, what was more infuriating, they knew it.

At this precise moment it was now that the telephone on his desk rang, thus disturbing Matthew's concentration on the matter in hand as he pondered the various options open to him regarding how best to proceed. The situation seemed intractable, the more so since not only did Matthew have to contend with the local Rural District Council breathing down his neck but also with the tenant of Lower Woodseaves himself; old Wilf Scaife, who aged eighty four, now left most of the running of the farm to his two sons and grandson.

Wilf had confided in Matthew that he had drunk water from the well in the yard, had used the earth closet out back "ever since he were a lad", saw no earthly reason to change the habits of a lifetime, and at the end of last month had seen off the latest meddling delegation from the Rural District Council at the end of a twelve bore.

"Crawley," Matthew barked somewhat rather more peremptorily than he had intended..

"Who rattled your cage, for sure?" asked the familiar sounding Irish voice at the other end of the line.

"Tom! Good to hear from you old chap! Sybil and the children ..."
"They're all fine, thank you for asking. And while I think of it, Sybil received Mary's letter yesterday. Dermot's cutting another tooth and having a bad time of it too, poor little lad. Driving the pair of us to distraction. Still, you know the drill ..."
"Not exactly, old chap. As a fully paid up member of what down at the Grantham Arms you once charmingly described as the "decrepit aristocracy", I kept well out of all that with our three eldest. So did Mary. And we're doing exactly the same with Emily. Leaving everything in the more than capable hands of Nanny Bridges!"

"No such luck this end, old boy. Us t'ick oirish micks have to shift for ourselves!" chuckled Tom.

"By the way, I feel I should warn you that after dinner last night, Rob gave me a very good game. You'll need to watch your step. He'll be giving you a run for your money the next time you're all over, if not before". Matthew heard Tom laugh.

"Well, in you he's had a very good teacher, for sure".

"Thanks for that. I'm assuming that all is still on for our little ..."

"Yes, everything's fine and dandy on that score. No worries for sure. What's more, Ellis telephoned to let me know that the 'bike's arrived safely too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"So, all things being equal, we'll see both you and Rob as arranged for sure on the 17th".

"Yes of course. Anyway, while it's always a pleasure to hear from you, old chap, what's prompted you to call?"

"I told you Sybil received Mary's letter?"

"Yes, you did. And?" From his tone, Matthew sounded thoroughly mystified.
"Well, that's what I'm telephoning about. You see the thing is, old chap ..."

Immediately after Tom had rung off, taking out his pocket book from the inside of his jacket, and which he carried with him everywhere he went, Matthew reached promptly for the telephone and when Mrs. Jones down at the telephone exchange in the village answered, then asked to be put through to a number in Banchory in distant Scotland.

Estate Yard, Downton Abbey afternoon, Thursday 11th June 1936.

On this bright summer's afternoon, her cheeks rosy, her hair windblown, her hacking jacket, jodphurs, and boots splattered with mud, yet for all that well pleased with herself, riding astride her mare, Juniper a four year old, sixteen hand chestnut thoroughbred, with a broad white blaze and three matching stockings, Mary, countess of Grantham, clattered into the cobbled stable yard at Downton.

While some years earlier, Mary had been more than a little scandalised by a photograph taken of Friedrich and Edith at one of their interminable digs somewhere out in the Near East, in which Edith was wearing a pair of riding breeches, these days, Mary had to admit that riding astride instead of side saddle, and attired as she was today instead of wearing a cumbersome skirt, made things so much easier.

Even in 1936, opinions among Mary's own class were still fiercely divided. Should female riders wear the traditional sidesaddle habit, or should they embrace the new and modern practice of wearing jodhpurs and ride astride? Mary smiled. Riding astride to hounds over at Garston Hall the previous year, she had encountered old Major Lloyd, a red-faced veteran of the Boxer Rebellion of 1900 in far distant China who, when confronted by the sight of Mary riding astride, had almost burst a blood vessel.

Happy to hack alone or in company, Juniper had never bucked or bolted. Indeed, she had only reared the once when Mary was saddling up, and Matthew had roared unannounced into the stable yard in that blasted green Riley which he had purchased just this year; partly as a result of both he and Tom, with Danny and Robert in tow, having gone over to Switzerland, to Bremgarten, for the Swiss Grand Prix in September 1935.

While thoroughly enjoyed by all four of them, their Swiss jaunt had been very much overshadowed by the fact that young Max who, along with his father, had also been expected to attend, was, as a result of a fall, then seriously ill in Austria. While Max eventually made a full recovery, he had been almost inconsolable at having missed the opportunity of meeting up again with both of his much loved cousins.

Juniper was an excellent all rounder, brave and bold to any fence, as well as over both water and ditches, and Mary had ridden her to hounds for the past three seasons. So, this afternoon, within sight of the great house, on the edge of Hunters' Wood, in an exuberant mood, Mary had set the chestnut at the five bar gate beside the copse at a gallop. Juniper had sailed over it with the greatest of ease and it was this feat which had put Mary in such a very good mood.

Sadly, while Matthew himself was a perfectly competent horseman, he did not share his wife's love of riding, and in any event the demands of the estate took up most of his time, so that the opportunity for a joint leisurely ride around the estate was never really an option; not even if it might lead to other equally pleasant opportunities as had happened several years ago on the floor of the ruined cottage in Skirmish Spinney - so named from an encounter which was reputed to have taken place there in the seventeenth century between Royalists and Parliamentarian troopers during the English Civil War.

It was during the occasion of that much more recent and far more enjoyable encounter in Skirmish Spinney between Matthew and herself that Mary believed little Emily Crawley, now aged just over two, had been conceived. Maybe, as she grew older, Emily would come to share her aristocratic mother's passion for riding. For, so far, of her three other children, while Mary herself had taught Robert how to ride, some years ago, while still a boy he had refused point blank to ride to hounds anymore, and now rarely ever rode at all. Simon had always been terrified of horses and, as for Rebecca, now aged eleven, she had shown but a sporadic and desultory interest in learning how to ride. Ever the tomboy, if given half a chance Mary knew that Rebecca would have much preferred to emulate her Uncle Tom, learn the workings of a car, and spend her time repairing the family's motors.

Slipping down from the glossy back of the mare, with the delightful prospect of a trip to Scotland in the offing, in an excellent mood, Mary blithely tossed the reins to the stable lad and then wandered across the yard over to the Estate Office, resigned to finding Matthew seated at his desk immersed in whatever was the latest problem affecting the smooth running of the estate.

Yesterday it had been the pigs: the continuing difficulties of persuading the Bilsdale Blue boar Marmaduke to mate with either of the two sows, Beatrice and Victoria, whose names Mary thought to be entirely unsuitable but which had been bestowed upon them by the children when they were younger. Seemingly unaware as to the singular unsuitability of discussing such a matter, especially with Robert, Simon, and Rebecca seated at the dining table, the more so after that disgraceful episode involving THOSE postcards from Scarborough, Mary had been aghast when Matthew had postulated both at length and indeed in some detail as to just what might be done to persuade dear old Marmaduke to do his duty.

However, on opening the door of the Estate Office and stepping inside, Mary was rather surprised to find it empty, with no sign of its usual occupant. Like darling Tom, Matthew was very methodical in his habits - a place for everything and everything in its place.

Perched on the edge of the desk, Mary began to skin through the diary which Matthew kept about matters appertaining to the estate. She would be the first to admit that Matthew had a far better grasp of what was required to keep Downton on an even keel and in profit, something which had eluded dear Papa, devoted as he had been to the estate and its tenantry.

It was as she skimmed through the diary that she came across a slip of paper, torn from the pocket book that Matthew habitually carried with him when out and about around the estate and in which he jotted down matters which attracted his attention. However, this entry was nothing like that:

Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool

Mona, 11.15 16th June

Mary glanced at the calendar on the desk. Why, that was next week!

Thunderstruck, slumping down hard into the old swivel chair which Matthew had brought here from his solicitor's office, the chair living up to its name and spinning her round like a whirling dervish, once more facing the desk, Mary contemplated the note afresh.

It could only mean one thing: Matthew, who during the past couple of months had paid several visits to Liverpool, on estate business, was conducting an affair. And, given the fact that the Adelphi was the most luxurious hotel in Liverpool, it was obvious that he was sparing no expense in spoiling the hussey who, by her very name, was obviously no better than she ought to be.

While the physical side of their marriage had always been more than satisfactory, although perhaps not as adventurous as that of Tom and Sybil, save for the silly business of the Comtesse de Roquebrune back in 1932, and which had all been a misunderstanding on Mary's part, Matthew had never given her any cause to doubt him.

But no longer.

Mary's dark head reared and her brown eyes glittered. Knowing how much Matthew confided in Tom, doubtless he knew all about the affair too. How positively mortifying!

The door now opened and a moment later, all unsuspecting, Matthew himself strolled blithely into the Estate Office.

"Hallo! What on earth brings you down here?" he asked affably.

Mary said nothing. Instead, all thought of Scotland forgotten, she skimmed the note across the desk.

"I think you owe me an explanation," she said coldly.

Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, late afternoon, 11th June 1936.

Hearing Tom come in, Sybil called out to him that she was in the kitchen. A moment later and he came through into the back smiling broadly on seeing her seated at the table with young Dermot on her lap; the little boy gurgling his delight at the sight of his father. Before her on the table lay the opened telegram and which, without any further ado, Sybil now proceeded to read out aloud.

REMEMBER WHAT MATTERS MOST IS TAKING PART.

WITH EVERY GOOD WISH FOR 19TH JUNE EDITH

"So, just what exactly is going on?"

Author's Note;

Opened in March 1920, Croydon was London's first airport. Flights to Templehof in Berlin began in 1923.

No wonder Max is so excited. For a time, the Junckers G.38 was the largest plane in the world. While it only carried thirty four passengers, by modern standards, accommodation on board was absolutely luxurious, designed to rival that provided by the Zeppelin airships.

Opened in 1898, the magnificent Russell Hotel still overlooks the square of the same name in Bloomsbury, London.

Largely destroyed in the final days of the Second World War, the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, which opened in 1907, was one of Europe's finest hotels. The current hotel, built on the same site, and which externally resembles the original, opened in 1997.

Clearly Marmaduke could not be persuaded to do his duty. The Bilsdale Blue breed of pigs became extinct in 1973.

The Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool opened in 1914.