Chapter Twenty Six

So, On With The Dance

Al Fayom Oasis west of Cairo, Kingdom Of Egypt, late April 1937.

Robert awoke with a jerk and a start, caused by the tailgate of the lorry being unceremoniously dropped. However, before he had time to realise what was happening, he found himself being pulled to his feet and manhandled unceremoniously out of the back of the dirty, rickety vehicle. The landscape looked much as it had done at the Pyramids but given the amount of time he had spent on the floor of the lorry he judged he had to be many miles distant from both them and Cairo. So, where on earth was he? From what Papa had said in passing at home, Robert was well aware that the British were not popular in Egypt but what on earth could his abduction achieve save to cause yet further trouble? By now, surely Uncle Friedrich would have raised the alarm with the authorities and they would be looking for him. At least Robert very much hoped so but then how long would it be before the authorities found him? He did not at this point fear for his life but was, nonetheless, understandably worried as to what his kidnappers might have planned.

Not that Robert knew it, but the kidnapping in Egypt of the eldest son of the earl of Grantham had made headline news in the British Press. Naturally, given his clandestine work for the Foreign Office and the contacts he had, Matthew had been alerted to the realities of the situation by a coded telegram sent from Cairo as well as an initial telephone call from one of his several contacts at the Foreign Office up in London.


Dining Room, Dower House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, early May 1937.

Cora was just as appalled as the rest of the family on learning of the sudden and unexpected turn of events out there in Egypt, Details of Robert's abduction were now being reported widely on the front pages of the newspapers here in England and also abroad as well as on the radio; even if they were overshadowed by all of the junketing associated with the forthcoming Coronation. Given what had happened, Cora could have done without the imminent arrival here of her American godson Jack Power and his wife Audrey. Still, things were as they were, so there was no use crying over spilt milk. Cora ghosted a smile. How long was it since she had left the United States to begin a new life over here in England? Nearly half a century; a lifetime ago, yet there were still various English phrases which she had never fully understood. That was one of them. Had anybody ever cried over spilled milk? Cora very much doubted it. Anyway, it couldn't be helped. Somehow, she would have to make the best of things.

Of Cora's two English grandsons, unlike Simon who was so very difficult to gauge or read, Robert was much more of an open book. He had inherited the good looks of both his father and mother and of Matthew too his charm and easy manner; along with something of his detachment and was possessed also of the seeming ability to read the thoughts of others. His relationship with both his parents was good. However, he was obviously far more at ease with his father than he was with his mother; something which Cora knew irked Mary but who had only herself to blame for having carefully cultivated an air of detachment and remoteness from all of her children which was in fact down to her innate shyness than any wish on her part to be seen as unapproachable. All the same, Cora knew too that betimes, in private, and to his father, Robert sometimes referred to his mother as Ma'am as though she had somehow managed to usurp the position of her namesake the Dowager Queen Mary; an individual well known for her implacable aloofness and reserve.

That Mary's seeming disinterest in her children was so much pretence had been shown to be so when Matthew, Mary and Tom had by the skin of their teeth all escaped by aeroplane from Hungary back in the long hot summer of 1933. On their return to England Cora remembered Robert telling her what had happened when the bullet ridden 'plane had made a bumpy landing in a meadow below Rosenberg, Friedrich and Edith's beautiful home in Austria. That for once, Mama had surprised all of them by her open display of affection and in public too.


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.

With the game of cricket at last now over, followed by Uncle Friedrich, the three boys were climbing the steps which led up to the terrace from the lower garden when, quite unexpectedly, Max came to a sudden stand. Indeed, so precipitously did he do so that his father all but cannoned into him. Now standing stock still, shading his eyes, Max stood gazing intently at something which had clearly caught his attention.

"What is it, old chap?" asked his father evidently mystified.

"There! Don't you see it?
"Where? See what?" Friedrich glanced about him, clearly perplexed.

Quite unexpectedly, the chance now came for young Max to make use of the phrase that Danny had taught him.

"Thick as a feckin' plank!" Max whispered, more to himself than for anyone else's benefit. All the same, Danny and Rob dissolved into a fit of giggles. Catching sight of his mother looking up at them from where she had been sitting chatting with Saiorse, while Simon and Bobby were still on their knees on the look out for yet more lizards, Max coloured; he hoped fervently that Mama had not heard what he had just said.

"There, Papa! Over there!"

Grabbing hold of his father's arm, Max pointed excitedly, stabbing the forefinger of his left hand up into the cloudless blue of the morning sky, to where, drawing closer and closer, there could be seen a single winged 'plane, silver in colour, trailing in its wake a pall of thick black smoke. To those gathered out here on the terrace, it was obvious that the monoplane was rapidly losing altitude, so that at times it was all but skimming the tops of the distant trees.

The 'plane was even lower now; scarce fifty or so feet from off the ground.

Friedrich shook his head in a mounting disbelief.

"No, surely not. Whoever it is, he can't be intending to try and land down there in the meadow ..."

Hearing the sound of bells, Friedrich glanced towards the green, onion domed spire of the church of St. Florian which stood just beyond the meadow of wild flowers, at the far end of the drive which led up to the house from the road leading down to the station at St. Johann. Ominously, the church bells now began to clang most dolorously. While it was only to announce the celebration of a Low Mass, the discordant, mournful sound of their jangling could not have come at a more inopportune moment.

Everyone, adults and children alike, were now on their feet, staring incredulously at the incoming aeroplane which, as it swept across in front of them, smoke pouring from the engine cowling, was now so low that they could make out the two men seated in the half open cockpit with its crazed windshield and, equally ominously, that both the fuselage and wings were riddled with bullet holes.

Edith's hand flew to her mouth in consternation.

"Oh my God! It's Conrad!"


Moments later, in a series of bumps and short bounces, the 'plane had landed safely in the field; the two men in the cockpit hurriedly clambering out onto the wing, and pulling open the door of the passenger cabin. At the same time, all those on the terrace set off down the steps, making for the meadow, Max, followed closely by both Danny and Robert, leading the way. In their wake came Friedrich, Edith and the other three children, all of them hurrying across the greensward of the meadow with its carpet of wild flowers, towards where the silver coloured monoplane was now at a stand, with a pall of black smoke continuing to pour from its engine.


As the door of the aeroplane's cabin swung open, the very first to emerge was Mary, followed swiftly in turn by Matthew, and then lastly by Tom; all of them looking decidedly dishevelled. Not that that seemed to bother them in the slightest, not even the aristocratic, always immaculately attired Mary, and certainly not those here to meet them. On seeing their parents and father emerging from the cramped cabin of the 'plane, Robert, Simon, Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby let out a collective whoop of delight that that was probably heard in Vienna.


Having been helped down from off the wing by Wyss, as Mary walked slowly forward across the grass, seeing her two boys, she opened wide her arms. Robert and Simon needed no second bidding and ran to meet her. Mary hugged both of them to her tightly; noting at the same time that Simon had one of his arms held fast in a sling.

"What's happened to you?" his mother asked, clearly concerned.

"It's nothing, really, Mama," Simon said dismissively.

"Si' was really, really brave, Mama!" exclaimed Robert. His mother nodded, choosing to ignore Robert's use of the diminutive of Simon's Christian name; something which she normally deplored.
"Were you my darling?"

Simon looked up in astonishment at his mother. Never, could he recall her calling him darling, and if she had, it had not been in public.

"Then, my darling," - there it was again - "you must tell your father and me all about it. But, not now, I think. Later, when we've had a chance to freshen up. Promise me now".

"I promise, Mama," Simon said solemnly.

"Promise you what?" asked Matthew, now also catching sight of Simon's bandaged arm.

"He's going to tell us all about what happened to him, but later. Aren't you, my darling?"
"Er, well, yes, I suppose I am!" Simon grinned, as in turn his father too hugged him tightly.

"Are you really all right, father?" asked Robert, holding out his right hand in formal greeting.

"Come here old chap!" Disregarding Robert's outstretched hand, Matthew pulled his eldest son to him in a bruising bear hug. "Yes, no real harm done, I think. But it was all a damned close run thing!" Matthew chuckled.

"Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it!" laughed Mary.

The two boys exchanged glances; this was not the Mama they had come to know.

Matthew glanced back at the aeroplane; took in the smoke pouring from the engine and the savage peppering of bullet holes. "Good God, it looks like a bloody colander".

Ignoring Matthew's use of language, Mary laughed.

"Yes, I rather suppose it does!"


Dining Room, Dower House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, early May 1937.

Nonetheless, Cora knew that for all her seeming sang froid, Mary would be absolutely distraught by what had come to pass, while for his part, Matthew would be moving heaven and earth to ensure that Robert was found both safe and well and quickly too. In this regard Cora took comfort from the fact that her son-in-law not only had his contacts at the Foreign Office to call upon but that through them Matthew also had other unexpected - some might even say surprising - connections to which she herself was not privy but which would doubtless prove of inestimable help to him in bringing about a successful resolution to the present deplorable situation. On one of the rare occasions when Mary had been in the mood to exchange a confidence she had told her mother that in such situations Matthew always played matters very close to his chest - whatever that meant. Cora assumed that in such circumstances Matthew said very little until he had something to report - whether it be for good or ill.

Now, despite the lateness of the hour, Cora telephoned the Abbey immediately.

Barrow answered; said how very sorry he was, as indeed would be the rest of the domestic staff, to learn of what had befallen Master Robert. He himself had been listening to the radio and had heard what ... Sitting here in the Drawing Room of the Dower House, Cora grimaced. She knew exactly how much credence to give to Thomas Barrow's feigned expressions of sympathy and so could do without the saturnine butler's mealy mouthed expressions of regret. Nor was she interested to learn that there were reporters at the gates of the drive leading to the Abbey. She was perfunctory in her answer.

"Thank you, Barrow", Cora said curtly and asked that she be put through immediately to the earl and the countess of Grantham.


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, late April 1937.

Given all the uncertainties attendant in attempting to try and place a long distance telephone call from Austria to Egypt, let alone surmounting the difference in time between the two countries, Edith had wondered if the connection would actually ever be made. So when the exchange in Vienna advised her that she was being put through to Shepheard's Hotel in far distant Cairo, Edith had not been expecting that to happen. Even more surprisingly, when the clerk at the hotel answered her, she found the line was remarkably clear. When Edith had explained to the young man - at least he sounded young - to whom she wished to speak, the clerk assured her that he was certain that both Herr Schönborn and his young son were here in the hotel; that he had seen them pass through the lobby not ten minutes since, in the company of British Army officers. That if he was not mistaken they were seated out on the terrace - overlooking Ibrahim Pasha Street.

Although Edith had never stayed at Shepheard's, she had seen photographs of both the hotel and of its famous terrace. In her mind's eye, she could imagine the man standing behind the front desk of the hotel, nodding his head for emphasis in the direction of which he was speaking; could visualise him too - smart in a dark suit and on his head sporting a red fez with a black tassel: men in his position always wore one. If madam would not mind waiting, he would put the necessary enquiries in hand immediately. Edith acquiesced; after all, she could hardly do otherwise. She heard the young clerk say something rapidly to someone else in what, although she did not speak it, she recognised immediately as Egyptian Arabic.

"Certainly," Edith replied. She had begun her telephone call to the hotel by speaking in German but, on finding that, save for a few halting words, the clerk himself spoke little of the language, she had changed to English which she found the young man spoke fluently - even if it was very heavily accented. Not that this in itself was surprising; for along with French, English was spoken a great deal in Egypt and certainly in all the best hotels in the country of which in Cairo Shepheard's was undoubtedly the finest.

When she heard Friedrich's measured voice, Edith breathed a heartfelt silent prayer of relief but she was aghast at what Friedrich had to relate. She assured him that the British authorities would move heaven and earth, bend every sinew, to ensure that Robert was found and released unharmed - and quickly. That said she was only too well aware, as was Friedrich himself, that the British were not popular in Egypt, just as they were unwanted in Palestine - both by the Arabs and by the Jews and each for their own reasons.


Valencia, Republican Spain, May 1937.

Nestled amongst a proliferation of fruit orchards, together with its bustling port, the ancient city of Valencia stood at the mouth of the Túria river, on the southeast coast of the Iberian Peninsula of Spain, overlooking the Gulf of Valencia.

The city had a long proud history, stretching back centuries to the time of the Romans - something which, with his interest in all things to do with Antiquity, would have been of great interest to Matthew Crawley. These days, Valencia was now much industrialised, producing animal hides and skins, wood, metals, and exported a great deal of food - especially wine and oranges and lemons - through its large and well appointed port.

Following the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, with the Fascists embarking on a prolonged siege of Madrid from October 1936, as the democratically elected government the Republican administration, imagining it would be for the best if it established itself somewhere else well away from the front lines of the civil war, had moved here to Valencia. However, if the government had imagined for a single moment that it would be safer in Valencia than it had been in Madrid then it was quickly disabused of this notion. For, to the government's dismay, it soon found that Valencia was not immune from attack - this from the air by German and Italian 'planes flying sorties in support of the Nationalists from the airfield at Soria some 370 kilometres to the northwest of Valencia, on the Douro river. As a result, during the first half of 1937, despite it being crammed with civilian refugees displaced by the civil war, its population swollen to over 100,000 many of whom were non combatants including those who were either injured or sick, the city had been bombed repeatedly.

The ongoing air raids would prove especially bad in May, including one attack mid way through the month in which the British embassy was damaged. However, scarce two weeks later, on 28th, in an air raid which lasted just over thirty minutes, Nationalist aeroplanes again struck at the city. This time over two hundred people were killed and a considerable amount of damage done. The Paraguayan consulate was blown to pieces - seven members of its staff were killed - while the Italian 'planes also struck at shipping lying at anchor in Valencia's large port, much of which was destroyed or else rendered inoperable. This in turn hamstrung the Republicans' ability to obtain supplies - especially military equipment from Soviet Russia, as well as coal - and prevented the arrival in Valencia of yet more international volunteers to help their cause. Two of the vessels struck were British: one a merchant ship named The Cabin on which seven sailors were killed and a further eight injured. Another British freighter, the Pinzon was also hit but fortunately the bomb, which landed on the ship's bridge, failed to explode. More than fifty buildings were destroyed in the attack, these seemingly chosen at random, but among them was one which, despite or perhaps because of its status, had clearly been singled out for destruction: the large hospital run by the Red Cross. At the time, this was staffed not only by Spanish doctors and nurse but also by international volunteers who had brought in much needed medical supplies from abroad. Even though the Red Cross hospital was clearly marked as such, there being a large flag emblazoned with the organisation's emblem on its roof, Italian 'planes had bombed it; unsurprisingly, the hospital was full of casualties and during the attack patients were blown from their beds and killed.

Not that the Nationalists had things entirely their own way; the day after the heavy raid on Valencia, the air base at Soria, whence the Italian 'planes had returned, was in turn attacked by the Republican air force which hit and machine-gunned fifty planes on the ground.


It was at the beginning of May, in the warn torn city of Valencia, that Danny Branson first learned of the kidnapping of his much loved English cousin Robert Crawley; this quite by chance and in the most unlikely of places.

Danny had made his way to Valencia in the company of a ragtag band of Republican soldiers and civilian refugees, travelling much of the way on foot, and then for the last stretch of the journey on board a heavily overcrowded, agonisingly slow moving train. In fact, so slowly did the refugee train grind its way along the single ribbon of line towards Valencia that at one point several of Danny's pals jumped down to scrump oranges from the groves of trees bordering the line before climbing back aboard the packed carriage in which they were travelling.

At long last, in a cloud of steam and beneath a thick pall of acrid black smoke, the heavy train clanked its way into the huge railway station at Valencia - the enormous, ornate Estación del Norte. Here amid the noise of clanging buffers and squealing brakes, it drew finally to a stand just as darkness was falling. No sooner were all the passengers off the train than the city's air raid sirens began their mournful wail. This included those mounted atop the military observation post set up on El Miguelte; the 63 metre high medieval bell tower of Valencia's cathedral which stood on what was now called the Plaza de la Región Valenciana.

The warning of incoming enemy aircraft had the desired effect for immediately everyone from the train was down the platform like a shot, running hither and thither, scurrying for cover. Some, no doubt, sought safety in one or more of the forty three officially designated air raid shelters or Refugios. Others presumably scrambled down into some of the more makeshift shelters - in the hundred or so deep basements and cellars appointed by the government as places which could also be used by the civilian population to try and escape the near constant air raids. Yet others took the chance offered by more rudimentary cover - in nearby doorways and passages. At the urging of local residents, Danny and his pals too began to run to seek safety which for them turned out to be in the refugio which had been built beneath the sprawling station.

However, even though the newly built shelter had thick concrete walls, which were heavily sand-bagged, those taking cover inside felt the ground shake repeatedly as outside a succession of bombs, none dropped from any great height as the whine they made when falling was but brief, now rained down upon the city. The steady progress of the Nationalist 'planes across the length and breadth of the city was marked by a series of massive explosions as they unleashed their deadly cargo of high explosives which detonated upon impact. Here, beneath the railway station, in the overcrowded shelter, reeking of cigarette smoke, the stench of unwashed bodies, mixed with the noxious smells of sweat, urine, excrement, and vomit, midst the fractious cries of babies and the whimpers of frightened children, a chance encounter now took place; one which, not that Danny knew it at the time, would change the course of his life forever.


On the terrace, Shepheard's Hotel, overlooking Ibrahim Pasha Street, Cairo, Kingdom of Egypt, late April 1937.

"Papa?"
"Hm?" Friedrich, drumming his fingers on the table, looked over at Max, but for all that, clearly unseeing.

Realising that his father was obviously distracted - as well might he be - patiently, Max repeated his question.

"Do you think that..." Max hesitated. "What I mean is..."
"What my darling boy?"

"Will... will the British authorities find Robert?"

"Yes, my boy. Of course they'll find him".

Max paused but nevertheless he had to ask what he now did. So, he looked directly across at his father.

"Alive?"

That single clipped word brought Papa up short. A moment later, Max saw his father nod his head emphatically.

"That too".

"You really mean it?"

"Of course. Surely you know me better than to think I would ever give you a false hope where none existed? No, there is doubt at all. In fact, from what your Uncle Matthew told me on the telephone, after I had spoken with your mother, while your uncle was very cautious in what he said, in case someone was listening in on the call, I know for certain that the net is fast closing in around those who are holding Robert".

Max let out a pent up, heartfelt sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank goodness!" He paused. "What did Mama say?"

"As you might expect - that firstly she sends you her love. That she is very concerned. That she is praying all will be well".

Max nodded.

Aged fifteen, he was not at all religious; never ever had been and, despite what Papa had just said, he had never known his mother place any store in the power of prayer. It had ever been thus and had, Max assumed, something to do with the fact that Mama had no time for a deity who allowed her son to suffer so as Max did with his haemophilia. That Mama knew also that it was she who had given him the disease that caused him so much pain only made matters worse.

With his father's attention now claimed completely by the arrival of two British officers, Max sat back and sipped his drink; his thoughts were on Robert naturally, but also on dearest Danny somewhere out in Spain fighting for the Republican cause.

Close at hand, someone cleared his throat. Max looked up to see standing beside their table another man, an Arab dressed in dusty robes, his face all but hidden beneath the deep hood of his burnous. The man bowed and as he straightened up, studying him a tad more closely, Max saw the other's dark eyes glitter, flicker with amusement, before his face broke into a wide and ready smile.


Estate Office, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, late April 1937.

Matthew was well pleased with the outcome of his latest telephone call to one of his several contacts up at the Foreign Office, having received assurances from the highest level that everything that could be done was being done to find Robert. In fact, thanks to an informer within the Arab British military intelligence out in Egypt already knew where Robert was being held: at a remote oasis somewhere west of Cairo. It seemed too that the had realised they had blundered in that the kidnapping of the young Englishman would do nothing but harm to their cause. Not that it was known at the time but later it would be claimed, although never substantiated, that Al-Mahdia herself had a hand in what later transpired.


Valencia, Republican Spain, May 1937.

Among the many people taking refuge in the shelter were a group of nurses from the Red Cross Hospital who stumbled down into the refugio just before the door to it was closed and the first bombs began to fall; not that they paid much attention to any of the others already present, seating themselves on a bench close to where Danny and his pals were sitting. Close by a mother was having difficulty with one of her three children, a babe in arms. It seemed that the little boy was suffering from colic and one of the nurses, a dark haired young woman, rose to her feet and went over to see if she could be of any help. From a worn leather satchel, Danny now saw her produce both a small metal spoon and a glass bottle which, from its blue and white label, Danny recognised immediately as containing Woodwards' Gripe Water. Ma had dosed both he and Saiorse with the same mixture when they were little. Meanwhile, a couple of Danny's compatriots tried to engage the nurses in conversation but to no avail.

Having replaced both the spoon and the medicine bottle back in her satchel the young nurse returned to where she had been sitting with her friends, having to pass by Danny in order to do so. For one brief moment, glancing down at the good looking, dark haired Irishman, the eyes of the young nurse met those of Danny. Outside, another explosion; and as yet another shower of dust descended, the nurse glanced up at the ceiling. She shrugged her shoulders dismissively, smiled again at Danny, and sat down once more beside her friends.

Above the refugio, as one enormous explosion followed hard upon the heels of another, the pitiful handful of electric bulbs which provided the shelter with its only form of lighting began to flicker. A moment later they went out altogether, plunging the whole of the cavernous space into a foetid inky blackness. At this, a howl of dismay went up whereupon some of those present now produced stubs of candles and lit these so as to provide the shelter with an improvised, makeshift form of lighting but without the slightest thought being given as to just how dangerous this could prove in the overcrowded refugio.


Independent House, Abbey Street Middle, Dublin, Irish Free State, late April 1937.

Here in Dublin at the offices of The Irish Independent, lost in thought, indeed all but unseeing, Tom Branson stood looking out of the window down onto the bustling thoroughfare that was Abbey Middle Street. During the last few months, whenever he had found himself thus predisposed, his thoughts had, quite naturally, been centred on darling Danny away fighting for the Republican cause in far distant Spain. That was until now.

However, today, it was the welfare of someone else who occupied Tom's thoughts, someone else just as dear, who was even further away than Danny: young Robert Crawley who had, it was said, been kidnapped by Egyptian Nationalists who were determined to end the continuing British presence in Egypt. Although the country had become independent back in 1922, Great Britain still retained a significant military presence there as well as exerting considerable influence in many spheres - in both the government and the administration of the country. Indeed ever since being granted independence, opposition to the continued presence of British had continued to grow. Tom recalled Edith telling him that hatred of the British had manifested itself very markedly as far back as the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun when in the aftermath Howard Carter had proposed taking the treasures from the tomb back with him to England. The neophyte Egyptian government stated that the tomb and all of its contents belonged to Egypt and in February 1924 it seized control of both. The following month, which saw the formal opening of the tomb to the public, had seen yet more anti British demonstrations demanding an end to Britain's presence in the country.

Of course, Tom was only too well aware that here at The Indy his connection to one of England's leading aristocratic families was known to many, although for most on the paper details of the precise familial relationship were somewhat hazy. Not that this in itself was surprising. After all, the elopement from England over here to Ireland of the youngest daughter of the late earl of Grantham with the family's Irish chauffeur at the end of the Great War was now almost ancient history and of little import. However, because of the position Tom held, as Deputy Editor, Tom knew he had had to tread very carefully indeed. This was in the matter of how his own newspaper reacted to and then reported on the kidnapping of his English nephew.

For, if Tom was seen to promote the story of Robert's kidnapping at the expense of reporting on other matters, those which were of rather more import to the population of the Irish Free State, especially those resident here in Dublin, then Tom had no doubt that he would find himself subject to charges of nepotism. After all, what did the abduction in Egypt of the eldest son of a British Peer of the Realm really matter to the majority of the population of the Irish Free State - even if the country was presently still part of the far flung British Empire? As for how much longer this continued to be the status quo remained to be seen. Long since, de Valera had abolished the Oath of Allegiance to the British Crown and the Senead too, as well as making other amendments to the present constitution - established following the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty back in 1921. Yet when de Valera had tried to use the abdication of Edward VIII to abolish both the crown and governor-general in the Free State, he found he could not and had to promulgate further legislation to do so. The forthcoming General Election would doubtless resolve all the outstanding matters. However, if The Indy relegated Robert's story to its inside pages, doubtless Tom would find himself subject to charges of callousness. It was a question of walking a very fine line indeed.

Seated back at his desk, before he began work on drafting the article on Robert's abduction, there was something Tom needed to do. He reached for the telephone, picked up the receiver and, when the exchange answered, asked that he be put through to a very familiar number.


"Downton Abbey. This is the butler speaking".

On hearing the voice of Thomas Barrow, Tom scowled.


Valencia, Republican Spain, April 1937.

Finally, with the all-clear at last sounding from the sirens, in a disorganised rabble everyone in the shelter stumbled their way outside into a rabbit warren of darkened, rubble strewn, bomb damaged streets, lit fitfully by the flames of burning buildings. Now, as Danny and his compatriots trooped their way along the narrow streets, he saw that many bore signs of having recently been renamed; stripped of the saints' names which they had borne for centuries and now instead called after heroes of the Russian Revolution such as the one which they were on - El Paseo de Lenin. Indeed, here in Valencia Russian influence was clearly to the fore with posters informing one and all of Communist meetings plastered on buildings, fences, and walls, while red flags hung from the public buildings. A short while later, they found themselves at their latest billet in what had once been a church - an great empty shell of a building, its statues and windows smashed and its altars defaced, all but shorn of its ancient holiness, and now commandeered for another use - something which had been happening all over Spain in Republican held territory.


Old Carpenter's Shop, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, May 1937.

"Now, what?" Thomas mused. Here in the dim interior of the old carpenter's shop, among the flotsam and jetsam of long abandoned tools, the wood shavings, and the piles of sawdust, Thomas fumbled inside his jacket and took out his cigarette case; a present given to him by Maundy insofar as he had seen it lying on one of the occasional tables in Gregory's flat and had picked it up. Of beautiful craftsmanship and of good weight too, the surface of the case was finely etched with a filigree design of curling tendrils of foliage, beautifully executed. The curved sided hexagonal cartouche within the centre was entirely blank; devoid of initials. As for the hallmark within, if Thomas remembered what he had been taught aright, the marks indicated that the case had been made in Birmingham. One of Thomas's passing acquaintances had been the son of a jeweller who at the time the two men had met - outside the ornate, bow fronted tea tooms and café at York station as a result of a missed connection - owned a small shop in The Shambles. Among several other things Ben had taught Thomas had been what to look for in items made of gold or silver.


8 Rue d'Anjou, 8th Arrondissement, Paris, Republic of France, late autumn 1935.

The autumn day was chill and cold and a sudden burst of hail laden rain drummed against the tall windows of the apartment. Seated over by the hearth where a bright fire burned in the grate, watching the younger man from beneath hooded lids, Maundy Gregory saw Thomas pick up the cigarette case.

"Yes. A pleasing little trinket that. Have it if you want it". Glancing down at the fire, Gregory clasped his hands together; fingers interlaced.

Thomas looked up; he shook his head.

"I couldn't possibly; it's far too valuable. Thank you, but no".

"Why ever not? After all, it's not as if it's mine. It was left here by... Well, no matter who left it here, he won't be coming back for it".

"I see".

"No, you don't, not yet".

Instinctively Thomas felt there was something chilling here. It was as if the tip of an icy finger now traced its way down the full length of his spine. Involuntarily Thomas felt himself shiver. All the same, he felt compelled to ask of his host what he now did.

"So, why won't he be coming back, then?"

"Why? Because the silly young arse went and threw himself off the Pont de l'Alma. Or so I am led to believe. That's, quite close to here. And all because..." Gregory paused. "No, that doesn't matter. His body was pulled out of the Seine a month or so ago. Not a pleasant sight to behold".

Knowing Gregory as Thomas did, he thought it was quite within the realms of possibility that he had had the young man killed or perhaps driven him to commit suicide. Thomas immediately snapped shut the silver cigarette case; placed it firmly back on the table from whence he had taken it.

"Oh, do take it, please. That's how it works, dear boy, even amongst friends".

"And if I do, what will you then want from me in return?"

"You really think me that mercenary?"

"I don't know what to think".

"Well, sit down and I'll help you".


Old Carpenter's Shop, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, May 1937.

Having extracted a cigarette from out of the silver case - the hitherto blank cartouche now engraved with his own initials - Thomas lit it, inhaled deeply, and stood looking down dispassionately at Billy's unconscious body. This was all rather regrettable; singularly unfortunate. He should have kept his temper rather than having done as he had. However, maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the present predicament. First, and foremost, whatever his faults - which were many - Thomas had been around long enough, had worked extremely hard to attain the position he now held here as butler at Downton Abbey. After all, in the West Riding, was not Downton one of the finest country houses in Yorkshire? All this being so, he was was not prepared to let a little bastard like Billy Price best him. However, as to what Thomas did next rather depended if he could pull off what he had in mind. For Billy was not as bright as he seemed - all that he had to give proof of what he had alleged was the letter from Günther and he had made the foolish mistake of letting Thomas know not only that he had it but that he had brought it with him. With Thomas in possession of the letter Billy had nothing with which to force him into doing anything.

Kneeling down among the wood shavings and sawdust, Thomas felt inside Billy's jacket and, having found what he was looking for pulled out the letter. Only a cursory glance was necessary; yes, the handwriting on the envelope was Günther's. However, as much as he was impatient to read what Günther had written, for the present that would have to wait. there were things he had to do. So, instead, Thomas squirreled the letter away inside his overcoat. Festooned with cobwebs and gathering dust, on the heavy carpenter's bench, on shelves, and hanging on the walls, were long abandoned tools and all manner of odds and ends from the days when the workshop had been in use. Among these were several lengths of rope and it was not long before Thomas had the unconscious Billy trussed up like a chicken ready for market. A piece of rag stuffed into Billy's mouth ensured that he would not be able to make his presence know, the less so after Thomas had manhandled the unconscious young man out of sight behind a pile of old sacks. Thomas needed a breathing space in which to set in motion what he had in mind.

So, with Billy hors de combat, having secured the door to the old workshop, Thomas set off back up to the house. It would be as well if for the present no-one working there saw him return.


Author's Note:

In England the summer of 1933 was very hot indeed while the rainfall was less than that of any summer since the years 1870 and 1887.

For what happened in both Austria and Hungary in 1933 - when the Bransons and the Crawleys went to stay with the Schönborns - see my story Alpine Interlude.

The siege of Madrid lasted for over two and a half years; the city finally fell to the Nationalists in March 1939.

In Valencia, some of the old air raid shelters still survive and are now tourist attractions.

Gripe water - a herbal remedy created in 1851 by William Woodward, an English chemist, and used to treat colic. The original formula contained both alcohol and sugar in addition to sodium bicarbonate and dill oil. Opinion is divided as to whether it is efficacious or not.

Designed by Donnelly, Moore, Keefe. and Robinson architects, the extravagantly detailed neoclassical Independent House at 87-90 Abbey Street Middle was built in 1924 following the destruction of much of the centre of Dublin during the Easter Rising of 1916. It remained as the offices of The Irish Independent until the paper moved to new premises in 2000.

de Valera - Éamon de Valera (1882-1975) was an American-born Irish statesman and political leader who served both as head of the Irish government and of the Irish state on several occasions. He was responsible for ushering in the country's new constitution in 1937.

The Irish General Election of July 1937 would lead to the adoption of a new constitution and with the country's name being changed from that of the Irish Free State to Ireland (or Éire). Amongst other matters, the new constitution asserted a territorial claim to Northern Ireland, as well as making no mention of the British Commonwealth.

The Pont de l'Alma over the Seine in Paris opened in 1856 and was named for a victory won by the British, French and Ottoman Turks against the Russians during the Crimean War. Subsequently rebuilt in the early 1970s, these days the bridge is better known for being the site of the car crash that caused the death of Diana, Princess of Wales in August 1997.