Chapter Nine

Of Cabbages And Kings

Rosenberg, Lower Austria, February 1937.

At the time, Edith thought there must be a perfectly rational explanation for what happened but later, especially with what came after, she was not at all sure that this was indeed the case. That rather, what she experienced, was indeed wholly inexplicable.

The night after Friedrich and Max had left for Trieste, before retiring, having looked in on little Kurt, to find him lying on his tummy, fast asleep, having tucked him in and kissed him, Edith then did what she always did, and walked along the corridor to Max's bedroom. Despite the age he was now - almost fifteen - each evening she still went in and said goodnight to him.

Goodnight, Mama.

Goodnight, my own precious darling.

And she did so now, at least in spirit.

Softly opening the door to Max's bedroom, Edith slipped quickly inside, closing the door firmly behind her. The shutters too were closed, but the bedside lamp was on and so, standing beside the door, Edith glanced around the familiar room, taking in the homely furnishings, the bed; Max's desk - he had his own now - the bookcase with its collection of novels in both German and English, among them The Three Musketeers from which Mary had read to him when he had been ill; the little model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling and, lastly, mounted on the wall behind the bed, the full size aircraft propeller which had been a Christmas present to Max when he was still a little boy from Conrad Wyss. Back in 1933, along with his chum Salvatore, Wyss had spirited Matthew, Mary, and Tom out of Hungary and flown them to safety here in Austria.

Now doing, had she known it, much as Sybil had done recently upstairs in Danny's bedroom on Idrone Terrace, Edith crossed the room and went and sat on her son's bed. Even though it had been made up, she saw that the pillow, while plumped, still bore the faint indentation of Max's head. Edith caressed the spot with her fingertips; let them linger briefly on the spot where Max's head had rested.

"Goodnight, my very own precious darling," she whispered softly, kissing the tips of two fingers of her right hand then pressing them against the very same place. A moment later, Edith stood up, crossed to the door, quitted the silent room, and went quietly along the passage to her own bedroom.


On board the S.S. Conte Biancamano, Eastern Mediterranean, February 1937.

With dinner now over, Friedrich and the two boys wended their way slowly across the dance floor, moving through the pressing melee of dancers. For all of his youthful years, Max caught the eyes of several of the young ladies present; Rob digging his cousin in the ribs, teasing him mercilessly on account of the looks Max was receiving.

Having left the First Class Dining Room, on reaching the head of the Main Staircase, it was here that the three parted company. With letters to write, as well as several telegrams to send, including one to Edith back at Rosenberg and another to Horst out in Palestine, who had been left in charge of the dig at Samaria, telling the two boys to take care of themselves, Friedrich made his way back to his cabin.

Left to their own devices, and before they too turned in for the night, Rob and Max embarked on several gentle turns around the liner, sauntering companionably together along the polished boards of the Promenade Deck with its potted palms and rows of empty steamer chairs.

A while later, and now on their third circuit of the vessel, they stopped and stood together side by side at the stern of the liner. Here, leaning on the ship's rail, looking down upon the churning, frothing wake marking the passage of the great ship, gazing out into the velvet darkness of the night, the silence of the star pricked blackness, broken only by the pulsating, steady throb of the liner's twin turbines, Rob cocked an ear.

"Listen," he said; then gave a low chuckle. "Someone's enjoying themselves!"

Max did as his English cousin had bidden him. Faintly, from somewhere on board the ship, there came to Max's ears the strains of a well known song. An incongruous one to be being sung here, for it was an English tune, from the Great War, over for almost twenty years, being sung with gusto, on board an Italian liner, in the eastern Mediterranean. Yet for all this, the ditty, and especially its rousing chorus, were known the world over.

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye, Piccadilly,
Farewell, Leicester Square!
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

Max nodded. With its Irish connections, the song made him now put into words what he had been thinking.

"If only we had some firm news of Danny ..." he said softly.

For a moment, Rob said nothing; simply stood and looked thoughtfully at his much loved Austrian cousin. While there was nothing at all mawkish about the enduring affection between the three boys, born out of a shared experience that had taken place several years ago, high in the French Alps, they loved each other dearly.

"Max, old chum, don't worry. Danny will be just fine. After all, he has something which neither you nor I possess".

"What's that?"

"Why, the luck of the Irish of course!"
Max grinned.

"For sure," he said, now mimicking the absent Danny's accent to perfection. "All the same, I ..." He shrugged. Tears starting, so that Rob should not see, briefly, he turned his head away.

Rob sighed, then nodded.
"Agreed. And despite what I just said, like you, I do so wish that we had some news of him".

Max smiled wanly.

"I wonder where on earth he is now ..."

"No doubt having an absolute whale of a time. What did I say? Luck of the Irish, Danny!"


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, about the same time.

Edith awoke with a sudden start, and to find herself bathed in sweat.

The dream had been especially unpleasant.

And vivid too.

Decidedly so.

She had been on board an aeroplane, bound for where she did not know but assumed it must have been London as, later this same year, when the Schönborns crossed to England, to travel to Downton for Christmas, they intended flying from Munich to Croydon by way of Brussels. Yet, if so, then those on board the 'plane were unknown to her. Not that this was at all surprising, as there would, of course, be other passengers on the flight in December but it seemed that Friedrich, Max, and little Kurt, were not on board for, as Edith looked about her, she could see no sign of them at all.

As for the others who were here, they seemed completely oblivious to Edith's presence. A family obviously, although their faces were indistinct; a father, mother, two small boys, and with them too, an older woman whom Edith assumed must be the little boys' grandmother. The younger woman, who was in an advanced state of pregnancy, was clearly in great distress, if not already in the early stages of her labour. A moment later another man appeared in the cabin. Where he came from, Edith knew not, but assumed he must have been speaking to the pilot as he now said something in German to the other about the 'plane coming into land. That all would yet be well.

Scarcely had those words been spoken, than there came a violent jolt, followed in turn by the most terrible noise imaginable as though the 'plane had hit something very hard. With a grinding, rending of metal, it lurched first this way and then that, before spiralling down, faster and faster, spinning out of control towards the ground.

Then everything before Edith dissolved into an enormous fireball of fiery flame.


Bay of Biscay, the previous afternoon.

Unbeknown to those on board the Pieter, here, close to the north coast of Spain, the war at sea between the Nationalists and the Republicans had recently intensified, with the Fascists, seeking to deter all foreign shipping from trading with the Basques - by laying minefields in the Bay of Biscay, and into which the three merchantmen had run.

Owing to the heavy swell of the ocean, and also because of the drifting fogbanks, both of which made it difficult for the gunners on board the Canarias to execute their aim with any degree of precision, thankfully, the first salvo of shells fired at the Pieter fell short, managing instead to drench all those on the deck of the tramp steamer, including Danny Branson, in a deluge of freezing sea water.

"Feckin' hell! Jaysus, that was close!" cried Danny, shaking droplets from out of his hair.

"I think I've shit me cacks!" yelled Liam, likewise now soaked to the skin. He picked himself up from off the deck, only to find that he had sat down hard on a carton of eggs, his discomfiture providing a degree of levity in what was now a decidedly desperate situation.

"Ah, for sure they couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo!" Jimmy laughed; he jabbed several "V" signs in the direction of the looming grey bulk of the cruiser.

"Don't ya believe it! Once those feckin' Fascist pigs find their range, all of us are bleedin' goners!" Develin pulled a mournful face.

A moment later, through the murk, those on the Pieter heard another deafening roar; glimpsed a further flash of dirty orange flames now spout forth from the mouths of the cruiser's massive guns. Instinctively, everyone aboard the tramp threw themselves flat on the deck or else crouched low, huddled by the superstructure of the steamer. For, although the Scottish shipbuilders back in Aberdeen had seen to it in the Pieter they had built a sound vessel - that the steamer had come through the storm off the Isles of Scilly was proof enough - it carried no armour plating. Withstanding rough weather in the North Atlantic was one thing, but in no sense was the Pieter capable of fending off high velocity steel shells fired by a cruiser which was not only faster, but also heavily armed.

However, the second barrage of shells fired by the Canarias overshot the tramp steamer, to explode harmlessly in the fog somewhere off her port side. Nonetheless, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before the gunners on the Nationalist cruiser found their range.

And once that happened ...


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, February 1937.

"Go, why don't you? Knowing you as I do, I think you might find it amusing".

"Really?" Edith arched a brow.

"Probably".

"You know, I think I just might. After all, what harm can it do?"
"None at all. And you can tell me all about it on our return".

"Very well then. I'll write and accept ... that is on my behalf ... and tendering your fulsome apologies".

Friedrich smiled.

"Fulsome, eh? Then, do so. Now, let me say goodbye to you properly".

Friedrich took Edith in his arms.

"I love you so very much".

"And I you".


Schloss Rothschild, Enzesfeldt, Lower Austria, February 1937 a few days later.

"Frau von Schönborn! May I bid you welcome to Schloss Rothschild. I am so very delighted to make your acquaintance". Eugène von Rothschild held out his hand in friendly greeting, at the same time glancing up at the darkening sky as the first flakes of yet another fall of snow began to powder down. "And this is my wife, Kitty".

"Thank you. You've both been most kind".

Kitty smiled cordially at Edith.

"Think nothing of it. His Royal Highness was most insistent about ..." So it was true then.

"About what?"
"That we should extend an invitation to you to dinner. It's such a shame that your husband couldn't join us. You said he was sailing for Palestine, I think?"

"Yes. He sailed a few days ago. From Trieste".

"Well, in that case, his absence can't be helped at all, then. Now, do come inside this instant and get warm".


6 West Street, Downton, Yorkshire, England, February 1937.

Since leaving service some six years ago in the summer of 1931, not long after after the death of Lord Grantham, the Bates family, John, Anna, and their son Alfie now aged all of twelve years, had lived here, at 6 West Street, in a snug cottage, not far from the Grantham Arms. Something which suited old John down to the ground when it came to the matter of an evening pint or two and a quiet but nonetheless competitive game of dominoes in the snug; although to be truthful nowhere in Downton was that far from the village's solitary inn.

However, on this bright, frosty, late February morning, along with Alfie, John was to be found somewhat closer to home, digging over the vegetable patch which lay at the back of the cottage, breaking up the frozen clods of earth with both spade and mattock and in the process producing a fine tilth ready in a few weeks' time for a spring sowing of both kale and peas.


Nonetheless, as he grew older, more often than not, John found that in the winter, his old injury, sustained during the Boer War, pained him. Earnshaw said it was arthritis and that save for a move to warmer climes, there was nothing he could prescribe, save for aspirin. As John had ruefully remarked to Anna one night, sitting beside the fire in the kitchen, when the pain in his leg had been especially bad, not only had he grown stiff in his ways, but now in his joints too. So, before he was completely rusted into his sockets, when Alfie left school in a couple of year's time, perhaps they should consider moving elsewhere. But, had countered Anna, where on earth would they go? Besides, if they did move, Alfie would miss his friends dreadfully; after all, he had grown up with each and everyone of them.

At the time, the two of them had just finished listening to a broadcast on Radio Luxembourg, recorded on the Wurlitzer organ of the Trocadero Cinema, Elephant & Castle, up in London.

"Does that justify us staying put here?" John asked. He glanced round the familiar, homely kitchen, taking in the beamed ceiling, the freshly scrubbed quarry tile floor, and the dresser with its display of gleaming Willow pattern plates. This last was part of a gift of china from Lady Grantham to Anna when the Bates had left service. While it had been a kind thought, and not to look a gift horse in the mouth, it had cost Her Ladyship nothing in the giving. The set of bowls, dishes, plates, and tureens had been found in one of Downton's capacious lofts where, at some time in the past, it had been carefully packed away, in two large, straw-filled wicker baskets, and thereafter forgotten.

"Anyway, it's Alfie I'm thinking of".

"Oh? Just where do you have in mind? Ripon?"

"Too small".

"What about Bradford or Leeds?" Anna asked, now bringing John his evening mug of Ovaltine, which, at times, seemed to help him sleep.

Her husband shook his head before going on to say that he had it in mind to go much further afield.

"Where, exactly?" Anna asked sitting back down beside the fire, sensing what her husband might be about to say.

The British Empire, said John, covered about a quarter of the entire land mass of the globe. With all of the many territories under its sway for a growing lad like Alfie there were opportunities to be had in the Dominions and the colonies. It was then that John made mention, yet again, of his cousin, Edward, from whom they received the occasional letter, birthday good wishes, and a card at Christmas, who lived in North Queensland in Australia where he was the manager of a several hundred acre plantation growing sugar cane. He would be able to advise as to what prospects there were out there for a personable young man.

Failing that, John still had a couple of former army pals, long since demobbed, living out in South Africa, one in Joburg, the other in Bloemfontein, with whom down the intervening years he had kept up a desultory correspondence.

Anna remained unconvinced.

It would mean turning their backs on everyone and everything here when, all things considered, Downton had given them so much. Not only each other, but Alfie too, and thanks to the present Lord Grantham, this house as well, and at a peppercorn rent, although that was not something to be noised abroad. John said he understood but, surely, they both wanted something better for Alfie than joining the army. Anna must see that the days of going into service were over. So, if they stayed here, there was nothing for Alfie except work as a labourer on the estate for the rest of his life. And with His Lordship's plans for mechanisation ... It would be a wrench, but, yes, they could move somewhere like Bradford or Leeds, where the prospects of employment for a young man were better than they were here, although, even with the Depression over, jobs were not as plentiful as they had once been. But would they really be happy there in the city, living out the rest of their days on a grimy terrace street, amid all the dirt and the noise of the factories and the cotton mills? Somehow, he doubted it. So, would she at least think about what he had suggested. Anna had nodded; said she would.

And, up until now, there the matter had rested.


For his part, having been well taught by his father, young Alfie was seeing what could still yet be harvested from last year's vegetables: some Brussels sprouts, a couple of cabbages, a few leeks and the odd parsnip. All of these, Alfie had loaded into the wooden wheelbarrow, ready to trundle them down the path to join the carrots, onions, swedes, turnips, and potatoes in the brick vegetable store at the rear of the cottage. Thus engaged neither John or Alfie heard the snitch of the latch of the gate, nor did they see the stranger coming briskly up the flagstone path to the front door. As for Anna, she was in the kitchen making pastry for a raised steak and kidney - or as young Alfie called it Kate and Sydney - pie when she heard the knock.


"Oh, damn and blast! Alfie, there's someone at the door!" Then, remembering - how could she possibly have forgotten - that her son was in the garden helping his father, Anna went out into the scullery where she hurriedly did her best to wash off the worst of the flour in the Belfast, before wiping her hands on her apron to dry them. A moment later, and she opened the front door.


Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, the previous afternoon.

In his telegram, Tibor had merely hinted that something serious was afoot. While his discretion in the matter was laudable, it was, said Matthew, also infuriating. Just what the hell was going on? Apparently, Tibor and Harriet had conferred with their emissary on the matter, and he - presumably Eccles - would reveal all to Matthew. Not that the telegram couched in vague terms had mentioned any of these three persons by name. But since it ended with two words, Úri utca, agreed upon previously between Matthew and Tibor, this confirmed the latter as its sender. Úri utca was the street on the Var in Budapest on which Tibor's family home stood. However, Tibor was clearly unaware that his emissary had not been able to deliver his message to Matthew; for the very simple reason that, in circumstances which as yet remained unclear, he had fallen from one of the Pullman carriages of the Golden Arrow as it passed at speed through the tunnel at Sevenoaks, and been killed.

Now, having received Tibor's telegram, Matthew was no longer prepared to accept that Eccles' death had been, as the Southern Railway detectives had been at pains to say it was: a regrettable accident caused by a faulty catch on a carriage door. No, there had to have been more to it than that. Far more.


Matthew and Mary were aghast when from the prince of Hesse and by Rhine they learned that a serious plot had been hatched; to kill His Majesty at some point during his Coronation and prepare the ground for the restoration to the throne of his elder brother, with that ghastly American woman as his Consort - this assuming of course, as was widely rumoured, that the Duke of Windsor as he was now styled, had in the meantime married her, just as soon as her divorce from her present, second husband had been finalised. That there were those in the Establishment who would not be averse to such an outcome was bad enough but that the hired, would-be assassin had links to Downton was just as appalling. It was equally clear from what Matthew and Mary had now been told - and in the strictest confidence - that His Highness was not only very well placed to know the truth of how things stood, but also very well informed; that what he had told them was undoubtedly true. That this was so was confirmed when the prince had asked, seemingly innocuous, if His Lordship's Irish brother-in-law, the newspaper editor in Dublin, Mr. Branson, had a relative working at the Wilhelmstrasse.

Slowly, Matthew nodded his assent.

"So I have been given to understand. A distant kinship. A second cousin. Not an association of which my brother-in-law ever likes to be reminded".

"I understand".

"Would you care for some more tea?" Mary asked commonplace.
The prince nodded.

"Thank you, Lady Grantham".

"And just how does any of what you have related to us concern my brother-in-law's cousin?" Matthew asked.
"It is rumoured, that he has been involved in the planning of the conspiracy. Those in or from the Free State have no love for what they see as a foreign monarchy".

"Indeed".

"As for this conspiracy, should it succeed ..."
"It will not," Matthew observed drily.
The prince smiled.

"Like you, I trust it will not". The young man shook his head vehemently "No, it will not. It must not," he said even more firmly. "But, for a moment, please to humour me. Were it to do so, then, despite everything else that would ensue, the repercussions for both you and your family would be considerable, should ever it become known that ..."

"The assassin came from this very estate, that my brother-in-law's cousin ... Yes, of course".

"And make no mistake, it would become known, of that I have no doubt. None whatsoever. There are those, forgive me, who bear you no good will ..."

Matthew nodded.

"A man in my position will always attract his fair share of those who are ... less than well disposed". Matthew grimaced.

Mary smiled; Tom had once said, or had it been Tibor, perhaps it had been the both of them, that the British were ever the masters of the understatement.
"Indeed. Forgive me if you will, but the present ... unpleasantness ... appearing in certain quarters of your Press, I am given to believe that it has something to do with an Englishman now domiciled in Paris. A man by the name of Gregory, whom I believe is well known to you".
"Maundy Gregory?"

"The very same"
"Hardly well known. But in the matter of his involvement with the selling of titles, I made my views clear in the Lords, as to my dislike of both the practice and the man at the centre of the scandal".
The prince nodded.

"So I believe. And thereafter, this Gregory, he served a period of imprisonment?"
"Quite so".
"And remarkably lenient". It was not a question; simply a statement of fact.

"Indeed. I am given to believe strings were pulled. Friends in high places and so forth. Principally, the Conservative Party. That in return for keeping silent on certain matters, Gregory was allowed to depart these shores ..."

Again the prince nodded.

"And take up residence in Paris where, from time to time, he still receives visitors from England. And one, very recently, who I feel certain will be of especial interest to you".

"Oh?"

"Your butler".

"Barrow?"
"If that is his name". The prince nodded.

"How do you ..."
"Know?"

The prince smiled.

"Lord Grantham, like any self respecting legation, our Embassy in London has all manner of contacts. Even some which might surprise you". It was clear that the prince would not be drawn on how this particular piece of information had come into his possession, any more than he had vouchsafed his sources for the other matters he had imparted.


Not long afterwards, the prince took his leave of the Granthams.

It was as they walked out to the motor, that he now let slip that he was courting an English girl; not that he named her.

"Actually, that's not quite right. To be perfectly honest, she was born in Dublin". The prince smiled; went on to say that he hoped shortly to propose and that if his proposal was accepted, then the wedding would take place in London towards the end of the year. "That, of course, would mean my own family flying over for the ceremony from Wolfsgarten, our home in Germany. But, save for the fact that my parents are elderly, that should not present any particular difficulty".

Mary laughed.

"Your Highness, may I respectfully suggest that first you make your proposal to the young lady and have it accepted, before planning the venue for the wedding!"

The prince laughed.

"But, of course," he said with a shamefaced grin. "You've both been very kind. Now, I regret it must be so, but more play acting". Coming smartly to attention, once more he clicked his heels together, and gave the Nazi salute. Then with more conventional farewells having been said, a moment later, the motor from the German embassy was drawing away from the abbey, moving off sedately down the drive.

"Well!" said Mary.

"Well, indeed!" echoed Matthew.


With the visit here to Downton by von Ribbentrop to take place in less than a fortnight's time - the prince would not be in attendance - given what they had learned from him, it now fell to Matthew to decide how best to proceed. For, even if he had made it up to Yorkshire, Armitage could be holed up anywhere. And while there were a handful - no more than that - of individuals who Matthew trusted implicitly, who could be called upon to help in the search, they were in short supply. For the time being, he was, undeniably, on his own. In this, the greatest of all matters, protecting the life of the as yet uncrowned king, His Majesty's safety was paramount. Time was of the essence and, with the Coronation set for the 12th May, barely three months hence, it was fast running out - to find a needle in a haystack and so prevent a regicide.


6 West Street, Downton, the following morning.

"Mrs. Bates? Mrs. Anna Bates?" The young man politely raised his cap.

"Who is it who wants to know?" asked Anna, cautiously. When she had answered the door, she had expected to find it was old Mrs. Green from two doors up, asking to borrow another cup of sugar. Instead she found standing before her, right on the doorstep, until she motioned him off it, a young man whom she did not know.

Attempting to ingratiate himself, her visitor smiled.

"It's cold".

Anna was in no mood to be wasting time on pleasantries concerning the vagaries of the weather or for that matter, anything else.
"Maybe. I've things to do. So state your business".

"I was given your address by someone over there on the High Street". The man indicated down the road with his thumb.

"Were you, now?" Anna was clearly unconvinced. "And just who might that have been?"

The young man smiled; countered her question, evasively so, with another of his own.

"I believe you used to work up at the abbey?"
"If I did, what of it?"

"Just before the Great War, there was a Turk..."

The man got no further with what he had been about to say.

"You're another of those damned reporters!". In a trice, Anna had grabbed hold of the besom broom used for sweeping the front path and which providentially, as it happened, was leaning conveniently against the jamb of the door; jabbed the besom hard, bristles foremost at the man. "Go on, be off with you!" It was at precisely this moment that John and Alfie came back into the kitchen from the rear of the house.

"Mum, we've got the last of the ..." Alfie began. Seeing his mother berating the unknown visitor, Alfie fell silent. For his part, realising immediately that something was amiss, John crossed the room as quickly as he could and came to stand behind Anna.

"You heard my wife. Now, clear off. Or else I'll set the dog on you! Alfie ..."

"Yes, dad?"

"Fetch Bull's-eye!"

"Bull's eye?"

"Yes! And be quick about it!" snapped his father, not taking his own eyes off the young man standing before him.

For Alfie, the penny dropped.

"Yes, dad!" The boy grinned and, in a flash, at a turn of speed which his father could only envy, disappeared out back.

While the Bates's indeed had a dog, it was a black, short haired Scottish terrier named Whisky, spelt the Scottish way, as some years ago John had delighted in reminding Lady Sybil's husband Mr. Branson when, out for a stroll with Whisky, he had chanced to encounter the affable Irishman, his erstwhile colleague, walking down the High Street. According to John, Anna and Alfie spoiled Whisky rotten and while the little dog snapped, he would no sooner bite anyone than would he give a rendition of The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond. But for all that, John jokingly referred to him at times as Bull's-eye, Bill Sykes' pit bull in Oliver Twist.

"All right, mate, keep your hair on! I'm going!"
"You're no mate of mine. And, like I said, be off with you!"

Keeping a wary eye on both the husband and the wife, the young man backed slowly away from the door, before turning and walking briskly off down the brick path, glancing back to see that Bull's-eye was not coming after him, yapping at his heels, and making doubly sure that once he was through it, he closed the front gate firmly behind him.


Safely back inside his motor, with the two doors not only closed but also locked, the young man glared at the front of the cottage. Still, he had another address to try.

There was, he had been told, a farm, some distance away from the village, one which did not belong to the estate, and which, somewhat surprisingly, was run by a woman. It was a remote place by all accounts, but if what he had heard in the snug of the Grantham Arms - the price of a couple of pints worked wonders when it came to loosening tongues - was true, it was worth following up. The owner of the farm, a widow, whose husband, like so many others of her generation, had been killed in the Great War, a Mrs. Mason had been in service at the abbey when the matter in which the reporter was interested was said to have occurred. Given that she was said to have fallen on hard times, then perhaps, for a consideration, Mrs. Mason would be rather more forthcoming than that bloody shrew of a woman Bates and her curmudgeonly sod of a husband.


Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, later that same morning.

Approached down a long, winding, boggy, stone track, as the motor drew slowly to a stand up by the gate, it was self evident from the rundown state of both the house and the outbuildings that the farm had seen better days. While he sat in his car, pondering what he should say, so as to ensure that he was not sent away from here empty-handed as he had been from the Bates's cottage down in the village, the reporter saw a young woman come round one corner of the byre. Bent double, she had a bale of straw balanced on her back and was leading a heifer by a halter with a little calf trotting alongside its mother. Looking up, the woman gave the motor and its solitary occupant a cursory glance, before, unconcerned, disappearing inside the byre. Why should she do otherwise? After all, no-one ever came here.


Leaving the motor where it was, the reporter unlatched the gate, and walked down the track to the farm. There had been no further sign of the woman whom he assumed must still be in the byre.

"And who be you?"

The reporter turned to see the woman he had seen earlier standing in the doorway of the byre with a yoke across her shoulders supporting two wooden pails each brimful of milk.

"Are you Mrs. Mason? Mrs. Daisy Mason?"

"Who wants her?"

"Someone who can tell her something to her advantage".

"Then you'd best come in the house," replied Daisy.


Schloss Rothschild, Enzesfeldt, Lower Austria, February 1937.

Not that she had ever had much opportunity of wearing them, but tonight, for her visit to the Schloss Rothschild, Edith, attired in a stunning Schiaparelli emerald green gown, had put on the magnificent tiara, matching necklace and earrings that Friedrich had bought her when darling Max had been born; the set of gemstones being those of which Mary had been, and, if the truth were told, continued to be, so envious.


The dinner was excellent and the conversation proved stimulating. Whether by accident or by design, politics were, at least to begin with, well avoided, and adroitly so. Nor was any mention made of the Duke of Windsor's younger brother, Bertie, of whom he had spoken to Edith when they both had chanced to meet at the Christkindlmarkt in Vienna and who, but a few short months from now, would be crowned King-Emperor in Westminster Abbey, in London.

Eventually Edith, who alone was unknown to all the others, was asked to tell those present something of her own family. So, she told of her childhood, of growing up at Downton, along with something of Matthew - whose work for the League was well known by several of those seated round the table tonight, and of Mary and their children; of Tom and Sybil too, and their brood, though Edith said nothing of Danny's travelling out to Spain to join in the fight against General Franco. And then of her life with Friedrich and of the archaeological excavations they had worked on together in the Near East. Of their ...

"Two boys, I think you said?" His Royal Highness looked enquiringly across the table at Edith for confirmation of the fact.

"Yes, sir; Max is fourteen and Kurt, four".

"Exactly so. There, now, Kitty, for all you and Wallis think I'm scatter-brained". The Duke ghosted a laugh, while the others here present smiled.

"I've never called you that, sir. At least, I don't think I have".

"Dearest Kitty! I didn't ever say you had! All the same, I know you've both thought it often enough!" The Duke turned his attention back to Edith.

"Two boys. Just like my distant kinsman, George Donatus. He and his wife Cécile, they also have two young boys. They live near Frankfurt. At Schloss Wolfsgarten". The Duke smiled. At that very moment, owing to the strength of the wind, a window, which must have been improperly latched, after all, Edith didn't see how it could have been anything other than that, blew wide open, banging back against the wall of the Dining Room with such force that it rattled the glass. Although it was closed and shut fast in an instant by a footman, Edith found herself feeling very cold; in fact, she was chilled to the very inner core of her being and, in that split second, in her mind's eye, she once again found herself standing in the aisle of the 'plane she had glimpsed in her dream just at the point where

there came a dreadful jolt, followed in turn by the most terrible noise as though the 'plane had hit something very hard. With a grinding, rending of metal, it lurched violently, before spiralling down, faster and faster, spinning out of control towards the ground. Then everything before Edith dissolved into an enormous fireball of fiery flame.

"Your ... kinsman?" Edith asked hesitantly.

"Well, in a sense, yes. Even I myself don't know how exactly we are related but his aged father is the Grand Duke of Hesse".

"They now have a little girl too; Johanna," put in Kitty Rothschild. "Born just last year".

"Oh ... Three children then?"
"Yes. Two and one makes three. You see, Kitty, I can do basic arithmetic too!"

"Good for you, sir!"

Everybody laughed; Edith included.

"I see".

"Like you, Frau Schönborn, Don's wife owns the most beautiful tiara. A magnificent creation, designed sir, by your great grandfather, Prince Albert, and known as the Strawberry Leaf, from the petals borne upon it. You know, I'm really quite envious, both of Cécile, and of you". Kitty smiled again at Edith.

"You seem to know more about my own family than I do!" observed the Duke. While his comment could have been taken by the assembled company, as indeed it was, as a jest, since everybody laughed, watching the Duke's face, Edith now saw another side to this seemingly affable, charming man. He did not look at all pleased that there was something he had not known. And about his own family too. His eyes grew dark and his lips thinned, compressed into a narrow, petulant line which was decidedly unattractive.

"Frau Schönborn, are you all right? You look as if you ..." Edith nodded absent-mindedly. There was something else here too. Something chilling.

"It's nothing, sir. For a moment there ... the window ... I found myself feeling very cold".

"But of course you did". The Duke nodded his head sympathetically, before, seemingly bored, abruptly turning to speak with their host about, of all things, the weather.


Edith's mind was in a whirl.

The children who had been mentioned: two boys and a little girl.

There had been no little girl present on the 'plane. So what she knew she had seen, could not possibly have been to do with ...

And so, the strangeness of the moment passed.

Yet for all that ...


Bay of Biscay, the previous afternoon.

For one brief moment, those on the Pieter thought they had escaped, as now, from the direction of the Spanish coast, through the fog, they glimpsed more flashes of both orange and yellow light: artillery fire from the Republican shore batteries, which peppered the sea around the Canarias with at least half a dozen shells, sending up huge columns of spray, but seemingly doing the cruiser no damage whatsoever. However, those on board her had not forgotten about the Pieter. As the barrage from the coast died away, there came another salvo of fire from the Canarias and this time the shells found their target. Horribly so. The first of three shells to hit the Pieter, destroyed the bridge killing all of those inside it, including the captain and the bosu'n; the second scored a direct hit on the tramp steamer's boilers, which exploded, killing most of the engineers and stokers who had befriended Danny; while the third blew the remaining lifeboat to pieces. In a matter of minutes, the Pieter was ablaze from stem to stern, and fast settling by the head.


Estate Office, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, February 1937, a few days later.

Here in the Estate Office, the telephone began to ring with a shrill insistence.

However, despite being seated at his desk, Matthew made no attempt to answer it. Instead, he simply glared angrily at the instrument, willing it to stop. And to his infinite surprise, so it did. But only for the moment, before it began to ring again. Once more, Matthew glowered at the telephone. He grimaced; knew only too well that he was letting this whole business of Armitage get to him.

Since the visit of Prince Louis, over the last few days Matthew had put in train discrete enquiries which had led to reports filtering in from several places hereabouts and from further afield that a man answering to Armitage's description, whatever that meant, had been seen. But even if they were true, he was proving as elusive to pin down as the Cottingley fairies; of no more substance than the proverbial will-o'-the-wisp. The cover story Matthew had given out, for public consumption, was that Armitage's old mother was not long for this world; which was true enough. That it was believed Armitage was in the area, and that if seen, whoever saw him was to notify Matthew immediately of the man's whereabouts.

And then there was what had happened to Eccles. Matthew's attempts to have the Southern Railway re-open the matter had run into the buffers. The railway authorities saw no reason to alter their original findings; unless of course Lord Grantham knew something they did not. And if he did, then would His Lordship be so kind as to inform them just what that was. In the meantime, in the absence of any fresh evidence pointing to foul play, the matter had been fully investigated and the case was now closed. Only for Matthew, of course, it wasn't. So, what to do?

All of this apart, he was growing increasingly worried about Mary: the continued social ostracism she was facing on account of the story published in The News of the World. After all, Matthew knew just how much she enjoyed being countess of Grantham, playing to perfection her part of the undisputed queen bee of county society; even if Mary saw it as merely doing her duty, doing what was required. When all of this had started, he had said they could rise above it. But the longer it went on - the unanswered telephone calls from people they had considered friends, the looks and stares, the muttered calumnies, people turning away from her in Ripon, even here in Downton, that Mary told him she had encountered, was becoming increasingly difficult to endure. Let alone having to put up with a gaggle of reporters hanging about down by the Main Gate - some of them even after darkness fell - so that at times when he came back from visiting one of the remoter farms on the estate, Matthew felt as he imagined Clark Gable must feel, running a barrage of flashlights.

The 'phone continued to ring and this time, looking at it did not produce the result it had done previously. Mouthing one of Tom's Irish expletives, Matthew reached forward and picked up the receiver.

"Crawley!" he barked.

For a moment no-one spoke, and then, Matthew heard a voice on the other end of the line, one which he thought he recognised.

"Is that you, Matthew?" The voice was faint and indistinct. The line crackled ominously as though the connection was about to fail.
"Yes, it is! Who is this?" Matthew snapped impatiently.

"Thank God!"

"Maybe. Who are you?"
"Matthew, it's me ... Tibor".

Author's Note:

"Of Cabbages And Kings" - a line from the poem The Walrus And The Carpenter, by Lewis Carroll.

At this time, there were no international flights from Austria. In fact, Vienna didn't have an airport until after WWII.

In 1921, following the implementation of the Education Act of 1918, the school leaving age in both England and Wales had been raised to fourteen.

If you want to hear the programme John and Anna were sitting listening to, search for Quentin Maclean, organ, Radio Luxembourg Broadcasts, 1937 on the Internet.

Ovaltine - a drinking powder made of malt, milk, eggs and cocoa. First manufactured in Switzerland in 1909, it became very popular in Great Britain. Its correct name was actually Ovomaltine but a mistake made in the spelling of the name on the trademark registration application led to the name being shortened to Ovaltine.

Joburg - Johannesburg.

The Wilhelmstrasse - the name by which the German Foreign Ministry was known - after the street on which it stood.

Despite what is shown in the depiction of the air crash in the Netflix series The Crown, given the severity of the fire, the victims' bodies were burned beyond recognition. However, having been packed carefully inside a strongbox, all the jewellery belonging to the Grand Ducal family, including the Strawberry Leaf Tiara, designed by Prince Albert, survived. Given that most of the women who have owned the piece have either died tragically or else experienced tragedy in their lives, it has been said that, for all its undoubted beauty, the tiara is cursed. Make of that what you will. Today, it is held in trust by what in English is called the Hesse Foundation, set up to preserve the family's enormous art collection and other valuables.

The Cottingley Fairies, of which, living in Yorkshire, Matthew would undoubtedly heard tell, concerned two young girls, cousins, who in 1917 and 1920 took photographs of fairies with whom they said they played down by a stream in Cottingley near Bradford in the West Riding of Yorkshire. At the time, public opinion was split as to whether the photographs were real or fake. No less a personage than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed them to be genuine. Many years later, in the 1980s, in old age the girls admitted that the photographs had been faked.