Chapter Ten

Like A Pig To The Slaughter

I should warn you that part of this chapter is not for the faint hearted.

The Irish Chauffeur

Off Haifa, British Mandated Palestine, February 1937.

Having left Trieste far behind, with the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to port and the Kingdom of Italy off to starboard, the SS. Conte Biancamano steamed majestically down the entire length of the Adriatic. Thence through the Strait of Otranto - where during the Great War the Allies had mounted a blockade to bottle up the Austro-Hungarian Navy in its home port of Pola - and so out into the Mediterranean.

A couple of days later, and in bright sunshine, after a singularly uneventful voyage, the beautiful, white hulled, Italian liner dropped anchor off Haifa where she was now presently awaiting the arrival of the tender from the port, to ferry ashore, along with all their luggage, those passengers who were disembarking for Palestine. Among these, standing on the Promenade Deck, leaning over the side of the liner, watching a decidedly animated scene unfolding below them, were Friedrich and the two boys, all three smart in pith helmets and tropical whites.

While yet some distance off, the tender for the port was already in sight, steaming briskly towards the liner across the choppy grey waters of the Mediterranean. At present, it was passing a dredger noisily at work deepening the harbour, while elsewhere in the wide sweep of the bay, riding hard at anchor, could be seen all manner of vessels among them cargo ships, tramp steamers, and local fishing boats. And not only merchant vessels, but also, lying further offshore, were cruisers and destroyers belonging to the Royal Navy. Friedrich explained that it was not at all unusual to see British warships anchored in the bay; he had seen them here before. However, owing to what he called local difficulties there were more of them than was usually the case. While the Arabs and the Jews were often at each others' throats, the British were no doubt only being prudent as, if the most recent reports were to be believed, it would seem that they had something of an insurrection on their hands. The boys shouldn't worry themselves unduly but they needed to understand how things stood. It never did to take chances. Not out here. For, this was not Europe but the Near East or, as others, including Friedrich himself still called it, the Levant; from the Italian Levante, meaning "rising", referring to the sun ascending from the east.

"There," said Friedrich, describing an arc with his forefinger, "is the Bay of Acre, and that is the port of Haifa. A great deal of the land has recently been reclaimed from the sea by the building of breakwaters and dykes. That new harbour you can see, built by the British, has made Haifa the most important port in this part of the Levant. Beyond is the old town. We'll be staying there tonight in the German Colony - see those red roofs over there - as guests of Otto Schmitt, an old friend of mine from the days of the Great War. As you can see, the land rises steeply through the town, all the way up the slopes of Mount Carmel. That's the patch of high ground on the skyline. And tomorrow, all things being equal, we'll take the train from Haifa to Tulkarem and from there as far as Massoudieh on the narrow gauge railway to Nablus. In all, a journey of about 120 kilometres. For you, Robert, that's about 75 miles. At Massoudieh, we are to be met by my colleague, Herr Horst, who will drive us out to to the site of the dig at Samaria".


For the moment, neither of the boys said anything. Rob nodded politely at his uncle and Max stifled a yawn, which did not go unnoticed by his father. Like Mama, from what Papa said next, it seemed he was equally all-knowing.

"And tonight, my lad, it's early to bed for you. In fact, for the both of you. No more tripping the light fantastic!"

"Papa?"

"There is very little that you do that escapes the notice of your dearest Mama or, for that matter, mine! This morning, when I went to settle my account, the ship's purser told me that my son and his cousin, but particularly you my boy, turned heads on the dance floor in the ballroom last night. No doubt that also explains the price of several glasses of both lemonade and ginger ale added to my bill".

Rob flushed.

"That was my doing, Uncle Friedrich. It was only after I ordered drinks for the girls and the two of us that I remembered I didn't have any money".

"Girls? Well, no matter. I'm not so poor that I cannot stand the price of a couple of rounds of lemonade and ginger ale for my nephew, my son, and their friends! More to the point, did you both enjoy yourselves?"

"Yes, Uncle Friedrich".
"Yes, Papa. Very much". At the remembrance of everything that had happened, Max blushed.

"So the dancing lessons, the ones Mama gave you some years ago, came into their own last night, eh?"

"Yes, Papa. They did".

"Well I won't embarrass either of you by asking any further questions about last night's proceedings. I'm very glad that you both enjoyed yourselves, but Max, please remember to be careful of over doing things. In the heady atmosphere of the ballroom, dancing with a pretty girl, for you, a turned ankle ... Need I say more?"
"No, Papa".

Fortunately for the boys, any further discussion about last night was swiftly curtailed by the arrival alongside the liner of the tender and those passengers who were leaving the ship being told to make their way down to the mustering point for immediate disembarkation.


First Class Ballroom, on board the SS. Conte Biancamano, Eastern Mediterranean, February 1937, the previous night.

Here beneath the coved, painted ceiling of the liner's magnificent, colonnaded ballroom, its expansive wooden floor covered with a huge floral patterned Persian rug, over by the ornate fireplace, smart in their evening attire, Rob and Max were sitting watching those who were dancing. A few moments later, Max became aware that standing in front of him was a pretty dark haired girl wearing a white lace shawl and a pale blue dress. She smiled shyly; pointed at Max; then nodded towards the crowded dance floor.

"You want to dance? With me?" Max asked in German.

Looking down at him, the dark haired girl smiled. Evidently she did not understand. So, Max repeated his answer, this time in perfect English.

"Do you wish me to dance with you, Fraulein?"

The girl nodded her head; held out her hand to him.

Max glanced sideways at Rob.

"What about you?"

"No thanks! If it's all the same to you, old chap, I'll sit this one out!"

"I didn't mean that ..." Max blushed. Like that of his Uncle Tom, and of his own father, Rob's sense of humour was at times, unpredictable.

"I know you didn't, you daft ha'p'orth!" Rob laughed; he ruffled Max's sandy hair. "Anyway, don't mind me". Then, when Max still did not move, Rob resorted to giving him a gentle push. "Go on!" he urged with a grin.

Blushing furiously, Max slowly rose to his feet; led the young girl out onto the dance floor where the band was now playing a quickstep. Having asked his partner her name, which turned out to be Elena, Max introduced himself. Then, without any trace of self consciousness on his part, he bowed gravely to Elena, drew her forward into his arms and, with consummate ease, swung her into the dance.


As Max continued to guide Elena effortlessly around the dance floor, through the spinning milieu of other dancers, on the far side of the ballroom, seated on a banquette, he caught sight of two other girls who seemed to be taking the greatest interest in both him and his young companion. It fell to Elena to explain that the two girls were her sister Sofia and their cousin Gabriella, both of whom had dared her to walk over and ask Max to dance. Along with her parents, younger sister and cousin, Elena, aged seventeen, was travelling first to Alexandria and then, eventually, on to Shanghai, where her father also had business interests.

"Why me?" Max asked as he deftly spun them about.

It was now Elena's turn to blush.

"Because ... they think you to be ... a very handsome boy," she said shyly, not daring to meet Max's eyes.

He grinned.

"And what about you?"
"I think you are very handsome too".

"And you are very pretty". Max dared the forwardness of a gentle peck on Elena's right cheek.

Propinquity struck.

Oh, mein Gott!

Dancing as close together as they were now, with Elena's breasts pressed hard against him, - he could feel her nipples both through her brassière and the filmy material of her dress - Max experienced a sudden tightening in his groin; hoped desperately that Elena was unaware of his growing, throbbing erection.

Now, thanks to Danny, both Rob and Max were well aware of the facts of life, even if to begin with they had treated Danny's explanations on the fraught matter of sex with studied disbelief, which verged on the incredulous. Nonetheless, unsurprisingly, aged not quite fifteen, given his background and his haemophilia, Max was still an innocent. Knew from a frank discussion with Rob the previous night on one of their long strolls around the Promenade Deck, that his English cousin was just as lacking in sexual experience. That said, it would doubtless have surprised the two of them to learn that, for all his apparent knowing ways, Danny, at a couple of years older, was himself, still a virgin.

By now, the other couples on the dance floor were drawing back to the sides of the ballroom, to watch Max and his young partner. At last, and not a moment too soon for Max, who desperately needed to pay a trip to the lavatory, the dance drew to a close. To a ripple of polite applause, again blushing furiously, Max escorted Elena back to where her sister and cousin were still sitting, to find that, having beckoned him over, Rob had joined them. Further introductions were now made and Rob signalled to a steward to place an order for drinks. At this point, unable to put off doing what he knew he had to do, Max hurriedly excused himself, and went in search of the nearest gents.


"Eighteen," said Rob promptly, not batting an eyelid, when asked by Gabriella how old he was. So what if he was only sixteen?

"And your cousin?" Sofia asked.

Sparing a thought for Max, Rob made him the age he himself was. Said Max was sixteen.

"He is German, I think?"

"No, Austrian".

"And you?" Elena asked.
"English".

"Your cousin, he said you are the son of an English lord?"
"Well, er, yes. My father's the earl of Grantham".

Gabriella shrugged. The foreign title meant nothing to her.

"Like a Conte, I think?"
Robert likewise shrugged.

"I suppose so. I don't really know".

"And like your cousin, you are handsome too".

Robert grinned.

"That's jolly decent of you to say so. Ah, here are our drinks! I wonder what the devil's taking Max so long".


In the privacy of the Gentlemens' Toilets, behind the securely locked door of a cubicle, when he was quite certain the toilets were empty, with Elena's scent yet upon him, Max hurriedly slipped down both his trousers and underpants and grasped his swollen penis tightly.

Oh, mein Gott!

A matter of a couple of minutes, little more than that, was all it took, Max dropping his now soiled handkerchief into the pan and pulling the chain. Fortunately, the water pressure on the liner was good and the evidence of what Max had just done vanished in an instant round the U bend and so out into the vastness of the Mediterranean. Having pulled up his underpants and trousers, Max un-latched the door of the cubicle; looked cautiously out. The toilets were empty. Not daring to look at his reflection in the mirror, Max washed his hands thoroughly in the basin, and then made his way back to the ballroom.


Having rejoined the others sitting on the banquette, seated next to Elena, Max took the glass of ginger ale Rob had ordered for him.

"Danke".

Rob smiled.
"My pleasure entirely, old boy". Hearing Max addressed thus, the three girls giggled. "Well, not really," continued Rob grinning like a Cheshire cat. "When the steward asked me, I gave him the number of your father's cabin. Anyway, in my defence, it looks as if you need cooling down".
"Oh?" Max raised a brow.
"Your face is all red".

"Is it?"

Max averted his cousin's gaze; looked studiously down at the floor. When next he happened to glance up, it was to see Rob eyeing him curiously. The moment passed.


The rest of the evening was spent very happily in the company of the three girls, with yet more dancing, with both Max and Rob taking to the floor, taking it in turns to dance with the three girls, along with the ordering of several further glasses of both lemonade and ginger ale. Eventually, the time came for farewells to be said with promises made by one and all, addresses having been given, that they would write to each other.


South of Scarborough, coast of Yorkshire, February 1937.

Sitting cross-legged, cooking stew on his primus stove, Armitage wondered why on earth he hadn't thought of the farm before. It was isolated enough and would be a damned sight more comfortable than living a subterranean existence in the old fort. And if things ever became difficult, well he could always come back here. This apart, the farm was close enough to Downton for him to be able to visit the old woman, along with the rest of the family if he felt the urge to do so. Of course, there yet remained the problem of Daisy. Still, if he played his cards right ...

The following evening, shouldering his pack, Armitage set off, bound for Ripon, which lay about sixty miles east of Scarborough, although, knowing that he was being sought, necessitated taking a longer, more circuitous route. Lying up by day, travelling only at night, keeping off the main thoroughfares, occasionally hopping on and off the odd train without paying, in a manner that was worthy of Tom Branson, if all went well, by Armitage's estimation, two days should bring him to the farm.


Edward Armitage had known Daisy Mason for several years. Knew too, however much old man Mason had doted on Daisy until the day he died, that there had never really been anything between her and that queer looking cove, William. She'd never wanted to marry the daft bugger, however much he mooned after her. By the time she did, the poor lad was dying of his injuries got out on the Western Front having been caught in the same blast as Captain Crawley. But while the captain, His Lordship as now was, eventually made a full recovery, it had been curtains for young William. As for the marriage between him and Daisy, it had never been a true one; at least, not in any physical sense. After all, how could it have been, with the wedding being solemnised a matter of hours before William had breathed his last? As if to reinforce this, just the soon as old Mason had also croaked, this was back in 1931, Daisy reverted to using her maiden name of Robinson; even if folk still referred to her as Mrs. Mason. Within a matter of months, she had sold Mason's farm, and bought Lower Hall, which was where she was living when Armitage had first got to know her, following his release from Armley Gaol in Leeds in 1931; not that they had become lovers until the spring of 1935.

For, in between Armitage and the late, unlamented William, Daisy had had a couple of other admirers, but both these relationships had ended badly and, as far as the latter of these, Joe Mumford, a signalman with the London and North Eastern Railway, was concerned, quite literally in pieces. This was after he had been given his marching orders by dear Daisy, who had finally thrown him over for Armitage after entertaining the attentions of the two men, each being entirely ignorant of the other's existence, for several years. Something which had been relatively easy for Daisy to achieve, with Edward Armitage now in the army serving both King and Country, and Mumford working long shifts, and often away from the area. However, when, in due course, Daisy had made her choice, Mumford had taken it very badly. So badly, that on Friday 25th October 1935, he had walked out in front of the Silver Jubilee, just as it was approaching York at speed. Thereafter, it was rumoured that what was buried in the churchyard at Downton was not all of him. That, despite a thorough search of the railway line in the vicinity of the accident, parts of Joe remained unaccounted for.

But if you will walk in front of an express train, running at over a hundred miles an hour, what can you expect? In passing it should be noticed that this sad incident did little for the publicity extolling the comfort, punctuality, and reliability of the Silver Jubilee - greatly to the annoyance of the LNER.

Later, when Daisy found she was expecting a child and wrote and told Armitage so, word came there none. About three months gone, in the winter of 1935, Daisy slipped in the farmyard on a patch of sheet ice. The result was inevitable; she lost the baby. After a spell in the Cottage Hospital in Downton - amongst others, Anna visited her there but knowing only that Daisy had suffered a fall. The, when she was sufficiently recovered, Daisy had returned to Low Hall and cut herself off from everyone; which was how things stood, that fateful morning, when the young reporter from The Yorkshire Post came calling.


Bay of Biscay, off the North Coast of Spain, late February 1937.

The Pieter was now an inferno of flame and smoke.

With her bows already fast slipping beneath the waves, her remaining lifeboat destroyed, and her stern lifting clear of the sea, exposing the propellers, as the angle of the sinking ship grew ever steeper, all those on board who were left alive - barely twenty or so out of a total of nearly fifty - could do was to take their chances by jumping into the sea. Salvation beckoned close by, this in the form of the two British merchantmen, the crews of which, even allowing for the fog, must have witnessed what had happened. Surely, one or even both of the ships would launch a boat and try and rescue the survivors from the Pieter. But, if so, they were taking a devil of a long time about doing so. It was then that another salvo from the Spanish cruiser hit the Pieter, killing outright a group of survivors huddled by the base of the funnel.

After this, save for the incessant crackle and roar of the greedy flames, an eerie silence descended briefly on the scene. But of any boat coming to the rescue, there was no sign; none whatsoever.

The survivors now numbered scarce a dozen: a handful of the Volunteers - including Danny and his three pals - along with four or five of the crew, among them Danny's good friend Pim, his face streaked with oil. With flames fast licking their way towards them along the deck, and all manner of tortured sounds beginning to come from within the Pieter as the steamer settled further and further into the sea, the angle of the deck continually increasing, there was no more time left to put off doing what had to be done. The remaining survivors began scrambling over the starboard rail of the tramp steamer, so as to be ready in an instant to jump, only to find that the sea still looked an awfully long way down. Then, as Danny and the others stood balanced precariously with their backs to the rail, holding on like grim death, Jimmy made a startling announcement: cried out that he couldn't swim.

"Ya what?" Danny was utterly disbelieving.
"For sure, now's a fine time to be lettin' us know!" yelled Devlin, trying to make himself heard above the scream of steam escaping from the boilers, before beginning a gabbled recital of the last versicle of a Hail Mary.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

pray for us sinners,

now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

"Not a stroke?" Liam cried, aghast.

"No!" Jimmy had his eyes tightly closed, trying to blot out the horror of what was unfolding all about them.

"Jaysus!" Liam was every inch as astounded as Danny.

"Jimmy, here, take hold of my hand! When I jump, you jump. And whatever ya do, for feck's sake, don't let go of my hand!" yelled Danny.

Jimmy shook his head.

"No, I can't!"

"Feckin' hell! Give me yer hand!" growled Danny.

Again Jimmy shook his head, instead tightened his grip on the ship's rail until his knuckles blanched.

"No!"

However, in the end, whether or not Jimmy was prepared to let go of the rail and jump, the decision was made for him; as indeed it was for the rest of them when, from somewhere deep within the Pieter, far down in the hold, there now came an almighty roar as all manner of cargo broke loose, plunging the whole the length of the ship towards the submerged bow of the steamer. At which point the Pieter lurched violently and unexpectedly, flinging everyone of the survivors, both crew and Volunteers alike into the frothing waters of the sea, as the ship began its headlong descent down to a watery grave on the ocean floor thousands of feet below.


Lord Grantham's Library, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, March 1937.

"Then, with respect, Your Lordship, as I said a moment ago, whoever told you so, is very much mistaken. I went to see an elderly cousin, who lives down near Arundel, in Sussex".

"And so not far from the South Coast, with France but a short boat trip away across the Channel".

"If you say so, Your Lordship".

"I do say so".

During the course of what so far had proved, as he knew it would be, an entirely unsatisfactory interview with Barrow, a cold fury had been slowly building within Matthew. Thanks to Prince Louis, he was certain that, in some way, the butler was connected with the story that had appeared in The News of the World, but as Matthew knew only too well, from his days as a solicitor, knowledge was not the same as proof.

Of course, Barrow would not deny what could be proved; he was far too clever and slippery a customer for that. An examination of his passport would confirm that he had indeed visited France but when Matthew made mention of this, after a slight prevarication on the butler's part, Barrow confirmed he had crossed the Channel and travelled to Paris. Said that he was flattered that His Lordship took such an interest in where he went.

It was at this point in the proceedings that, had Matthew been prone to sudden violence - the business of Sir Richard Carlisle apart he was not, and in any case that had been years ago - nothing would now have given him greater pleasure than to have forcibly wiped the smug smile of satisfaction from off Barrow's saturnine features with a well aimed punch. But for all Mary might consider her husband to be middle class, here Matthew's own nature, as well as his innate good manners, stood him in good stead; he would not soil himself by laying a finger on the butler who could, after all, reasonably sue him for assault. And what with the matter of Pamuk - "Turkish Delight" as it had been dubbed in the Press - still running its course in The News of the World, the family could not risk another scandal.

Where, Barrow asked, was the crime in visiting the capital of France? Matthew said that there was none. There it was again; the same, infuriating, smugness.

"I never said there was. Did I say otherwise? What you do on your days off, whether it be here in England or elsewhere, whom you choose to meet, is none of my concern, unless, of course, it may be seen as damaging to my family or else tarnishes either the good name or reputation of this house. Should that ever be found to be the case ... Need I say more?"

Barrow was obsequious.

"No, My Lord, you need not. As to my loyalty, I do assure you that ..."

Matthew waved the butler into silence.

"I'm most gratified to hear you say so. As for any profession of fealty on your part, we both know there is no need for that. You see, I am very well aware of your true worth and I know too, precisely, just where your loyalty lies".

For a moment, Barrow was clearly disconcerted. It showed in his face.

Ah, you weren't expecting that, thought Matthew.

However, the next moment and the butler had recovered himself. Well, almost.

"Then, thank you, My Lord".

Self-preservation is perhaps the most basic of human instincts. As Matthew knew only too well, Barrow's loyalty was to no-one but himself.

Matthew nodded curtly; indicating that the interview was now at an end. After all, there was no more that could be usefully said. For, despite what had been learned from Prince Louis, there was nothing to prove whom Barrow had met with in the French capital. And Barrow knew it; which was why, throughout the entire proceedings, he had denied steadfastly knowing anyone by the name of Gregory.

"Her Ladyship?"
"I believe Her Ladyship is in the Morning Room, My Lord. On account of the problem with the Drawing Room chimney".
"Yes, of course. I was forgetting. Thank you, Barrow. That will be all".

Barrow inclined his head; then left His Lordship's Library.


Morning Room, Downton Abbey, a short while later.

It was not a room which the family used that often; indeed scarce at all, but today of all days, with, along with several others, the chimney of the Drawing Room having to be swept, his abortive chat with Barrow now at an end, before he walked down to the Estate Office, Matthew came in here in search of Mary. A short while later, seated beside her, he finished giving his account of what had just come to pass. Said that whatever their views of Barrow, with von Ribbentrop coming to stay next week, it would be a singularly inopportune moment to lose the services of a good butler.

"Good? That's hardly the word I'd use to describe Barrow".

Matthew smiled.

"No, perhaps not. But, whatever we may think of him privately, he is punctilious in the performance of his duties".

"So he should be. He had a good master. The best". Mary sighed. Dear old Carson had been dead several years; the way things were going, it was unlikely this great house would ever see his like again. As for Mrs. Hughes - Mrs. Carson as she had become, now a resident down at the almshouses in the village, following a stroke, she was but a shadow of her former self. While some days were better than others, she often had the greatest difficulty in recognising who people were, Mary included.


I know your face, my dear. Now, don't tell me. Yes, of course. You're that actress.

Remembering how Mrs. Hughes, as she still thought of her, had once run Downton with an almost military like precision, it distressed Mary greatly to see the former housekeeper losing touch with reality; having been reduced to a wraith like shadow of her former self.


"I've no doubt of it," observed Matthew.

"And Barrow wouldn't ..."

"As I told you, whatever I said, he stuck like a limpet to his story. All the same, he was left under no illusions that another transgression would be his last".

"So what do you intend doing about him?" Mary asked.

"For the present, and probably hereafter, nothing".

"But ..."

"Darling, if I put enquiries in hand, I have no doubt whatsoever that, apart from being a complete waste of money, they would confirm that Barrow does indeed have a cousin living down near Arundel. We know he travelled to Paris, but there we reach an impasse. That said, not for one minute do I believe that the information supplied by Prince Louis, that Gregory was behind the story in the newspaper, sullying your reputation as a means of striking a blow at me, and that Barrow was in turn its principal source, is anything other than the truth of it. You know, of course that there's been a reporter from The Yorkshire Post sniffing around down in the village?"

Mary nodded, disconsolate.

Here in England, in December of last year, The Yorkshire Post had been the first newspaper in the country to print details of the former king's affair with Mrs. Simpson, of which, until then, most people in the country had been singularly unaware; as well as publishing the criticism of the then king by the Bishop of Bradford. Thereafter, with the wall of self imposed censorship on the issue breached, the rest of the British Press began commenting openly on the matter. If The Yorkshire Post had been prepared to go after a king, then, Mary wondered, what hope had she of the matter of Pamuk being swiftly laid to rest?

"When Anna telephoned here the other day and asked if she might come up to the house and see me, I had no idea that she ... Anyway, over tea she told me about her encounter on the doorstep of her cottage. Apparently, Bates was most impressed with the way she handled that broom! Why on earth can't you stop people like that from ever setting foot in Downton".

"Darling, this is not the Middle Ages. I'm not some medieval seigneur! And even if I could do as you ask, I wouldn't. We have laws and rights in this country. Besides, it wouldn't prevent such enquiries being pursued elsewhere ... outside of what you perceive to be my feudal domains". Matthew laughed out loud.

"Oh! Enquiries being pursued elsewhere?"

"There's been a rumour - but no more than that - doing the rounds which surfaced a day or so ago, as part of my ongoing enquiries into other matters. Daisy Mason has had a visitor. Out at Low Hall Farm. Apparently, the very same reporter who received such a frosty reception at the Bates's cottage".

"Really?"
"Yes. And rather more to the point, aren't you forgetting something?"

Mary looked questioningly at Matthew.
"Am I? Then be so good as to enlighten me".

"All these years after poor William's death, who, at one time, Daisy was rumoured to be seeing?"

Mary's hand flew to her mouth.

"Of course! I'd forgotten all about that".
"I hadn't".

At times Matthew could be infernally pleased with himself and this was one of those occasions.

"You don't think ..."
"Out there on the moors, Lower Hall Farm, it's an isolated spot. Somewhere, perhaps, for a fugitive, a would-be assassin, to hole up?"

"Maybe. So are you going to ..."
"For the moment, I'm awaiting a telephone call ... to be precise, two".

When Matthew spoke like that, Mary knew that while he would tell her, in the fullness of time, there was no point in pressing him further at the moment. In the circumstances it was well she did not; for some of what Tibor had related concerned the deteriorating situation out in Palestine which, had Matthew told Mary about it, would only have worried her still further. As things stood, that was the last thing she needed.

And then, something else, and wholly unexpected, happened.


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, March 1937.

In Blackrock, it was a bright, chill day with not a trace of wind. Indeed, a flat, dead calm had settled across the wide waters of Dublin Bay, so much so that the sea resembled nothing short of a millpond. Save for the sound of the breakers down there on the shore, a noise with which after all these years Sybil was only too familiar, everything was quiet. Indeed, unnaturally so. Below her, the street was entirely deserted; the station likewise. Here on the doorstep of the house, Sybil had been on the very point of putting her key in the latch of the front door when something had caused her to turn around and gaze out across the wide expanse of the ocean, which she saw was completely devoid of shipping. It was then, as she continued to look out to sea, that from the south, Sybil heard what, afterwards, she described to Tom, as something akin to low menacing growl; like the rumble of thunder before the breaking of a storm. And, said Sybil it was the belief in Yorkshire, that when a storm comes up from off the sea, it signals the end of the world.


A short while later, sitting in the kitchen, having heard what Sybil had to say, Tom smiled.

"Ya don't surely believe that rubbish, do ya?"
"Tom, to be perfectly frank, I don't know what I believe. Not anymore".

"Stuff and nonsense, for sure!" Tom reached out; took hold of Sybil's hands.

"Maybe, but if this time last year someone had told me that our darling Danny would have gone out to fight in a foreign war, I would have told them not to be so bloody stupid. But now ..."

At that moment the telephone in the hall began to ring.


Downton, Yorkshire, England, March 1937.

What was wholly unexpected, had been the disappearance of the young reporter from The Yorkshire Post.

The first anyone knew that anything at all was wrong was when a couple of Wolseley police cars and three police motorcycles arrived in Downton from Ripon. That the alarm had not been raised earlier was regrettable, but in the circumstances, wholly understandable. The reporter had a cousin living in Harrogate, with whom he had been staying. Being a journalist, the young man often kept odd hours and it was not until that Monday morning, with still no sign of him returning to his lodgings, that the cousin had contacted the offices of The Yorkshire Post, where the reporter had been expected at his desk. Then, and only then, was the alarm raised.


After paying a courtesy call on the earl of Grantham up at the abbey, house to house enquiries began almost immediately down in the village, the search for the missing journalist soon spreading out into the frozen landscape of the surrounding countryside. Thence along the by-ways, the lanes and the roads, in case the reporter had been involved in a motor accident. After all, many of the highways hereabouts were narrow; especially treacherous in bad weather. And not only then, if one was fond of driving fast; as Matthew had found when, several years ago, he had almost run head-on into a traction engine drawing a heavy load of timber along Deepdale Lane over on Lower Whernside Ridge.

But of the young reporter, whose name was Harris, there was no trace. Nor of his motor, a blue Austin Seven. One by one, all the farms on the Downton Abbey estate were searched; the barns, the byres, the stables, and the outbuildings. So too the coppices and the woods. Even the mere over at Eastford was dragged - twice.


The extent of the search was widened; eventually reaching as far as Low Hall Farm where, the owner, a Mrs. Mason, was her usual, dismissive, taciturn self.

"Oh, aye. What's it to me if he has?" Daisy asked, clearly unconcerned, when told of the young reporter's disappearance. She had been pegging out the washing when Sergeant Warnock and one of his constables arrived; continued doing so, speaking through a mouthful of wooden pegs. He was coming out here? Was he indeed? What on earth for? No-one ever came here. Anyway, whatever they might be saying down at the Grantham Arms, she hadn't seen him. Apart from the rat catcher, she hadn't seen another living soul these past few days; save that was for old Henry Micklethwaite, spring ploughing.

"Where was that?
"Over yonder. Up on the ridge". Daisy pointed northwards, over towards West Fell Scar.

"And the rat catcher?"
"Where d'you think? In there of course". Daisy jabbed a thumb towards the barn. "Now, if that's all you've come for, a'gate, as I've things to be doing".


In due course, the police returned, empty-handed, back to Ripon; The Yorkshire Post offered a reward for information leading to ... Not that it did any good. It was as if its reporter had vanished off the face of the earth.


Bay of Biscay, off the North Coast of Spain, February 1937.

When, a few minutes later, gasping for breath, Danny resurfaced, he found that, as Jimmy and he had hit the sea and gone under the water, at some point thereafter he had lost hold of Jimmy's hand. Whether the fault was his or Jimmy's didn't really matter. Casting frantically about him, Danny could see several others of those who had jumped at the same time, among them Liam and Devlin, and also Pim, but Jimmy had disappeared.

It was now that Danny remembered something Da had once said, something he himself had been told when he had sailed on board a trawler bound for the fishing grounds off Nova Scotia. That if ever one had the misfortune to be on a ship that was sinking and went into the water, it was vital to put as much distance as possible between the ship and yourself; not so much on account of the fact of being sucked down - which was what most feared - but rather so as to avoid being caught up in any loose lines or rigging. With this in mind, Danny, who was a good swimmer - for which he had to thank Ma - began swimming as fast as he possibly could, away from the Pieter. As he did so, briefly he turned his head to see that what was still yet visible of the tramp steamer - little more than the stern - was standing almost vertically out of the sea; saw fountains of water shooting upwards as the stern began to slip below the waves.

And then it had gone, with nothing to show that the Pieter had ever been there at all.

A moment later, there came another roar, this time low and muffled, and all manner of debris expelled from inside the Pieter now shot skywards into the fog, before falling back, and be-spattering the churning surface of the sea with wreckage, some of which narrowly missed hitting the survivors.

Seeing a piece of decking floating nearby, Danny swam over to it, where he was joined a few moments later by Liam and Develin; then by Pim who had with him a stoker from the boiler room and who looked to be in a bad way, bleeding from a wound to his head. Between the four of them, they managed to heave the stoker onto the decking but that then left no room for anyone else. Soaking wet, shivering with cold, their teeth chattering, the four young men were left with no option but to cling onto the wreckage, and tread water.

About them, unnoticed, imperceptibly at first, the swell of the ocean began to increase.

And, of Jimmy, there was still no sign.


Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, England, late February 1937.

At length, having found Mrs. Mason to be as suspicious and unforthcoming a character as the Bates woman had been, the young reporter, who prided himself on being something of a ladies' man, decided to try another tack, unfortunately at precisely the same moment that Sergeant Armitage arrived here unexpectedly at the farm.


Having seen the unfamiliar motor parked up by the gate, keeping out of sight, Armitage had made his way cautiously down the track as far as the farmhouse.

"C'mon, you know you want to ..."

"Get yer hands off me!"

Hearing this, Armitage was in through the back door of the farmhouse like greased lightning. Seeing the struggle taking place in the kitchen between a young man and Daisy who, while slight of build, was putting up a considerable fight, clawing and kicking, Armitage grabbed the first thing which came to hand, namely the sad iron, and hit Daisy's unknown assailant with it, hard. There must have been some weakness in the other's skull, for in an instant, the young man dropped like a stone to the floor, blood seeping from the back of his head, spreading out in an ever widening pool across the uneven surface of the flagstones.

"Ed!"

"Ye all right, lass?"
"Aye!" Gasping for breath, Daisy steadied herself with both hands against the edge of the kitchen table. All the same, the near rape had fuelled an old hunger which she had never thought to feel again. Not since ... Surprised to see Armitage, she now rounded on him. "So what brings you back ..."

"Later!"

"Is he ..."
"Dead? Aye, looks that way". Armitage shrugged. "What of it?"

"You didn't have to kill him!" Daisy knew Armitage had a temper, but she was appalled by the turn of events.
"Who were he?"

"A reporter".

"Out here? What the hell did he want?"

"He were askin' questions. To do with that business I told you about, between Lady Mary and that Turkish gent".

Armitage nodded. He remembered Daisy saying something to the effect. A moment later and he was kneeling on the floor beside the body, rifling through the other's pockets. Happening to glance up, he saw the expression on Daisy's face upon which there was registered a mixture of both disbelief and revulsion.

"Squeamish are ye?"
"No, but ..."

From the reporter's pockets, Armitage's search retrieved a watch, some loose change, and a packet of fags, which, reaching up, he laid out neatly on the kitchen table. Then he began to strip the young reporter of his clothes.

"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like?"

A few moments was all it took until the young man's body lay white and naked on the flagstone floor. Armitage nodded to the pile of stripped clothing.

"Burn that lot in the copper". Armitage eyed the pool of congealed blood on the flagstones. It reminded him, unpleasantly so, of the young Arab he had killed out in Transjordan, the one who had become too greedy, wanting a greater share in the proceeds from those stolen antiquities. When Armitage had cut his throat, the Arab had bled a lot too; his blood seeping away into the sand of the dark alleyway. "Then scrub that floor like ye used to, up at the Abbey. As if your life depended on it. Because, it does". Armitage ghosted a smile and hoisted the now naked body of the young man over his shoulders as if he had been no more than a pig being taken to slaughter.

"What are you going to do with ... him?" Daisy whispered, half fearful that she already knew what Ed's answer would be. Scarce a half mile from the farm lay Devil's Mire; a desolate place, a wide expanse of peat bog, said by everyone hereabouts to be bottomless. However, Armitage's reply was not at all what Daisy expected.

"Piggery still where it was?"
"Aye. Across the yard. Out back of the byre". For Daisy, mindful of what had happened to Joe, cut to pieces beneath the wheels of the Silver Jubilee, comprehension now fully dawned. "No, Ed. Not that. You can't ..." She swallowed hard.

The piggery was where the farmer who had owned Lower Hall before Daisy bought the old place used to do his own slaughtering. Since then, now some eight years ago, with Daisy being squeamish when it had come to the butchering of her own porkers, it had been used scarce half a dozen times. These days, whenever the need arose, the job was done both out of sight and out of mind over on a neighbouring farm. Nonetheless, the knives, for sticking, skinning, and boning, kept razor sharp, with the cleavers, saws, scrapers, and meat hooks, were all still in the piggery; along with the stone gully that in the past had collected the animals' blood.

"Can't I just!"
"Then what?"

"Pig feed," said Armitage dismissively.

Averting her eyes as he did so, Armitage and the dead weight on his shoulders disappeared through the door into the yard; Daisy then doing as she been told, gathering up the young man's clothes and stuffing them one by one into the blazing fire roaring away beneath the copper in the corner of the scullery


As for the motor, much as it pained him to do so, a while later in a sudden vicious storm of hail and sleet, Armitage drove the Austin out to Devil's Mire. There he watched it sink into the bog until no trace of it remained. When, an hour or so later, now soaked to the skin, he returned to the farm, having assured Daisy that the motor was gone, Armitage asked, matter-of-fact, if there was a brew left in the pot.

"I'll put one on".

"Good. Now, as to what brings me here ..."

Armitage began stripping off his own now bloodied, soaked clothes.


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, March 1937.

While dinner at the Rothschilds had proved delightful, her hosts being charming, and her fellow guests, all save one, going out of their way to make her feel most welcome, Edith had been bemused; first by the remembrance there of her dream, and thereafter by the inexplicable conduct of the Duke of Windsor.

Kitty Rothschild had said that the invitation to dinner had been extended to Edith at the urging of His Royal Highness. Nonetheless, while content to make small talk, the Duke had seemed decidedly uninterested in Edith; completely at variance with how he had been when they had met at the Christkindlmarkt in Vienna. Then, after dinner was over, he was nowhere to be seen. Not wishing to overstay her welcome, when at last the moment presented itself, Edith tendered her sincere thanks, and was driven home to Rosenberg.


And now, here she was, bemused all over again, this time by the arrival at Rosenberg of a simple postcard. Addressed correctly, to Herr Max von Schönborn, it bore a sepia coloured photograph of a bustling waterfront scene which, according to the caption was of The Bund, in far distant Shanghai.

Max,

We all arrived here safely on 11th March. I think of you often. I hope you and Robert are both well.

Elena


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, March 1937.

"I see. Yes. And thank you for letting me know. Yes, of course. I will, for sure".

A moment later, Tom came back into the kitchen.

"Who was it?" Sybil asked.

"Gertrude". Sybil nodded. Tom didn't have to explain who he meant by Gertrude. After all, there was only one known to Sybil: Gertrude Gaffney, women's columnist with the Indy, passionate about women's rights, who viewed the new Irish constitution as hostile to women, for which Gertrude blamed de Valera, and who had recently travelled out to Spain in order to visit one of Duffy's training camps.

"She asked to be remembered to ya ..."
"Did she now? And?"
"And?"

"Tom, I'm certain Gertrude Gaffney didn't ring here solely to be remembered to me. After all, unless she's going senile - which I very much doubt - I met her by chance the day before yesterday, outside the Metropole".

Sybil saw Tom swallow; could read him like a book. Knew instantly that he was nervous about telling her something.

"Well, apparently ..."
"Apparently, what?"
"There's been a report come in ... from Reuters ... of a merchantman being sunk by the Nationalists off Bilbao. So far, details are sketchy and I'm not saying it is, but it could very well be the Pieter".

Sybil said nothing. In the stillness that followed, from the other side of the house, overlooking Dublin Bay, there came what sounded like a clap of thunder. Sybil was in no doubt that Tom had heard it too because at the same time he half turned towards the open door which led from the kitchen into the hall.

When a storm comes up from off the sea, it signals the end of the world.

At length, Sybil looked up.

Blue grey eyes met blue.

"Now do you believe me?" she asked, softly sardonic.

Author's Note:

If you should wish to follow, quite literally, in the footsteps of Robert and Max as they stroll along the Promenade Deck of the SS. Conte Biancamano, in your mind's eye watch Max tripping the light fantastic with Elena in the magnificent ballroom, then you can. In 1964, when the liner was scrapped, a very large section of her was saved and placed in the Museo Nazionale Scienza e Tecnologia Leonardo da Vinci in Milan. Here you are able to walk along part of the ship's decks, see the bridge, look in on First Class cabins, and view the ballroom.

For Edith teaching Max to dance, see my story The Snow Waltz.

For Tom avoiding paying for railway tickets, see the last chapter of my story, Home Is Where The Heart Is.

For Matthew's near collision with a traction engine, see Chapter Four of my story Reunion.

The Silver Jubilee was a named train run by the London and North Eastern Railway and brought into service in September 1935 - to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of King George V - ceasing operation on the outbreak of WWII.

Gertrude Gaffney (?-1959) was an Irish journalist, who also wrote under the pen name Conor Galway. In 1935 she became the social correspondent for The Irish Independent and, as is mentioned in the story, went out to Spain in 1936 for the reason given. Despite her championing the rights of women, it later emerged that Gaffney was both antisemitic and anti-Zionist.

It's an unpleasant thought but pigs WILL eat human flesh and can consume a cut up body in a very short space of time; save for, that is, any hair or teeth.