Chapter Twenty One
Arsenic And Old Lace
Entrance Hall, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
Smirking broadly, Barrow promptly replaced the telephone receiver smartly back in its stand. If he could sow dissension, cause concern, make trouble for any member of the Crawley family, then he was well pleased. Not that in order to do so he ever told a downright lie. After all, that would have proven difficult, if not impossible to explain, and Thomas had no intention of causing trouble... for himself. In this, as in so many matters, his instinct for self-preservation was exceedingly well honed. However, when the situation arose - as it had just done - Thomas was quite happy to refrain from volunteering information, if by so doing that would achieve the desired result.
After all, what he had told His Lordship, that Her Ladyship had not yet returned from York was perfectly true. That from her own telephone call to the house, Thomas knew her to be on a train heading back to Downton... well, His Lordship hadn't asked about that. So, what he had said - that he didn't know the whereabouts of Her Ladyship - was equally true. By now, he supposed her to be - Barrow glanced over at the grandfather clock - somewhere between York and Downton, but he couldn't be certain. That being so, Thomas had seen no need to impart imprecise information to His Lordship - the more so since by saying nothing would cause Crawley no end of worry.
Having begun a short while earlier to see to the nightly business of closing and then barring the shutters of all the downstairs rooms, Barrow turned, intending to continue with those in the Drawing Room, only to see Billy standing silently in the lengthening shadows beside the green baize door. Even in the waning half-light, the expression etched on the younger man's face spoke volumes. After all, when Her Ladyship had telephoned the abbey sometime ago, to say that she was on her way home, would be arriving somewhat later than envisaged, Billy had been here in the the hall winding up the grandfather clock; a duty which Barrow had passed over to him some months ago and which included looking after and winding up each of the several timepieces scattered throughout the ground floor rooms of the great house. So Billy knew full well that what the butler had just told His Lordship was not altogether true.
"What are you doing up here?" Barrow snapped.
"Er, Mrs. White... she... er... she asked me to find you and enquire if she should begin preparing something for Her Ladyship on a tray?"
Barrow curled his lip.
"For all I care, she can pour out Her Ladyship a glass of water and make up some bread and dripping!"
Billy chuckled.
"You're not serious?"
"No, of course I'm not". Barrow glanced over at the grandfather clock. "Tell Mrs. White to prepare whatever she sees fit. Her Ladyship should be here within the next hour or thereabouts".
Billy nodded. He was on the very point of opening the baize door to return downstairs to the kitchen and inform Mrs. White what the butler had told him, when, suddenly he released his hold on the door handle and turned back, to see the butler now crossing the hall in the direction of the Drawing Room.
"So, why did you..." Billy began, his voice echoing around the walls of the high ceilinged room.
"Why did I what?" Barrow spun about on his heel.
"Say what you did?"
Swiftly, in a trice, Barrow had crossed the hall and on reaching Billy, grabbed the younger man firmly by his shoulders. Billy recoiled, frightened by the silent fury he glimpsed in the contorted features of the butler's face.
"What I say or don't say is none of your damned business. Is that understood?"
"OK, OK!"
Normally, Barrow would not have allowed the use of slang to pass unchallenged, but on this occasion he did. He relaxed his hold; Billy straightened out his rumpled jacket.
"Yes, Mr. Barrow!"
"Good. Now, go downstairs like I told you and tell Mrs. White to prepare that tray".
Billy nodded.
"Yes, Mr. Barrow".
"And Billy..."
"Yes, Mr. Barrow?"
"As I told you once before, keep your mouth shut!"
8 Rue d'Anjou, 8th Arrondissement, Paris, Republic of France, April 1937.
Well pleased with himself, Maundy Gregory took another sip of the excellent cognac given to him by a young gentleman caller before lounging back contentedly to ruminate from the comfortable depths of his leather armchair. His surreptitious campaign being waged against the earl of Grantham was now bearing fruit. In particular, Gregory had found the rumours spread about the youthful exploits of the countess of Grantham in the British press, embellished as they undoubtedly had been, highly entertaining. Had no doubt that they had been read with gusto and relish by those who took as their Sunday paper The News of The World and who, by and large, possessed a seemingly insatiable appetite for both the lurid and sordid; especially where such stories concerned the goings-on of the upper classes.
Whether or not the reports appertaining to the countess of Grantham were true or not bothered Maundy Gregory not one whit; gave him no cause for concern. Moreover, he greatly enjoyed hearing from Thomas Barrow about the box of Turkish Delight given to the lady in question by none other than von Ribbentrop himself when the German ambassador had been staying as a house guest at Downton. That was so like the man; tactless and vulgar, traits which, had he thought about it - which he didn't - Gregory would have realised von Ribbentrop shared with himself.
Thereafter, veiled references had begun appearing in certain quarters of the British Press regarding the existence of a growing cabal of unsavoury Nazi sympathisers among the ranks of the English aristocracy. That they existed would have come as no surprise to many, but that they included the earl of Grantham, well that was quite a startling revelation. Of course, if anyone who read the reports had taken the time to consider the earl's political career to date, especially his involvement with the League Of Nations and his measured pronouncements in the House of Lords on both the Fuhrer and German ambitions in Europe, they would have been left in no doubt that any such stories were a load of baloney. Not that any of the papers to which Gregory had "leaked" the tale mentioned the earl by name as that would have been to invite the issuing of writs for defamation. Nonetheless, the damage was done, for as Maundy Gregory well knew rumours such as those which were now being noised abroad about the earl of Grantham were just as effective in sullying a reputation than a printed or spoken calumny, and did not run the risk of legal action.
Then had come the business of the man on the run from the police, the former British soldier said, or so it was being reported, to have links to the British Union of Fascists, and now wanted for murder. Of course, through his own contacts, Gregory was very well aware as to why the man was being sought by the authorities; that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the brutal killing of a woman of no importance, a slattern, at an isolated farmhouse in the West Riding of Yorkshire. However, that the earl of Grantham had been involved in a bungled attempt to capture the man played into the reports appearing in certain newspapers as to the apparently questionable political affiliations of the earl.
That too there was a spy, well disposed towards the British, working in the German embassy in London, came as no real surprise to Gregory. The whole world over, embassies, legations, and spies went hand in hand. That he needed unmasking, well if Gregory could help in that and so at the same time cause trouble for the British Foreign Office, then all well and good. And then, quite out of the blue, had come the 'phone call from Thomas Barrow and with it a name: Prince Louis of Hesse. It fitted; it fitted very well indeed.
So now Gregory had a favour to ask of Thomas. Of course, the younger man could always refuse to co-operate but, in Gregory's view, knowing what he did, that would be exceedingly unwise.
Kitchen, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
Like Queen Victoria, albeit for far different reasons, tonight, here down in the kitchen of Downton Abbey, Mrs. White was decidedly unamused. This evening's dinner had been completely ruined. Well, almost. After all, the three older Crawley children could always be relied upon to do justice to her cooking, and even with Master Robert away in foreign parts - he was expected home in a few days time - both Master Simon and Miss Rebecca always had good appetites. Miss Emily ate like a little bird but then she was still only four years old.
However, when dinner was served it had been with Her Ladyship not yet home. Then, His Lordship had received a telephone call which, with his dinner half eaten, had sent him off like a shot, gallivanting to God knew where. Not, of course, that it was any of Mrs. White's business what the master and mistress did, but when His Lordship was so particular about ensuring there was no waste. Well! So, it was the cook's considered opinion that much of the effort she had expended upon tonight's meal had gone largely unappreciated which for her, coming from Oldthorpe Hall - a house which was which was every bit as grand as the abbey - was very disappointing. Moreover, these days, Lord and Lady Grantham did comparatively little entertaining - the visit of the German ambassador had been very much a one off - and so, save for preparing dinner each night, Mrs. White had little opportunity to show off her undoubted skills as a cook. What, she wondered, must it have been like in the old days when her predecessor, Mrs. Patmore, had ruled here, and with a full staff; she now dead and buried some years since, deep in the loamy soil of Norfolk. Her hands covered liberally in flour, Mrs. White paused momentarily in rolling out the morrow's pastry.
It had been a rum thing, that.
Hereabouts, the reason for Beryl Patmore's tragic and unexpected demise was widely believed to have been food poisoning, which in one sense was true enough. However, there were those who, having been in contact with her sister, Kate in order to send their condolences upon her sad loss, spoke in hushed tones of something else a great deal more sinister: not just poisoning but arsenical poisoning.
At the time of her demise, along with her widowed sister, Mrs. Patmore, long retired from her position here as cook at Downton, was running a highly successful boarding house at Sheringham down on the north coast of Norfolk. Indeed, Beryl had become something of an institution in the little town, a stalwart of the local branch of the Women's Institute, and, unsurprisingly, well known for her cooking skills. Then, as it always did, there had come the WI's Annual Baking Competition, which Beryl was confidently expected to win, just as she had done for the past few years.
A matter of a week or so before the competition was due to be held, a small parcel had been delivered to the Sunnycroft Guest House. The name of the establishment, chosen by Beryl and her sister, was something of a misnomer since even in summer, it was often wet and windy on the Norfolk coast and, in the depths of winter, as the locals would happily tell any visitors to these parts, biting winds swept southwards all the way from the Arctic Circle.
When unwrapped, the package, left ignominiously inside the front porch among the aspidistras and the potted geraniums where it had been found by Beryl when she returned home from shopping in town, contained a rich fruit cake. What was decidedly odd, was that there had been left with it neither letter nor card to indicate the identity of the sender. That Beryl was the intended recipient was undeniably the case as it was addressed to her, albeit in an unfamiliar hand. She supposed the cake came either from someone who had stayed at the guest house or else, perhaps, from an unknown gentleman, resident in the small seaside town. On balance, the former explanation seemed the more likely, for any gentleman admirer would surely have been likely to have sent a box of chocolates.
Now Beryl had always been exceedingly partial to fruit cake; not so Kate - which, as things turned out, was just as well. For, having eaten a couple of slices and partaken of a glass or two of Madeira after supper, during the night Beryl became exceedingly unwell, so much so that Kate telephoned for the local doctor who had Beryl conveyed to the cottage hospital, where, despite everything being done for her that could be done, a few hours later, sadly, she died.
An autopsy revealed a large amount of arsenic in Beryl's stomach, the source of which caused much speculation and tittle tattle in the town. However, while Beryl, in common with many others thereabouts, was known to take various patent remedies, some of which contained arsenic, the only thing which she had eaten, and Kate had not, had been several slices of the cake which had been left so mysteriously in the front porch. When what remained of the cake was analysed, it was found to be laced with arsenic. Given that the poison was colourless, odourless, and tasteless, there was no possible way that Beryl could have realised anything was at all amiss; that in indulging her liking for fruit cake, she was signing her own death warrant.
Nonetheless, despite extensive enquiries made by the police, the sender of the arsenic laced cake was never traced. All the same, some in Sheringham had their suspicions which revolved around the sour, po-faced, spinster daughter of a local chemist, a member of the WI, an excellent cook, who had been runner up to Beryl in several of the past baking competitions. However, Ivy Matteshall, nicknamed Poison Ivy behind her back, this because of her unpleasant demeanour, had never achieved the ultimate accolade and looked unlikely ever so to do; at least not while Beryl Patmore was around.
Should the need ever arise to purchase arsenic powder for, say, the preparation of rat poison or weed killer, it had to be bought from a chemist and who, by law, was required to keep a record of all such transactions in his Poison Ledger. So, it was conjectured, by certain wagging tongues both in and around Sheringham, that it would quite easy for someone who was a relative of a chemist and who had murder in mind to surreptitiously gain access to the poisons kept in the pharmacy. However suspicion did not amount to proof, and so there the matter rested, much as poor Beryl now rested in the local cemetery.
Catching sight of young Billy Price - William as he was known - Mrs. White called out to the young footman. She didn't care much for him; he always seemed to be skulking about in the passages below the great house. That or else asking damned fool questions about... what had it been this time? Oh, yes, some old iron grating.
"Ah, William! I've a job for you, young man. And this time, be quick about it. So, if it's all the same to you, I'd be much obliged if you'd take the direct route and not the stopping train via John O'Groats!"
Northern Spain, early May 1937.
Much as George Steer had told Danny, here in the north of Spain, it was increasingly obvious to one and all, even if denied officially, that the Republican cause was undoubtedly lost. Nonetheless, after the bombing first of Durango and then of Guernica, the government forces began to fight back tenaciously against the advancing Nationalists, despite the fact that the Fascists were being furnished with a continuous supply of up to date weapons and munitions from both Germany and Italy - even if this was denied by the governments of both those countries. Given the direness of the military situation that the Republican side managed to do so what it did and with such a degree of effectiveness said a great deal about their tenacity of spirit. However, it was evident that any such success would be short lived, would prove to be a only temporary respite from the Nationalist onslaught, that sooner or later Bilbao would indeed fall, and thereafter, no doubt quickly, the rest of what remained of the Republican held north. As with Bilbao, it was not if this happened but a matter of when.
Then, a few days after the destruction of Guernica, Danny and his pals learned that they would indeed be moving south; they imagined, with good reason that their destination would be Valencia but, in the end, this proved not to be the case. Nor was it to Barcelona where it seemed that, as if the Republicans did not already have enough on their plate trying to stave off the continuing advance of the Nationalists, there was apparently serious trouble brewing in the city, indeed throughout all of Catalonia, between the Republicans and the anarchist CNT - the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo which had its headquarters in Barcelona and which fiercely opposed any form of central government, even if it was left wing.
All that Danny and his mates could glean, and this from a young Spanish corporal by the name of Ortega, was that they were bound for an old walled town, situated several thousand feet up in the mountains, high above the confluence of two rivers. Without a map, this meant little, neither to Danny, nor to any of the handful of the Volunteers who yet remained alive. When pressed, the NCO couldn't, or wouldn't, vouchsafe any further details, leading Danny to wonder if the man himself knew where it was they were heading. However, in the space of a few months, the place itself would become very well known indeed; for they were moving down towards southern Aragón, to Teruel, the impoverished, infinitely remote, capital of the exceedingly poor province which bore the same name. Held by the Nationalists, the town and the area immediately around it, formed a salient which thrust deep into Republican held territory in the the south. Nonetheless, the government believed the town and surrounding district to be only lightly defended. Should they manage to capture the town from the Nationalists, it would then shorten the lines of communication between Republican held central Spain and the city of Valencia down on the coast. However, military intelligence is often flawed and so it was now. For Teruel was in fact both well defended and fortified. Moreover, General Francisco Franco had given orders that the town be held at all costs.
8 Rue d'Anjou, 8th Arrondissement, Paris, Republic of France, April 1937.
Gregory set down his empty brandy glass on the table beside his armchair. Having collected his thoughts, he then reached for the telephone, lifted up the receiver and, when the exchange answered, asked to be put through to the German Embassy at the Hôtel Beauharnais situated on the Avenue Victor-Emmanuel III only a short distance away from Gregory's own apartment on the Rue d'Anjou.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
When, some considerable time later, tired and dishevelled, Mary returned home to the abbey, to be perfectly frank, she was quite exhausted. To make matters worse, at Ripon, where she had changed trains for the last time onto the branch service to Downton, there had been a distinct lack of porters and Mary had been forced to struggle down the length of the platform carrying her own bags. Of course, part of this was her own fault for having set off so hastily in pursuit of Armitage on the London express; but then, she had always been impetuous, at least in certain matters, especially those where the family's good name and reputation were at stake. So when, bone weary, she finally, strode into the Entrance Hall, she was not in the best of moods.
The only saving grace in today's entire dismal proceedings had been when, a short while earlier, having arrived in Downton at the railway station on the branch train from Ripon, Mary had chanced, most fortuitously, to meet up with Dr. Earnshaw on the platform. Having touched the brim of his trilby, the doctor who had been in Ripon at the infirmary there, had proceeded to enquire courteously after her health. Mary supposed that this was no more than making the customary polite small talk that one does on meeting an individual whom one knows; so she assumed that Earnshaw's enquiry to be just that, rather than professional. A faint mizzle had begun to fall and Earnshaw offered to run Mary up to the abbey in his motor, just as he had done several months ago. That had been on the occasion when Mary had summoned up the courage to ask him about Matthew's health and which had taken some mettle on her part for, just like her late father, Mary was never good at discussing medical matters; unlike Sybil who, ever since she became a nurse, and even more so now that she was a matron, had become very down-to-earth about all manner of ailments, which Mary for one found decidedly embarrassing.
On their way up to the abbey, the conversation was confined to small talk; something for which Mary was exceedingly grateful. That Earnshaw could earn additional income as a taxi driver, where Mary had been - she only admitted to having been shopping in York - the awful weather, and the forthcoming meet of the local hunt, Mary being surprised to learn that Earnshaw round to hounds. A short while later, the motor drew to a stand on the gravel outside the front door of the great house. Then, with Earnshaw holding the passenger door, Mary clambered out.
With no-one having come out to meet her, it was the doctor himself who with his own umbrella sheltered Mary from the ever worsening weather and carried her parcels and deposited them in her arms on the front step where, bone weary, having been profuse in her thanks, Mary apologised for not inviting him in. At that, Earnshaw laughed; said that he was expected at home a hour since, his wife would be wondering where he was, and that there would doubtless be other such occasions. Mary smiled; said that they would extend an invitation to the Earnshaws to dine. The doctor likewise smiled, then nodded. Mary stood to watch him go and a moment or two later, with wheels crunching on gravel, Earnshaw was gone. The front door remained unyielding; firmly closed against her. Her hat awry, and feeling thoroughly dejected, Mary pulled hard on the doorbell.
For a short while, but which to Mary seemed like an eternity, with growing impatience, she found herself waiting on the doorstep of her own home in the falling rain. Then suddenly the front door swung silently back on well oiled hinges, to reveal standing in the doorway, Barrow, impeccably dressed as he undoubtedly always was, illuminated from behind and thrown into sharp relief by the light from the lamps in the Entrance Hall.
"Your Ladyship!" Barrow could not conceal his astonishment; he promptly stood to one side to permit the bedraggled countess of Grantham entrance to her own home.
"Indeed," Mary observed curtly. Whereupon, she marched imperiously forward across the threshold and into the Entrance Hall of the abbey. Behind her, Mary heard Barrow closing the front door. While he did so, having set down her packages on the side table, deliberately avoiding looking at her reflection in the mirror, drawing off her gloves, she moved further into the middle of the hall where she stood waiting until the butler joined her a moment or so later.
"We were unaware as to when exactly you would return. Lord Grantham said that..."
"Mama! We were so worried!"" Footsteps now sounded in the gallery above and, raising her head, Mary saw Simon, clutching to him his teddy bear, Oscar, closely followed by Rebecca running helter-skelter across the landing and then down the Main Staircase. Mary gave them a quick smile and a hurried nod but other than that for the moment chose to ignore them. Instead, she turned back to Barrow.
"So just what did His Lordship say and more importantly where on earth is he?" Barrow repeated what he had said to her on the telephone; that a call had been received here at the abbey sometime after seven o'clock. The caller, a man, had been told that the family were at dinner but this notwithstanding, he had been most insistent that he be permitted to speak to His Lordship immediately. Barrow had informed His Lordship of the telephone call and having spoken to whoever it was, shortly thereafter, giving no indication as to when he would return, other than to say that he would be back later this evening, Lord Grantham had set off at speed in his MG.
"He said nothing to you at all about where he was going?"
"No, Your Ladyship. I am given to understand that he..."
"Mama..."
"Simon, please don't interrupt me when I am speaking..."
"But Mama..."
"Simon! I told you, no!"
However, for once, Simon refused to remain silent.
"Mama, please! I know where Papa's gone!" Simon fairly shouted out what it was he had wanted to say.
"You do?" Mary thought it unlikely but all the same she had to know. "Then tell me".
"Yes, Mama. Of course. But not here".
"Why ever not?"
"Because Papa told me it was a secret but that if, when you returned, he was still not back, then I was to tell you what he had told me". Simon let his gaze slide past his mother and come to rest briefly upon the butler. Mary was astute enough to realise that, even if she didn't know the reason for it, there was little love lost between her younger son and Thomas Barrow.
"Very well. You may tell me upstairs". Mary then addressed herself to Barrow.
"Would you see to it that Mrs. White prepares something for me on a tray and have it brought upstairs".
Barrow nodded.
"I had already given instructions to that effect, prior to your return, Your Ladyship".
Whether Barrow had done as he had just said, Mary didn't much care. What she wanted most of all was a long hot bath. Of course had she still a Lady's Maid, then that would already have been in hand. As it was...
"Mama, shall I run a bath for you?" Rebecca asked. Aged all of ten years, she was, in some ways old for her years.
"Darling, would you? That would be positively divine!"
Then, with Simon carrying his mother's purchases, her arms about the shoulders of her two children, the countess of Grantham made a slow and weary ascent of the Main Staircase of Downton Abbey.
Shepheard's Hotel, Ibrahim Pasha Street, Cairo, Kingdom of Egypt, April 1937.
Here at Shepheard's Hotel, the bright morning sunshine was peeping ever more insistently through the louvres of the shutters of the third floor bedroom which overlooked the hotel's manicured, palm treed gardens. Young Max rolled over onto his stomach, opened an eye, and looked across at Rob who, likewise, had just woken up. Despite having had the luxury of a sleeping compartment on the express between Tulkarem and Kantara East, last night had been the first time in nearly two weeks that the boys had slept in proper beds. So, understandably, Robert and Max had slept very well indeed.
"What the hell..." Muffled by the closed, shuttered window, but all the same still audible, there came the unmistakeable sounds of a band playing. Rob promptly sat up in bed, stretched, and yawned. Catching sight of Max, seeing that his much loved younger cousin was also awake, he grinned broadly.
"Sleep well?"
Max likewise smiled; then also sat up.
"What do you think? You?"
"Like a log".
"Like a log?"
Max watched as Rob, pyjama clad, padded barefoot across the bedroom floor upon which the rays of sunlight streaming in through the louvres of the shutters cast a strong pattern of bright straight lines, over to the window which he now opened. A moment later, he flung back the shutters, flooding the high ceilinged room in a blaze of dazzling white sunshine. Into the room from outside there drifted the multitudinous scents and sounds of Cairo; some were those which one would encounter in any city: snatches of conversation from the rooms on either side of the bedroom occupied by the boys, along with distant hum of motor traffic. Others, including the adhān, the Muslim call to prayer, voiced over loudspeakers from the minarets of the many mosques by the mu'addin, were not and which, at least here in the vicinity of Shepheard's Hotel, now found themselves competing with the noise of the invisible band, playing out of sight down in the gardens below, its musicians thumping out a slightly off-key, not to say jarring version, of It's A Long Way To Tipperary, before launching into an equally unmelodious version of Yes Sir, That's My Baby.
Rob grimaced, and turned back to the room.
"They're not very good, are they?"
Max shook his head.
"No, they're not. Like a log?" Raising his voice to make himself heard above the decidedly discordant notes, Max now repeated his question. He was unfamiliar with the English expression.
Rob smiled.
"Oh, yes. If we say someone slept like a log, it means they slept very well indeed. But, why we say that, I haven't the foggiest!" The dissonant din continued to drift up to them from the hotel gardens. "What a bloody awful racket!? Do you think they've been drinking?"
Max laughed.
"At this time of the morning?" He shook his head. "Foggiest?" Slowly, as if trying it out for the first time, which indeed he was because, like the phrase Rob had just used, he hadn't heard the English word before either, Max repeated what Rob had said.
"It means I haven't clue. Anyway, it's eight o'clock, so I'm going to wash and shave. Then, when you're done, we'd better get dressed and go down to the dining room. We said we'd meet your father and the others for breakfast at nine".
Max nodded and promptly flung back the covers of his bed.
Despite having stayed with his father in luxurious hotels throughout Austria, France, and Germany, Max would readily have admitted that he had never seen anything that rivalled the opulent splendour of Shepheard's. Yesterday, while their luggage was being unloaded by the taxi drivers and taken inside by the porters, along with the others, Max found himself standing in front of a rather plain, three storey building; the name of the hotel proclaimed high above in an arc of large letters illuminated by electricity set above a balustraded parapet. The main entrance to the hotel, flanked by a pair of small carved sphinxes, was reached by means of a broad flight of steps, at the bottom of which there stood two large stone pots planted up with dwarf palms. At the top and to the sides of the steps was the hotel's famous terrace; enclosed by a delicately wrought cast-iron balustrade, the floor tiled with blue, green and orange Moorish tiles, all set with a profusion of rattan chairs and tables. Occupying a raised position, and partly shaded from the heat of the sun by a mashrabiya canopy bedecked with enormous British and Egyptian flags, the terrace afforded those enjoying a quiet drink a splendid view of all the comings and goings up and down the street below.
Once inside the hotel, while his father and the other adults signed the hotel register, standing waiting beside Rob, looking about him, Max saw the plain exterior of the hotel belied the splendour that lay within. Furnished with yet more rattan chairs and also by small marble tables on which stood hourglass urns again potted with dwarf palms, the floor carpeted with Arabian rugs and runners, the many pillared entrance hall was just as luxurious as the terrace; the bulbous pillars were topped with carved lotus leaves, copied from those still standing out amid the ruins of the Temple of Karnak which lay nearly seven hundred miles to the south of Cairo at Luxor.
A short while later, now washed and dressed, laughing and joking, the two boys tripped lightly down the elegant double staircase of the hotel at the foot of which stood a pair of tall figures, carved from ebony, in the form of pharaonic women, adorned with golden headdresses, each holding above their heads a torchère. A few moments later, Rob and Max reached the dining room to be greeted promptly at the door by the maitre d'hôtel who escorted the boys over to the table where Uncle Friedrich and Herr Horst were seated and already at breakfast. Felicitations once made, the boys learned that Tibor and Harriet had eaten earlier and had gone off into the city together.
Like the rest of the hotel, the high ceilinged dining room of Shepheard's, decorated in the Moorish style, adorned with marble columns, was absolutely magnificent. Lit by Mamluk copper lanterns of varying sizes, suspended from horseshoe arches, the walls were covered with Moroccan plaster and hand crafted clay tiles. Yet, despite the rising heat of the day, the dining room remained pleasantly cool; no doubt helped by the presence of a three-tier stone fountain, the bowls of which were filled with blocks of ice, and surrounded by lushly planted banks of flowers. Even though it was still comparatively early, the dining room was already very busy, with suffraggis each wearing a white kaftan, along with fezzes, cummerbands, and slippers of red, moving quietly among the many tables, carrying all manner of dishes of food.
"Now," said Friedrich with a benevolent smile, "what do you two want to eat?"
The clientele of the hotel were mostly European but here in the dining room there were also several well-dressed Egyptians, two of whom were taking a close, but surreptitious interest in Friedrich and the two boys. Just as there were those in Palestine who opposed British rule there, here in Egypt were those who opposed the continuing presence in the country both of British advisors and soldiers and interference by the former colonial power in domestic politics. For, although nominally independent since 1922, in practice, Egypt was still very much under the thumb of the British. So, the kidnapping, for a substantial ransom, of the son of a member of the English aristocracy would send a powerful message, both to the government in London and to the world at large, that the British were not wanted here in Egypt either.
Matthew and Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Simon! Do, please, stand still! You're making me feel quite giddy!"
Having set down his mother's parcels on the bed, and sat young Oscar beside them, Simon was jigging from one foot to the other, impatient to tell her what it was he had to impart.
"I'll go and run your bath for you, Mama," Rebecca said before promptly disappearing into the room next door from where, almost immediately, Mary heard the sound of running water.
"Thank you". Mary unbuttoned and slipped off her coat; laid it down on the bed beside her discarded hat and gloves.
"Now, tell me," she said crisply, resting her hands on Simon's shoulders.
"Do you remember, Mama, before Becky and Emmie were born, when Papa took you, Rob, and me across to Scarborough, and we went out to the site of an old Roman signal station on the cliffs?"
On this occasion, Mary chose to disregard not only the presence of furry little Oscar seated on the bed beside her purchases, but also the use by Simon of the diminutives of his siblings' names. Yes, she did remember that trip to Scarborough; recalled inter alia that at the time the amenities afforded them by the Grand Hotel had been perfectly adequate but no more. And Mary also remembered the excursion which Matthew had arranged for the boys out to that godforsaken, windswept headland. Here, like two street urchins, Robert and Simon had scrabbled about in the dirt in search of Roman remains, much as Mary supposed Edith did when she was engaged on one of her endless digs, while the prevailing north-easterly wind played havoc with Mary's hitherto immaculate coiffure.
"What of it?"
"Well, that's just it".
"It? What is?"
"That's where Papa's gone".
"Whatever for?"
"Because that's where the man's supposed to be".
"What man?"
"The one the police are searching for".
"Oh, that man".
"Yes, Mama. That man. According to Papa, he's hiding out in an old fort, over on the coast. And Papa's gone there to catch him. He's very brave, isn't he, Mama?"
"Who is?"
"Why, Papa of course". Simon sounded both surprised that his mother had to ask and also very proud of his father.
"Yes, I suppose he is. He might have...". However before Mary could say anything further, Rebecca's head appeared around the side of the door, her hair damp and her face flushed from the rising steam of the hot water.
"Mama, your bath's ready".
"Thank you, darling".
Somewhere south of Scarborough, coast of Yorkshire, England, April 1937.
Eventually, half an hour's solitary, soggy tramp, what in his days on the Western Front he would have called a recce, brought Matthew to the walls of the old fort. Other than keeping his approach as quiet as possible, there had been little point in trying to keep out of sight; the fog had thickened, swirling about him, so that it had been impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. While this slowed his progress, made his approach slower than otherwise it would have been, the fog meant that anyone at the fort, keeping watch to see if anyone was making towards it across the open headland would have been placed at a similar disadvantage. All the same, it meant that Matthew had to keep a sharp look out for hummocks and tussocks of grass; a turned ankle out here alone in the middle of nowhere would spell disaster.
Matthew was not a fanciful man - had on occasions ribbed Tom over the beliefs of the Irish in the Little People and other such fairy tales but now as the buildings and walls of the old fort loomed up suddenly before him out of the mist, Matthew found himself distinctly unnerved. It was indeed a desolate spot; the old fortifications crumbling and somehow menacing which brought to mind a derelict waterworks in Manchester where as a boy - he would have been aged about eleven, no more - Matthew had been unaccountably terrified by the sight of the gaunt, forbidding structure.
Save for the sound of the constant ebb and flow of the tide breaking on the shingle bank down below the fort, all was silent. Eerily so, Then, there came a sudden metallic clang which brought Matthew to an immediate stop. Fumbling in his pocket, he swiftly pulled out his service revolver and cocked the hammer. From somewhere close at hand came the bleating of a sheep and a moment later, the animal itself, its thick oily fleece heavily beaded with droplets of moisture trotted directly across Matthew's path. The sheep was followed quickly by two lambs, all three animals disappearing as if they had never been, swallowed up in an instant by the mist.
As he surveyed his desolate surroundings, quite suddenly, heavy footsteps crunched on the shingle bank below the fort. Walking on shingle was never something which could be done silently but, who was it? Armitage? Matthew drew back into the shadows, casting about for somewhere to conceal himself and in a moment thought he had found the perfect hiding place. Beneath the rusting metalwork of a stairway, there was a small embrasure, more akin to a sentry box than anything else. What original purpose it had once served, Matthew knew not, but it afforded him an ideal place from which to observe without himself being seen. Then, as the minutes slowly passed, it seemed that his visitor had gone elsewhere. Matthew was just on the point of quitting his hiding-place when all of a sudden, hurried footsteps sounded somewhere directly above him. Whoever it was seemed to know their way around the derelict buildings and had taken a different route into the old fort but one which had brought Matthew's visitor uncomfortably close to where he himself was hiding.
Crouching there in the darkness below the rusting metal stairway, on the uppermost step, Matthew now saw, directly above his head, a pair of feet appear. Matthew held his breath and for that single moment, the feet remained standing exactly where they were.
"Herr Armitage? Bist du da?"
When answer came there none, Matthew drew back further into the embrasure, at which point something scuttled across his own feet. Looking down he saw, with disgust, that it was a pair of rats, which scrabbled hurriedly over a pile of debris, their scurrying passage dislodging in the process a slight fall of rubble. The pair of feet now descended until they were more than halfway down the stairway and their owner became visible to Matthew. His visitor was wearing the epaulets and uniform - grey brown denim jacket, blue service forage cap and grey leather trousers - of a Hauptmann, a lieutenant in the Kriegsmarine, the German navy.
The pattering of the rats caused the officer to whirl about and, on seeing the fleeing rodents, he opened fire at them with his pistol. However, as he did so, he all but lost his footing on the rusty, slippery steps. The succession of shots flew wide, peppering the wall beyond, the rats disappearing in a trice out of sight through a hole in the masonry. Cursing soundly, the man steadied himself and once again called for Armitage to make himself known. Again, answer came there none. Evidently, the rendezvous of which Prince Louis had spoken on the telephone - of a U-boat being sent to pick up the fugitive from off the Yorkshire coast and spirit him away to Germany - had not been kept. So, just where was Armitage?
However, before that question could be answered, there came an unexpected turn of events.
"Come out of there, with your hands up," ordered a guttural voice in heavily accented English.
Author's Note:
The title of this chapter may strike a chord and is often associated with the film of the same name starring Cary Grant and Priscilla Lane which premiered in 1944. That in turn was based on a long-running Broadway play which opened in 1939, and was inspired by something that had happened in Connecticut in the early years of the twentieth century. In the town of Windsor, a nursing boarding home had been opened and some time later a large number of the residents were found to have died of arsenical or strychnine poisoning, administered to them - for financial gain - by the owner of the home, Amy Archer-Gilligan (1873-1926). Convicted of murder and sentenced to death, an appeal resulted in her sentence being commuted to life imprisonment and eventually to incarceration in an asylum for the criminally insane.
During this period many alleged patent remedies contained traces of arsenic - as did both cosmetics and soaps.
Founded in Barcelona in 1910, the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo, still exists today. During the period of the Spanish Civil War, the organisation was continually at odds with the Republican government.
John O'Groats is a small village in Caithness, in the far north of Scotland; it has never had a railway station.
The situation of Teruel was exactly as described in the story.
The Hôtel Beauharnais, completed in 1714, has served as the German embassy in Paris for several centuries (effectively since 1818 when it became the seat of the Prussian legation). However, the street on which it stands was renamed in 1946, and is now the Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Even at this time, Shepheard's Hotel boasted all the modern amenities, including en-suite bathrooms. It should not be confused with the modern rebuild of the hotel which, while bearing the same name, is situated some distance away from the site of the original.
