And so now, we reach the explosive climax and the very last chapter of this particular tale; although it is not the end of the story. For, as many of you will already be aware, the interwoven lives and loves of the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schonbörns continue apace in "Rain, Steam, and Speed", Summer of 39", and "The White Cliffs of Dover". I know many of you have loved this part of their story. Thank you once again for reading and, especially, for all your most kind reviews and PMs.

The Irish Chauffeur

Chapter Fifty Six

Nemesis

Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, August 1932.

"So just when exactly will you be home?" asked Margarethe. She was sitting by the open window of the Drawing Room of the house on the Zähringerstrasse, with little Josef aged all of three years old seated in her lap. She glanced out into the back garden where, in the warm sunshine, both Ronan and Aidan were playing on the swing. "The boys are longing to see you," she added, hoping that by saying so, Fergal might commit himself to something other than yet another vague assurance that they would seem him shortly. It made no difference; none whatsoever. Not that she had expected it would. Nothing had ever changed. Fergal still came and went as he pleased.

"In a few days from now. There is something I have to do here before I return, for sure".

It was the kind of response which, in all the years they had been married, ever since Fergal had begun working for the Abwehr, something which, she herself had discovered only by chance, Margarethe had learned to expect.

"For sure," echoed Margarethe unable to conceal her disappointment. "But you will be back in time for Aidan's birthday? He misses you so". She paused. "We all do".

"Of course. Kiss the boys for me".

Margarethe heard a faint click at the other end of the line as, somewhere in distant Florence, Fergal replaced the receiver.

Somewhere on the Ponte Vecchio, Florence, Italy, August 1932.

Unlike his wife, Fergal Branson found no problem whatsoever with pigeon-holing the many, different, and varied aspects which made up the sum total of his adult life.

Growing up in Ireland on a poverty stricken farm in County Cork as the adopted son of the Ryans, his involvement with the IRA, his discovery of his true identity as the illegitimate son of Tom Branson, fathered on his own cousin Maeve, the same Tom Branson who had then abandoned both Fergal and his mother, leaving her for another woman, and cheating Fergal out of what he perceived to be his birthright: the now ruined Skerries House and what little remained of its once extensive estate.

All of which, Fergal knew by rote, had learned from his mother, told to him by her in the Drawing Room of her fine town house on North Mall in Cork and left to him in her will, his mother who now lay interred in a forlorn, shabby little grave in the long abandoned, windswept family cemetery beside the chapel at Skerries. Standing there beside her grave, shortly before he and Margarethe had left for Germany in October 1924, Fergal had sworn retribution on Tom Branson and all he held most dear and vengeance he would have, even if it took him a lifetime to achieve.

Of all of this, Margarethe herself knew only the little which Fergal had vouchsafed to tell her. Like his work for the Abwehr, German military intelligence, in Berlin, and which often took him abroad, that part of his life was a closed book, separate entirely from the time which he spent with her and their young family in Heidelberg. Not that she could say he was neglectful, either of her or the boys; they wanted for nothing and, when he was back home with them all in the house on Zähringerstrasse, he showed himself to be a loving husband and father.

Not that this altered the fact that all the strands in Fergal's life were carefully docketed, a place for everything and everything in its place; all neatly comparmentalised.

Which was why he was able to regard with a complete and utter detachment the young boy now lying bound and gagged on the bed in the derelict attic at the top of the stairs and who, aged all of twelve, was only but a few years older than Ronan. A means to an end to achieve what it was that desired.

Even when it came to committing parricide; the killing of one's own father.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, August 1932.

Happily possessed of the winning combination of both his Irish father's charm and his English mother's kind nature, let alone his dark haired good looks, as he grew older, Danny Branson turned heads wherever he went. All this apart, Danny was always ready to help those he considered in need and it was his innate goodness of heart which played a part in what now took place; for without it what happened would never have occurred.

Danny's thirteenth birthday would not actually fall until early in the New Year, and Robert's twelfth a few months thereafter. However, with it being unlikely that the Bransons and the Crawleys, let alone the Schonborns, would all be together again until the following summer, pestered by the two lads first into allowing them to visit the fair in Fiesole, and then to have Max come along too, the boys' parents had decided that the treat would form a joint early birthday present for the two elder of the youthful and by now inseparable, three musketeers, albeit the jaunt was to be kept a secret from the rest of the children.

At the Festa, Fiesole, August 1932.

With Friedrich having been enjoined by Edith to take especial care to see that Max came to no harm, by the time the three excited boys and their fathers reached Fiesole and alighted from the motor, the festa was already in full swing, the little town truly en fête. The labyrinth of narrow, stepped streets and the little squares wherein the various stalls and rides had been set up were awash with flags and flowers, crowded with happy, smiling people, both locals and those who had come in from the surrounding district, the thoroughfares a riot of colour, music, and twinkling lights. With the constant babble of voices, the laughter, let alone the mouthwatering smells from all the food which was on offer, with several parades, one made up of enormous, hollow papier mache figures from Italy's distant and more recent past, including Giuseppe Garibaldi, one of the founders of modern Italy, attired in his colourful red shirt, the heady atmosphere was more akin to that associated with carnevale, although it was much too late in the year, and when, as they say in Italy, ogni scherzo vale - anything goes.

"So which is it to be for sure?" asked Tom, his blue eyes, as well as those of both Matthew and Friedrich, sparkling with amusement as, after much considered deliberation, each of the three boys, their own eyes now as round as saucers, finally and at length, made their choices from the mouth watering flavours of ice cream which were on sale.

That Branson and his family had somehow managed to survive the careering Tourer's runaway descent down to the plain from the hills above Fiesole was a matter of infinite regret. Still, doubtless there would be other opportunities. With this in mind, Fergal had no intention of taking the advice of Rossi and making himself scarce by leaving the country before the date of his intended departure. After all, he was not expected back at his desk in the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse until the end of the month and that would give him more than ample time to take care of Branson once and for all. Thereafter, when through his man at the villa, Fergal learned of the fact that Branson and his brat would be going to the fair in Fiesole, an idea began to form in his febrile mind.

At the Festa, Fiesole.

Lagging slightly behind the others, savouring eating his ice cream, twelve year old Danny Branson had paused to watch the fire eater. It was as he turned away, about to re-join the others further up the street, that he caught sight of the soldier, a one-legged veteran of, he assumed, the Great War. He had seen such men before, of course, begging for money on the streets in Dublin, more often than not, by the Column on O'Connell Street. Irishmen who had fought for King and Country before Ireland had achieved her independence from Great Britain and who thereafter found themselves ostracised in their own country. For all that he was a staunch republican, Da thought it to be an absolute disgrace, as indeed did Ma, and both of them always gave a handful of money to such men who had fallen on hard times, reduced to begging on the streets through no fault of their own. So, when Danny saw the old man miss his footing, then stumble on the cobbles, and pitch forward, with no-one else seeming to have noticed, all intent on watching the continuing antics of the fire eater, without further ado, Danny ran over to help.

The soldier nodded his grateful thanks, then pointed across the narrow street, towards where an ornate wrought iron lamp hung above an archway, Danny understanding from the man's gestures that it lead to where he lived. With the soldier's arm about his shoulders, Danny helped the man limp across the street and beneath the arch. It was there, in the darkness of the stone-flagged passage, that he felt something wasn't quite right. But, by the time Danny realised his mistake it was already too late, finding himself held in a vice like grip, belying in an instant the soldier's apparent frailty. A pair of strong hands closed hard across Danny's mouth, choking off his cries for help; not that they would have been heard above the excited hubbub of people out in the darkened street. With a wad of material held fast across his nose and mouth, Danny smelt a sickly sweet smell, and then a moment later he knew no more, lapsing into unconsciousness.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole.

"Oh, no! Not again!" exclaimed Sybil seated at the card table where she, her sisters and their mother were all playing bridge, as once more the lights flickered, dimmed, and then went out altogether.

"Really! This is quite intolerable!" Cora likewise laid down her hand of cards.

"It wouldn't happen in England," observed Mary wryly and shaking her head.

"I have to agree with you Mama," said Edith, as in the darkness she fumbled for the bell. A moment or two later a flustered Innocenti bustled into the darkened Drawing Room. In the dimness the three sisters and their mother saw the butler shake his head and spread his hands apologetically before announcing that he would send down immediately for candles.

At the Festa, Fiesole.

"Where on earth's Danny?" asked Tom, turning around in the narrow, crowded street. Along with Matthew, Friedrich, Rob and Max likewise turned, all of them expecting to see Danny appear behind them a moment or so later. But then, when he didn't, it was with a rising sense of panic that Tom fought his way back along the narrow street, pushing and shoving his way against the oncoming tide of people, until finally he reached the spot where he had last seen Danny, hoping that he would find him standing by the fountain. But of Danny there was no sign; none whatsoever.

With Robert and a tearful Max left in the watchful care of Friedrich, Tom and Matthew now began a frantic search, up and down the length of the street, to be met only with blank stares, incomprehension, and shrugs of seeming indifference, when they tried to explain that they were looking for a young Irish boy.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole.

"What is it?" asked Sybil.

"This letter, it come for you signora".

"A letter? For me?" asked Sybil. "But I don't know anyone ..."

Innocenti held out the silver salver which glinted in the pale light of the candles. As he did so, the shadows danced, and, in that very same instant, Sybil felt the first chill flicker of alarm, knew instinctively that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

At the Festa, Fiesole.

Their frantic, madcap search for Danny had proved utterly fruitless.

"What do we do now?" asked Matthew helplessly. "Danny can't just have vanished into thin air". However, before he could answer his brother-in-law, Tom heard someone calling his name; now saw, pushing his way towards them forcefully through the thronging crowds, the gardener's boy from the villa. On reaching the two men, the lad poured out a stream of both voluble and incomprehensible Italian but, both by signs and by gestures at the same time made it abundantly clear that they must all return with him immediately to the villa. Believing that this must have something to do with Danny, post haste fathers and sons piled into the motor and, despite Tom's protests, with Matthew driving, with the gardener's boy pedalling furiously behind on his bicycle, they set off.

A short while later, now back at the villa, with Robert and Max having been shepherded hurriedly upstairs to bed by Friedrich and Edith, from a distraught and tearful Sybil, with Mary seated beside her, Tom and Matthew learned what had happened, beginning with the discovery on the hall table of the anonymous note.

"If you value your son's life ..."

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole.

"Tom, please ... for the last time, why won't you call ..." Sybil's voice faltered and she began to sob brokenly.

With the power still out, lit by the flickering light of the candles, here in the hall of the villa,Tom gently placed both his hands on her shoulders.

"I didn't listen to you before about all of this. If I had then perhaps none of this would have ..."
"It's not your fault ..."
"He said not to involve the police. Love, it's me he wants. In your heart, you know I have to do this. For Danny, for Saiorse, for Bobby, for this little one". Tom's hand came to rest on the soft swell of Sybil's belly. "For you. For us. To make an end of it now, whatever it costs, once and for all".

Slowly nodding her head, Sybil continued to pluck ineffectively at the lapels of his jacket.

"Tom, I ..."

The Irishman turned his head; glanced in the direction of his aristocratic sister-in-law, the countess of Grantham.

"Mary, I don't have to ask you ..."
"No, of course not". Mary moved instantly towards the two of them, once again placing a comforting arm about Sybil's shoulders.

"Take care, both of you. And bring Danny back to us, safe and sound," said Mary softly.

Outside a further shock awaited them. Edith was standing by the driver's door of the motor.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Tom.

"What does it look like? I'm coming with you!"

"But why?"

"Because I love Danny a very great deal, even more so because of the friendship both he and Robert have given to Max. But also ..." Edith paused. "Also for what you did for me all those years ago at the Shelbourne Hotel. Remember?"

Tom nodded.

"Of course I remember. But you don't have to do this. I didn't expect ..." Tom paused. "But then, knowing you as I do, perhaps I should have!"

Edith smiled.

"Friedrich and I have discussed it, and he's completely in agreement. In any case, I know Florence; you two don't!"

Tom and Matthew exchanged hurried glances.

"Well if you're sure".

"Of course I'm bloody sure! And while we're arguing, we're wasting time!"

That served to focus everyone's minds and without further ado, slightly shamefaced, Tom and Matthew now clambered into the motor. A moment later and they were off, bound for Florence while behind them in a crackling cacophony of noise the night sky over Fiesole exploded into life, lit up in a myriad of colours as the firework display which marked the end of the festa now began.

Florence, later that same night.

As up at the villa, so here too down in Florence with the power out all over the city. And, to make matters infinitely worse, suddenly and without warning, a dense fog had descended upon the darkened city, shrouding the domes, the towers, and the buildings of Florence in a cloying, damp caul of impenetrable mist.

With Edith driving the motor they had taken a slightly circuitous route so as to avoid the police patrols. Along the darkened, fogbound streets they went, with the flames from the burning flambeaux set into iron holders at street corners, casting eerie, flickering shadows on the neighbouring walls. Eventually, after what seemed an age, in a narrow side street, close to the mist shrouded bulk of the Duomo, Edith drew the motor to a stop.

"Please ... please be careful, the both of you," begged Edith, grasping first Tom and then Matthew tightly by their shoulders.

"Are you absolutely certain ... that you'll be safe here? All on your own?"
Edith nodded.

"Yes, of course. Your concern does you credit but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she said with an air of complete detachment and the slightest trace of exasperation which reminded Tom immediately of Sybil. "Of course, I doubt Papa would have approved, and I expect Mama would have a touch of the vapours if she knew about it but I always take the precaution of ..." Edith snapped open the clasp of her reticule and took out a small pistol, the sight of which caused Tom and Matthew to gasp in amazement.

"Jaysus!" exclaimed Tom. But even while he was disbelieving the sight of his own eyes, his admiration for Edith soared. She had come a very long way from the frightened young woman he had helped to safety in the aftermath of the bombing of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin back in June 1919.

"Do you know ... What I mean is ..." began Matthew hesitantly.

"If you're asking me do I know how to use it? Then, yes, of course I do!" snapped Edith. "After all, what's the point of keeping a dog and barking yourself? Friedrich taught me how to shoot. For my own protection. Some of the places we've been to together ... out there in the Near East ... well, I wouldn't ever be without it". As if to prove her point she shoved in the magazine, released the safety catch, and laid the small pistol on the seat beside her underneath her coat.

"Now go and find Danny. And bring him back to us safe and sound. Yourselves too!"

Neither Tom nor Matthew needed any further bidding to do as Edith had instructed. In an instant they were clambering out of the motor while, somewhere ahead of them, lost in the fog, the clock on the tower of the Palazzo Signoria chimed midnight.

Together, they set off on foot along the narrow street, keeping close to the walls of the adjoining buildings so as to try and retain some sense as to exactly where it was they were, disappearing out of Edith's sight in an instant, swallowed up by the creeping fog, as if they had no more substance than a pair of ghostly phantoms.

The fog was everywhere, in the streets and in the squares where dank, eddying coils of mist crept silently and with a dogged persistence through the arches, along the colonnades and the loggias, drifted among the delicate wrought ironwork of the balconies and the louvred shutters of the buildings, swirling about the ornate fountains and the marble statues, beading all of them with droplets of moisture. Towards the river, the fog was thicker still, here swirling, wreath-like, up and down the Arno, over the parapets and beneath the arches of the many bridges, and among the moored barges and the gondolas, shrouding them in a dense, smoke-like haze of grey.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, although in fact it could have been no more than a matter of ten minutes or so, they reached the corner of the Piazza della Signoria where they both paused.

"Matthew, old friend, I must do this on my own," Tom said, his voice faltering.

Like hell you do, thought Matthew.

"I'll wait for you here then," he said disingenuously. Not that he had the slightest intention of doing so although for the moment he remained standing where he was, watching, as alone and forlorn, Tom set off across the square, disappearing out of Matthew's sight almost immediately. A moment later and Matthew went in pursuit of his brother-in-law, creeping silently along as if he was back in the trenches on the Somme, keeping out of sight of German snipers. In an instant, he too was swallowed up by the all pervading fog.

With the bells of the clock on the Palazzo now chiming the quarter hour, as somewhere closer at hand, a dog barked and a cat mewled, and with drops of moisture flecking his jacket and trousers, Tom made his way cautiously across the piazza.

Over on the far side of the square, the air was damp and still. Everything was deathly quiet but then that in itself was not unusual for even if it had not been foggy at this hour, the shops were closed long since; their fronts shuttered fast and the square completely deserted.

Or was it?

For now, as he hesitated, Tom felt the same sensation which he had experienced but a few days earlier, on the Via Maggio, while waiting for Edith to come out of the English Church: the feeling that he was being watched. Only this time, unlike before, while Tom paused and looked about him, here in the empty vastness of the great piazza, instead of dissipating, the notion persisted.

The chill mist rising from the nearby river thickened, masking reality.

A moment later and Tom sensed a slight movement in the shadows; felt a sudden tug at his elbow. Whirling round, looking about him, to his surprise, he now saw, standing beside him, a young dark-haired boy wearing a beret, and with a pale, pinched face.

"Who are ... what do you …" began Tom.

The boy didn't answer him. Instead he pointed first to his mouth and then touched the lobe of his right ear before shaking his head; making Tom understand that he was a deaf mute. He pointed several times towards his right, in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio and a moment later he pressed something soft into Tom's hand.

And then, wraith-like, the child was gone.

In fact so quickly and so silently did he vanish, that Tom found himself wondering if the boy had been no more than a figment of his own fevered imaginings, but then, opening his palm, Tom saw that what had been pressed into it was real enough:a strip of material, torn from a boy's white linen, cambric shirt and which Tom instantly recognised as belonging to Danny. Wrapped within it was a piece of paper bearing four brief words, scrawled in the same writing as on the note found at the villa.

"Archway, 7 Ponte Vecchio"

The boy had pointed towards the bridge but where on earth was it? In the fog it was impossible to tell.

But then, just when Tom was at his lowest ebb, the mist suddenly recoiled and there, ahead of him, much closer than he had thought, out of the darkness there loomed the Ponte Vecchio. On either side of the bridge, as here in the square, the ancient buildings were shuttered fast, their upper storeys shrouded in mist. Save for the sound of the river, as it broke and foamed around the piers of the bridge, all was quiet, eerily so. And yet, for all that, somewhere in the darkness behind him, he thought he heard footsteps.

Somewhere on the Ponte Vecchio.

At this hour, as Tom moved cautiously along the Ponte Vecchio, his footfalls echoing noisily in the empty darkness, with the power still out, the torches flared, pinpricks of light in the mist, illuminating but faintly the shadowy outlines of the buildings lining each side of the old bridge, as desperately he sought the address he had been given. Then, suddenly where the fog writhed gossamer-like, coiling in scarves, there it was, the dim archway beside the goldsmiths and within he glimpsed the foot of the staircase of which he had been told.

Tom's fingers closed on the handrail and then, when he was about halfway up or thereabouts - in the darkness t was difficult to tell - beneath his weight a board on the narrow stair creaked and, as in the square, once again, this time from somewhere above him, he sensed movement in the shadows.

A moment later and Tom froze as from somewhere out of the darkness, someone now spoke.

"I've been waiting. I wasn't at all certain you'd come, for sure," said the disembodied voice, softly sardonic.

"Where's my son?" demanded Tom.

"All in good time. In case you're wondering, which I suppose you must be, he's alive. At least for the present. How long he remains so, well, that rather depends on you. Don't just stand there ..."

Unwillingly - although he had no choice - Tom did as he was bidden and moved slowly forward up the treads.

At the top of the staircase he stood motionless while his eyes took in the scene before him. An attic room, lit by the wan light of a hurricane lantern placed atop a rickety table and beside it - thank God - there was Danny, seated on a mattress, his face bruised, his hands tied behind him, and with a filthy gag stuffed in his mouth. Seeing his Da, Danny raised a tear stained face; whimpered faintly.

"If yous hurt him ... It's all right, son, I'll have yous out of here in a jiffy".
"If I were yous," I wouldn't be making promises yous can't keep," said Fergal, now moving forward into the circle of lamplight where he turned up the wick of the lamp.

The building was evidently undergoing repair as workmen's tools stood in one corner, while above his head, through a hole in the roof, briefly though the mist Tom glimpsed starlight. Where there must once have been a gable wall there was now nothing, save a few low courses of masonry from beyond which there came the incessant roar of the river; the noise from the surging waters, all but deafening.

Seconds later and Tom felt the floor beneath his feet move. Instinctively he sprang back.

"Yes, I'd be careful, if I were yous," said Fergal softly. "This whole place is in a terrible state. One false step and ..."

As if to reiforce what he had just said, from somewhere beneath them there came the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. The rickety floor creaked ominously. There was a judder, the attic shook, and then a cascade of dislodged planking collapsed down into the Arno, sending up an enormous plume of water.

"I suggest yous sit down. Over there". Fergal indicated a packing case. Tom did as he was told. After all, when someone is pointing a pistol at you it is unwise to do otherwise than what one is instructed to do.

And, so now, it began.

The very worst kind of humiliation is not to be taken seriously. And, for all that he held all of the cards, or so he thought, despite all that had now been said, Fergal was certain that Tom did not believe him; that he would indeed kill the boy. No matter; he would kill the both of them and have done with it and be on his way.

And yet, not that he would ever admit it, but what Fergal himself had just now been told made some kind of dreadful sense ... of that bundle of closely written letters along with the faded photograph of a man in uniform which he had found in a locked draw in his mother's desk in the house on North Parade in Cork. He had assumed that there were no photographs of Tom Branson because as his mother had told him many times, they had parted on bad terms. But what if that too had been a lie? What if what he had just been told was indeed the truth of it? It all made sense. But no, that was too awful to contemplate.

"You're lying," said Fergal softly, roughly jerking Danny to his feet and jamming the muzzle of his pistol hard against the boy's temple.

"Yous know I'm not! On my son's life, I swear I'm not! I tried to tell yous once before ... your father was your mother's own brother". Tom sank to his knees.

"I don't believe yous!" Ferrgal's fingers closed on the trigger.

"Jaysus! No! Let my boy go! It's me yous want!"

Fergal shook his head; instead, he continued to back away and, as he did so, tightened his grip around Danny's throat, with the barrel of the Mauser pressed hard against the boy's forehead, forcing Danny to move with him, over to where the collapsed rear wall of the building had once stood.

"No chance! Go to hell! First him. Then yous!"

In that very same instant, crouching unseen there in the darkness at the head of the narrow staircase, hearing Tom pleading for Danny's life, Matthew knew that had it been Robert held there with a pistol hard against his temple that not for one single moment would he have hesitated. In the army he had been known as a crack shot and, with that thought in mind, realising that he had no other option, mouthing a silent prayer to whichever deity might be listening, Matthew squeezed hard on the trigger of his service revolver.

In the confined space of the attic, the noise of the report from the Webley was deafening. In the dim light of the attic, Tom was briefly aware of a sudden gust of warm air, the sound of the shot seeming to rattle his bones; reverberated through the rickety floor.

The bullet from Matthew's revolver hit Fergal squarely in the shoulder, the impact of the shot catapulting him backwards over what little remained of the gable wall, sending him plunging into the churning, frothing, black waters of the river some fifty feet below. At the same time Tom launched himself forward, intent on grabbing hold of Danny and so preventing him being pulled backwards into the void by Fergal as he fell. But, in the event, Tom misjudged badly for, as Danny, shaken but unharmed, dropped uninjured to the floor, Tom found himself plunging headlong into the foggy darkness beyond.

Appalled at what had been the unintentional outcome of what he himself had done, in an instant Matthew was across the loft and on his knees beside Danny, cradling the terrified youngster in his arms, pulling off the makeshift gag, untying the boy's hands, before crawling on his hands and knees across the shaky planking, steeling himself to look fearfully over the wall, terrified to see what he knew he might see.

Moonlight filtered through the drifting skeins of mist to reveal Tom clearly winded, but alive, lying athwart and clutching a projecting beam some ten feet below the floor of the attic high above the fast flowing waters of the river.

"Da!" screamed Danny.

"Tom! yelled Matthew.

Groggily, Tom raised his head and looked up to see the anxious faces of both his son and his brother-in-law peering down at him through the swirling murk.

"Matthew! How on earth ..."

"Never mind that. For God's sake, don't let go!"

"Feckin' hell! I wasn't intending to! Talk about statin' the bleedin' obvious!" gasped Tom, tightening his grip on the creaking beam.

Casting around desperately for something which he might be able to make use of to help rescue Tom from his precarious perch, a coil of rope lying on the floor in a corner of the attic caught Matthew's eye.

"Danny, lad, I need your help with this".

Wasting no time, without further ado, Matthew made one end of the heavy rope fast around the newel post at the head of the stairs and then with Danny beside him, both of them lying flat on the partly collapsed floor, he lowered the other end down to Tom, who lashed it tightly about his waist.

"What do you need me to do, Uncle Matthew?"

"When I say pull, then pull with all your might! Tom, are you ready?"

"No, I thought I'd just stay here for sure and take in the feckin' view! Of course I'm bloody ready!"

"Right, Danny. Now PULL!"

A few minutes later, bruised and winded, Tom was safely back on the floor of the attic and hugging Danny tightly to him in a tearful embrace. Kneeling there on the dust strewn floor, Tom turned to Matthew. Smiling, he placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder.

"And yous said I was the one to have about yous in a crisis. Yous don't do too bad yourself for sure!"

Down below them, the beam on which Tom had been lying but a short while ago, creaked, lurched and collapsed into the Arno.

At the sound of the motor drawing to a stand on the gravel at the front of the villa, Cora, Sybil, Mary, and Friedrich were up out of their chairs and hurrying to the front door; flung it wide open to see Tom, helped by Matthew, clambering out of the motor, with Danny warmly swathed in a blanket. A moment later, followed by Edith, they were all at the door. Over Danny's head Tom and Sybil's eyes linked. Tom nodded and he saw her breathe a sigh of infinite relief.

"He's all right".

"Oh, thank God!" Sybil pressed her lips to Danny's forehead.

"What he needs now most of all is to sleep".

"And ..." Sybil arched a brow; took in Tom's dishevelled state
"It's over. All done with. For good. But talk about it all later for sure. Let's get Danny upstairs and into bed".

While thankfully the other children remained sound asleep and were therefore blissfully unaware of all that had happened, as Tom, Sybil, and Danny reached the top of the stairs, Rob and Max rushed out onto the landing, both of them clearly relieved to see Danny back safe and sound, only to be hurried back to bed by their mothers, shushing them into silence and with promises that they could see Danny in the morning.

Villa San Callisto, still later that same night.

In the candle lit bedroom, Danny stirred fitfully in his drug induced slumber.

"Ma?" he asked softly.

"It's all right, my very own darling. Don't worry, you're safe". Seated beside the bed, his mother bent forward and pressed her lips gently against his forehead.

"Da?" he whispered, but even as he spoke, Danny was already beginning to drift.
"I'm here too son".

Hearing his beloved father's voice, Danny smiled, fought to overcome the drowsiness which was pulling him back to sleep. He yawned and, as he did so, now realised for the first time that he was lying in his parents' bed.

"Why am I ..." Memory stirred. His voice faltered. "Da, that man, the one who tried to ..."

"He's gone, Danny. For good. He won't ever hurt you again".

"No ... for sure". Danny's voice grew fainter and a moment later he was once more asleep.

There came a soft tap at the door.

Rising from the bed, Tom stole quietly across the room and opened the door to reveal Matthew, Mary, Friedrich, and Edith all standing anxiously outside on the landing.

"How is he?" asked Edith gently, her eyes full of compassion.

"He'll be all right," said Tom.

"I thought I heard Danny's voice".

Tom nodded.

"Yes, but he's asleep again now".

"It's the best possible thing for him". This from Friedrich.

"He's a strong boy. I'm sure he'll be fine," said Mary.

"And time is a great healer," said Matthew laying his hand firmly on Tom's shoulder.

"If there's anything that we can do to help ..."
"You have already".

"Now what about you? Shouldn't both of you try and get some sleep as well? We can take it in turns to watch over Danny," said Edith.

"Well, if you're quite sure".

"Of course. Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Mary, placing both her hands firmly on Tom's shoulders.
"Forgetting what?" Tom looked quizzically at his sister-in-law.

"That we're family," she said softly. Leaning forward, she kissed her brother-in-law lightly on the cheek. "Don't ever forget that. Now, go and get some sleep, the pair of you. If Danny wakes, I promise I'll let you know at once".

Meanwhile, some distance downstream of the Ponte Vecchio, bloodied, brusied, and soaked to the skin, a man heaved himself out of the waters of the river and shortly thereafter collapsed on the muddy shore.

The English Church, Via Maggio, Florence, August 1932.

A day or so after the encounter on the Ponte Vecchio, here in Florence, beneath a clear blue, cloudless sky, in the warmth of the Tuscan sunshine, the hustle and bustle of daily life in the great city continued apace, just as it had always done in some form or another, for the past two millennia.

Off the Via Maggio, close to the Ponte Vecchio, within the pleasantly cool interior of the English Church the air was heavy, perfumed both with the smell of incense and the scent of roses, the blooms a mixture of both red and white, the colours of the flag of Austria.

"There, now," said Mary, having adjusted Edith's short veil and at last satisfied with her handiwork.

"Will I do?" asked Edith.

Mary nodded. At her sister's words, for one brief moment, she found herself thinking back to her own wedding day, standing on the main staircase of the abbey, gazing down at both her late father and old Carson.

"Yes, very well indeed!"

"Darling, you look absolutely beautiful!" said Sybil. Always the most demonstrative of the three of them, impulsively, she kissed her elder sister on the cheek.

"Thank you. I wasn't at all certain about the colour; at least not until yesterday morning". Edith's hand came to rest on her belly. "In all the circumstances, I didn't think white was quite the thing".

Edith indicated the full sleeved, pale apricot, Schiaparelli gown which, but a few days earlier, along with several other different designs and styles had been delivered to the villa for her private viewing from an establishment down in Florence on the Via de' Tornabuoni; with Mary and Sybil's assistance, the whole operation having been undertaken in the greatest secrecy so as not to alert Friedrich as to what it was that was afoot.

Even so, the carefully laid plan almost had come to grief when Saiorse nearly gave the game away, announcing blithely to anyone who happened to be listening, and which at the time she made her remark that constituted most of the family with exception of Friedrich, Max, and Matthew, that Aunt Edith had been trying on several new dresses.

Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, a few days earlier.

"Now what on earth might that be for sure?" had asked Tom in his lilting Irish brogue and with a merry twinkle in his eyes, having guessed intuitively what it was that had been afoot.

"Never you mind Mr. Branson," had retorted Edith promptly. "And I'd be very grateful if neither you, nor anyone else for that matter, and that, darling, includes you Saiorse, makes any mention of it, especially to Friedrich or to Max".

With a grin, Tom tapped his nose.

"Silent as the grave. For sure!"

"What's that mean, Da?"
"What, silent as the grave?"

Saiorse nodded her head.

"Yes, Da".

"It means you won't say anything about something which is a secret".

"But why, Da? Why's it a secret?" persisted Saiorse.

"Because, darlin', in this instance, it's supposed to be a surprise. You like surprises, don't you?" asked her father.

"Yes, of course I do, Da. But only if they're nice ones!"

Tom smiled at his daughter.

"Well then. And, please, don't say anything about it to young Max for sure!"

The English Church, Via Maggio, Florence.

"Are you quite sure you're ready?" asked Mary.

"Darling, I've been marching down the aisle for ten years. So, yes, of course I'm ready. Well, here goes the last of the Crawley girls!" She laughed and gave both of her sisters a radiant smile.

"I see Mama's got her hands full". Sybil grinned and nodded towards where, ably assisted by the redoubtable Nanny Bridges, the Dowager Countess of Grantham was presently engaged in doing her very best to keep her clutch of boisterous, unruly grandchildren in some kind of order. "Well, darling, the very, very best of luck. And you know I mean that. Friedrich's a fine man. Well, I suppose I'd best be getting back. Tom will be down in a moment".

Edith nodded; glanced absent-mindedly up the aisle to where, smart in his pale blue dress uniform of an officer of the former Royal and Imperial Austro-Hungarian air force, stood Friedrich, talking with both Matthew and Tom.

"Where on earth has Max got to?"

"He's over there, behind the pillar, along with Danny and Rob," said Sybil. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I couldn't see him. That's all".

Sybil said nothing further. Instead, she smiled again, this time not at Edith but at Mary. Then, while the organist continued to play a selection of introductory pieces, without further ado, Sybil turned quickly on her heel, walked briskly away back up the aisle and resumed her seat. Then, to Edith's consternation, she saw both Matthew and Tom now do the same. So who was going to ...

Edith felt a small, slightly moist hand steal into her own.

Turning her head, to her amazement she saw Max was standing beside her. Smart in a white shirt, grey Sepplhose, white knee length socks, and brown boots, he glanced shyly up at his mother.

"Uncle Tom and Uncle Matthew said it was only right that I should be the one to give you away," he said softly and with the cheeky grin that always melted her heart. "And … Danny and Rob both agree," he added firmly just in case his mother thought any further confirmation of what he had told her should be deemed necessary.

At that, Edith felt her eyes mist with unbidden tears. Well, she thought, let them come. This was a day she had never thought she would see; knew that by his marriage to her, here in the English Church in Florence, with none of his relatives having been informed of what was taking place, let alone in attendance, thereby flouting convention, social diktat, and religious custom, for love, Friedrich had cut himself adrift from his own family.

"You don't mind, do you, Mama?" persisted Max, his words serving to jolt his mother back to the present.
"Mind? No, darling, of course not".

"Because if Danny and Rob both say it's all right, then it must be, mustn't it?" asked Max in all seriousness.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it must be". Edith nodded her head in agreement.

"Are you all right, Mama?"

"Yes, perfectly". Edith sniffed heavily.

"Then … why are you crying, Mama?"

"Max, darling, remember what I told you, when we were at the hotel?"

Max nodded.

"Yes, Mama".

"Well, young man, are you are ready? Because if so, then so am I!"

Max nodded his head; beamed happily up at his mother.

Then, as the small congregation rose to its feet, to the strains of the Bridal March from Lohengrin by Wagner, followed by his Aunt Mary, taking his beloved Mama firmly by the hand, proudly and sedately young Max escorted her slowly up the aisle to where his father stood waiting.

Santa Maria Novella Railway Station, Florence, August 1932.

Among all the hustle and bustle that inevitably attends the departure of an express train from any one of the great European railway stations, there are to be observed the usual farewells being made, some of them tearful, the hearing of voluble concerns being expressed as to the immediate whereabouts of children and other relatives, the latter more often than not elderly, and the witnessing too of the the occasional, frantic search for a supposedly lost or misplaced ticket, while at the same time, uniformed porters attend dutifully, and for the most part unobtrusively, to the loading of a veritable mountain of luggage.

So it will be no surprise to learn that the scene unfolding today at the railway station here in Florence was no different to that described, as the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schonbörns took one last look about them before boarding the Rome Express to begin the long train journey home. To begin with, the whole family was bound first for Paris where, at the insistence of Friedrich and Edith, the Bransons and the Crawleys were to stay with them at the Hôtel Georges Cinq situated on the Champs-Elysées, close to the Arc de Triomphe.

The following afternoon, Friedrich, Edith, and Max were all booked on board the eastbound Orient Express, which would take them, and little Fritz, home to Austria, departing from the Gare de l'Est promptly at 5.16pm and where, when the time came for the inevitable farewells to be made, tears would undoubtedly be shed. Thereafter, the Bransons and the Crawleys would continue their journey together, from the Gare du Nord, onwards to Calais, before boarding the ferry across the English Channel to England, and so back to Downton. A day or so later, the Bransons would begin the final stage of their journey, home to Ireland.

"Where's Danny?" Sybil asked nervously.

With Tom beside her, their arms linked, they were standing together out in the bright Tuscan sunshine on one of the many platforms of the large station. While Tom knew that her concerns would eventually pass, since the business with Fergal, if only for the time being, and understandably so, Sybil had become very mother hen-ish over her eldest, fussing repeatedly, as to his whereabouts.

"Darlin', don't worry. He's down inspecting the engine, along with Rob and Max. Matthew and Mary are there too, keeping an eye on the three of them". Tom grinned.

"Mary?" Amazed by what she had just been told, Sybil made no attempt to disguise her incredulity.

Tom nodded, then chuckled.

"When I asked Mary about her new found interest in things mechanical, she just laughed at me, said that she was resigned to the fact that if she couldn't beat them, by them, I assume she means Matthew and Rob - she might as well join them!"

"Saiorse and Bobby?"

Tom nodded in the direction of where the other children were all gathered together but a short distance away under the combined and ever watchful eyes of both Cora and Nanny Bridges.

"Over there with the others".

"And Friedrich and Edith?"

Tom grinned; now nodded, this time in the opposite direction, to where Friedrich and Edith were standing, likewise arm in arm, out in the warm sunshine.

"Ah, what it is me darlin' for sure to be young and in love! Lost in their own little world," laughed Tom.

"And? Are yous any the wiser, for sure?" he now asked, lofting an inquisitive brow towards Mary, as, together with Matthew, Danny, Robert, and Max, along with Fritz still trotting along on his improvised leash, the countess of Grantham now re-joined them beside the door to their coach.

Matthew grinned at Tom. For her part, Mary merely grimaced.

"Apparently, it's an ..." she began and through gritted teeth.

"E626," put in Robert helpfully.

"Built in 1930," chimed Danny enthusiastically.

"In Italy," added Max proudly.

"Yes, that's right. An E626, built in 1930, in Italy," repeated Mary tonelessly. "Boys, I feel so much better for knowing all of that".

On catching sight of the earl and countess of Grantham, touching his cap respectfully, the immaculately uniformed, splendidly moustached Chef de Bord moved forward, both to welcome them on board the express and to ask if they or the others in their party had any special requirements. Now, as all the others began climbing up into the coach and setting about finding their seats, Tom and Sybil remained where they were standing down on the platform.

"And?" Sybil lofted an eyebrow.

"And what?"

"I know that look of old".

"What look, for sure?"

"The one you're wearing now. Like the cat that got the cream!"

"Oh, that look!"

"Yes!"

"Well, while they're all getting settled in, it means I get the chance to spend some more time alone with yous".

Sybil smiled.

"This trip has certainly had its fair share of surprises".

"Indeed and one I will never forget for sure!"

"Even with all the heartbreak ..."

"Aye, it's been a grand time we've had".

"Now, among all the other surprises, tell me truthfully, Tom, are you really are happy about the new arrival?"

"Of course I am for sure. Why do yous ask?"

In the bright sunshine, Sybil regarded him thoughtfully for a moment; decided that, on balance, the passing years had been kind to the both of them. True, there were a handful of lines on both their faces that hadn't been there before, along with the odd touch of grey in their hair, but other than that, despite all that had come to pass in the thirteen years since they had married, including the birth of their three children, both of them looked very much as they had done on their wedding day on that long gone summer's day back in June 1919.

"Well, neither of us is getting any younger ..."

"Me darlin', yous not be suggestin' t'at oi be over the hill, are yous?"

Sybil laughed.
"No, not at all. Obviously you're not. Otherwise I wouldn't be expecting again! That is, unless I've taken a secret lover; which for your information I haven't. At least ... not for the present".
"I'm very glad to hear it!"

"So be warned, Mr. Branson, when you start flagging in that regard, I'll know it's time to find a younger man and call in the undertaker!"

"Yous wouldn't?" Tom grinned.

"Who knows?" asked Sybil archly. "In any case you won't be around to see it if I do. But being serious, Tom, with the children, even Bobby, all now growing up, I was rather looking forward to spending more time alone with you. Does that make me sound terribly selfish?"

"Were yous now, Mrs. Branson? Well, I' be t'inkin' that with havin' me as your husband t'at's only as it should be for sure!" said Tom, his blue eyes full of mirth and twinkling with merriment, and lapsing once again into the broadest Irish brogue that he could muster, something which always made Sybil laugh.

"You're very full of yourself this morning, Mr. Branson!"

"Aren't I just! Sybil, me darlin', I absolutely adore yous!"
"Then, show me!"

Understandably, Tom didn't need to be asked twice; now leaned in for a kiss, to which Sybil responded with an ardour that all but took his breath away.

And, as their kiss deepened, opposite the railway station, on the other side of the wide square, a dole of white doves took flight, soaring into the blue firmament, high above the sun-baked terracotta roofs of the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, while from somewhere closer at hand someone began an impromptu rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro.

Author's Note

It is perfectly true that many of those brave Irishmen who fought for King and Country during the Great War later found themselves ostracised after Ireland achieved her independence. Many emigrated because of this, although poverty and high unemployment played their part too. Only now, after nearly a century of deliberately forgetting what should have been remembered, has their bravery and sacrifice been recognised by the Irish Republic.

Elsa Schiaparelli (1890-1973) was an Italian fashion designer. Along with Coco Chanel, Schiaparelli was one of the most prominent figures in fashion between the two world wars.

Opened in 1928, its construction financed by the American architect and businessman Joel Hillman, at a cost of some US$31 million, the Hôtel Georges Cinq is still one of the finest hotels in Paris.

O Mio Babbino Caro is a soprano aria from the opera "Gianni Schicchi". Composed in 1918 by Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) it was used as the main theme for the film "A Room With A View" which, as many of you will know, is set in Florence.