A Pattern of Lies (14 page)

“How is the man I left with you?”

He took a deep breath. “He tried to kill himself last night. But we stopped him in time, and I think now he might be the better for it.”

He had made the gesture. He had salved his conscience. Perhaps now he could heal . . .

“I was worried about him. How sad.”

He shook his head. “It was Sergeant Rollins who suggested the suicide watch. And of course he was right. Corporal Haines is sleeping now, Matron prescribed something to allow him to sleep.”

I'd heard the words
Sergeant Rollins,
and was busy trying to take them in. Surely that wasn't the Sergeant Rollins I was searching for? But it must be.

He'd shown such compassion for one of his men. Perhaps he'd be willing to help Philip Ashton as well.

“I'm glad,” I said, referring to the corporal. “I couldn't leave him. Not like that. But you said Sergeant Rollins?”

He roused himself. “Yes, that's right. The sergeant who was with Corporal Haines when you first sent for me. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation. I would have liked to meet him. Speak to him. But he'd left by the time I could look for him.”

“Several of the tank corps have been brought in. Losses can be high sometimes. He must have come to look in on them, then gone straight back to the lines.”

I tried to remember his face. But Rollins had one of those ordinary faces, the features unremarkable and yet, as a whole, pleasant enough. Short-­cropped dark hair, pale eyes—­a light blue, I thought—­and only of middle height. But then tall men didn't fit into tanks quite as well. Good shoulders, a quiet manner. He hadn't panicked when Corporal Haines had fallen apart. And he'd listened to me when I suggested going for the chaplain.

An experienced soldier who took good care of his men.

My spirits lifted.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

A
FTER TALKING WITH
the chaplain, I went back into the wards to find the Sister in charge of the beds where Corporal Haines was sleeping away his fear and anxiety. But she had been dealing with an emergency and hadn't spoken to Sergeant Rollins. She had no idea whether he would be coming back.

The Sister who had worked with Matron to calm Corporal Haines was off duty and very likely sleeping.

I could of course speak to Matron herself. But that was a very different matter. One of the ward Sisters would take my questions in stride. Matron would want to know why I was asking questions about a man in the ranks. And that would mean telling her about the Ashtons.

By that time, my transport north was about to leave, and I had to hurry out to the ambulance line to find the one assigned to take me back.

There was a good bit of excitement at the forward aid station when I arrived.

The black aircraft had come back, and someone in the lines had been shooting at it. It had turned back to its own lines trailing black smoke, and speculation was rife that someone had not only hit the machine but possibly brought it down behind German lines.

Safely
behind German lines. Those were the words used. Back with his own.

It was all rather bloodthirsty, but then this single craft had been annoying ambulance drivers and patients alike. There wasn't much sympathy for him on our side of No Man's Land.

Two days later, I found myself face-­to-­face with Sergeant Rollins again. This time he was a patient.

He had burned his hand rather badly, and I was assigned to cleaning and treating it.

How do you start a conversation with someone about what they witnessed when an explosion ripped through a small town?

I chose the least pressing way I could think of.

“I'm told you're from Kent,” I began. “I took a convoy of wounded to Canterbury recently.” I mentioned the clinic where I'd been sent. “Do you know it? They do good work there.”

He simply stared at me with those light blue eyes. I'd been right about them. They reminded me of a china doll I'd played with as a child. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

I wasn't the sort to rattle on inanely. But I found myself doing just that. “I'm told that the police have arrested Philip Ashton for murder, accusing him of being responsible for the fire if not the explosion at the Ashton Powder Mill.”

He was watching my hands now as I worked.

I was suddenly possessed by the horrid fear that his sister had written to him about Sister Crawford, and he already knew what I was about to ask him.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“A pity,” I went on. I kept my voice low. “I know his wife. And his son. I can't imagine that he would want to wreck his own property, much less be responsible for so many deaths.”

From somewhere behind me the doctor called, “Sister Crawford, how much longer with that hand?”

I was needed elsewhere. It was time to be direct. “If you are the Sergeant Rollins who witnessed the disaster, your testimony could help avert a miscarriage of justice.”

He looked straight at me then. “Why do you think it would do any such thing?”

I stared at him. “Are you telling me that you saw something that day? That whatever it was, it would hurt Mr. Ashton rather than save him?”

“I have no interest in the Ashtons. What happens to them is no concern of mine.” He started to pull away, but I hadn't finished tying off the bandage around his hand.

I said hurriedly, “How sad. If it were your family facing such a blow, you might feel differently.”

“I'm a soldier,” he said tightly. “And my duty is here, not in a courtroom.”

He rose and walked away.

I washed my hands and went to help the doctor. He said as we worked, “Was that the famous tank man? I thought I recognized him. What were you two talking about?”

“Kent,” I said truthfully. “He's from there, I'm told.”

“Is he indeed,” the doctor said, and lost all interest in Sergeant Rollins as he concentrated on saving the arm of the man on the table in front of him.

I really don't know what I'd expected.

Certainly not that Sergeant Rollins would feel compelled to rush back to Kent and give his evidence just because of our brief conversation.

Nor that he would tell me something that could be used in Philip Ashton's defense.

I had simply wanted to tell this man what was happening in Cranbourne.

Which brought me back to his sister, Agatha.

Was my news old to him? Had she already written to him, telling him of the arrest of Philip Ashton? Sergeant Rollins was no fool. He must already know whether or not what he'd seen while fishing in The Swale would make a difference to the police or to the court or to Mr. Groves and Lucius Worley. Whether it was valuable information or useless.

I'd wanted to find him, to make him aware of the fact that he could do something for someone in trouble. If the Army wouldn't bring him home, if Canterbury wouldn't call for his evidence, then at least he might consider his own duty in the matter and offer to give a new statement.

And instead he'd turned his back on the Ashtons.

Did he believe Philip Ashton was guilty? Or had he believed the rumors and tales his sister might have passed on to him?

There was no way to tell.

This man I'd watched show such compassion for one of his own tank corps had spurned any suggestion of concern for a man facing hanging.

It was a shock. I'd been brought up to duty. I'd watched my father serve his country and his men without regard to self. I'd been taught in my training that my duty was to my patient, and that I must use all my skill to help him. Whether I liked the man, his uniform, or his side in this war was immaterial. If he was wounded, he was my concern.

Well.

So much for Sergeant Rollins.

The question now was, should I tell Mark what I'd encountered? Or would that do more harm to his father's cause than good?

In the end I decided that discretion was best.

What I knew about Sergeant Rollins I would keep to myself. For now.

I threw myself into my work as the lines of wounded passed through my hands. But Sergeant Lassiter hadn't forgot I wanted to speak to the sergeant, and late one evening as I was trying to wash out a uniform apron, I heard the call of the kookaburra bird.

The sergeant came sauntering in, spoke to the Sister on night duty, received a packet of bandages from her, and then came my way.

I brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear and said, “What brings you to us in the middle of the night?”

“We were short of bandages. I volunteered to fetch more.”

I had to smile. He was just as likely to have hidden all the bandages his unit had possessed in order to proclaim a shortage.

“Still looking for yon sergeant? The tank man?”

“I've spoken to him,” I said, trying to keep any hint of anger out of my voice. “He didn't seem to be inclined to help me.”

Sergeant Lassiter frowned. I could see his brows draw together. “I don't like the sound of that, lass. Shall I have a word with him, d'ye think?”

I could imagine what having a word with the reluctant sergeant might mean to this man.

“No, it won't help. He knows
something
about an event that happened two years ago, and I don't know whether his knowledge would help Mr. Ashton fight the charges brought against him, or if his evidence would condemn the man.”

“And this worries you, does it?”

“What worries me is that if this man isn't guilty, he should be set free. And the ­people who nearly burned down his house while I was in it need to
see
that he has been set free, and stop harassing the family.” I hadn't intended to tell him that. I was tired, although that was hardly an excuse, and we'd lost two men who shouldn't have died, and I felt that very strongly. It was hard to keep my feelings in check at the moment.

“Burned the house—­Bess, were you hurt in that fire?”

“No, it was put out in time. But it might not have been. That was the worrying part. It could have caught the carpet, and then the floor. It could have done serious damage, and it was only sheer luck that it didn't. This was after Mr. Ashton had been arrested. That's what is troubling. Someone wanted to hurt that family very badly, and they've succeeded. And it makes me angry. They aren't satisfied with what they've accomplished, and that makes me fearful that worse could happen.”

He was staring off toward the German lines. I could hear singing, and I realized that it was a Sunday evening. These were hymns.

“I wish the war would end,” I said wearily. “For all our sakes.”

“I'm doing my best, love,” he said, and I smiled at his arrogance, but it was comforting in a way too. “It's yon Major whose family you're worried about?”

“Yes, it is. And no, I'm not in love with him. I told you.”

He grinned. “Leave it to me. I'll have a word with this man Rollins.”

“No, you mustn't! Leave him alone, Sergeant. That's an order.”

“Whatever you say, lass.” And then he was gone in the darkness, and I had the feeling he hadn't listened to me any more than Sergeant Rollins had.

Exasperated, I hung up my apron to dry and crawled into my cot. My blanket felt good, the night was chill, and I was almost too weary to sleep. But in the end I did.

The next news I had of Sergeant Rollins was very different from what I'd expected.

Sergeant Lassiter hadn't taken his fists to the man in order to make him more cooperative. That was a blessing.

Instead, word came down that someone had tried to kill him.

And apparently it wasn't the Germans. This had happened behind our own lines. What's more, no one seemed to know who was responsible or why Sergeant Rollins should be a target at all. It was shocking, and I was told the Army was trying to hush it up.

I couldn't learn any more than that. Not until days later.

And the word then was that the sergeant had been struck in the head by a stray bullet.

That was even worse news.

I knew that he'd survived, but head wounds could vary from simple grazes to serious damage.

When I went back to the base hospital with our next convoy of ambulances, I asked one of the Sisters on the wards if she'd heard any news of Sergeant Rollins's condition.

“Bess, don't tell me you know him? Surely he's not a beau?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Alice, don't be ridiculous,” I said, laughing with her, even though I didn't feel like it. “What would the Colonel Sahib have to say about bringing home a
sergeant
?”

“I'm told he has many admirers.”

“I'm not one of them. But I met him once. I'd like to know he was all right.”

“He is, although he had a thundering headache when that bullet creased his forehead. Any deeper and it would have burrowed along his skull. Or cut a groove through it. A lucky man. But they say he's the best tank man ever. The doctors have already cleared him to return to Agatha.”

For an instant I thought she meant home to Kent and his sister, and then I realized she was speaking of his tank.

She went on to sing his praises, but all I could see were those expressionless blue eyes staring at me as the sergeant refused to do anything for Philip Ashton.

“Did he say anything about being shot? Was it really an accident, or were the first reports right, that someone had tried to kill him?” I asked, hoping to learn the truth about what had happened.

Alice shook her head. “We were told not to talk about it with him. And all he seemed to care about was getting back to his men as quickly as possible. Still, there was a lot of coming and going from the Army, officers talking to him quietly. It made you wonder.”

And that was all I could discover.

The next day I was sent to England with a convoy of wounded.

It happened quite by accident. The Sister in charge had had word that her brother was badly wounded and in the base hospital in Rouen. She asked for leave to visit him, and I was ordered to take her place on the journey to England, since I'd done it so many times before.

I hadn't seen my parents in weeks. I wanted nothing more than to spend a day sleeping in my flat at Mrs. Hennessey's house in London, then travel on to Somerset and my home.

It was a wet crossing; we believed we were being shadowed by a submarine, although neither the captain of the
Louisa
nor the watch had seen any verifiable signs; and the harbor in Dover was full. We waited our turn, and then I spent the next hour making sure that the unstable cases were fit to be transported by train to London. By the time the train pulled out, I had begged a lift as far as Canterbury from a Lieutenant who was on his way to Rochester in his own motorcar, and I found myself in Canterbury in the middle of the night.

There were no trains to London until the morning.

The Lieutenant was concerned when I couldn't find a hotel room anywhere, and he agreed to run me on to Cranbourne.

I disliked appearing in the wee hours asking for a bed, but it was the only alternative to sleeping where I could in the railway station.

I had to hammer on the door to be heard, and the Lieutenant, standing by his motorcar, said, “Bess, why don't I simply run you up to London?”

It was tempting, but I shook my head. His family must be waiting anxiously for him in Rochester, and his leave was brief enough as it was. Just then the door opened a crack, and Mrs. Byers said, “Who is it?”

“Bess Crawford,” I said with a surge of relief. “Do you think you could put me up for the night, Mrs. Byers? There's no train until the morning.”

“My dear,” she said, opening the door wide and peering out at the motorcar in the drive. “And the young man?”