A Pattern of Lies (22 page)

He released my wrist and lay back against his pillows. “She's a fool to get involved,” he said. And I realized then that his concern was only for her. “It could cause trouble in the end.”

“Why should you care? You don't want to help.”

But he didn't answer me. He lay there, staring up at my face while his mind was busy elsewhere. “Who came forward?” he asked then. “Who was it?”

“A Florence Benning. Her sister is the widow of George Tate. Perhaps she's lying.”

I took a chance then, and asked a very different question. “Was it Private Britton who tried to kill you? I'd like to know, you see, because he also tried to kill me.”

That got his attention straightaway.

“I didn't see who attacked me. Why do you think it was Britton?”

“Because he'd been brought in with a case of trench foot. And one of the other Sisters saw him coming back to his bed afterward.” I made no mention of sleepwalking.

He digested that, then asked, “Why should he care, one way or another?”

“Do you know him?” I asked, with an effort keeping the eagerness out of my voice. But he caught it anyway.

“You're lying,” he said with something like contempt in his face. “It's a trick, that's what it is. Go away.”

“You still refuse to help the Ashtons?” I said, ignoring his words.

“Why does everyone think I can save them?” he demanded querulously. “For all you know my testimony will damn them.”

And he closed his eyes, effectively shutting me out.

One of the ward Sisters was standing in the doorway, beckoning me. I had to go.

But I said softly before I left, “Still, someone wants you out of the way. I'd be careful if I were you.”

Turning, I walked away, and I didn't look back to see if he was watching me.

By the time I'd reached the forward aid station, everyone there was abuzz with excitement.

Someone had nearly brought down the black German aircraft. Three witnesses had seen it streaking for home with dark smoke billowing out of the engine. And a Yorkshireman had come forward to say he'd fired the shot that hit it.

It was the second time the aircraft had been hit by ground fire. The pilot appeared to lead a charmed life.

Still, the Yorkshireman was vociferous in his certainty that it was his shot. But there was no proof that the aircraft had crashed. For all anyone knew, it had made it safely back to its airfield once again. Or to another, where it could land and make repairs.

And witnesses agreed, however reluctantly, that the pilot was still alive, because it was evident that he was still in control.

There was much debate over the Yorkshireman's claim. Even the seriously wounded in hospital asked us if we'd heard any news. As if HQ would inform us first. All the same it was good for morale, and we let the arguments rage around our ears as the pros and cons were weighed, and the question of whether or not the reward should be given to the Yorkshireman was hotly debated too.

The general feeling was, the reward was still to be won.

In the midst of all this uproar, Simon appeared, bringing me a letter from home and reminding me that I hadn't written for some time.

“Is there any news about Philip Ashton's trial?” I asked.

“Nothing has changed, as far as I know. Your father has looked into the matter again, but there's nothing in Sergeant Rollins's earlier statement that condemns or exonerates Ashton. In fact, he didn't mention him at all. Which can be taken to mean he didn't consider Ashton as a suspect at that stage.”

“At the time, he couldn't have known that Mr. Ashton would be accused. He was only asked about acts of sabotage.”

“You're right. But the woman who has come forward now is hard to refute. She was in a house closer to the mill. Rollins might not have been in a position to see her, although from there she could have seen what Ashton was doing, even though his back was to everyone on the other side of the Cran. Still, the question is, why didn't she speak up in 1916?”

“It means if she gives evidence, he'll be convicted. I spoke to Sergeant Rollins again. But he isn't interested in helping. He's made that clear enough.”

“It doesn't bode well for the Ashtons, does it?” Simon asked.

“Will you do something for me?” I told him about the pillow that was used to smother Sister Morris, and about Private Britton. “Sergeant Rollins seemed to recognize the name, but he also appeared to think this man had nothing to do with Ashton or his own shooting.”

“He could have met him in France, Bess.”

“Yes, I know, but all the same, I'd like to learn more about him. If only to eliminate him from any list of suspects.”

“I can't promise you I will learn anything about a pillow,” he said with a smile, “but I'll look up Britton's whereabouts. You do know, of course, that there may be more than one man by that name.” And then he was gone.

When I had a moment, I read the letter from my mother. It was the usual chatty missive, and for a few minutes I could hear her voice and see the faces of those at home. The Vicar was planning a Thanksgiving Ser­vice if the war ended, and there was a feeling that the news could come at any moment, even though it was still only rumor. The last of the apples had been picked before the weather changed, and my mother had helped dry slices for winter pies and sauces. The frog in the pond at the bottom of the garden hadn't been seen for more than a fortnight, and it was thought he had hibernated deep in the mud at the bottom. And there had only been two cases of influenza reported this autumn, both of them on one of the outlying farms.

I finished the letter and returned it to its envelope. Somerset seemed a very long way away. With a sigh, I put the envelope in my correspondence box and went back to work. For the wounded and dying, the war's end wouldn't come soon enough.

To everyone's chagrin—­most particularly the Yorkshireman's—­the black aircraft returned two days later, flying low and catching a half dozen new recruits out in the open.

I accompanied a convoy back to the base hospital—­this time without the attentions of the black aircraft—­and found Matron waiting for me when I got in.

“Sister, you're taking wounded back to England. I've sent a runner for your kit. We have a number of very bad cases. They'll need further surgery when they reach London. That's why we're sending an experienced nurse with them. Make your report about the men you've just brought in, and as soon as your kit arrives, we'll load the ambulances for Calais.”

I settled my patients and then with Matron visited the men who would be traveling with me. Gray-­faced, their eyes barely registering my presence, they lay in drug-­induced stupors. We went over their histories, where they were wounded, what had been done, and what the prognosis was: in most cases, grim.

When the ambulances pulled out of the hospital, they moved with care, trying to avoid the worst of the ruts, keeping a steady but gentle pace when we reached the main road.

Mercifully the ship was in, and I was able to arrange immediate transfer of my cases, handing the second officer the forms Matron had already completed.

I knew this man—­Lieutenant Harcourt—­and together we watched as the orderlies unloaded each stretcher and brought it aboard with great care. My seven cases were not taken below decks but to the former salon of this ship. It would save them a painful jostling. Ten more such cases were brought in from another base hospital, and I recognized the Sister in charge. We had worked together many times before.

The rest of the wounded were brought aboard, and as soon as the last of the ambulance drivers and orderlies had stepped ashore, ropes were cast off and we began to move slowly out into the roads. At first the gentle movement—­it was a clear, calm day—­seemed to be comforting to my patients, but the increasing roll began to take its toll. I had to be watchful, to be certain they didn't vomit and breathe it in. A very real danger for anyone lying on his back and helpless.

We made it to Dover without losing anyone, and I stood there, watching my patients being carried off to the waiting ambulances that would see them on the London train. Lieutenant Harcourt, once more standing beside me, his duties done for the moment, looked down.

“You're tired, Bess. Get some sleep if you can in London.”

“I'll try,” I promised, and he bent down to kiss my cheek as I made to follow the last man off the ship.

“Stay safe,” he said, and was gone.

I'd met such good men while serving with Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Ser­vice. And lost a good many friends as well. It was the cost of war, of course, but now I wished them safe at home at last. Lieutenant Harcourt had a fiancée in Oxford, and the Captain had recently been blessed with his third child, a little girl. A future, if God granted them one.

Boarding the train, I ran into Diana, another one of my flatmates, who was also bringing patients back. We only had time for a brief embrace and exchange of news, and then we were busy with our charges.

Diana was not staying in Canterbury. She was taking the next available train back to Dover, where her fiancé was stationed at Dover Castle.

When I arrived in London, my charges were carefully offloaded and taken once more to waiting ambulances, and I was occupied for nearly three quarters of an hour with Matron from the London hospital taking charge of their care. I was pleased to hand them over alive—­there had been a very good chance that I would lose at least one on the homeward voyage. That done, I collected my kit and started toward the exit from Victoria Station.

And there, to my surprise, stood my mother and the Colonel Sahib, waiting for me.

No end pleased, I greeted them and was swept up in my father's arms, with a jubilant “It's time you were here in London. I was beginning to think that it was Major Ashton's charms keeping you in Canterbury.”

“I had very ill patients this trip. They're to be treated here in London. But how on earth did you know I'd be here, and on this train? There hadn't been time in Dover to telephone you.”

“I've been reduced to bribing the Royal Navy,” my father said, laughing.

My mother added dryly, give me a huge hug, “That nice Lieutenant Harcourt sent us a telegram. We only just had time to jump in the motorcar and drive like madmen to London.”

“How kind of him!” I exclaimed as my father took my kit from me, and we began to walk toward the waiting motorcar.

They took me first to Mrs. Hennessey's so that I could wash my face and leave my kit before going to a late supper somewhere.

That was the plan. Only it didn't work out that way.

 

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

M
RS.
H
ENNESSEY HEARD
footsteps in the hall, and peered around her door.

“Bess, dear!” she exclaimed, and then saw my parents just behind me.

“Hallo, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said cheerfully. “Is anyone else here? My father has volunteered to take my kit up to the flat for me. Is that all right?”

Mrs. Hennessey was very strict about the good names of her young ladies, as she called us. No male above the age of seven was allowed to go up the stairs, not even my father, not even Simon (whom she credited with saving her life not so very long ago).

She stood there in her doorway, looking flustered and confused.

“Is everything all right?” She looked over my father's shoulder. “Is it that nice young man? Simon? Has something happened?”

It was our turn to stare.

“Simon?” my mother asked quickly.

“What is it? What's wrong?” my father put in at almost the same time.

I went to her and took her hands. “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.

She gestured over her shoulder to her sitting room. “I didn't know—­it came not ten minutes ago. I was afraid to open it.”

I walked past her into the sitting room and saw a telegram lying on the tea table.

I picked it up. It was marked
URGENT,
and it was addressed to me in care of Mrs. Hennessey.

I went back out into the entry and held the telegram up for my parents to see.

All the while my mind was busy. Simon was in France. Had something happened to him? But if it was Simon, surely the War Office or the Army would have contacted my father at once . . .

“Open it,” the Colonel Sahib commanded.

I tore it open and looked first to see who had sent it.

“It's from Diana,” I said in surprise. I went back to the message, reading it aloud.

“Went to Canterbury to dinner. A Philip Ashton attempted suicide this morning in his cell. Felt you should know. Is this the Ashton you treated in France?”

Depend on Diana to remember the name of an attractive man. She had met Mark when she had brought wounded to hospital, and she had told me later that he was the perfect match for me. She had made a face at me when I pointed out that he was engaged to be married.

Diana, happy with her own future, was delighted to arrange the affairs of others.

But this wasn't Mark. It was his father. What had happened?

I looked up at my father. “I must go,” I said. “I must find out if this is true. Mrs. Ashton must be out of her mind with worry.”

The Colonel Sahib frowned. “I can't drive you. I'm taking the train—­er—­north tomorrow morning. I left my luggage at my club. Still, a train will get you there faster. I'll see what I can do.”

He thanked Mrs. Hennessey and turned to go.

“I'll stay here, shall I? Until you bring the motorcar back.” My mother walked over to Mrs. Hennessey, who was still looking alarmed and uncertain. Taking her arm, she added, “We'll have a small glass of sherry, shall we?”

My father picked up my kit while I said good-­bye to Mrs. Hennessey and my mother, then hurried after him.

“What if there's no space?” I asked, climbing into his motorcar.

“Let me worry about that.” He turned the crank, got in beside me, and drove back the way we'd come.

The station was crowded, as I'd expected it would be. But the Colonel Sahib took no notice. He found the stationmaster just coming out of the little café, and said, “Colonel Crawford. This Sister missed her connections. It's imperative that she reach Canterbury as soon as possible.”

Looking over my father's shoulder at the crowded platform, the stationmaster shook his gray head. “There's no room to be had, sir. With the best will in the world.”

“I'm sure someone will sit on the floor, if necessary, to give this young woman his seat.”

“If you find him, sir, I'll be happy to give her a ticket.”

My father walked toward the crowd. The train hadn't come in yet, but ­people were milling about, saying good-­bye, looking for friends, staring into space as they wished the train would arrive and be done with it.

Making his way through the throng, men saluting and stepping aside as he passed, he spotted a young corporal in The Buffs.

Making for him, my father tapped him on the shoulder.

The young corporal turned to see who it was, then squared his shoulders and saluted. “Sir,” he said.

“Heading for Dover, are you, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This young woman needs to be in Canterbury as soon as possible. Will you give up your seat and make the best of the journey, so that she can travel?”

Glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, the corporal said at once, “Yes, sir, be happy to, sir. A Sister saved my foot after the Somme. My pleasure, sir.”

“Good man,” my father said, just as we heard the train's whistle followed by the engine's roar as it came into the station. To me, he said, “Stay here. I'll bring your ticket.”

I nodded and he disappeared into the crowd. I turned to my savior.

“What's your name, Corporal?” I asked, smiling.

“Miller, Sister. From Huntingdon.”

“Thank you, Corporal Miller. I hope you won't be too uncomfortable.”

“No, Sister. I'll be fine.”

My father was back with my ticket, handing it to me and saying, “Godspeed,” as the stationmaster blew his whistle and everyone headed toward the train. Corporal Miller saw to it that I had a seat by the window in a first-­class compartment, although there were already several officers in occupation.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said. “I'll be in the corridor just there.”

I thanked him again, then turned quickly as the train began to move, waving to my father, who was standing to one side, watching to be sure I was settled.

And then we were pulling out of the station, and for the first time I could think about what might be waiting for me in Canterbury.

We sat on a siding for a quarter of an hour to give a train full of wounded the right of way—­that was just outside Rochester—­and then we were pulling into Canterbury. I said good-­bye to Corporal Miller, who had managed to find me a cup of tea and a bun as well as giving me his seat.

Two of the officers were disembarking there—­I'd discovered that they were on leave—­and one of them carried my kit as far as the street. They found a cab for me, and I gave the address of the police station.

I had no way of reaching Abbey Hall, but I hoped I could find out something from Inspector Brothers.

I went up the steps to the police station and opened the door.

The sergeant at the desk looked up, and got to his feet when he saw me.

“Sister,” he said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

I expect he was thinking that I'd been addressed by someone in the street and had come to report it.

I said, as firmly as I could, “My name is Crawford. Inspector Brothers knows who I am. I understand my cousin tried to kill himself this morning. I've just arrived from France, and I've come here for the latest word before going on to Cranbourne.”

He couldn't disprove that I was a cousin. I didn't think Inspector Brothers would know any better, either. And it was clear that I already knew what had happened. He chose discretion over valor and said, “You must speak to Inspector Brothers.” I wasn't sure that the Inspector would appreciate the decision.

“Thank you.”

I waited while he walked down a passage and opened a door. After a moment he came back and ushered me into the Inspector's office.

There was only one chair in front of the desk, and I took it without invitation, as if by right. I had learned, dealing with Authority, that the best offense was to appear to be perfectly comfortable and in control.

“I remember you,” he said, frowning. “You were at the Hall when I took Ashton into custody.”

“I was,” I said, without explaining how I'd come to be there. “Can you tell me if my cousin is still alive?”

“He is.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “He tried to cut his wrists.”

“Where is he now?”

“In hospital. Under guard.”

“As you can see, I'm a nursing Sister. I should like permission to look in on him and make certain he's been given every care.”

“The doctor has already seen him.”

“That may well be. But it is your doctor, Inspector, and I am with Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Ser­vice. I'm trained to inspect wounds. The man's family has a right to know that these—­injuries—­are indeed self-­inflicted.”

“He tried to kill himself,” he expostulated. “What more proof do you need than that?”

“Has his wife seen him? Or his son? Mr. Groves, perhaps? No? Then I shall have to insist that you allow my visit. The news of what happened is common knowledge, Inspector. It will not look good if you refuse to let Mr. Ashton's family see for themselves that all is well. It will appear that you have something to hide in this matter.” I wasn't at all sure of my legal grounds, but I hoped the Inspector didn't know that.

I could see that he was on the fence, uncertain what to do with me. I crossed my fingers in the pocket of my apron, and waited.

But it looked as if he was going to refuse. Time for the next salvo. “I should think that you prefer not to have it said at my cousin's trial that he'd been driven to take his own life while in your custody. Or that he was perhaps—­helped—­in that direction. After all, you've refused to allow his family to see him. There is no certainty that his health hasn't deteriorated in the time he's been in this place.” Still no sign of capitulation. Beginning to worry now, I went on. “A newspaper account of his condition would be useful in procuring him a fair trial in another jurisdiction.”

I could see from his eyes that I'd made my point, and I sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for my father's advice. As we'd driven to Victoria Station, he and I had hammered out the best arguments I could use in gaining access to Philip Ashton.

“All right,” Inspector Brothers said grudgingly. “I'll give you a pass to see him. No more than five minutes.”

“Fifteen,” I amended. “I have no way of knowing how long it will take for me to assess his condition.”

“Fifteen,” he agreed against his will. “Not a second longer.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I read it before I stood up.

Sister Crawford is allowed fifteen minutes and fifteen minutes only with the prisoner.

“If there are other wounds or signs of bruising or abuse, I will report this at once to the doctors in charge. Is that understood, Inspector?”

“You won't find any,” he said sourly.

“I sincerely hope I shan't.” I nodded and left the little office, walking down the passage, expecting at any moment to hear Inspector Brothers call me back and tell me he'd changed his mind. But I nodded to the sergeant at the desk and stepped out the door without any trouble.

Sighing with relief, I shifted my kit to the other hand and hurried to the hospital, opening the main doors and walking to Reception. The orderly behind the desk gave me directions, and in a matter of minutes I was making my way to the first floor, where Mr. Ashton was being kept under guard.

I could see the uniformed constables as soon as I came up the stairs and turned into the corridor. They were sitting in chairs outside a private ward.

To one side was a small room where families could wait for news, and as I walked past it, Mark Ashton said, “Bess? My God, where did you come from?”

He was on his feet, coming toward me, but I raised a hand to stop him and slipped into the room before he could step out into the passage. He looked drawn, tired to the bone.

“I can't stay,” I said quickly. “I have permission to examine the patient. Have you seen him?”

“No,” Mark said. “They won't let us near the room. I took my mother and Clara home not half an hour ago. They've been here most of the afternoon, since the news first reached us.”

“How did you hear about what happened?”

“It was Mrs. Lacey. Our cook. She came into Canterbury to do her marketing, and she overheard someone talking about it. He'd seen the ambulance arriving at the police station, and someone in the crowd told him what was happening.”

“Wait for me downstairs. I'm allowed fifteen minutes with your father. I'll meet you when I've finished. It might not be wise for us to be seen leaving together. Inspector Brothers could still send someone to stop me.”

“Let me go in with you—­”

“You can't.” I held up the slip of paper that gave me permission. “If you try, they might stop both of us.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, all right. At least someone will see him, speak to him, find out what really happened.”

He stood aside and I went back into the corridor, walking briskly toward the guarded room.

When I got there, the two constables on duty blocked the door as I started to enter.

I handed them my permission, and said pleasantly, “Good evening. I've just seen Inspector Brothers. If you have any questions, you're to contact him.”

That seemed to reassure them, for they stepped aside, and one of the constables opened the door for me.

When he started to follow me inside the room, I said, “You're to remain on duty while I examine the patient.”

He stepped back and allowed me to enter the room alone. I thanked him.

Philip Ashton was lying in bed, covered by a sheet. His face was gray with fatigue and he seemed much thinner than when I'd last seen him. I thought he might be asleep, because his eyes were closed.

I touched his shoulder gently, and his eyes flew open, staring at me with alarm. He relaxed when he saw the uniform, and then he recognized me.