A Pattern of Lies (23 page)

“Bess—­how on earth did you get in here?”

“With great difficulty. What happened? There isn't much time.”

“I tried to slash my wrists.” He pulled an arm from beneath the sheet and showed me a bandaged wrist. “But I was careful not to cut very deeply. Still, there was a good deal of blood, and they were frightened enough to bring me here. I thought they might allow me to see Helen or Mark. I've had no news of my family at all.”

“They're well and quite worried about you. Mark is here in the waiting room downstairs, but they won't allow him to see you. And they won't let Mrs. Ashton visit you. It's Inspector Brothers's doing, but I don't think Mr. Groves has pressed him too hard.” I unwrapped the bandages as I spoke, and looked at the cuts on his wrists before carefully rewrapping them. He was right. He'd done what he could to maximize the amount of blood with several shallow cuts, but none of them was deep enough to be life-­threatening. “Why are you still here? Why haven't they returned you to your cell?”

“The doctor was worried. I've lost several stone. I've been refusing to eat.”

“But you need your strength. For the trial.”

“Bess. They can't beat me, it would show. But the food has been nearly inedible, and I've refused it. That didn't work, and so I managed to cut my arms. I can't bear that cell any longer. I have no exercise, I have nothing to read, I can see the sun for only a matter of minutes each day, when it shines over the wall outside my window. I'm going mad, and I must listen as my guards make macabre jokes about the hangman. Groves and Worley tell me to throw myself on the mercy of the court, that the evidence against me is too strong to fight, that I must convince the jury that I kicked over a stone and it lit the spark that started the fire. That I didn't see it until too late. Or some such.”

“Is that what happened?” I couldn't conceal my surprise.

“God, no. No. I was standing there, listening for any signs of life in the rubble, and I heard the shouting behind me. When I turned, there were men coming with shovels and pickaxes to dig for survivors. I went to tell them that it was too dangerous, we'd have to do it by hand. Before I could reach the Cran, the fire was suddenly visible. I still don't know if there was a fire before the explosions began or if it was spontaneous afterward. But of course it must have appeared that I was running from it.”

Were these the same men who now claimed he was gleeful as he left the ruins, the fire already showing behind him? If not, why hadn't at least one of them stepped forward?

Philip Ashton hadn't spoken about what he'd seen in nearly two years—­not since he'd given evidence to the Army. And now, as if having been trapped in a cell with no one to speak to, day after day, he couldn't stop. “Have Mark and Helen agreed to that plea? I need to know. Groves tells me they feel it would save my life. I can't believe that's true. I can't believe they would be willing to take such a risk. Because that's what it will be, Bess. If the jury has a taste for a hanging, they won't hear what I have to say, and if there's an appeal after conviction, then it's on record that I've confessed. It's one of the reasons I did
this
.” He nodded toward his other wrist as I finished rebandaging it.

“I don't believe anyone at the Hall knows about this plea. But they're as unhappy with what's happening as you are. Please. Don't listen to Groves. Or Worley. I don't think either of them has your best interests at heart.” I put a hand on his arm. “There's so little time. Let me tell you what else we've learned.” And I explained what we knew about Sergeant Rollins and his sister, Agatha, and about Florence Benning, the woman who had come forward so late in the day. “Even Sergeant Rollins doesn't believe her. We've got to find a way to prove all these ­people are lying.”

He lay there, taking it in.

I said urgently, “Can you think of anyone who could be behind this? Someone who wishes you ill?”

“No. Not that kind of hatred. It doesn't make sense.”

“But you're seen as a murderer. All those men. And whoever it is, he—­or she—­is believed. That's what's worrying Mark. It's like fighting in the dark, to try to counteract that kind of venom.”

He shook his head. “I didn't kill them. If anyone is to blame, it's the way the Army pushed for a higher and higher output of powder. I understood the need, I knew how the war was going, but it's dangerous work, it can't be rushed or steps skipped. Men make mistakes when there's someone urging them on, telling them they must increase output. The Army kept telling
me
there was a war to fight, and it was essential that we win it. That we'd have to take the risk. That's what I was arguing with the foreman about just that morning. He told me the men were tired, and I needed to speak to Captain Collier about giving them more time to rest. I felt it was better to hire more ­people, so that we could keep to schedule. I'd already written to London, asking permission to do just that.”

I had hoped he might know something or have seen something that could be used in his defense. Instead he'd kept silent because he thought ­people should know him well enough to believe he would never do anything that would harm the mill or the ­people who worked in it. Philip Ashton, the man with the impeccable record at the mill. The man everyone looked up to and trusted. And ought to trust still.

He didn't seem to understand that such a fall from grace—­being arrested—­made enemies born of disappointment and grief turn on him like hyenas on a wounded antelope. I could see he still found it hard to believe that they could do such a thing.

And he was tiring. I could see that as well. The loss of weight was catching up with him.

I said, “Is there anyone who could speak on your behalf? Anyone with the Army or the Government who might explain to the court just what they believed had happened? Surely there must be someone who could point out just how hard the War Office was pushing those men.”

“Captain Collier, although he's probably in France somewhere, if he's still alive.”

But he sounded doubtful, and I could understand why. If the Captain was tasked with keeping output as high as possible, he might be reluctant to come forward and admit to having any responsibility for what had happened. It was very unlikely that his view of events would ever be the same as Philip Ashton's. Friend or not.

We were nearly out of time.

I still had several more questions to ask—­about Corporal Britton, about Mrs. Benning, even about Young Mr. Groves, but I decided on the most important one. “Can you tell me why Sergeant Rollins refuses to come back to England to speak on your behalf? Or at least give someone a statement that could be used at your trial? It might help refute some of these more recent accusations. If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to persuade him to change his mind.”

The door opened before he could answer. I now had only seconds left. I laid a hand on his forehead, as if judging whether or not he had a fever. And bending over him, I spoke softly so that only he could hear me. “Please, if you think of anything, tell Mr. Groves to pass it on to Mark. You must
try
. And don't give in. Mark is doing all he can.”

And then I turned and walked briskly out of the room.

I went to find the doctor to ask what was to be done about their prisoner patient.

“He's been refusing to eat,” the doctor told me, annoyance in his voice. “I can't say I blame him, I can't imagine that the food brought in to him is anything he's been accustomed to.”

“It isn't a matter of what he's accustomed to, is it?” I suggested. “I believe he's abandoned hope.”

“It's the weight of his guilt.”

“Is it? Did the police tell you that? Or is it a very real fear that he's been abandoned by the law? He hasn't been allowed to see his family—­no reading materials—­no exercise. He might as well be a condemned man.”

The doctor seemed surprised. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Ask Mr. Ashton yourself. Speak to his gaolers. I've only just been informed myself. It's—­troubling.”

“So many men died in that blast. It's inconceivable that something didn't go wrong.”

This was exactly the frame of mind that made it possible for so many ­people to believe the worst about Philip Ashton.

I swallowed what I'd have liked to say, that he wasn't being very fair. I already knew that fairness didn't enter into it.

“I'm sure something did go wrong. And the Army came to the conclusion that it was a tragic accident.
They
didn't put the blame on Mr. Ashton.”

“Yes, well, they demoted their own man.”

This was news to me.

“I'm sorry?”

“They demoted him to Lieutenant and put him behind a desk in London. Someone told me that. I don't recall who it was, but he'd been a brevetted Captain for the duration.” A nurse was walking down the hall toward him, and he said, “I must go, there's a patient in surgery. I'll do what I can for Ashton.”

I put out a hand to stop him. “Where is Captain—­Lieutenant—­Collier now?”

“I have no idea.”

And then he was gone.

It was late, but I hoped to find the telegraph office to send a message to my father. And then I remembered that he was leaving on the morning train. Most likely it wouldn't reach him.

And where was Simon? Still in France? I could use his objective viewpoint. I needed information, information I didn't think Mark would have.

I was on my way to meet him when I discovered the hospital had a telephone and I begged the use of it.

My mother wasn't at home. She was still in London. I left a message. And another at my father's club.

Mark was waiting outside for me. He must be eaten up by anxiety by now! I hurried out the door and saw his motorcar in the shadows at the corner of the building.

He got out at once and ran toward me.

“How is he? What happened?”

I told him. “The doctor will do what he can,” I ended with more optimism than I actually felt. “But he's in no danger. I promise you.”

Even in the light spilling out from the hospital windows he looked grim.

“It's true then, that they're pressing him not to fight.”

“Yes, I think Worley must feel that it's impossible to go forward, and he's going to lose if he does. That it's best to hope for mercy. But I'm not ready yet to believe that. Mark, what happened to the officer who was the liaison between your father and the Army?”

“Captain Collier? I've no idea. He was recalled during the investigation. Well, there was nothing for him to do in Cranbourne. I seem to remember some possibility of sending him north to oversee the expansion of the Scottish mill that was to take over from Ashton Mill.”

I said, wanting to pace in my frustration, “Yes, but I need to find him.”

“Do you think he knew more than he told the authorities?”

“He might be able to tell a jury that your father couldn't have caused the deaths of those men. He can give evidence for the defense, explain how difficult it was to keep up production, the pressure on the workers, the dangers they faced. He was your father's opposite number. That would bear weight. It would help.”

“Is there any chance I'll be allowed to see my father?”

“Not tonight,” I said, trying to soften the blow. “But he's all right. Just—­discouraged. As you'd expect.”

“Come on, then. Into the motor. We'll sort this out at Abbey Hall.”

It was the invitation I was waiting for. An opportunity to speak to Mrs. Ashton.

“Thank you, Mark.” He took my kit and carried it to the motor­car, and in a matter of minutes we were on our way. But he had looked back at the hospital wistfully, as if he could see through the very walls into his father's room.

Mrs. Ashton was delighted to see me. Clara perhaps a little less so. I was given my old room and offered a late supper when they discovered that I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

They were all eager to hear what I could tell them about Philip Ashton. Mrs. Ashton had been fretting about her husband all day, and I could see that she had tried to put a good face on her worry and it had given her a thundering headache instead.

I repeated what I'd told Mark, leaving out only what the doctor had said about the liaison officer.

And then the questions began. How the patient had looked, how he felt, how serious were his wounds, asked in endless variations, as if to elicit some small comforting fact that I might have forgotten or left out. I repeated myself a number of times, trying to give them a little hope.

“I told everyone I was a cousin,” I said ruefully. “A lie, but Inspector Brothers had seen me here in the house, and so he was willing to accept it.”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Ashton said. “It's a very small lie compared to those being told about
us
. What's more, it worked.” She put out her hand. “I'd be glad to call you cousin, if the Inspector comes prying. But tell me . . .”

The round of questions began again.

“I knew I should have sent him food from the house,” she worried. “I knew it must be better than what the police could manage.”

“They wouldn't allow it,” Mark reminded her.

“How much weight has he lost? Are you sure it's not serious?”

It was nearly midnight when Mark called a halt to the questions and sent us all to bed. I climbed the stairs gratefully, and my eyes were closing even as I blew out my lamp.

The quiet room, the quiet night, played their part, and it was nearly seven when I awoke.

It was difficult to get Mrs. Ashton alone. Clara was there, and if not Clara, Mark, debating whether or not to return to the hospital waiting room in the hope of catching a glimpse of his father.