A Pattern of Lies (27 page)

“He felt strongly about Mr. Ashton throwing himself on the mercy of the court. I don't know why. But I sometimes had the impression, judging from events, that Mr. Groves was a man of limited imagination. I have not met Mr. Worley.”

“Cautious,” he said, surprising me. “Worley has made his reputation taking only those clients whose trials he believed he could win. He takes great pride in winning.”

“Then why did he agree to represent Mr. Ashton?” I asked.

“I can't answer that question. It might well be that he has other reasons for taking on this case.”

I knew that Mr. Worley had relatives connected with the explosion. An interesting thought.

Was it possible he was behind what was happening? It was a chilling idea, and I wondered what he would do now that he and Mr. Groves had been dismissed.

It occurred to me then that no one had informed Philip Ashton about the change in representation. And that was worrying. I said as much to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott.

“Not a concern, Sister. I intend to visit him after I've spoken to everyone and have formed a clear picture of what I'm facing. Meanwhile, I have a favor to ask of you. Could you draw me a rough map of Cranbourne? It needn't be perfectly accurate. There's a large sheet of paper on Mr. Ashton's desk. I'd like to know where to find Mrs. Branch or St. Anne's or the riverbank.”

I rose and went to the desk. Cartography wasn't my strong point. Still, I'd watched the Colonel Sahib and Simon redraw maps from reconnaissance reports, setting out new information in relation to what was already known. What mattered was having reference points that put the new information into proper perspective. I thought for a moment and then picked up the pencil lying beside the blotter. I began to draw in the abbey grounds. After all, they were central to the town that had grown up outside them. Next the village square, and the River Cran. Given those landmarks, I could put in Abbey Hall, the warehouses, the ruins, the far side of the grounds where Miss Rollins and Mrs. Branch lived. By the time I had finished, there was a fair amount of information on the sheet of paper.

“Well done,” Mr. Heatherton-­Scott said. He had wheeled himself across to the desk to watch what I was doing. “That will serve nicely. I could have asked Mrs. Ashton or the Major to help us with this, but I rather thought you might be more objective. And you are. You have made no excuses for including any place or for leaving any out. Again I must thank you, Sister Crawford.” I rose, taking that for dismissal. I was halfway to the door when he added, “Oh, yes, another matter. Henry, here, would be much happier if you didn't acknowledge him if you happened to meet outside this house.”

Which meant, I thought, that he was planning to do a little reconnaissance of his own. Why wasn't he in the Army? He looked fit enough. And young enough. How had he escaped conscription?

I was beginning to find Henry more and more interesting. It occurred to me that I didn't know his surname. And valets were generally called by their last names, not their Chris­tian names. Curiouser and curiouser . . .

“Yes, of course,” I said, my hand on the doorknob.

“And if you'll ask Mrs. Ashton if she has a moment to speak with me?”

Two hours later, after he'd interviewed everyone in the house down to the lowliest kitchen maid, who had—­I was told later by Mrs. Byers, who had been present—­stared at him as if he had just landed from the moon, Mr. Heatherton-­Scott was lifted into his motorcar and driven away by Henry. I went to find Mark.

He was in the study, writing a letter at his father's desk.

“How did you find Mr. Heatherton-­Scott?” I asked. “And how did you persuade him to represent your father?”

Looking up, he grinned at me. “I'm not precisely sure,” he said. “I asked a friend whose father is a K.C. where I might find someone I could trust. William has been invalided out of the Army after losing his leg, and it seems he'd met Heatherton-­Scott in his doctor's surgery in Harley Street. William never hesitated, he sent me round to Heatherton-­Scott's house with a note introducing me, and the next thing I knew we were driving down to Cranbourne with Henry at the wheel.”

“But what persuaded him that he could help your father?”

“I'm not quite certain whether it's helping my father or besting Lucius Worley. Apparently there's bad blood between them. But to his credit, Heatherton-­Scott listened to everything I told him about the situation, and then he said, ‘It's been mismanaged. From the start. How did you come up to London?' I told him I'd come by train, and he replied, ‘Good, good. I'll drive you down and you can tell me more on the way.' That's when I met Henry.”

“But what are his credentials? How good is he?”

“According to William—­and he should know—­Heatherton-­Scott has one of the finest reputations in London. But he's considered unconventional, and apparently that's how he manages to win so often. And to tell you the truth, I liked what I saw.”

“Yes, I agree. You appear to have been very lucky.”

“Don't I know that! I expected to interview a dozen men before I found one who cared about the situation and expressed any hope of saving my father. Heatherton-­Scott has made no rash promises, but I have the feeling that he will make sure he wins. If only to annoy Worley.”

“And Henry?”

“God knows where Heatherton-­Scott found him. I did hear him say that Henry had been with him for some twenty years or more.”

I'd put the barrister's age at somewhere between forty and forty-­five, well aware that his affliction, whatever it was that confined him to his chair, could also age a person. If only from the struggle to do the ordinary things a whole man would take for granted, and not taking into account any pain that followed in its wake.

Henry's age I'd put as mid-­thirties. Which meant that Heatherton-­Scott had taken Henry on at a very early age, long before he could have been trained to be a competent valet. And that told me something else, that the lawyer had found someone he could trust implicitly, which was more important than skill and training. Henry had become his eyes, his ears, and most importantly, his legs. And that meant that Henry was not only trustworthy but also very intelligent.

It wouldn't pay to underestimate either man.

As I was leaving the study, Mark asked, “How did my mother take the change in lawyers? Was she very put out with me this morning?”

Turning at the door, I smiled at him. “I think if you hadn't got rid of Mr. Groves, she would have done it for you.”

He laughed—­the first time I had heard his laughter in a long while.

I wanted to walk, cold as it was, and escape the confines of the house for a little while. But I was also wary of running into any of the local ­people. Nor did I feel free to take Nan for a run. After what nearly happened to her, we walked her in Mrs. Ashton's private garden, throwing a ball for her or racing down the garden toward the pond. Not all the exercise she needed, but enough to keep her healthy.

I hesitated to invade Mrs. Ashton's privacy as well, using her garden for my own pleasure. In the end, I borrowed a heavier coat from Clara, and a red cap to match, and walked down to the Cran. With the wind off the sea, no one was lingering there except the expectant gulls looking to see if I'd brought their dinner.

I walked along the river, in full spate just before the tide turned, the boats still at their anchors, and the surface of the water very smooth, except where the wind ruffled it as it passed.

The door to the shed where Alex Craig worked on his boat stood wide, and I debated turning around before he could see me out here. And then I decided that it didn't matter, he was probably too busy with his sanding or staining or varnishing to pay heed to me.

I walked quietly past the opening, and if he glanced up, he must have taken me for someone else, without my uniform to set me apart. Glad that I had not hesitated, I walked to the end of the broad dock, looking out to sea, where there were whitecaps on The Swale and the Thames out beyond. In the distance I could pick out the shape of a frigate. I wondered if it was on station, patrolling the entrance to the river that led straight up to London.

The wind seemed to blow right through the cloth of Clara's coat, warm as it had seemed when I had started out. I turned to walk back the way I'd come, and saw Henry standing at the far end of the lane, looking my way. I almost waved, but remembered his request to be ignored. I glanced around to see who might be watching, and realized from this position I had a perfect view of the ruins, better even than where Mark and I had stopped that first day and looked down on them.

Had anyone stood here the day of the explosion?

But that was impossible. Whoever it was, he or she would have been killed by the physical force of the explosion. It had shredded doors and roofs, for heaven's sake, and flesh couldn't have withstood it. And yet . . .

There was a street of older houses that ran along above the river. A few trees, the back gardens. I hadn't really noticed them before, they were well away from the water.

Who lived in them? Their windows had been blown in, for one thing, and their roofs and walls must have suffered too, a chimney toppled here, a tree there. Surely the Army had interviewed those ­people?

I would have to ask Mark who they were.

When I turned back to the river, Henry had gone. I walked back the way I'd come, busy with my thoughts.

Alex Craig stepped out into my path.

Surprised, I said, “Hallo.”

“I didn't recognize you in those clothes.”

“Indeed.”

“Is it true that Philip Ashton tried to kill himself? Rumors are flying.”

I debated how to answer him. It was Mark's place, and his mother's, to decide what the local ­people knew or were told. But I could see that Alex Craig badly wanted an answer. To gloat? I decided to test that possibility.

“It's true,” I said, without elaboration.

“For what reason? Remorse? His conscience?”

“Despair,” I told him. “Because he's innocent, and no one will listen. They've all decided he's guilty, and they're howling for his blood.”

“They?”

“The police. His lawyers. Everyone, it seems, in Cranbourne. The Swale villages. I shouldn't be surprised if half of Canterbury also felt the same way.”

When he didn't respond, I added, “They might as well hang him and be done with it. Even if he's acquitted by some legal miracle, what sort of life can he expect to live here? No one will believe it was a fair trial. They'll say that because he's influential, the jury was afraid to convict. Or that his defense was too clever. There's always a reason why the verdict didn't run with popular sentiment.” There was contempt in my voice, although I tried to keep it out. “The
punishment
will go on and on.”

“And Mrs. Ashton?”

“Have you not seen her lately?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should make a point to see her. I'm told she was kind to you once.”

And I walked on.

He didn't try to stop me.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

H
AVING ENCOUNTERED
H
ENRY
down by the river, I wasn't surprised to find the Heatherton-­Scott motorcar standing in the drive as I came back to Abbey Hall.

As I walked into the house, I could hear voices from the open doorway of the study. Mrs. Ashton responded to a question, and I took this to be a family conference with Mr. Heatherton-­Scott. I turned toward the stairs and was just starting up when Mark called.

“Bess?”

“Yes?”

“We're in the study.” He came to the door and added, “Join us, please.”

I couldn't tell from his expression whether the news was good or bad. I stopped only long enough to remove the red cap and Clara's coat, draping them over the curve where the banister ended at the foot of the stairs.

Mr. Heatherton-­Scott was by the hearth in his invalid chair, Mrs. Ashton and Clara seated before him. Henry was nowhere in sight.

He looked up as I walked into the room. “Sister,” he said, acknowledging me with a nod. “I was just telling Mrs. Ashton that I was able to visit her husband. Inspector Brothers was bent on thwarting me, but I was not to be thwarted.” He smiled. “I don't think he believed that such a pitiful creature in a chair could be the new lawyer, and once I'd proved that I was, he took heart, certain that Mr. Ashton had gone from bad to worse when it came to representation. And so I was allowed, finally, to see him.”

“How was he?” I asked, having had no news since he left hospital. “Have his bandages been changed?”

“Apparently they have. I made a point to look at them. I was just about to tell everyone about my first words with my client. Mr. Ashton was quite surprised to find me admitted to his cell, and I explained the change in management, as it were. His first question, as soon as the gaoler had walked away, was, ‘Are you here to convince me to admit I was responsible for the fire, if not the explosion? If you are, call that man back and tell him I have refused to receive you.' ”

Mrs. Ashton smiled. “That sounds just like Philip.”

“It took very little time to persuade him that I had no such intentions, and that if I'd agreed with anything Groves and Worley had done, I wouldn't have bothered to leave London for Canterbury. He was pleased to have word of you, Mrs. Ashton. As neither Mr. Groves nor Mr. Worley had seen you recently, they hadn't been able to give him truthful news of his family. You, Sister Crawford, had set his mind at rest during your visit to his hospital room, and that counted for much. He was in better spirits.”

“Will I be able to visit Philip now?” Helen Ashton asked eagerly.

“No, sadly, but I shall be happy to take your letters to him, and his to you. That will help a little, I think.”

A little . . . but not enough. Mrs. Ashton tried to school her face to hide her disappointment, but I saw the pain in her eyes.

“This was my first conference with my client,” Mr. Heatherton-­Scott told her gently. “We shall see what inroads we can make in the next one or two. But I have made it official now. Groves and Worley are struck off the list. We will go forward from that.”

Clara spoke up then. “I'd like to know what keeps the agitation at such a high level. It never seems to fade away, does it? Just as it seems about to calm down again, something else stirs it up.”

It was the question I'd have liked to ask but didn't feel free to bring up. Mr. Heatherton-­Scott had gone to great pains to reassure the Ashtons, and I could tell he was not best pleased.

But he answered Clara with a smile. “That's in hand. It's all I can tell you at this stage, but I think I will have more to say on that subject later.”

When Henry had made his report?

Mark said, as we left the study and closed the door on Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, “Did you want to run into Canterbury to put in a call to your father?”

We needed to know more about what had happened to Sergeant Rollins.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Mark.”

I went to fetch my own coat, returning the borrowed one to Clara, and we set out in the motorcar. The wind whipped around us, and I could feel my cheeks stinging from the chill in the air.

As we passed through the square in Cranbourne, I glimpsed Henry standing outside the tobacconist talking to several men. He didn't react when the motorcar passed by, but he must surely have seen the expressions on the faces of the men beside him as they turned their backs.

That was a good thing, I thought. He would see for himself what the Ashton family had had to endure for months.

When we had left the square behind, I asked Mark if he knew what Henry's background was.

“No idea,” he told me. “I was told that his name was Henry, and I could see that he was valet-­chauffeur and general dogsbody, enabling Heatherton-­Scott to do his work despite his disability. Even on the drive back to Cranbourne, when we stopped in Rochester for petrol, Henry appeared to be just that. But after my mother's interview with Heatherton-­Scott, she asked me the same question.”

I smiled. “If her interview was anything like mine, I'm not surprised. I drew a map for Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, but it was Henry who put it to use, I think. He was down by the river earlier.”

“Was he indeed?”

I had to wait three quarters of an hour for the use of a telephone. Seven officers had been given day passes from a clinic outside Canterbury, and they were eager to speak to their families. Such leaves were often a final test of a man's return to full strength. I watched their high spirits, smiling at the general laughter and sense of well-­being. When my turn finally came, I met with disappointment.

My mother was on her way into London to meet the Colonel Sahib's train. I inquired after everyone, but it wasn't the same as hearing their voices.

Simon was still away. And that was worrying too. I wondered if my father knew where he was.

Asking Iris to pass on my request for more information on Sergeant Rollins, I put up the receiver and stepped aside as another eager officer thanked me and took my place.

When I came out of the hotel to where Mark and the motorcar were waiting, he asked, “Any news? No?”

“No.” I was to leave for France tomorrow. There was nothing for it but to ask Sergeant Lassiter what he could find out about Sergeant Rollins's death. “I'm sure my father will find a way to reach me when he has something to tell us.”

We turned a corner back toward the square before the cathedral gate, and there was Henry, chatting with a man who looked very much like Mr. Groves's clerk. I touched Mark's arm and pointed. But there were others in the way before he could turn his head, and he couldn't be sure who it was.

I couldn't help but wonder how Henry had managed that encounter.

As we drove back toward Cranbourne, I said to Mark, “I've been meaning to ask. Who lives in that street of houses just above the river? Those you can see from the end of the dock?”

“Mostly town merchants. It's an older part of town, of course, and many of the houses were built when wool was king. Merchants who dealt in wool after the abbey was slighted made their own fortunes and wanted to live above the river. Times have changed, of course, but many of the houses have been renovated, and they were in great demand after the turn of the century. The branch manager of the bank lives there, and the greengrocer who once lived above his shop moved there in 1911. The doctor, of course. I expect the Vicar would prefer it to that drafty pile that's the Vicarage now.”

“Which means, if the inhabitants saw anything out their windows two years ago, they aren't telling anyone. Their livelihood depends on the villagers, doesn't it, and so they will cater to them politically just as they do professionally.”

“Exactly. Nicely put. The doctor has been distinctly chilly since the troubles began, and the bank manager as well. Not to mention the greengrocer and all the rest. You very quickly learn who your friends are, in circumstances like ours. At the moment, I could count them on the fingers of one hand.”

“How sad.”

“I have every hope that Heatherton-­Scott will change that. Although once a friend has turned his back, it's impossible to trust him afterward.”

I was posted this time to the hospital where influenza patients were taken. I'd survived my own case, and it was felt that I had the immunity now to work with the more seriously ill. I had served in such a hospital before, and it was heartbreaking to watch a strong man sink into unconsciousness and die before the night was finished. Or hear others coughing and struggling to breathe, knowing so little could be done to help them. It was a dreadful disease, and it had taken a terrible toll on everyone, not just the British and French lines.

On the third day, a Sister came down the row of beds and said quietly to me, “There's a man by the ambulances who wants to speak to you. Don't let Matron see you go, she doesn't care for fraternizing.”

I finished bathing the face of the officer I'd been sitting beside for what seemed hours. He was as stable as we could make him, but I could see how quiet he was, and I didn't like it. In spite of the cool cloths, his fever was still very high.

“Keep an eye on Captain Thomas for me, please,” I asked Sister Harris, who was working with the patient in the next bed.

She nodded, and I hurried out to the ambulance line, expecting to meet Simon there. But it wasn't, it was Sergeant Lassiter.

“I heard you were back in France,” he said, welcoming me with a grin.

I was certain he could find me wherever I was, so far-­flung was his network of watchers. I found myself thinking that if British Intelligence had anything to match it, we might have won this war in six months.

“I'm glad you came. I need your help in a very important matter.”

“It may well be that I've already done what you're about to ask. It's to do with Sergeant Rollins, I expect.”

“Yes, the report of his death reached me in Kent, but there were no particulars. What happened to him, do you know?”

“The first report claimed that a sniper got him. He was out of his tank, trying to rescue three men from another that was on fire. He was very close to the lines, well within range. But when the men he pulled out of that tank were able to talk, they told another story. It was murder, pure and simple. From our side of the line. But they never found the man. He got away while everyone else was watching the tank burn and the men who were on fire rolling on the ground trying to put out the flames. Several other men rushed over, using blankets to wrap them, then dragged the sergeant and the others back to safety.”

“Then no one knows who shot him?”

“That's as may be, lass. But Rollins was still alive when they got him to the doctor. And he was reported to have said he was happy to die for Britain. But that's not how it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“He kept saying ‘Britain. Britain.' Three times he said it, and then he was gone.”

“Britton,” I said slowly. “He meant
Britton
. Bless him, he left us a clue. It could very well be the same man who shot at the sergeant before and missed. I can't believe
two
­people were stalking him! Did the sergeant see him just as he was firing? Is that how he knew? Because I was nearly sure Sergeant Rollins knew who Britton was. Or did one of the men with him see who it was? I do know for a certainty that Britton was the ‘sleepwalker' the night Sister Morris was attacked. The night our rooms were switched. All this is too much of a coincidence not to be true. And here I'd nearly convinced myself that Britton had nothing to do with Cranbourne. But it makes more sense now that the owner of that cushion did intend to smother me in my bed. Sister Morris just happened to be in it instead of me.”

“Then I'll have to be looking for this man Britton,” he said harshly. “Know his rank, lass? It would help if you did, but I'll find him one way or another.”

“He's a corporal. From Devon. He's serving with The Buffs, I think. Unless he's been reassigned. But, Sergeant—­I want him alive and able to answer questions. Do you hear me? There's more to this than getting my own back here, or even avenging Sergeant Rollins. I think he knows something about what's going on in Kent—­otherwise, why would he try to kill Sergeant Rollins
and
me? The only connection between us is Cranbourne.”

“If that's how you want it,” he answered me. “I'll even tie him up in a bow, if that's what would make you happy. Red or blue?”

“Getting to question him before the Military Foot Police find him would be satisfaction enough.”

“I'll see to it. Never fear.” There were ­people down by the hospital doorway, well within sight of us. And so rather than kissing me on the cheek as he generally did, he winked at me, then said in a low voice, “Mind yourself, lass. He may find you before I find him. But only if I miss him.”

“I promise. Be careful, please. He won't hesitate to kill you, if he suspects you're after him.”

He grinned, but there was no humor in it. “Be safe, luv.”

And he was off, moving swiftly to where a messenger's motorcycle was ticking over. Where he'd found it or what had happened to the driver, heaven only knew. But he was gone in a roar of sound, scattering earth and dust behind him as he headed north.

As I walked toward the hospital, I heard in the distance that familiar sound of the kookaburra bird, even over the engine's growl.

When I got back to the wards, the Sister who had given me the message was waiting. “He's quite attractive,” she said.

“He brought me family news,” I said. “I'd been worried.” And I walked on to the chair where I'd been sitting.

As I wrung out another cool compress for Captain Thomas's head, he opened his eyes and smiled. I was so pleased to see him better that I wanted to embrace him, but that would never do. Instead I said, looking down at him, “Nice to have you back, Captain.”