A Pattern of Lies (32 page)

“As much as I've missed you,” I said, and then regretfully told her good-­bye. I could see the hotel's manager standing outside the glass doors of the telephone closet, his pocket watch in his hands.

Opening the doors, I said, “I'm so sorry. My business took longer than I'd anticipated.”

“What was this urgent matter?”

“It's about a murder,” I said. “The Military Foot Police are involved.”

He stared at me. “I expect you not to say anything about this to the hotel's guests.”

I had to promise before he would let me go.

I walked on to the police station, and stood nearby for a quarter of an hour. Restless, I turned and went to find myself a cup of tea. There was a shop not a dozen doors down the street. I could see through the window that it was filled with soldiers and their families. Hesitating, not certain how long it would take to be served, I recognized the man just leaving.

It was the recruiting officer.

I said, “Hallo. I don't know if you remember me. Not long ago I asked you about Captain Collier, and a corporal by the name of Britton. I've learned since that Corporal Britton was Captain Collier's batman.” I was fishing for more information.

“Have you indeed? Is it helpful? I think you said you knew the Captain?”

“Only casually, through friends,” I said with a smile.

“Walk with me. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you find the man. Have you been able to locate Collier? Is this how you learned he had a batman?”

“I'm still looking for him. Apparently he's not in France. Very likely this means he's up in Scotland. At the mill that replaced Ashton's.”

“Surely the Ashtons would have kept up with him?”

“I don't believe anyone locally has. Which again leads to the supposition he's in Scotland.”

“Yes, I expect he doesn't get down to Kent very often.”

I could see the cathedral gate at the end of the street, and through the arches the church itself, the spires of the towers soaring above.

“Well, again, I'm sorry that I haven't more information to give you. Good day, Sister. I'll leave you here.”

He touched his cap to me, and strode off.

Another dead end, I thought, watching him walk on.

I debated finding another tea shop, then decided instead to go on down to the cathedral and step inside. The sun was just coming out after what felt like days of drizzle and downpours, and I thought the stained glass would be at its best just now. I had been about to go inside when first I'd encountered Mark.

I passed through the high gate, feeling the chill of the shadows, and came out into the sunlight again. Ahead was the west front, and the doors were closed against the weather. Not that it helped—­these great churches were never warm, even in high summer.

I was reaching out to push open the heavy door when for some reason I turned to look back the way I'd come. Someone was standing there, in the deeper shadows of the gate.

My first thought was,
Simon has come to fetch me
. But whoever it was didn't look at all like Simon. He wasn't tall enough, and he didn't carry himself the way Simon did. What's more, the way he was staring in my direction made me uncomfortable.

Was it Henry? Waiting there for me to go inside so that he could pursue his own affairs for Mr. Heatherton-­Scott?

And then whoever it was turned and disappeared around the corner, as if he'd changed his mind about visiting the cathedral.

All the same, I was uneasy. I opened the heavy door and went inside. But instead of letting it swing shut all the way, I held it open just enough to have a clear view of someone walking down toward the west front. If someone
was
following me, I wanted to know.

I could hear footsteps coming toward the entrance, and then a man in uniform with a girl at his side shoved the doors wide, and I had to step hastily away out of their path.

It was a corporal in a Shropshire regiment, and his sweetheart. I could tell by their smiles. Had he been waiting for her by the gate, and then changed his mind and gone to meet her? I felt rather foolish.

While I moved on to enter the sanctuary, they didn't follow. Behind me as I walked on, I could hear them laughing, then a moment of silence while they must have kissed. And then, laughing once more with the excitement of what they'd just done, they went out the doors again. It struck me that they'd just become engaged, and there was probably nowhere else they could snatch a private moment but here.

Smiling, I stared up at the soaring roof of the nave, so delicate and airy that it still had the power to amaze, no matter how many times I'd seen it. The great windows splashed colored light on the stone floors and the clustered pillars, and there was a serenity here that was a breath of peace. And I had it all to myself.

The church was silent—­even my own footsteps echoed as I went forward, looking up at the magnificent stained glass. The richness of the blues, an occasional deep green in a robe, a dash of yellow in a shoe, red for drama, but overall those wonderful blues that filled the church with glory. I knew about the quire, the tombs, the chapter house, the zodiac set in brass polished by so many feet. It was the glass I loved.

Once, when we'd come back from India on leave, my cousin Melinda Crawford had brought me here on an outing. My father was in London, conferring with the Army and the War Office, and my mother had gone up with him. It was an odd choice of entertainment for a restless five-­year-­old. I couldn't appreciate the architecture or the tombs—­indeed, even on tiptoe, I could hardly see over the tops of them. I couldn't have told anyone what stories the glass had been created to tell. But the colors had enthralled me. India was gaudy with color; the temples and the gods and the women in their saris brightened the hot, dusty landscape with dazzling, almost garish life. This was somehow different. Brilliant but subtle, soothing but vibrant. When it was time to go, I hadn't wanted to leave.

Behind me I heard the door scrape open, and I turned, thinking that this was a fine place to be trapped. I don't know why that thought popped into my head, but I moved to a point where I could see whoever it was just coming into the nave.

An elderly priest stepped through the doors, his face blotched with age, his arthritic hand holding tightly to a cane. I watched as he came down the north aisle, and I thought he might be going to the place where Becket was martyred, but he made his slow and painful way to the chapter house and disappeared from view.

Quiet descended once more, and I walked on to the crossing of the transepts where the tower of Bell Harry rose high over my head. I could look up into the shaft and see the ornate ceiling there, like embroidery on a ball gown, intricate and delicate and quite beautiful.

There was the scrape of the door again, but I'd got over my anxiety, and didn't hurry back to the nave to see who was there. I wandered on, looking up at the glass.

Brisk footsteps came into the nave, then slowed. Starting up again, they seemed to be exploring, for they moved this way and that, as if admiring all that was on offer.

I had gone into the apse, the chapel where the tomb of Becket had stood before the Reformation, where the blue of the glass seemed to surround me in the curved wall above my head. Absorbed, I lingered there. Then, remembering that I was to meet Simon and Mark at the police station, I turned and started back the way I'd come. And I ran straight into a man standing beneath the shaft of Bell Harry, looking up.

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

H
E SEEMED STARTLED
to see me. It was the recruiting officer.

“Hallo,” he said, smiling. “I come here sometimes to get away from the bustle of the town. I've just been to the railway station, seeing off a company of men I'd persuaded to enlist. I try to do that when I can.”

“I'm sure it's appreciated.”

“I like to think so.” He fell into step beside me as I continued to walk toward the nave. “Actually, I'm rather glad I've run into you again. I know we haven't been properly introduced, but I was wondering if we could have lunch together. It's early, I know, but my responsibilities are dealt with, and I don't have to be back at the recruiting office until two o'clock. I'd like it very much if you would say yes.”

“I'm so sorry. I have to meet friends, and they're been delayed. That's why I came here to see the stained glass.”

“My loss,” he said with a wry smile. “Another time, perhaps? We seem to make a habit of running into each other unexpectedly.” We had reached the nave again, walking side by side. “Are you in Canterbury for very long?”

“I leave for France tomorrow.”

He took out his pocket watch to check the time, and stopped dead. “I've lost the fob.” Glancing around, as if it were somewhere underfoot, he said, “My father gave it to me. It's in the shape of a frog. Passed down through the family from a great-­great-­grandfather. I wonder where it could have got to.” He felt in his pocket, then turned to stare back the way we'd come. “I took out my watch in the transept just before I saw you. It's not keeping proper time, and I need to have it looked at. I say, you wouldn't mind helping me search, would you?” An embarrassed note crept into his voice. “My eyesight isn't the best. Which is why I'm recruiting soldiers instead of leading them.”

I hesitated, knowing I was probably already late meeting Simon and Mark. But I could hardly walk away.

“Yes, all right, let's have a look.”

We walked briskly down the aisle toward the transept and the tower crossing.

“You're sure it was there at that time? You didn't lose it on the street or in the recruiting office?”

“God, I hope not,” he said fervently. “But yes, I think it was still there when I took out my watch. It may have caught on my clothing as I put the watch back into my pocket.”

We walked past the quire, the tombs, the long beautiful windows, and came to the transept once more. He began looking, staring down at the floor with fixed attention, and I moved a little beyond him.

There was nothing on the floor that I could see. Certainly not something as large as a watch fob.

Still, I kept looking. I could hear him behind me, swearing under his breath, and just then I saw a glimmer of gold in the dark shadows where the light from the transept windows couldn't quite reach it.

“Over here.”

I went down on one knee and put out my hand to grasp a handsome little gold frog. No wonder he'd feared losing it.

I had it in my hand and was just turning my head when something soft and white came slipping over my face, settling around my neck. I had a fleeting moment to realize that it was the long silk scarf pilots affected, and to think about Alex Craig, when the scarf began to tighten viciously.

I was still on one knee, but I struggled to get to my feet and succeeded finally, even as the silk tightened again.

“I'm not good at this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Stand still, damn you, and it won't hurt as much.”

It was hard to breathe now, and I knew very well how little time I had. He was behind me, I couldn't reach his face or his eyes, and even his hands, drawing the scarf tighter, were beyond my fists, though I scrabbled over my shoulders trying to reach them.

I knew that the pressure on the great arteries in the throat would make me pass out, and after that he could finish his work without interference.

But I had my boots, those sensible, sturdy boots that could withstand the mud and rains of France. I made an effort to pull my body away, walking my feet away from him as the scarf tightened again. And then balancing myself on one foot, I stretched my leg out and brought it back against where I judged his kneecap to be, using all the force I could muster.

The flat of my heel must have caught him squarely.

He howled with pain and rage, dropping one end of the silk cloth as he fell back, away from me.

I was very dizzy as I pulled the free end of the scarf away from my throat. The strength needed to kick him had taken the last of my physical energy. I dropped to my knees, gasping for air, trying to clear the darkness from my sight, and all the while my brain was screaming at me to run.

Getting up, I staggered, then found my footing, racing toward the north aisle. I could hear him struggling to follow me, cursing his knee.

I cast one glance over my shoulder, then hurried on, knowing I had to reach the outer door before he could catch up to me. The pain and the numbness would not hold him for very long.

I nearly ran straight into the aged priest. I don't know which of us was more startled.

“Sister?” he stammered.

I saw the cane in his hand, and gently took it from him.

“Please, Vicar—­”

Just then my assailant came into sight, dragging one leg, his face flushed with anger and something else I didn't want to think about.

Elderly he might be—­he could have been ninety for all I knew—­but the Vicar drew himself up to his full height as he took in the situation at a glance.

He was thinking rape, not murder, but I didn't care.

“Here,” he bellowed, in a voice that could reach the back of a church from the altar. “What's this about, then?”

Swiftly collecting himself, the Lieutenant stopped and said furiously, “She's stolen my watch fob. It's gold. Worth a pretty sum.”

The Vicar turned to me. I realized suddenly that it was still in my hand, that even in my struggles, I hadn't let go of it.

“Show him.” The Lieutenant's voice was almost a growl, deep throated and rough.

I opened my fist, and there it lay, in a small pool of blood where I'd clutched it so hard.

“He tried to strangle me. With a scarf. He claimed he'd lost the fob, and I'd gone with him to look.” It sounded weak in my own ears.

The man opened his arms wide. “Do you see a scarf?”

“This is a matter for the police,” the Vicar said firmly. “You'll both come with me. Now, if you please.”

But I knew he wouldn't. That the frail old man was not going to stop him. I knew too much, I couldn't be allowed to speak to the police.

He surprised me. “Lead on.”

Nodding, the Vicar took my arm, turning to guide me up the aisle, turning his back on the Lieutenant.

I whirled in time, the cane still in my free hand, and lifted it high just as the Lieutenant raised his clasped fists and was about to bring them down hard on the back of the Vicar's neck.

He saw it coming, and tried to deflect it with one arm, thinking I was aiming for his head, but before he could react, I swung the cane like a cricket bat. It caught him across the throat and chest just beneath his raised hands.

He went down, and a little to one side, and this time I felt no mercy toward him. As his right hand touched the cold stone of the pavement, I lifted the cane again and cracked him across the head with it.

He collapsed and was still.

Beside me, the Vicar was crying, “Here, no! You mustn't.”

He reached for the cane in my hands and with surprising strength wrenched it through my fingers.

“Please, we must find the police. He was trying to kill me—­he'd have killed you as well if I hadn't stopped him.”

Instead the Vicar turned to the man lying at his feet, and he reached a hand down to feel for a pulse. “He's breathing. We must find help for him.”

“He's unconscious,” I said, “but he'll be rousing up shortly. Please, before that, we must find the police.”

I think my urgency got through to the Vicar. Straightening with an effort, he said sternly, “You will stay with me, Sister. I have your description, if you try to run. We will find you.”

“My name is Elizabeth Crawford,” I told him. “I live in Somerset with my parents. At the moment, I'm staying with the Ashtons in Cranbourne.”

His brows rose at that, white tufts of wiry hair above surprisingly sharp gray eyes. “We'll soon see if you're telling the truth.”

He took my arm again, although I could have knocked him down without any effort at all, and I meekly let him lead me up the aisle and through the heavy doors to the bright sunshine outside.

Both of us blinked after the dimness of the church. He turned toward Christ Church Gate, and again I followed without demur. The sooner we found the police, the better we would both be.

I cast a glance over my shoulder just as we reached the tall, lovely gate, and I saw the Lieutenant standing in front of the church, swaying, blood on his face. I wondered if I'd broken his nose, or if it was his head.

And then we were outside, in the busy street, where there were ­people in every direction. I sighed with relief.

Still gripping my arm—­I knew I'd have a bruise tomorrow—­the Vicar led me the shortest way to the police station. As we approached, two men came out the door and stood for a moment in the road, talking. It was Simon and Mark, and judging by their expressions they'd had no joy of Inspector Brothers. Or perhaps they'd had to wait, and he still hadn't shown his face.

It was Simon who turned, as if he sensed my presence, and said, “Bess.”

Mark turned as well, and both of them came striding toward me.

“What's the matter?” Simon asked, his gaze moving from me to my escort, who was breathing a little hard from the pace he'd set us. Then his eyes fell to my throat.

I reached up. The stiff collar of my uniform was crushed and pushed to one side, and my cap was askew. I thought, chagrined, that I must have looked as if I had been drinking, not like a Sister in good standing. I reached up to set them to rights.

The Vicar regarded the two tall men, one in an officer's uniform and the other in that of a Regimental Sergeant-­Major.

“Do you know this young woman?” he asked.

“She's my Colonel's daughter,” Simon replied shortly. “What's wrong, Bess?”

“The Vicar has rescued me from a man who accosted me in the cathedral. We managed to get away from him, although I think he's got a very sore head and a very painful knee. Mark—­Major Ashton—­would you do me the greatest favor? Would you go to the cathedral and just there under Bell Harry, see if you can find a white silk scarf? The kind pilots often wear?”

“I won't go anywhere until you tell me what's happened to you.”

“Please? Before he remembers it and goes back for it. It's the only proof I have.”

The Vicar stared from me to Mark. “The proof is the gold watch fob she's got in her hand.”

It was in my pocket now, and I couldn't remember just when I'd dropped it there. When I clutched at the Vicar's cane? As he took my arm?

It didn't matter. I put my hand in my pocket. “Here's the fob. In the shape of a frog. It belongs to that man. He accused me of stealing it, which isn't at all the truth.”

Mark said, brooking no argument, “The motorcar. It's the fastest way back to the cathedral. Sir, if you'll come with us now?”

The Vicar clung to my arm. “The police . . .” he began.

“Inspector Brothers isn't in his office just now. If we are to speak to him, we must be sure we have all the evidence.”

Confused, the Vicar followed him to the motorcar some ten feet from where we'd been standing, but he insisted that I must sit in the rear seat next to him, where apparently he could keep a close eye on me.

Simon went to the crank while Mark got us into the vehicle, and then we were driving through the busy streets back to Christ Church Gate. As he drew up in front of it, Simon told him, “Stay with the motorcar, sir. I'll have a look.”

I knew what he intended. He hoped the man I'd mentioned might still be there. His mouth was drawn in a tight line, and although I couldn't see his eyes, I knew they were angry.

He got down, and strode briskly toward the cathedral.

The Vicar called after him, “If you find the wounded man in the north aisle, give him what help you can.”

Simon didn't turn.

We watched him walk through the shadow of the gate and continue to the cathedral doors, disappearing inside.

The Vicar stirred restlessly. “I wish someone would tell me what's going on. We should be speaking to the police. This young woman—­I tell you, I was a witness.”

“We will, as soon as we have all the facts,” Mark assured him. “If Be—­ Sister Crawford believes there's additional evidence still to be had there in the church, then we have an obligation to find it before we take her to the police.”

“You say you know this young woman?”

“She's a guest of my mother's. Mrs. Ashton.”

“Your father is charged with that terrible explosion at the powder mill.”

“Yes, that's true,” Mark answered stiffly. “But we aren't convinced of his guilt.”

He turned to me. “Who is this man—­the one the Vicar is so concerned about—­the one you tell me accosted you?”

“The officer in charge of the recruiting office here in Canterbury.”

Mark's eyebrows rose. “Why should he attack you?”

I didn't know. But I was beginning, now that I was feeling less shaken, to pull the pieces together. “We met in the cathedral. In hindsight, I don't know if it was accidental or on purpose. We were just leaving when he realized he'd lost that fob—­or claimed he had—­well, at any rate, I did find it where he'd said it might be—­and the next thing I knew he had a scarf around my throat and was choking me.” I told him the rest, while the Vicar listened, appalled, and I watched as Mark's face changed.