A Pattern of Lies (9 page)

As I reached the abbey wall, I noticed the woman ahead of me. She'd been carrying a basket of things she'd bought in the market. I could see the leaves of sugar beets and the pale color of parsnips. There was even a small aubergine tucked in beside the cabbage, rich dark purple against the dark green leaves. She had set the basket down and was rubbing the small of her back with one hand.

I put her age at close to sixty. There were streaks of gray in her fair hair, and her face was lined from years of drudgery.

Catching her up, I said with a smile, “Let me carry that a little way for you.”

There was resentment in her gaze as she turned toward me. “I can manage.” Her voice was cold as Arctic ice.

“My name isn't Ashton,” I said quietly. “I've come to Abbey Hall because I had helped to nurse Major Ashton when he was severely wounded, and I sat by his bed on long night watches with Mrs. Ashton. I wasn't here when the mill blew up. It's unfair to blame me for what I haven't done.”

“You should have let him die,” she said venomously.

“You can't mean that. Not if you have children of your own. You wouldn't wish such anguish on another man's mother.”

“I lost my only son at Ypres,” she said. “And he wasn't nursed in a ward with officers.”

I picked up the basket and started walking. She had no choice but to come after me. “I daresay I've attended to the wounds of more men in the ranks than I have of officers. It doesn't matter, you know, who is bleeding. One sees only the need.”

It was clear that she didn't believe me. But she hadn't tried to take the basket from me, certain proof that her back was really troubling her. I could see too that she had a slight limp, which surely wasn't helping it.

Without waiting for her to answer me, I added, “I couldn't help but notice in the square. The men and women with stalls and those who were doing their marketing eyed me with dislike. I found it disturbing.”

She said nothing for a moment, then she answered grudgingly, “They thought you were the Major's new fiancée.”

I stared at her, shocked. “On the contrary. I'll be going back to France in a matter of days. I was on leave, on my way to London, when Major Ashton saw me in Canterbury. The trains were running very late, and he suggested I visit his mother rather than spend the night in a hotel or failing that, the railway station. It was very kind of him.”

It was her turn to stare at me.

“It's a great tragedy, what happened to the mill. I didn't even know about the explosion until yesterday, when the Major told me. What I don't understand is why his mother and his cousin should be harassed. How can the villagers blame them for this disaster?”

“It was coming,” she said darkly. We had left the shadows of the abbey wall now, and she pointed down toward the River Cran. It was the road that Mark had driven on that first morning, and where I'd walked on my own. We turned in that direction. “It was the nailbourne started it.”

“Nailbourne?” I asked, wondering if that was a person or a thing.

“The winter springs.” She nodded her head toward the river and The Swale beyond. “It's marshy ground, that is.”

“Why did they build the powder mill in a marsh?”

She shook her head, certain now that I was dim-­witted. “The powder mill was built on a deep chalk outcropping. But there's marsh beside and below it.”

“Ah. And the nailbourne?”

“There's a pond where one of the creeks ran, and the Ashton windmill feeds it. See, just there?”

We could look down on the River Cran now, and the ruins. I hadn't paid any heed to the windmill before, because it was derelict, many of the slats on the bare arms missing.

The woman stopped, pointing. “I live over there, beyond the windmill.”

It was a long walk, carrying that basket. I was appalled.

“And the nailbourne?” I asked for a third time. “Is it a creek?”

“I said, didn't I? They're winter springs.”

“But you blamed them for the explosion.”

“They come up in the winter, those nailbournes. And as the weather warms, they dry up. But a few can run something fierce for a time, and this one did in the winter of 1916, running as hard as any creek, seeking The Swale. More water than any of us ever recalled seeing, even old Harry Barnes, and he's near ninety. And it kept running when the others had disappeared into the earth they come from. They're fickle, these upwellings. Not all appear, and not every year. Then men from the mill came out to have a look at this nailbourne, and they claimed if it kept on widening its channel, it was going to weaken the banks of yon mill pond they needed for making the gunpowder. We
told
them not to mettle, but those men went to Mr. Ashton and reported what they'd seen. And he came out there and dammed it before it could reach the pond. Late March, that was. The next morning, the nailbourne began drying up, all the way back to its spring. Mr. Ashton was right pleased.”

I could begin to see where she was going. “But if the nailbourne—­the spring—­should have dried up of its own accord, but didn't, then was it so harmful to encourage it to stop?”

“You aren't from Kent, so you wouldn't know, but Mr. Ashton was born here, he should have understood. Such springs must find their own way. And this one couldn't. Some of us tried to tell him no good would come of it, that this one was already a Sign, but he wouldn't hear of such superstitious nonsense. That's what he called it, nonsense.”

The bloody battle of the Somme had begun in July 1916. I tried not to think about that as her Sign. To her, the explosion in April was more important. “But how did this cause the explosion? How could this nailbourne have interfered with the powder mill?”

“It was the powder mill caused it to be dammed, wasn't it?” She gave me that withering look again. As if I ought to understand the implications straightaway. “And so the mill had to pay for it, didn't it?”

“But to blow up the mill, with such tragic loss of life—­it seems rather—­” I was at a loss to find the right word. “Severe,” I said finally.

“The nailbournes have always been there, haven't they? Having their own way long before the Conqueror came. And didn't St. Augustine himself cause one to rise where he'd knelt, over Elham way? Besides,” she added, with a distinct note of triumph in her voice, “only the men died that day, didn't they? Not the women who worked in the mill of a weekday. Only the men. The woe-­water wasn't greedy.”

It was a telling argument if you believed in such things. I could now see why the case against Philip Ashton was so powerful. He'd defied the ancient gods, as it were, and the mill had paid the price, along with the men inside there on that Sunday.

I picked up the woman's basket again, and we walked as far as the banks of the Cran. It was low enough now that one could cross, and she knew precisely where the bank was lowest on both sides. I told her I'd carry the basket to her door, but she shook her head. She'd done this year in and year out and didn't think of it as a hardship. With a nod, she went on her way, and I watched her for some time before turning back to the house.

The door of the shed belonging to the man who built boats was closed.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

W
HEN
I
HAD
a chance later in the day, I tried to explain to Mark what the woman had told me about the woe-­water.

He smiled and shook his head, saying, “Local superstition and legend. When my family built the first powder mill here over a hundred years ago, there were ­people who were against it then. And yet it provided a living for many generations to come.”

There was no point in arguing. And lunch was ready. Through the open study door I'd seen Mrs. Ashton and Clara walking together toward the dining room.

Still, I thought he was overlooking one source of the unrest I'd felt in this village. Legend or not, superstition or not, how ­people felt about such things mattered. Given the nailbourne drying up so suddenly and inauspiciously, and the explosion occurring almost on the heels of that, many would see a connection and come to believe in it, and it would take a great deal of persuasion to move them to change their views—­if not a miracle to match a miracle.

The empty chair at the head of the table cast a shadow over this meal as it had all the others since Mr. Ashton had been taken away. Mrs. Ashton must have realized just how demoralizing it was for everyone, including the servants trying to avoid it, and she said, “You know, I think we'll have dinner this evening in my sitting room, if the glazier has finished. I shan't feel up to dressing, and there are only the four of us tonight.”

As if we'd been twenty or thirty at each meal, and tonight was a respite from such busy entertaining.

Everyone agreed. And I silently cheered her for carrying it off so well.

In the afternoon Mark went to another conference with his father's lawyers, and Mrs. Ashton asked to go with him in the hope that she might also be allowed to speak to her husband.

Both mother and son returned with long faces. Mrs. Ashton hadn't been permitted to see, much less speak to, her husband. And the solicitor, after the conference with Mr. Ashton's barrister, didn't hold out much hope.

“But they'll send for the witness, won't they? Rollins?” I asked. “If only to refute these new depositions? After all, he came forward at the time, whereas apparently they've suddenly recovered their memories.”

“I'm certain they will, my dear,” Mrs. Ashton assured me, but I caught the echo of doubt in her voice. So many accusations pointed in her husband's direction. And of course no one quite knew what Mr. Rollins would tell the court.

I said bracingly, “Early days. Once their case is put together, Mr. Groves and Mr. Worley will feel better about what they can do with the evidence.”

Her face brightened a little. “Yes. Yes, I'm sure you're right. Thank you, my dear.”

Clara spoke, her voice carrying a mixture of anger and anguish. “He's a good man, Aunt Helen. Uncle Philip has always been admired and respected. No one could possibly be convinced that he could commit murder. It's all the fault of selfish ­people who can't believe they've lost their positions at the mill. Once they've been shown up as vengeful, it will all be over.”

Mrs. Ashton's gaze met that of her son, but she said with a smile, “I don't know what I'd do without you, Clara.”

Half an hour later, when I went to look for a book to read, I found Mark in his father's study, sitting at the desk, staring into space. I started to withdraw, but he looked up and said, “Come in. I don't think I can stand my own company much longer.”

I shut the door behind me and went to the hearth, where Nan was stretched out, drowsing as dogs do. She lifted her head, and I scratched behind her silky ears. Without looking at Mark, I asked, “Is there anything you and the solicitor failed to tell your mother?”

“Only that finding jurors who haven't heard about the explosion and fire will be difficult. God knows what opinions they may have already formed. It's been two years, but Canterbury felt the force of the explosion. As I think I told you, everyone thought the Germans were shelling Kent. ­People don't forget a fright like that. It wouldn't be surprising if they've already made up their minds.”

“Yes, I can understand that.”

He roused himself. “But you shouldn't be dragged into this affair. You've had only a few days of leave,” he went on with a smile, “and we've hardly done more than talk about our troubles. I'm so sorry, Bess.”

“I don't see why you should apologize to me. You couldn't have foreseen your father's arrest, and certainly not the fire. Besides, I'd have spent much of my leave in a railway station waiting for a train if it weren't for you and your family. Instead, I've been here and much more comfortable. It was so good to meet your mother again. And to find you fully recovered.”

He took a deep breath. “I should have offered to walk into the village with you, or into the abbey grounds, but remembering the eggs, I didn't think it was advisable just now.”

“I've walked on my own into the village,” I reminded him. “There are very lovely old houses here in Cranbourne. I enjoyed them.”

“You probably haven't seen the Tudor Almshouse. And there's another house similar to the Hall on the far side of the ruins. It was the Abbot's Lodging. It's not as old as the Hall; one of the later abbots rebuilt it after a fire, enlarging it in the process. It's closed now. The Carstairs have lived in London since the start of the war.” Smiling ruefully, he said, “We seem to run to fires out here in Cranbourne, don't we?”

“You do. I didn't intend to disturb you—­I was looking for something to read. Your mother isn't in her sitting room.”

“You didn't disturb me. And Mother is very likely in her garden. It's where she retreats when she's worried. But don't go just yet.” He fidgeted with the pen lying on the blotter in front of him, and then said, “I shall have to face the Medical Board soon, Bess. And I've known for the past fortnight that my hearing has been steadily improving. There are some levels of sound that still seem to be in the far distance, but I want to get back to my men. Every day away from them I worry about where they are, what's happening to them, who has been wounded, who has been killed. Captain Hunt has written to me, and Lieutenant Wilmont as well.” He grinned. “For God's sake, even Sergeant Edgar has written. I nearly fell out of my chair when I saw the letter. Hunt is a new man—­he was brought in after I'd been sent home. I only know him by reputation. Wilmont is steady enough, but Sergeant Edgar runs the show. He's thirty-­five now and survived four years of the worst of it. Granddad, his men call him. With affection, I might add, and only behind his back. At any rate, that's where I need to be. Ought to be. But how in God's name can I go back, with half my mind here? Leaving Mother to deal with the lawyers? Leaving my father sitting in a jail cell with, let's be honest, an uncertain future? They won't even call me back to testify. I wasn't here when the mill went up, and so there's nothing I can add to general knowledge.”

“Your mother is quite capable of taking on the police and anyone else,” I reminded him. “But still, it will be hard on her.” And hard on Mark too, in an entirely different way. I knew all too well that men whose attention was divided by worry about something at home—­an unfaithful wife, a sick child or parent, a brother just enlisting, even money woes, the list was infinite—­were in greater danger of being killed. They lost that sharp edge of attention, intuition, and skill at reading events that gave them a better chance of surviving. A letter on the eve of an attack, even an instant's distraction could make the difference between life and death.

Mark knew that as well as I did. Firsthand, in fact, while my experience came from talking to the wounded. And listening to the Colonel Sahib and Simon go over an action. What went right, what went wrong, how it might have turned out differently. For better or worse.

I think what really troubled Mark was the nearness of the war's end—­if all the rumors could be believed. He wanted to be there at the finish, to keep as many of his men alive as possible to see it through. At the same time he needed to be here for his mother—­if his father was convicted and condemned. And that last he didn't want to put into actual thought, much less words.

I said, “Ask for compassionate leave, Mark. They won't deny it, surely.”

“I've been away too long. It's not right, not fair to my men.”

“It won't help your men or your mother if you're killed,” I told him bluntly. “Ask for it. As soon as you know where matters stand for your father, you can go back to France.”

He put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked at me. “I try to keep up her spirits. But I think she knows I can't abandon her.”

I wanted to tell him that it appeared that the war was all but over. That his presence—­or his absence—­wouldn't change the outcome. But that wouldn't matter to him. It wasn't what drove men like Mark Ashton. Or the Colonel Sahib or Simon or any of those I knew who wore the King's uniform.

“Write the letter tomorrow,” I said. “The sooner the better. It won't do to put it off. If by any stretch of the imagination you're refused, then you can face the alternative with a clearer mind. You'll know you've done your very best for everyone, your men, your family. It's not going to be easy for your father, either. Sitting there, knowing he must await events when he'd much rather shape them, knowing you're in France, that your mother is alone. For his sake, and hers, at least ask.”

I didn't tell him that it might be a sign of which way the wind blew, depending on whether or not the request for leave was granted. But I was beginning to think it was possible that whoever was behind this torment of the Ashton family might want Mark well out of the way.

“How did you come to be so wise?” he asked.

I laughed. “It's common sense, Mark, not wisdom. Only you're too close to the matter to see it as clearly.”

I went to find Mrs. Ashton, and she was indeed in her garden, busily deadheading the blooms, dropping them into the basket at her feet, then picking it up by its long handle to move closer to her next task. It was nearly dusk, but she appeared not to notice. Looking up as I came toward her, she said, “Ah, Bess. I've neglected these rather badly, haven't I?”

“They don't seem to mind. The plants are still blooming quite enthusiastically.”

“They're protected here, of course. Even in late winter I can find the earliest bulbs and flowers starting to open. The sun warms the brick and the brick warms the buds. The monks built well.” And then she straightened her back and looked up at the fading colors in the western sky. “But I can't protect my husband or my son. Sad, isn't it?”

“None of us can,” I told her. “Who was it said it best? Francis Bacon? All of us give hostages to fortune. It's just that right now, yours are very pressing.”

“True.” She bent to her work again. “I can't ask Mark to stay. He's been fretting to return to France almost since the day he arrived. It's where he belongs, where his heart is, with the men who serve under him. It's a terribly close bond. I've learned that.”

We wandered toward the bottom of the garden, where the ponds were dark, secretive now. She set her basket at her feet and looked down the greensward toward the house. The upper windows were reflecting the last of the light.

“Mark is torn,” I said gently. “If he goes, you must assure him that all will be well here.”

“I can do that,” she said, still not looking at me. “I was in France, Bess. I read letters to the wounded and the dying.”

I thought perhaps she was frightened for herself and her husband and unwilling to admit it. Loneliness and fear . . .

“Clara will stay with you, I'm sure.”

“Yes, she's a dear.” But it was not said with conviction. And then she turned to me. “If only Ellie had lived. I was so counting on her as my daughter-­in-­law. I think I've mourned her death nearly as deeply as Mark has.”

“He talked about her in France. I remember holding his hand one night—­oh, it must have been well after two o'clock—­as he told me how happy he was going to be.”

“She had other suitors, of course,” Mrs. Ashton went on. “But she and Mark had been friends since they were ten and twelve. And that grew into love. I was the one who had to tell him that she'd died only hours before he got here. The look on his face was beyond bearing.” She took a deep breath. “And so you see, Bess, if Mark chooses to go back to France, I'll be all right. I've faced harder tasks than that.”

I wasn't sure whether she was trying to convince me or herself.

As we slowly walked back toward the house, I said diffidently, “I can't help but wonder how this began—­how a village could be turned against one man in only a matter of months. From what Mark has told me, for a year or more everyone had accepted the fact that the explosion and fire had been an appalling accident. No one's fault. What could have changed their minds? Who could have started such rumors?”

I had hoped that she would confide in me, that it might help her to unburden herself.

It was almost too dark now to read her face, although I tried.

“I don't know,” she said, a deep sorrow in her voice. “I wish to God I did.”

In the silence that followed, we walked together back into the house. Who could she choose over her husband and her son? Who would she protect at their expense?

Or was what I'd overheard in the darkness outside the sitting room window an act of sheer bravado, an attempt to stop her family's persecutor by making him or her believe that she knew who it was and would take her own vengeance?

I wanted to believe that it had been an act. A bluff.

Whether that was the truth or not was a very different matter.