A Pattern of Lies (25 page)

“Go on to the solicitor's office. Why don't I meet you later by the cathedral gates?”

“That would be even better. All right, then. Good luck!”

But when I reached the first floor, where Philip Ashton had been under guard, I found the room cleaned, the bedclothes changed, and a new patient lying there with his eyes closed.

I went to find Matron, and waited for her to lock up the dispensary after the morning medicines had been set out for the ward Sisters. I asked if I might speak to her for a moment, and she looked at my uniform and said, “I wasn't informed that we were to have a new Sister this morning.” I followed her back to her room, and she gestured to the chair in front of her desk.

I smiled as I sat down. “My name is Sister Crawford, Matron. I was here the other evening, to attend Mr. Ashton, who was brought in by the police after a suicide attempt. I see he's no longer in that room.” I hoped she wouldn't probe further and discover I was on leave from duties in France, not posted in Canterbury.

“Ah, yes, Doctor Scott mentioned you to me. He tried to persuade Inspector Brothers to allow us to treat the patient for another few days, but the police refused, since the patient is accused of multiple counts of murder and an escape attempt was feared.”

I was surprised. “Escape?”

“So Inspector Brothers insisted. As a result, Mr. Ashton has been returned to his cell.”

“Then I should be speaking to Inspector Brothers,” I said, swallowing my disappointment.

“I would advise you to do just that,” she replied. “Doctor Scott was concerned enough to bring Mr. Ashton's condition to my attention.”

I rose and thanked her, moving toward the door.

“Your shoes, Sister. They leave much to be desired.”

In the motorcar, I had picked off the burrs on my skirts and even tried to clean my boots before entering the hospital. But Matron's sharp eyes had seen what my efforts had missed.

“Yes, Matron, thank you,” I said, and made my escape.

I left the hospital without speaking to anyone else and risking having my identity questioned. But as I stepped out into watery sunshine, my spirits plummeted. Even if I hadn't been able to see Mr. Ashton, I would have been happy to hear he was being kept in hospital a little longer. And it was useless to try to speak to the Inspector again.

I walked toward the gates of the cathedral, knowing I would have to tell Mark my news. But it would be some time before he'd finished his business with Mr. Groves.

My spirits low, I passed the shops with barely a glance at the windows. I stood by the gates for a quarter of an hour, judging by the cathedral's bell, but there was no sign of Mark. I wandered out into the street again, walking aimlessly, unable to stand still.

On a side street, I passed the recruiting office without noticing it, and stopped in the middle of the street, nearly colliding with two women chatting as they strolled along.

It was a very unlikely place to look for information, but I'd tried everything.

I turned and stepped through the open doorway. The officer behind the desk looked up.

“Sister?” he said, getting to his feet.

He was perhaps thirty-­five, fair, slim build.

“I'm looking for a friend,” I said pleasantly. “I wonder if you can tell me if he's still in Kent.”

“I'll try,” he answered, “although I don't have records of all the men in Kent serving in various regiments.”

“Yes, I do understand that. But Captain Collier was here in this part of Kent for two years. I seem to have lost track of him.”

He blinked in surprise. “Captain Collier?”

“Do you know him?”

“I met him several times when he was in Cranbourne. But I'm afraid I haven't heard from him in some time.”

“Where did he go when he left Cranbourne?”

“Scotland? I seem to remember hearing something about that.”

Disappointed, I said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He came around the desk. “Have you known him long?”

“Not very long. But while I was in Canterbury, I thought I might look him up.”

“What brings you to Kent?”

“I'm on leave,” I answered. “Visiting friends.”

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said. “If I hear from Captain Collier, I'll tell him someone was inquiring after him.”

I thanked him before he could ask my name, and left.

It was time to find a telephone and put in a call to my mother. Surely the Colonel Sahib had returned from his latest duty.

But he was still away, Iris, our maid, told me. And my mother was in Chester, calling on another recent widow.

“Where is the Sergeant-­Major?” I asked, hoping that Simon at least was at home in Somerset.

“I don't know, Miss. I haven't seen him.”

I left messages for my parents and for Simon, most particularly asking for information about Captain Collier and Corporal Britton. “I'll be in Canterbury another two or three days,” I said. “At Abbey Hall, the home of the Ashtons. If they learn anything about either of these men, please, let me know as soon as possible.”

“I'll be sure to tell them, Miss. Are you all right?”

“I am,” I said. “Just worried for the Ashtons.”

Putting up the receiver, I hurried back to the cathedral gate, hoping that I hadn't kept Mark waiting.

But he still wasn't there, and after another quarter of an hour, I turned and made my way to the solicitor's chambers.

 

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

T
HE SOLICITOR'S CLERK
welcomed me without enthusiasm. He was a middle-­aged man with glasses and thinning iron-­gray hair. I asked if Major Ashton was still here.

“Major Ashton is closeted with Mr. Groves. If you'd care to have a seat in Reception, I'll let him know that you're here, Sister . . . ?”

“Sister Crawford,” I told him. I couldn't judge from his expression whether he recognized the name or not. He offered me a chair and refreshment, which I politely declined, and I sat there after he'd gone away, listening to the raised voices coming from one of the inner rooms. I couldn't hear the words, only the angry tones.

And then without warning, an inner door slammed and the door into Reception was thrust open with such force that it banged against the wall. Major Ashton came through the room at speed, only stopping with his hand on the outer door as my presence registered through the haze of his anger.

“Bess. The cathedral. I'm sorry, I've kept you waiting.” He sounded distracted, as if only half his mind was on me.

I was already on my feet and following him to the door. Outside, the sun had tried to strengthen, and I blinked in the unaccustomed brightness.

Without speaking, Mark strode down the street for nearly a full block before he calmed down.

Turning to me, he said, “I've done it, Bess. I don't know what Mother and my father will say, but I've sacked Mr. Groves.”

I didn't know how to answer him—­whether to tell him he'd done the right thing in my view, or to ask him to speak to his mother before he did anything rash.

While breaking off the connection with a solicitor whose chambers have represented a family through several generations was not precisely unheard of, it wasn't common either. And generally it was done when there was misconduct or a strong disagreement. I could see that Mark's anger met the criterion of strong disagreement.

“He wouldn't hear me out. He was too busy telling me that my father refused to listen to reason and predicting that he would find himself regretting it. I asked Groves if Lucius Worley was of the same opinion, and he said that Worley was, that he had felt very strongly about my father's case from the start, and held the view that there was only a very slim chance that he could defend my father successfully.”

It was what they'd been saying for some time, only not as openly or as forcefully.

Mark was still talking. “It's late in the day, but I'll find another solicitor and another barrister. Someone who believes in my father's innocence and will try to keep him alive so that my mother won't spend the rest of her life as a grieving widow.” His motorcar was just down the street. “Can you drive, Bess?”

“Yes, of course I can.”

“Take me as far as the railway station, and then drive on to Cranbourne. Tell my mother and Clara that I had business to attend to in London. But not that I've sacked Groves. I'll tell her as soon as I've found someone else.”

“Mark—­you have nothing with you. A change of clothes—­”

“At my club. Time is short, Bess. It will be easier to explain to Mother when I have a new man to take over.” He was holding the driver's door for me.

I thought he was underestimating Helen Ashton. But I got in behind the wheel while he cranked the motor.

It was only a short drive to the station, and I waited while he looked into the availability of a ticket. But he was a Major, so it presented no problem at all, as far as I could tell, and within minutes he was waving to me from the station door.

I returned the wave, let in the clutch, and set out for Cranbourne.

In her sitting room, Mrs. Ashton listened to what I had to say, and then gave me a skeptical glance.

“My dear, I'm sure that's how he asked you to explain his absence to me. Thank you. It's very kind of you. Now tell me what actually happened.”

I smiled ruefully. “He asked me not to tell you any more than that.”

“Yes, I'm sure he did. Very well, then. Let me guess. He's sacked Groves. I don't know why, but I expect he was fed up with the man's timidity. And by extension Worley's as well. And he's gone up to London to find someone to take over Philip's case.”

I said nothing.

“Well, if he hadn't sacked Groves, I was on the point of doing it myself. Enough is enough. The question is, do you think my son will be successful in finding someone suitable? At this stage in the proceedings?”

“I believe he will. If they are agreeable to coming down to Canterbury.”

“Good. I'd have probably found someone before dispensing with Groves's ser­vices, but what's done is done. I never cared for him, he was never the man his father and grandfather were, but we'd inherited him, and we made the best of it for two years. It's almost a relief to be done with him.”

Clara was less hopeful. She said to me a little later, as we were going up before dinner, “Are you encouraging Aunt Helen because you believe it's the right step to take, or are you supporting Mark whether it was the wisest choice or not?”

I was surprised that she would doubt Mark.

When I took my time about answering, she added, “Mr. Groves knew the local feelings about Uncle Philip. How long will it take a new man to understand all the problems here?”

I found myself imagining how to explain a nailbourne to a London barrister or his clerk. Much less the difference between the two memorials in St. Anne's nave and churchyard.

“Perhaps he'll see the issues more clearly because he's not involved,” I suggested.

“There's that,” she agreed, turning toward her room. “I'm just so afraid that this won't turn out well. That feelings run too high against the Ashtons for my uncle to receive a fair trial, whoever is representing him. I can't sleep, sometimes, worrying about that.”

“I think all of us are haunted by that.”

In my room, washing my face and hands, pinning up my hair beneath my cap, and smoothing my skirts, I listened to rising wind outside my window and felt the cold draft that came in gusts down the chimney, sending the flames shooting higher in a shower of sparks.

And then, putting on a brave face, I walked back down the stairs and into the sitting room, where the first course was just being served, a potato and leek soup.

Mrs. Ashton smiled cheerfully as Clara came in behind me, but the smile was belied by her eyes. I wondered if she'd been crying, although her voice was calm and steady as she asked Mrs. Byers to bring all of us a glass of wine.

But even that couldn't lift our spirits very far.

It was close on three in the morning when we heard someone at the door to the house.

Roused from a deep sleep I hurried across the cold floor in my bare feet to peer out into the night.

There was a cab from Canterbury standing in the drive, but I couldn't see who was at the door. Whoever it was must be just out of my line of sight.

I heard the door open an inch or two, and Mrs. Byers's voice asking who was there.

The rest was muffled.

Not Mark then.

I found my slippers and my robe, and hurried out of my room to the top of the stairs.

There I met Mrs. Byers just coming up toward me. The door behind her was closed, and she held a telegram in her hand, as if it were a bomb ready to go off in her fingers.

“Sister Crawford,” she said in astonishment. “It's for you. A telegram. I hope it isn't bad news.”

I held out my hand for it and she gave it to me, then stood there at the head of the stairs, waiting for me to open it. Holding the lamp in her hand high enough for me to see, she watched as I tore open the flap.

My heart was in my throat. Mother? The Colonel Sahib? Simon?

I fumbled at the sheet inside. Mrs. Ashton had heard our voices, and she was coming down the passage toward me.

“Is it Mark?” she was asking. And then she saw that I'd opened the envelope, not waiting for her, and she said at once, “My dear . . .”

I flattened the sheet. It was from my father.

News has just reached me. The sergeant you were seeking in France has been killed. Word says in action. Not confirmed.

My first thought was that he meant Sergeant Lassiter, and I felt cold at the possibility. And then I realized that he must be referring to Sergeant Rollins, the tank hero.

Dead.

I stared at the sheet in my hands, then looked up.

Whatever she read in my face, Mrs. Ashton put her hand to her throat, a protective gesture against bad news.

“It's from my father,” I told her. “Sergeant Rollins has been listed as killed. It's probably true. My father would know. The sergeant won't be able to testify for either side.”

I could see the sergeant's face in my mind's eye. Adamant that he wouldn't make a statement or come to Canterbury to give evidence.

What had he known? Would it have damned Philip Ashton? Or saved him?

And then another thought on the very heels of that.

If he'd given Canterbury a statement, would he still be alive now? Or would he have died anyway?

Was it the Germans? Or was it murder?