A Pattern of Lies (31 page)

I found I liked him.

“I must meet a friend. I have his motorcar, and he's waiting for it to travel back to London.”

I said good-­bye to Clara and to Mrs. Ashton, and asked her to thank Mrs. Byers for putting me up last night. Mrs. Ashton had written out directions to Beaufort House, and I was soon on my way. It was only just going on ten. I heard the church clock strike as I passed by.

When I arrived, Simon was waiting in what had been the small drawing room in the lovely old Beaufort House. His expression in repose was grim, but he smiled in surprise when I walked through the door. An orderly had told me where to find him.

“I didn't think the Colonel would be here much before noon.”

“He met my train in London and told me he'd commandeered your motorcar. I simply relieved him of it. But I had to stop outside Canterbury and rest a little. Have you spoken to Britton? Will they allow me to see him?”

“He's dead, Bess.”

“Dead?” I stared at him. There were others within hearing, and with a hand at my elbow Simon led me to a small room in the back of the house where men exercised during recuperation. We had it to ourselves at this hour. “Was it a clot? That was a very difficult surgery. I shouldn't be surprised if that's what happened. Infection? Or gangrene?”

“He was murdered. Someone held a pillow over his face.”

I sat down on the nearest chair. “But who could have done such a thing? A hospital like this is always busy, day and night. Who could just walk in here, kill a man, and walk out again?”

But even as I said it, I knew from my own experience that these wards were very different from a real hospital. This was a house, after all. The rooms were used to the best possible advantage, with six to eight men in each one, and only so many critical care or surgical wards, depending on the need at the time. And there were half a dozen doors going outside, with no reason to lock or even guard them.

“There were only the two men in the critical ward. The other soldier hasn't regained consciousness,” Simon was saying, as if he'd heard my thought. “When I was trying to question Britton, it was for all intents and purposes a single room.”

“When was he killed?”

“Last night. Since dawn I've been talking to everyone in Beaufort House. At first the staff were reluctant to report what had happened. More than half must have feared it was another patient. But there are no head wounds that need to be restrained here, and no tank men. I can tell you this: as his fever rose and Britton was increasingly delirious, he talked about the war and his past. And then the night before he died, his ramblings grew more coherent. That's when I began taking notes. He mentioned Rollins a number of times. It was difficult to understand most of it, something to do with a burning tank.”

“A tank was on fire when Rollins was shot.”

“Yes. After that he began to talk about Cranbourne. Apparently he didn't think much of the ­people there and had as little to do with them as possible. But he appeared to know more about what happened than could be accounted for by just reading a newspaper.”

“Are you saying
he
might have been responsible?”

“More along the lines of considering the search for Germans foolhardy when they should have been pointing the finger at the men running the day-­to-­day operations. He thought them incompetent.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his tunic. “You can look at these later, but the main facts are that he must have known Rollins and the Ashtons, and a man named Collier. He also said something about you, which I omitted from my notes. He cursed you.”

Ignoring that last, I said, “But Captain Collier was the Army's liaison man in Cranbourne. What on earth was Britton doing there?”

And then I remembered. Britton had been an officer's batman. We'd assumed the officer he was assigned to must have been killed in France and Britton carried on with his old regiment. That was the usual course of events. But what if his officer had been reassigned and no longer needed a servant?

I told Simon what my father had learned about Britton's past, put together with what I'd already discovered on my own. “There's the connection we've been searching for, Simon. Britton, Collier, Rollins, the Ashtons. All of them here when the mill blew up. But Britton has been in France since May of 1916. He couldn't have been behind the campaign of whispers.”

“Where is Collier?”

“No one seems to know. London? Scotland? France? Except that he isn't on the active duty roster.”

“Britton had no visitors, Bess. But the other man in the surgical ward had an unexpected one the second day after Britton arrived. And the day after that. His name was Henley. Lieutenant Henley. I was later told that he sat with the other patient for an hour or more, even though the man was unconscious. He would have heard everything that Britton was saying. To someone who didn't know the man, it would have made almost no sense. To the right person, it would have been a warning.”

“Where did this Lieutenant come from? And how did he discover that Britton was here?”

“He claimed he'd just been posted to Folkestone. But no one in charge there knows anything about a Lieutenant Henley. I expect he'd seen the casualty lists, and managed to find out where Britton was taken. If it had been Yorkshire or Dorset, no one would have known what he was saying in his delirium. Here in Kent, it was too great a risk. In fact, one of the Sisters asked me if Cranbourne was Britton's home.”

“If Henley doesn't exist, then who was the man? And why would he wish to silence Britton?” I answered my own question. “One, someone who'd served with Rollins? Two, an old enemy of Britton's from before the war? Or this elusive Captain Collier?”

“The tank corps had already got its revenge in France. An old enemy is always a possibility, but too much of a coincidence, I think. Which leaves us with Collier. As for Henley—­or whoever he might be—­he wasn't here earlier, when Britton was going on about the tanks and his past in Devon. By the time he
was
sitting in that room, Britton was already talking about Cranbourne. And Henley must have heard enough to put the wind up.”

“I even asked the recruiting officer in Canterbury if he knew where the Captain had been sent, but he didn't. It's possible he really did go north with the newly expanded mill there.”

“If he's at the mill, we'll be able to find out if he took leave this past week.”

“Who will handle Britton's death? The Army? The local police?”

“It hasn't been decided.”

“You know, it's likely the corporal would have been dead very soon anyway from the infection in that leg. Henley needn't have drawn attention to himself by resorting to murder. He could have simply waited. Unless he was afraid he couldn't afford to.”

The trial was set for next week. Had he found that out?

We spent the next hour talking to the Sisters in charge of Corporal Britton's care, but they couldn't help us very much. Yes, they'd seen Lieutenant Henley sitting by the unconscious man's cot. One of the orderlies had admitted him, but he was an officer and passed through without question. Had he returned in the night? No one could say for certain whether he had or not.

As for when Henley had last come to Beaufort House, no one could answer that. As one of the Sisters commented, “Most of the convalescent men are in uniform. Some of them volunteer to read to the bed patients, and others walk the passages for exercise. We have men who are allowed to walk on the grounds. If this Lieutenant was cleared to visit a patient, no one would take particular notice of him.”

“But you'd recognize a stranger? Surely?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

“We're run off our feet, Sister. We could use a dozen more staff, and they send us new patients every day. We weren't supposed to take Corporal Britton, but his fever was very high, and we were the nearest hospital with a surgeon. In case.”

In case they'd had to remove that leg.

We did get a description of sorts. Medium height, fair. Nice face. And probably blue eyes as well. Which would fit half the British Army.

After speaking to the Inspector from Folkestone, who had just arrived, we walked out into the house grounds, Simon furiously angry beside me.

“No one saw fit to tell me about Henley, even though I had left orders that no one was to visit Britton. This could have been prevented.”

“A determined man . . .” I said. “Still, everyone thought he'd come to see the other patient in the ward. He was even seen sitting by him. It wouldn't have occurred to the staff that he was actually listening to the delirious ramblings on the other side of the room. What will you do now?”

He took a deep breath. “Britton is dead. They wouldn't allow me to go through his belongings—­not without permission from his next of kin. I'm not sure it would have changed anything. If Britton killed Rollins, it's too late to do anything about it. I did suggest to the local man that he insist on looking in Britton's kit for that cushion you'd told me about. He didn't seem to think it important. He feels that whoever killed Britton is well away. I've questioned everyone, I've done what I could to help the local man take over the inquiry. I've asked that a final report on Britton's death be sent to the Colonel. I have no more authority here.” But I could tell he was unhappy about the situation.

“The Ashtons will be grateful for any information,” I agreed. “Then if you're on your way to London, you can drop me in Canterbury or Cranbourne. I go back to France tomorrow.”

Half an hour later, as we turned west out of Beaufort House's drive, I told him about Heatherton-­Scott and his man, Henry.

“I recognize the name,” Simon replied. “I've never met him. Interesting man.”

“And Henry has gleaned a great deal of information in his forays. Intelligence could use a man of his skill.”

“He could be a conscientious objector,” Simon answered thoughtfully.

“I hadn't considered that. Then why isn't he serving in a hospital or as an orderly?”

“Heatherton-­Scott must have friends in high places.”

As we left the coast behind and made our way into Canterbury, I said, “I wish you could meet Mark Ashton.”

“I must get back to Somerset. There may be new orders waiting.”

I had hardly mentioned Mark's name when I looked up to see Mark just crossing the street, walking with another man in uniform.

“Simon—­wait. There he is.”

When I hailed Mark, he turned, smiled, and made his excuses to the other officer.

“I didn't know you were back in England,” he said, coming up to the motorcar where Simon had pulled to the verge, “until Mrs. Byers told me this morning. You were still asleep when I left. The medical board has given me another ten days of leave.”

“I'm glad. For your mother's sake.” I made the necessary introductions, and went on, “There's something else you should know, Mark. Corporal Britton is dead. He'd just been sent home from France, to Beaufort House. Simon was there to question him, but he had a fever and was raving. And someone must have been worried about that. He was smothered in the night.”

Mark said grimly, “There's no end of it, is there? First Rollins and then Britton.”

“But Britton mentioned Collier in his ravings,” Simon told him. “Bess thinks Britton must have been his batman.”

Frowning, Mark looked away. “There
was
a batman. I never met him. But my father must have done. He'd know who it was.”

“But Mr. Heatherton-­Scott is the only person who can speak to him,” I said.

“Then we'll bring him to Canterbury.” Mark looked around. “My motorcar is by the hospital. If you'll run me out to the house, Brandon, I'll speak to Heatherton-­Scott straightaway.”

“Yes, of course.”

I said, “You'll need more room. I'll stay here in Canterbury. There's a telephone here, and I can put in a call to the Colonel Sahib to see what else he can discover. If he's available,” I added almost under my breath.

“A good idea,” Simon agreed. “Ask him about Henley as well. If he exists, it's possible the Colonel can find out what his connection to Britton may be, and if he's on his way to France or still in En­gland.”

“I shall.”

Mark gave me a hand down, and took my place beside Simon. “We'll meet you by the police station,” he told me. “Wait there for us.”

I set out to the hotel where I'd used the telephone before, and as before, I explained that it was war related, my call. The hotel policy was strict about public use.

I tried my father's club first, but I was told he'd left. I put in a call to my mother next, and she said, “My dear, it's so good to hear your voice. Where are you? In Dover or Portsmouth?”

“Actually I'm in Canterbury. I ran into Father at Victoria Station, and I brought Simon's motorcar down to Folkestone for him.” I changed from English to Hindi, and explained as best I could about Corporal Britton and his death. I didn't want the operator to hear what I was asking. “It's important that I reach Father. Do you know where he is? I've tried the club.”

“He's on his way abroad,” she said, and I remembered then that he had come from Paris. “Is it truly urgent? What you need to know?”

“Very.”

“Can you wait? His papers are on his desk. There might be something that will help you.”

But there wasn't. More disappointed than I wanted her to know, I said, “Will you tell him, when you hear from him, that I need to find any connection between these four men? Sergeant Rollins, Corporal Britton, Lieutenant Collier, and Lieutenant Henley. And if I'm back in France, a telegram to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott at Abbey Hall will reach the right person.”

“I'll see to it. I do wish you could have come home, my dear. We've missed you.”