A Pattern of Lies (8 page)

As we walked out the door, Mark said, pausing by the sadly burned chair, “I know, of course, that my mother was hardly likely to be sitting there at such an hour. Still.”

“Do you think whoever threw the candle into the house knew which room it was?” I asked, testing my own theory. “Or was it random?”

“God, I hope it was random. I can't think why my mother should be a target. But if it was intended to set a fire there, it was where we might not have discovered it in time. And that's rather frightening.” He added grimly, “I intend to keep the other possibility in mind.”

I went back to the fact that his mother seemed to understand who was behind this business. Hadn't she mentioned the possibility to her husband, if not her son? Or perhaps she had, and Mr. Ashton had discounted it. Mark tended to think of her as his mother. I'd seen a woman made of much sterner stuff in France, when her son's life was in danger. I knew what she was capable of, if they didn't.

We walked in silence around the side of the house as I had done only hours before, skirting the lawn nearest the windows, beginning by the drawing room.

It took nearly three quarters of an hour to search properly. Moving slowly inward, looking for any sign.

Mark found it in the soft earth of the flower bed that ran along this side of the house. The border was wide enough, some three or four feet, that anyone looking out could enjoy it. Then green lawn ran all the way to the abbey wall some forty feet away.

Just beneath the broken window was the impression of a shoe, pressed deep in the loam as its owner balanced on one foot to throw the stone toward the glass.

But not the whole shoe, only the ball of the foot and the toe. That made it almost impossible to judge whether the wearer was a man or a woman.

Mark leaned toward a man, but I was more open-­minded. Women could hate just as deeply. There were widows and orphans . . .

We kept looking, but that was the only indication that someone else had been here in the night.

Giving up at last, we walked back to the front of the house. Mark said, “I must find a glazier to repair the window. I don't think my mother will be comfortable in that room again, not for a while, but I want it made habitable as soon as possible. Clara must put the maids to cleaning up as soon as the police leave.” He hesitated. “I also need to speak to the police. It's unfair to ask you if you'll go with me. But you were the first to raise the alarm. It might be useful if you are there.”

“Your mother mentioned a Constable Hood. Is he here in Cranbourne?”

“He is. But I've decided to go directly to Inspector Brothers.”

“Perhaps,” I said as diplomatically as I could, “you should begin with the local man.” I smiled. “It's rather like the Army, I think. Chain of command.”

Mark frowned. “It was Constable Hood who took those depositions to Canterbury that resulted in the arrest of my father.”

What he didn't say was, his mother wouldn't appreciate seeing a policeman in her house again.

“Still,” I answered, “it's best to follow procedure.”

I saw his mouth tighten. But as we walked inside, he went on, “Yes, you're right.” He took a deep breath. “Constable Hood it is.” Glancing down—­he was wearing a shirt and trousers—­he said, “I can't appear at breakfast like this. Go on, Bess, I'll join you shortly.”

It was a gloomy meal. Mrs. Ashton didn't appear, Clara was morose, and Mark was preoccupied. Nan sat on Mark's feet beneath the table. I toyed with the food on my plate, then pushed it away.

“What did you tell the staff this morning?” I asked Clara, who had been the last to come down.

“I decided on the truth,” she replied. “I couldn't think how to explain away the broken window or the burned chair. Mrs. Byers wanted to sweep up the glass straightaway, then send the kitchen maid for the glazier. Bless her, her first thought was Aunt Helen's comfort. But I persuaded her that the police had to see the glass and everything, just as it was. The staff is quite worried, of course, this coming after Uncle Philip was taken away. But they're very loyal to Aunt Helen.”

Her fright of the night before seemed to have disappeared in the need to be useful. “Mrs. Byers asked if we knew who might have done this, but I told her it was too dark and too late to be sure. I thought it best to say as little as possible, and leave it to you, Mark, to tell her what she needs to hear.”

“Yes, well done.” He smiled at her as he rose, and she was pleased by his praise. I wondered how he could miss her feelings, but she was his cousin, and it probably never occurred to him to think of her in any other way. And he was still mourning the loss of Eloise. It had only been a matter of months since her death.

I said, “Mark, where does this constable really stand on your father's guilt or innocence? Do you know?”

He folded his napkin, frowning. He'd eaten very little as well, a pretense at being the good host. “He claims to be objective. Still, he lost a brother in the explosion.”

Then Constable Hood was an unknown factor. Well, we'd know soon enough what his views were now.

Mark went up to speak to his mother, and Clara excused herself to have a word with Mrs. Lacey, the cook. But at the door she stopped.

“I've seen to it that all the staff has had a good look at Aunt Helen's chair. I didn't want to mention that to Mark, but I thought it best to have other witnesses than ourselves.”

I nodded. “I'm glad you did. Have you looked in on your aunt this morning?”

“I took up her morning tea myself. I don't think she's slept more than a few minutes all night. Even before that stone came through the window. Whoever did that should be put in jail. I'm sorry, but it was cruel.”

“Can you think of anyone who would do such a thing?”

She laughed, but not with humor. “The list is a hundred dead men long, I should think. Or count all those out of work because of the explosion. The women who came in on the little trains, the brewery workers. The families who depended on those wages. Many of the women had already lost husbands and sons to the war. It was dangerous work, but it was employment. And the Ashton Powder Mill had always been safe. They counted on that. They trusted my uncle to see them safe.”

And broken trust was an emotion that could easily turn to hate.

Shrugging, she added, “Whether it's Uncle Philip's fault or not doesn't matter. He's responsible, isn't he? And he deserves whatever happens to him. That's how ­people think, you see. They don't consider this family. They didn't see Uncle Philip standing in his study, hands over his face as he wept for the dead. And Aunt Helen unable to comfort him.”

The interview with Constable Hood had not gone very well. He listened to what we told him, he looked at the broken window and the shards of glass that Mrs. Byers had left where they fell, to show him, and he examined the blackened chair. The candle was a twisted lump now, but it was clearly a candle. He even went down on one knee to study the carpet, still gritty with wet sand.

He was a square man with dark blond hair and cold gray eyes. I'd felt an instant dislike the moment I set eyes on him. There was something pinched and shuttered about his features, as if he had no intention of being objective or fair.

I'd given my evidence, and the others had recounted what they had seen and done. He appeared not to have heard a word.

Finally he said, “I'll report this to Inspector Brothers, sir. He may have further questions, of course.”

“I hardly think,” Mark said stiffly, “he could need any further proof that this house was set afire by someone who didn't particularly care how much harm was caused. This is an old house, Constable, it would have burned rather quickly. If Sister Crawford hadn't awakened and smelled smoke, who knows how far the flames might have reached?”

“But she did smell it, didn't she, sir?” He made it sound as if it had been planned that way. That we had set the fire ourselves and made certain it was put out before more than token damage had been done.

I said, in my best imitation of Matron's most severe voice, “In my experience, Constable Hood, fires seldom follow instructions. From someone outside—­or inside—­a house. I hardly think after the blow Mrs. Ashton suffered yesterday, she would put her home at risk too. I can't see how it would advance Mr. Ashton's cause.”

He had the grace to flush.

Snapping his notebook closed, he said, “I'll speak to the Inspector.” With a nod to Clara and Mrs. Ashton, he left the sitting room and walked out to where his bicycle was waiting, leaving the doors standing open.

Watching him go, Mark Ashton said, “I'd have offered to drive him into Canterbury. Now, I'm glad I didn't.”

With that he whistled to Nan, crossed the hall to his father's study, and closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Ashton put a hand on my arm, saying quietly, “Thank you, Bess. We weren't in a position to defend ourselves. I'm very grateful. Now I think I should see if Mark is all right.”

Clara wasn't very happy to be excluded. She quickly made an excuse about some household duty or other, as if that explained not being asked to join them, and I was left on my own.

Between the visits of Inspector Brothers yesterday and Constable Hood this morning, I could truly see how the ­people of The Swale region and even as far away as Canterbury were ready to believe the worst about the Ashtons. But that was the trouble; they seemed not to discriminate between the man and his family.

I considered going to sit in the herb garden, but that was Mrs. Ashton's sanctuary, and I didn't wish to intrude. Instead I collected my coat and went out for a walk. The sun had gone behind the clouds, but the day was still warm for this time of year and so I followed the abbey wall, looking for the entrance to the grounds. It led me instead to a street of interesting houses, and that in turn led to the town's square, where there was a market in full swing despite the graying skies.

Wandering along the line of stalls, I couldn't help but think how meager the goods were, compared to an autumn market before the war. God willing it would be over soon, and there would be peace. Still—­it could never be 1914 again. Too many men had died or had suffered horrid wounds that would always be there—­the lost limbs and the burns and the scars. How long would it be before these market stalls would be full once more, and women would have new gowns and hats and linens for their houses? And the horses were gone, as well as the men, and homes had been turned into clinics, and factories had grown accustomed to feeding the machines of war. Women had been just as patriotic as the men, replacing those needed at the Front, learning to work in factories and drive omnibuses and grow food on empty ground. How was that going to return to what we remembered in the past? Where would the house parties and the summer afternoons on the lawns or in quiet back gardens be held when there weren't enough men to play tennis or croquet or dance with the women who had no one else to make pleasant conversation with and look pretty for?

It was a heartbreaking realization. That we'd fought so long and so hard and at such cost to save something that had been smashed to bits the minute the Germans crossed the frontier into Belgium. What would we replace it with? How would the future look?

Trying to shrug off my sad spirits, I suddenly realized that I hadn't heard the usual banter that made market day more than what was put out for sale. I turned and looked back at the stalls I'd just passed, only to meet the speculative gazes of a dozen pairs of eyes as marketgoers and sellers in the stalls alike followed my progress in silence.

They knew who I was. They knew where I'd come from. I might as well be an Ashton, in their eyes. The enemy. And they would give me no quarter, just as they wouldn't give an Ashton quarter.

It was a revelation. A first look on my part into the chasm of hate that separated Abbey Hall from Cranbourne. It was one thing to turn their backs to the motorcar, and quite another to treat a stranger as if she had been accused of murder too.

It was such an odd feeling that I wasn't quite sure what to do. Walk back the way I'd come, or finish strolling through the square? And I think everyone watching me wondered as well what I would decide.

I was only a guest in the Ashton house, yet Cranbourne's animosity toward the family had spilled over to include me.

Or perhaps they'd already heard that I was the one who'd smelled smoke and prevented the fire from spreading.

No one was going to attack me here in the little square, in front of all these ­people, but I felt distinctly uneasy. For all I knew, any one of them could have tossed that candle into the sitting room, certain that his actions would meet the approval of everyone watching me.

I took a deep breath. I was wearing the uniform of Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Ser­vice. And I would not dishonor it by scurrying away like a coward.

Carrying on, I finished my circuit of the little square, head high, a calm expression on my face. My pace was leisurely, and if I inadvertently caught the eye of someone staring at me, I let a faint smile speak for me.

One woman, standing in front of her stall, actually spat at me, and another turned her back, refusing to serve me, even though I wasn't buying.

A man cursed under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear the words he was using. I carried on as if I hadn't heard. Or understood.

At last I came back to the street that had brought me into the square, and with a sense of relief, I put those unfriendly faces behind.

I could leave here—­indeed, I'd be leaving tomorrow, and for Dover, not London. But the Ashtons couldn't. And how safe would a household of women feel when Mark went back to France? I couldn't see any way that Mr. Ashton would be freed anytime soon. In fact, he might be safer where he was until there was a trial.