A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  I was shading my eyes with my hand for a better look at the island, cut off from the Kent mainland by The Swale, when someone spoke from just behind me, making me jump.

  “The Isle of Sheep. It’s what Sheppey means.”

  I turned. Several of the shed doors had stood open as I walked along the river, but the interiors had appeared to be empty. Now, in the one nearest me, a man was lighting a cigarette. Then he leaned back against the frame.

  He must, I thought, have heard the gulls and stepped out to see what they were on about.

  Tall, but not as tall as Mark, fair, hazel eyes, his expression lively with curiosity.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was working behind the boat.”

  I could see a rather large sailboat hull sitting on a cradle in the dimness of the interior behind him. His hands were covered in dust, as if he’d been sanding, and I could see flecks of it on his face. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been the egg thrower. Or knew who it was.

  Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “You’re a nursing Sister. Did you bring someone to Cranbourne? Anyone I might know?”

  “Actually, I’m a guest at Abbey Hall,” I said.

  He frowned. “Indeed.”

  “I was one of Major Ashton’s nurses. I met his mother when she came over to find him.”

  “Ah. And so you’ve walked down to see the scene of the tragedy.”

  Turning back to the river, I said, “It’s not the best of times to be a visitor. Earlier someone threw eggs at the motorcar when Major Ashton brought me here.”

  “Not a very friendly welcome,” he agreed. “If you’re wondering if I threw them, the answer is no.” But from the tone of his voice I gathered he’d have preferred something a little more lethal.

  “As a matter of interest, were you here when the mill exploded?”

  “I was.” He looked with distaste at the cigarette he was holding, then pitched it in the river beyond us.

  “Not working in here, surely?” I asked, gesturing toward the open shed.

  “God, no. The doors were blown in, and the place was a disaster. Paint and varnish and all the rest scattered every which way.” He inclined his head in the direction of the hull. “I hadn’t begun this one—­or it would probably have been matchwood.”

  “You’re a boat builder?”

  “I was, until the war put an end to it. No one is buying pleasure craft these days.”

  “I expect not.”

  “There was a flying club out on Sheppey. I was a member, as it happened. When war came, I wanted to fly. Early in 1916 I crashed coming in with a machine that was barely holding itself together. That put paid to my war. I should have gone down at sea.” He pointed to his foot. “A softer landing, if a wet one.”

  I could see that his right boot was high, protecting a stiff ankle.

  “Not much use when you can’t fly any longer. Even the Army wouldn’t take me. Hardly surprising, if you can’t climb the ladder when the whistle blows,” he went on. “Or race across No Man’s Land. There’s a splinter of something nasty lodged near my heart as well. No one would operate. And there you have it.”

  I thought perhaps he’d explained his presence out of a sense of guilt for not being in France. There were uniforms for the wounded who couldn’t be returned to duty. He was wearing worn corduroy trousers and a cotton shirt to work in. “It’s very dangerous to try,” I said. “But you can still build your boats. There’s something to be said for that.” Then I realized how neatly he’d changed the subject so that he hadn’t had to talk about the explosion.

  “This is a perfect place for such a mill,” I went on. “I don’t see why they decided not to rebuild on this same site.” Two could play at this game of misdirection.

  “It would cost more and take longer to clear the land before putting up another building. They’ve moved on. Besides, it’s a grave now, isn’t it?” He pointed to the line of warehouses. “It was rumored they might turn these into a new factory. But the town protested, and I think it finally dawned on London that where there had been one catastrophe, there could very well be another, and this time, the town—­or a large part of it, at any rate—­might go up with the buildings. They were damn—­very lucky, the last time.”

  “But why was it suspicious, this blast?”

  He answered grudgingly, “Ashton Powder had had a very good record. The mill had been here since the Napoleonic Wars, if not before, and there had never been any trouble. That’s rare, dealing with gunpowder.”

  “Then what went wrong two years ago?” I persisted.

  ­“People got careless. Or nervous. One mistake is all it takes to level such a place. And there was the pressure to produce more and more powder. The munitions factories were running flat out. Collier did his best to keep them busy. God, if you were in France, you’ve heard the guns, you know how many they lob over in a single hour. All those shells have got to come from somewhere. And the powder to fill them.”

  I knew, all too well. The ground shook, the very air seemed to vibrate as the big guns pounded a sector. Men lost their hearing, as Mark had done, or had such severe headaches they couldn’t function. Some developed such a shock to the nervous system that they couldn’t stand.

  All those shells have got to come from somewhere . . .

  I turned back to the ruins. “You don’t think about that, do you? Where the shells come from. It just seems there’s an endless supply.” Changing the subject, I said, “Does everyone in Cranbourne believe that Mr. Ashton started that fire?”

  “There are two camps. The survivors of those lost in the explosion needed someone to blame. A casual spark seems a very dubious source for such tragedy. After all, as I said, it had never happened before. And Ashton was there. As it began.”

  “And the other camp?”

  “They’ve lost their livelihood, haven’t they? And they too want to blame someone.”

  “Are you among those last?”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to hold someone responsible too. I knew many of the men who were killed. It’s comforting, you know, to find someone to blame. It says that God isn’t cruel, it’s Man who caused such pain and loss. You can rage at a man. It’s harder to rage at God.”

  He hadn’t really answered my question, but I let it go. I was starting to walk on, when he said, “Let me close these doors. I’ll walk back with you.”

  I could see his limp as he shut the long, heavy doors. He didn’t bother to lock them. Coming to join me where I stood watching the tide run in fast, he said, “They wouldn’t put a hospital here, you know. Even though the Ashtons and others with large houses offered. Too close to the mill.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. We walked a little way, and I asked, “How did the fire start? The explosion was bad enough.”

  “Nobody knows. But it put paid to any attempt to find out how the explosion occurred. Or to look for survivors who might have known the truth.”

  Which must have pointed an even stronger finger at Philip Ashton.

  The man was looking closely at me. “You’re very curious about all this.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” I gestured toward the blackened ruins. “Even two years after the explosion, it’s frightful. So many lives lost?” I shook my head. “If there is any place where ghosts walk, it’s there, across the river.”

  I’d meant it metaphorically, not literally. But I saw the shock in his eyes before he turned away.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked after a moment as we left the river behind and turned toward the abbey.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve never seen one.”

  He didn’t quite know how to take that answer.

  We parted company at Abbey Lane, and he nodded to me before turning to go. “Enjoy your stay,” he said. With bare politeness.

&nbs
p; “Thank you,” I said. And as I walked back to Abbey Hall, I wondered what he’d seen in those ruins that had made him take me so literally when I spoke of ghosts.

  When I walked into the hall, Clara was just coming down the stairs. “There you are! Aunt Helen is lying down. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you remember the way to your room?”

  “Yes, I do, thank you, Clara.” Turn right at the top of the stairs. Third door on my right. “I’m sorry to put everyone to such trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Would you like to see Aunt Helen’s garden? It’s a part of the old abbey, and quite lovely. I shouldn’t wonder if it had been an herb garden. Monks knew a great deal about healing. Somehow it has managed to survive for centuries. That’s rather remarkable.”

  “I remember your aunt talking about it to Mark while he was feverish,” I said lightly. “I’ll enjoy seeing it.”

  We walked in silence to a door at the side of the house that opened into the garden. And we stepped out into a little bit of paradise.

  There were still herbs, many of which I recognized, in beds that were separated by perennials. And in the stone wall itself here and there were pockets of tiny wildflowers that spilled down in miniature falls of color. As if holding on to summer as long as possible in this protected space. At the bottom of the garden was a slightly raised terrace where graceful iron chairs, painted white, sat beneath an arbor that was thick with wisteria vines, still green. That, I thought, must be Helen Ashton’s personal contribution to this wonderful space.

  “This is really lovely.” But as we stepped out into it, I began to notice that no one had deadheaded the blooming plants or trimmed the wisteria recently, a measure of how little time Mrs. Ashton had spent here of late. A measure too of her worry?

  Stopping to admire a display of flowers I didn’t recognize, I became aware of Clara’s frown.

  “You nursed Mark when he was so ill? Aunt Helen came home singing your praises. She said you saved his life with your care and your training.”

  She was jealous. I’d realized that but hadn’t expected her to be so blunt about it.

  I smiled. “That’s very kind of her,” I said quietly. “The truth is we had the best doctors imaginable and an experienced nursing staff. And Mark wasn’t the only miracle they’ve worked.”

  “Yes, well, Aunt Helen seldom mentions them.”

  I said, turning to look straight at her, “I’ve nursed hundreds of men since I finished my training. Mark was special because his mother had come to help us in any way she could, and we didn’t want to let her down. We didn’t want to have to tell her one morning that her son hadn’t lived through the night.”

  She stared at me as if I’d bitten her.

  “I see” was all she could manage before she turned away. Then, without looking at me, she added, “I’m so sorry. It’s just that she’s so very happy to have you here. And Mark is as well.”

  “I expect my arrival helped to take their minds off what’s been happening. What’s the old expression? A change of trouble is as good as a holiday? Sometimes it’s true.”

  To my surprise, she flushed, saying again, “I’m so sorry. I—­Mark and I—­I’ve been in love with him since I was fourteen.”

  “Then you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  “Thank you,” she said ruefully. But we both knew that Eloise was her rival still. And that was as it should be. Mark would have to mourn before he could turn elsewhere.

  We walked on, down to the terrace, where I admired the small pools that had been put in on either side.

  “The monks would have kept fish in the pools,” she said. “Stocked for use as needed on holy days. Alas, there are none in here now. There was a story I read once, when I was a child. About a monk who had made friends with the carp in the fishpond, only to discover that a curse had been put on it, and when the curse was lifted, a prince stepped out of the water. In gratitude, the prince built a great abbey where only a poor wooden one had stood. I remember coming here as a little girl, looking for the fish, determined to find the prince.”

  We laughed together as we turned back toward the house. But her prince had found another princess. Eloise had got there first.

  Over the wall, toward the front of the house, came the sounds of carriages coming up the drive. Their pace didn’t sound like that of casual visitors. Too brisk, the wheels rattling loudly. I could hear one of the drivers reining in the horses.

  Clara’s face was white. “Oh, God, who can that be?”

  Side by side we hurried up the garden to the door into the house. I could hear someone coming down the stairs. Mrs. Ashton. She called to her housekeeper, and there was fear in her voice.

  We reached the hall just as a fist pounded on the door.

  Clara started forward. Mrs. Ashton barred her way. “Let Mrs. Byers open the door. Come with me to the study.”

  Mark was already standing there on its threshold, listening, his gaze going to his mother’s face as the three of us hurried toward him. Behind him, Mr. Ashton had risen from his desk.

  I watched as the housekeeper came up from the kitchen, walking steadily toward the sound of the knocking, but before Mark could shut the study door behind us I saw that Mrs. Byers’s hands were clenched in the fabric of her dress.

  Mr. Ashton was at the window now. He said to his wife, “It’s nothing to worry about, my dear. I expect it’s the police. They’ve found our young vandals.”

  “They’ll want us to be magnanimous and not press charges,” Mark answered him, but there was bitterness in his voice.

  As if by agreement, we took chairs, trying to look as if this was no more than a social call. Mark replaced his father by the windows, his back to the room, while his father resumed his seat behind the desk. As voices reached us from the hall, I heard a low growl and realized that the spaniel was under the desk at its master’s feet. Mr. Ashton spoke to it, and it was quiet again.

  After what seemed an eternity, we heard Mrs. Byers’s tentative tap on the door, and then it swung open.

  All of us, except for Mark, could see the man standing there, and the uniformed policemen behind him. He was of medium height, perhaps forty-­five, dark haired. There was a grim expression on his face.

  Not one of us believed now that this call was about young vandals.

  My heart flew into my throat, and I reached out for Mrs. Ashton’s hand. She clasped my fingers fiercely until they hurt.

  Philip Ashton rose. “Inspector Brothers,” he said calmly.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Ashton. I’ve come from Canterbury with a warrant for your arrest for the murder of these men.” He held out several sheets of paper, and I could see that they were filled with names. “I shall be happy to read them to you, sir, if you insist.”

  “I know the names of these dead,” Mr. Ashton said. “They are engraved on my soul. What evidence is there that I have caused their deaths?”

  “You were at the mill earlier in the day, Sunday the second of April 1916, before the first blast, behaving suspiciously, and there again just after the explosions brought the buildings down, standing at the very spot where the flames rose as you were hurrying away. This has been attested to by a dozen ­people who have come forward and given their depositions. They were rushing toward the river, and they report that your expression as you turned their way was gleeful.”

  “Gleeful? I see. And what possible motive could I have had for destroying my mill, much less wanting these men dead?”

  “A court will hear that in due course, sir. I am here to take you into custody on the charges brought.”

  “Yes, certainly.” He glanced toward his wife, standing still as if turned to stone, her blue eyes stark in her pale face. “Will you give me a few minutes to say good-­bye to my family, and to give my son instructions about my affairs?” I could see Inspector Brothers hesitate. “
I give you my word, Inspector. I will come through that door in ten minutes’ time and accompany you to Canterbury without fuss.”

  Reluctantly—­I think he was all too aware of the constables at his back, prepared for any resistance—­the Inspector agreed. Stepping back into the passage, he shut the door, and all of us could hear his voice issuing abrupt orders for his men to wait outside.

  I would have left, to give them privacy, but Mrs. Ashton was still gripping my hand as if it were a lifeline to hope.

  Philip Ashton came across the room to her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Nothing to worry about, my dear, it will all be resolved shortly. I want you to be brave and not do anything rash.”

  I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Ashton doing anything rash, but I thought the words were meant for Mark as well.

  He nodded to me, then turned to his niece. Clara was striving to hold back tears as she said good-­bye.

  “It might be best for you to go home,” he urged her. “Will you think about it?”

  And then he was conferring in a low voice with his son, close by the window.

  Without looking at us, three women still standing there like marble statues, unable to speak, he crossed the room. Mrs. Ashton put out her hand then as if to stop him, but let it drop. He opened the door, stepped through it, then shut it firmly behind him, and we could just hear voices as Inspector Brothers took him in charge. As well as the soft clink of handcuffs.

  The spaniel went to the door, scratching on it and whining.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS THEIR FOOTSTEPS faded in the distance, Mrs. Ashton said distractedly, “He has nothing with him. His razor, comb—­a change of clothes, shoes—­a blanket, if where they put him is too cold.” But she didn’t move.