A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  He thanked Mrs. Hennessey and turned to go.

  “I’ll stay here, shall I? Until you bring the motorcar back.” My mother walked over to Mrs. Hennessey, who was still looking alarmed and uncertain. Taking her arm, she added, “We’ll have a small glass of sherry, shall we?”

  My father picked up my kit while I said good-­bye to Mrs. Hennessey and my mother, then hurried after him.

  “What if there’s no space?” I asked, climbing into his motorcar.

  “Let me worry about that.” He turned the crank, got in beside me, and drove back the way we’d come.

  The station was crowded, as I’d expected it would be. But the Colonel Sahib took no notice. He found the stationmaster just coming out of the little café, and said, “Colonel Crawford. This Sister missed her connections. It’s imperative that she reach Canterbury as soon as possible.”

  Looking over my father’s shoulder at the crowded platform, the stationmaster shook his gray head. “There’s no room to be had, sir. With the best will in the world.”

  “I’m sure someone will sit on the floor, if necessary, to give this young woman his seat.”

  “If you find him, sir, I’ll be happy to give her a ticket.”

  My father walked toward the crowd. The train hadn’t come in yet, but ­people were milling about, saying good-­bye, looking for friends, staring into space as they wished the train would arrive and be done with it.

  Making his way through the throng, men saluting and stepping aside as he passed, he spotted a young corporal in The Buffs.

  Making for him, my father tapped him on the shoulder.

  The young corporal turned to see who it was, then squared his shoulders and saluted. “Sir,” he said.

  “Heading for Dover, are you, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This young woman needs to be in Canterbury as soon as possible. Will you give up your seat and make the best of the journey, so that she can travel?”

  Glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, the corporal said at once, “Yes, sir, be happy to, sir. A Sister saved my foot after the Somme. My pleasure, sir.”

  “Good man,” my father said, just as we heard the train’s whistle followed by the engine’s roar as it came into the station. To me, he said, “Stay here. I’ll bring your ticket.”

  I nodded and he disappeared into the crowd. I turned to my savior.

  “What’s your name, Corporal?” I asked, smiling.

  “Miller, Sister. From Huntingdon.”

  “Thank you, Corporal Miller. I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable.”

  “No, Sister. I’ll be fine.”

  My father was back with my ticket, handing it to me and saying, “Godspeed,” as the stationmaster blew his whistle and everyone headed toward the train. Corporal Miller saw to it that I had a seat by the window in a first-­class compartment, although there were already several officers in occupation.

  “Call me if you need anything,” he said. “I’ll be in the corridor just there.”

  I thanked him again, then turned quickly as the train began to move, waving to my father, who was standing to one side, watching to be sure I was settled.

  And then we were pulling out of the station, and for the first time I could think about what might be waiting for me in Canterbury.

  We sat on a siding for a quarter of an hour to give a train full of wounded the right of way—­that was just outside Rochester—­and then we were pulling into Canterbury. I said good-­bye to Corporal Miller, who had managed to find me a cup of tea and a bun as well as giving me his seat.

  Two of the officers were disembarking there—­I’d discovered that they were on leave—­and one of them carried my kit as far as the street. They found a cab for me, and I gave the address of the police station.

  I had no way of reaching Abbey Hall, but I hoped I could find out something from Inspector Brothers.

  I went up the steps to the police station and opened the door.

  The sergeant at the desk looked up, and got to his feet when he saw me.

  “Sister,” he said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

  I expect he was thinking that I’d been addressed by someone in the street and had come to report it.

  I said, as firmly as I could, “My name is Crawford. Inspector Brothers knows who I am. I understand my cousin tried to kill himself this morning. I’ve just arrived from France, and I’ve come here for the latest word before going on to Cranbourne.”

  He couldn’t disprove that I was a cousin. I didn’t think Inspector Brothers would know any better, either. And it was clear that I already knew what had happened. He chose discretion over valor and said, “You must speak to Inspector Brothers.” I wasn’t sure that the Inspector would appreciate the decision.

  “Thank you.”

  I waited while he walked down a passage and opened a door. After a moment he came back and ushered me into the Inspector’s office.

  There was only one chair in front of the desk, and I took it without invitation, as if by right. I had learned, dealing with Authority, that the best offense was to appear to be perfectly comfortable and in control.

  “I remember you,” he said, frowning. “You were at the Hall when I took Ashton into custody.”

  “I was,” I said, without explaining how I’d come to be there. “Can you tell me if my cousin is still alive?”

  “He is.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “He tried to cut his wrists.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In hospital. Under guard.”

  “As you can see, I’m a nursing Sister. I should like permission to look in on him and make certain he’s been given every care.”

  “The doctor has already seen him.”

  “That may well be. But it is your doctor, Inspector, and I am with Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Ser­vice. I’m trained to inspect wounds. The man’s family has a right to know that these—­injuries—­are indeed self-­inflicted.”

  “He tried to kill himself,” he expostulated. “What more proof do you need than that?”

  “Has his wife seen him? Or his son? Mr. Groves, perhaps? No? Then I shall have to insist that you allow my visit. The news of what happened is common knowledge, Inspector. It will not look good if you refuse to let Mr. Ashton’s family see for themselves that all is well. It will appear that you have something to hide in this matter.” I wasn’t at all sure of my legal grounds, but I hoped the Inspector didn’t know that.

  I could see that he was on the fence, uncertain what to do with me. I crossed my fingers in the pocket of my apron, and waited.

  But it looked as if he was going to refuse. Time for the next salvo. “I should think that you prefer not to have it said at my cousin’s trial that he’d been driven to take his own life while in your custody. Or that he was perhaps—­helped—­in that direction. After all, you’ve refused to allow his family to see him. There is no certainty that his health hasn’t deteriorated in the time he’s been in this place.” Still no sign of capitulation. Beginning to worry now, I went on. “A newspaper account of his condition would be useful in procuring him a fair trial in another jurisdiction.”

  I could see from his eyes that I’d made my point, and I sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for my father’s advice. As we’d driven to Victoria Station, he and I had hammered out the best arguments I could use in gaining access to Philip Ashton.

  “All right,” Inspector Brothers said grudgingly. “I’ll give you a pass to see him. No more than five minutes.”

  “Fifteen,” I amended. “I have no way of knowing how long it will take for me to assess his condition.”

  “Fifteen,” he agreed against his will. “Not a second longer.”

  He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I read it before I stood up.


  Sister Crawford is allowed fifteen minutes and fifteen minutes only with the prisoner.

  “If there are other wounds or signs of bruising or abuse, I will report this at once to the doctors in charge. Is that understood, Inspector?”

  “You won’t find any,” he said sourly.

  “I sincerely hope I shan’t.” I nodded and left the little office, walking down the passage, expecting at any moment to hear Inspector Brothers call me back and tell me he’d changed his mind. But I nodded to the sergeant at the desk and stepped out the door without any trouble.

  Sighing with relief, I shifted my kit to the other hand and hurried to the hospital, opening the main doors and walking to Reception. The orderly behind the desk gave me directions, and in a matter of minutes I was making my way to the first floor, where Mr. Ashton was being kept under guard.

  I could see the uniformed constables as soon as I came up the stairs and turned into the corridor. They were sitting in chairs outside a private ward.

  To one side was a small room where families could wait for news, and as I walked past it, Mark Ashton said, “Bess? My God, where did you come from?”

  He was on his feet, coming toward me, but I raised a hand to stop him and slipped into the room before he could step out into the passage. He looked drawn, tired to the bone.

  “I can’t stay,” I said quickly. “I have permission to examine the patient. Have you seen him?”

  “No,” Mark said. “They won’t let us near the room. I took my mother and Clara home not half an hour ago. They’ve been here most of the afternoon, since the news first reached us.”

  “How did you hear about what happened?”

  “It was Mrs. Lacey. Our cook. She came into Canterbury to do her marketing, and she overheard someone talking about it. He’d seen the ambulance arriving at the police station, and someone in the crowd told him what was happening.”

  “Wait for me downstairs. I’m allowed fifteen minutes with your father. I’ll meet you when I’ve finished. It might not be wise for us to be seen leaving together. Inspector Brothers could still send someone to stop me.”

  “Let me go in with you—­”

  “You can’t.” I held up the slip of paper that gave me permission. “If you try, they might stop both of us.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, all right. At least someone will see him, speak to him, find out what really happened.”

  He stood aside and I went back into the corridor, walking briskly toward the guarded room.

  When I got there, the two constables on duty blocked the door as I started to enter.

  I handed them my permission, and said pleasantly, “Good evening. I’ve just seen Inspector Brothers. If you have any questions, you’re to contact him.”

  That seemed to reassure them, for they stepped aside, and one of the constables opened the door for me.

  When he started to follow me inside the room, I said, “You’re to remain on duty while I examine the patient.”

  He stepped back and allowed me to enter the room alone. I thanked him.

  Philip Ashton was lying in bed, covered by a sheet. His face was gray with fatigue and he seemed much thinner than when I’d last seen him. I thought he might be asleep, because his eyes were closed.

  I touched his shoulder gently, and his eyes flew open, staring at me with alarm. He relaxed when he saw the uniform, and then he recognized me.

  “Bess—­how on earth did you get in here?”

  “With great difficulty. What happened? There isn’t much time.”

  “I tried to slash my wrists.” He pulled an arm from beneath the sheet and showed me a bandaged wrist. “But I was careful not to cut very deeply. Still, there was a good deal of blood, and they were frightened enough to bring me here. I thought they might allow me to see Helen or Mark. I’ve had no news of my family at all.”

  “They’re well and quite worried about you. Mark is here in the waiting room downstairs, but they won’t allow him to see you. And they won’t let Mrs. Ashton visit you. It’s Inspector Brothers’s doing, but I don’t think Mr. Groves has pressed him too hard.” I unwrapped the bandages as I spoke, and looked at the cuts on his wrists before carefully rewrapping them. He was right. He’d done what he could to maximize the amount of blood with several shallow cuts, but none of them was deep enough to be life-­threatening. “Why are you still here? Why haven’t they returned you to your cell?”

  “The doctor was worried. I’ve lost several stone. I’ve been refusing to eat.”

  “But you need your strength. For the trial.”

  “Bess. They can’t beat me, it would show. But the food has been nearly inedible, and I’ve refused it. That didn’t work, and so I managed to cut my arms. I can’t bear that cell any longer. I have no exercise, I have nothing to read, I can see the sun for only a matter of minutes each day, when it shines over the wall outside my window. I’m going mad, and I must listen as my guards make macabre jokes about the hangman. Groves and Worley tell me to throw myself on the mercy of the court, that the evidence against me is too strong to fight, that I must convince the jury that I kicked over a stone and it lit the spark that started the fire. That I didn’t see it until too late. Or some such.”

  “Is that what happened?” I couldn’t conceal my surprise.

  “God, no. No. I was standing there, listening for any signs of life in the rubble, and I heard the shouting behind me. When I turned, there were men coming with shovels and pickaxes to dig for survivors. I went to tell them that it was too dangerous, we’d have to do it by hand. Before I could reach the Cran, the fire was suddenly visible. I still don’t know if there was a fire before the explosions began or if it was spontaneous afterward. But of course it must have appeared that I was running from it.”

  Were these the same men who now claimed he was gleeful as he left the ruins, the fire already showing behind him? If not, why hadn’t at least one of them stepped forward?

  Philip Ashton hadn’t spoken about what he’d seen in nearly two years—­not since he’d given evidence to the Army. And now, as if having been trapped in a cell with no one to speak to, day after day, he couldn’t stop. “Have Mark and Helen agreed to that plea? I need to know. Groves tells me they feel it would save my life. I can’t believe that’s true. I can’t believe they would be willing to take such a risk. Because that’s what it will be, Bess. If the jury has a taste for a hanging, they won’t hear what I have to say, and if there’s an appeal after conviction, then it’s on record that I’ve confessed. It’s one of the reasons I did this.” He nodded toward his other wrist as I finished rebandaging it.

  “I don’t believe anyone at the Hall knows about this plea. But they’re as unhappy with what’s happening as you are. Please. Don’t listen to Groves. Or Worley. I don’t think either of them has your best interests at heart.” I put a hand on his arm. “There’s so little time. Let me tell you what else we’ve learned.” And I explained what we knew about Sergeant Rollins and his sister, Agatha, and about Florence Benning, the woman who had come forward so late in the day. “Even Sergeant Rollins doesn’t believe her. We’ve got to find a way to prove all these ­people are lying.”

  He lay there, taking it in.

  I said urgently, “Can you think of anyone who could be behind this? Someone who wishes you ill?”

  “No. Not that kind of hatred. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “But you’re seen as a murderer. All those men. And whoever it is, he—­or she—­is believed. That’s what’s worrying Mark. It’s like fighting in the dark, to try to counteract that kind of venom.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t kill them. If anyone is to blame, it’s the way the Army pushed for a higher and higher output of powder. I understood the need, I knew how the war was going, but it’s dangerous work, it can’t be rushed or steps skipped. Men make mistakes when there’s s
omeone urging them on, telling them they must increase output. The Army kept telling me there was a war to fight, and it was essential that we win it. That we’d have to take the risk. That’s what I was arguing with the foreman about just that morning. He told me the men were tired, and I needed to speak to Captain Collier about giving them more time to rest. I felt it was better to hire more ­people, so that we could keep to schedule. I’d already written to London, asking permission to do just that.”

  I had hoped he might know something or have seen something that could be used in his defense. Instead he’d kept silent because he thought ­people should know him well enough to believe he would never do anything that would harm the mill or the ­people who worked in it. Philip Ashton, the man with the impeccable record at the mill. The man everyone looked up to and trusted. And ought to trust still.

  He didn’t seem to understand that such a fall from grace—­being arrested—­made enemies born of disappointment and grief turn on him like hyenas on a wounded antelope. I could see he still found it hard to believe that they could do such a thing.

  And he was tiring. I could see that as well. The loss of weight was catching up with him.

  I said, “Is there anyone who could speak on your behalf? Anyone with the Army or the Government who might explain to the court just what they believed had happened? Surely there must be someone who could point out just how hard the War Office was pushing those men.”

  “Captain Collier, although he’s probably in France somewhere, if he’s still alive.”

  But he sounded doubtful, and I could understand why. If the Captain was tasked with keeping output as high as possible, he might be reluctant to come forward and admit to having any responsibility for what had happened. It was very unlikely that his view of events would ever be the same as Philip Ashton’s. Friend or not.

  We were nearly out of time.

  I still had several more questions to ask—­about Corporal Britton, about Mrs. Benning, even about Young Mr. Groves, but I decided on the most important one. “Can you tell me why Sergeant Rollins refuses to come back to England to speak on your behalf? Or at least give someone a statement that could be used at your trial? It might help refute some of these more recent accusations. If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to persuade him to change his mind.”