A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  “She’s right,” Mrs. Ashton said. “Is Mr. Groves so certain that such a plea would be accepted?”

  “He can’t promise anything. Feelings have run high, there have been comments made in the newspaper.”

  “Then we have no choice but to agree to the trial. And hope for the best.”

  “It’s difficult to change a trial to another town,” I said. “But it would be worth trying. That is, if the police or the Chief Constable would allow it.” I wanted to tell them instead that a change of briefs would be much wiser. Finding someone who believed in Philip Ashton and would fight for him.

  But all of us, sitting there in that pleasant room, knew that the trial would very likely end with a conviction.

  Unless something was done soon.

  Mark got up and paced the floor. “I can’t believe this is happening. Not to my father. I feel helpless.”

  “Sit down, my dear, I’ll pour you a whisky. We’ll think of something.”

  But of course none of us believed we could.

  Later that afternoon, I walked as far as St. Anne’s and found the large stone in the churchyard marked with a cross and the words Our Loved Ones. Followed by the date. Very simple and possibly all they could afford, the survivors and the women who worked in the mill. But it brought tears to my eyes.

  The church door was unlocked, and I slipped inside. It was cool and dim, the way churches so often are on weekdays. My footsteps echoed, and I was glad to find that no one else was there.

  I walked first down the side aisle to my right, looking for a large brass plaque. There were small ones here, clusters of them, memorials put up to the dead buried in France. An officer here, a private soldier there, giving their rank and the date and name of the battle in which they’d been killed. Others gave the name of the battle below the date of death, and added, Died of Wounds. It was a sad array.

  I found the larger, more ornate plaque set between two lovely stained glass windows. It depicted a simple cross at the top with engraved lilies to either side.

  This was followed by the words:

  IN MEMORIAM

  THE VICTIMS OF THE ASHTON MILL

  EXPLOSION AND FIRE

  There followed the date and then, in four rows, the names of all the men who had been killed that day.

  And below the list was a final line: Oremus pro invicem.

  If I remembered my Latin, it meant Let us pray for one another.

  A very touching tribute. I thought it must be Mr. Ashton’s dearest wish, that they comfort one another, the dead and the living.

  It occurred to me that grief sometimes divided ­people rather than drawing them together.

  I was just leaving the church when I encountered the Vicar coming in, a hymnal in his hand.

  “Sister Crawford,” he said in some surprise. “I didn’t know you were back in Cranbourne.”

  “I came to look in on Mr. Ashton.”

  “Is he free? I hadn’t heard.”

  “According to the police, he tried to cut his wrists.”

  “Dear God.” He stared at me. “I must go to him. If the police will allow me to visit with him? I’ve heard that they are very strict about this.”

  “I don’t know. They seem to be unwilling to put themselves out.”

  “But surely if he’s in need of comfort? A man in such despair? I’ll travel to Canterbury this evening. And Mrs. Ashton? How is she holding up?”

  “Quite bravely. I think events have been hardest for Major Ashton.” Changing the subject I added, “I’ve wished to ask you. By any chance do you know where I can find Captain Collier?”

  “He was living in the former foreman’s house on the far side of the mill. It was refurbished for the Army’s use. While the Army was investigating what had happened, Captain Collier was reassigned. To London, I believe. I never had his address there. But I doubt he stayed in the city for long, given the need for men in France.”

  “He hasn’t come back to visit since he left?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Oddly enough I did think I caught sight of him in Canterbury one day. But that was nearly a year ago. You know how it is; you see someone you believe you recognize, but when you catch him up, he generally isn’t. There are so many men in uniform.”

  “Do you get to Canterbury often?”

  “Sadly no, my duties have kept me closer to Cranbourne and the Swale villages. Without the mill for employment, there have been hardships. My fellow priests and I do what we can to alleviate it. And then there are those of our parish who receive bad news.”

  I remembered the Vicar at home in Somerset telling us when he came to dine that his duties had trebled since the war began. Often without the resources necessary to help those in need. My parents had been generous. I wondered if the Ashtons also gave freely.

  “Do you remember a Corporal Britton? I’m told he was from Devon, but he appears to have been serving in a Kent regiment.”

  “The name isn’t familiar. And I expect I’d have remembered someone from Devon. They have such a queer accent, don’t they?”

  I had to smile. Kent had its own accent. And Somerset too, for that matter. I could understand it, having spent a large part of my life there, but to some ­people it was incomprehensible.

  I thanked him and went on my way.

  I was aware of the stares as I walked back, and the snubs by those I passed. The mist was beginning to lift, and I hurried, not wanting to deal with a confrontation.

  Halfway to the Hall as I turned a corner near the abbey wall, I literally ran into Alex Craig.

  He caught my arms to steady me, then recognized me as he released me and stepped back.

  “Sister,” he said, touching his hat.

  “Hallo,” I said. And then before I could think better of it I asked him, “I wonder. Do you by any chance know where I can find a man named Britton?”

  His mouth twisted. “Still trying to save the Major’s father? He’s guilty, you must know that.”

  “There’s been no trial,” I replied. “Legally, Mr. Ashton is still only a suspect.”

  He considered me for a moment. “You must love him deeply to fight so hard for his father.”

  Exasperated, I said, “I don’t think you realize how self-­absorbed you sound. I have no desire to replace Eloise in Major Ashton’s affections. Now or at any time in the future. You remind me of his cousin, Clara, leaping to conclusions because you’re so filled with jealousy you can’t think about anything else.” I hadn’t meant to mention Clara, but it came out before I could help it. And remembering Mrs. Ashton’s fears about this man, I wondered for a frightful moment if he’d tried to burn down the house just because he believed Mark had brought his new fiancée home to meet his parents. It never occurred to me that Alex Craig might have leapt to such a conclusion about my visits. But logic doesn’t always enter into the picture where love is concerned.

  “I’m not jealous,” Alex Craig told me, as angry as I’d ever seen anyone. “I wouldn’t have replaced Eloise so quickly. I couldn’t have. She deserves more than that.”

  “If you think Mark Ashton hasn’t mourned her as fiercely as you appear to have done, then you’re sadly mistaken. Whatever else Eloise was, she seems to have touched you and the Major very deeply. I can’t imagine what kind of woman she must have been, to be able to do that. But you dishonor her memory if you judge the grief of others and measure it by your own. Now answer my question, if you please, or go away.”

  “I have no idea who he might be,” he said tightly. And with that he brushed past me and limped on down the path by the wall toward the center of Cranbourne.

  Watching him, I felt a sudden frisson of unease. Alex Craig was certainly in a position to make life unbearable for the Ashtons, as punishment for Mark having won Eloise’s heart. He was angry enough to feel many things besides jealousy. I c
ould easily picture him meddling in the Ashton family affairs to salve his own wretchedness at losing Eloise. Even though Mrs. Ashton had been kind to him when Eloise lay dying. Ungrateful man!

  Perhaps it wasn’t the ghosts of the dead he saw but the ghost of what might have been.

  Then I turned away and scolded myself for being quite so fanciful. But that very odd feeling was slow to go away.

  Since Alex Craig was definitely not down by the river this morning, I decided it was safe to explore a little on my own. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to the Hall.

  I walked briskly through the thinning mists toward the river. And when I reached the Cran, I saw that the tide was out and I could cross almost dry-­shod.

  I scrambled down the embankment and chose my footing carefully. It was a little more difficult to climb the other side because an outcropping of chalk made it very slippery just there. But used as I was to the mud of France, I made it up to the grassy verge of the river.

  Careful of the marshy bits, I walked down toward The Swale, watching the long grasses of late summer blow in the wind. The Swale was a cold steel gray, and beyond I could just catch the ripples of current in the estuary as the sun came out and sparkled across them. The Isle of Sheppey was still partially floating in mist, but close in I thought I could pick out sheep idly grazing. In the distance on this side of The Swale I could see where the fishing fleet lay waiting for the war to end, and in between lay the abbey, of course, and closer to that, the land belonging to the Ashtons. There were the sheep meadows, there the plowed land for the hop gardens.

  Turning, I walked toward the ruins of the gunpowder mill. At first I felt only a scattering of stones beneath my boots, and then they were large enough to trip me up. By the time I could see the broken foundations I stopped.

  Men were buried here. I wouldn’t intrude.

  In the distance to my right, I could see a straggling village, and nearer to, the house that must have belonged to Captain Collier, situated very close by where the tracks must have come in from the other Swale villages. They were still shrouded in mist.

  The extent of the ruins gave me some feeling for the size of the mill. After all, during the week, three hundred or more souls had been employed here in the manufacture of cordite. Now I could identify the ragged, blackened foundations of several dozen smaller buildings grouped by tasks and the broad crater where perhaps a larger one might have stood. The pond that had fed the operation was now shallow and algae covered, as if it had been neglected, but a pair of mallard ducks floated in the small clear pool where it must still be deep enough for them.

  I wondered if this winter the nailbourne would rise again, and feel triumphant that there would be no interference with it now.

  And throughout the site stood those shattered and broken trees, some of them struggling to put up new shoots, for a leaf continued to cling to the branches here and there, as if desperate to hide the still raw wounds of this place.

  I could believe the ruins were haunted. The way the wind whispered in the tall grass sounded like muted voices, and at night there would be a black and shapeless jumble that belonged only to hunting owls or prowling foxes. No one in his right mind would wander here after dark, for no other reason than fear of breaking a limb among the scattered and only half-­visible stones.

  I turned away, crossing the field of grass toward the river. The tide was just turning, and I made my way back to the far side before my boots were soaked. It was with a feeling of relief that I reached the lane that ran down to Abbey Hall.

  Mark was preparing to return to Canterbury. I met him just coming out the door on his way to the motorcar.

  “There you are,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to have another word with Groves. There has to be something we can do. I can’t wait here while they sort it out. Somehow I have to convince Lucius Worley to put up a fight. Do you want to come?”

  “Yes, I’d like to. I can stop in the hospital and see what I can learn there.”

  “Good, yes, that might work.” He held the door for me and I stepped in, realizing as I did that my boots were muddy from crossing the river and there were burrs on my skirts from the high grass.

  Oh, well. It didn’t matter.

  We made good time into Canterbury, and found the city nearly empty this morning. Mark dropped me at the hospital, asking, “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  “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.