by Charles Todd
I wasn’t sure just who this man was, but Mark quickly enlightened me.
“Mr. Heatherton-Scott has come to represent my father in his upcoming trial. He’ll dispense with a local solicitor at this stage. There’s a man in London who will act on our behalf, as necessary.”
Mrs. Byers came in just then, carrying a fresh rack of toast. She greeted me, and then said to Mr. Heatherton-Scott, “Your valet has finished his breakfast, sir, and has asked me to tell you that he’s ready whenever you ring.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Byers.”
I filled my plate from the buffet and sat down. “I don’t know whether it’s bad news or good that Sergeant Rollins has been killed. I intended to go into Canterbury this morning and send a telegram to my father, asking for further details.”
“Yes, your father is Colonel Crawford, is he not? I know him by reputation. A cousin served under him in India. A Lieutenant Scott.”
I remembered him. A very pleasant officer who was not only popular with the men under him but with the ladies as well. Everyone liked him, and we were sorry to lose him to a virulent fever he’d picked up while in Lahore.
I told Mr. Heatherton-Scott that.
“Indeed. We were all devastated. But as to the sergeant, we will manage quite well without him.” He smiled, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “I have the disadvantage of being chair bound, but Henry is mobile and very useful. Would you be insulted if I asked you to tell him all you know about this affair? We will put him to good use, and he has the advantage of not being known in the community.”
“I’ll be happy to.”
“I’m grateful. Ah—” He broke off as Mrs. Ashton came in. “I’m sorry to have arrived like a thief in the night,” he said to her as she came to greet him. “I’m replacing your Mr. Worley. I hope you won’t mind.”
Charmed, she walked over to his chair as I had done, and he took her hand. “I am grateful, Mr. Heatherton-Scott. I can’t tell you how grateful.”
In the course of their conversation he asked her about speaking to Henry, and by this time I was curious about the valet. I’d only glimpsed him briefly at the head of the stairs.
After we’d finished breakfast, I was summoned to the study, where Mr. Heatherton-Scott sat in his chair behind Mr. Ashton’s desk, papers spread out around him. I looked for Mark, but he wasn’t present.
Another man was, who rose politely as I entered. This time I had a very good look at him. He was tall, but not noticeably so, quite broad in the shoulder, and, I had a feeling, quite strong as well. His hair was thick and brown, well cut to the shape of his head, and his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, the most notable feature about him. It occurred to me that Henry could walk anywhere and not draw attention to himself unless he wished to.
Mr. Heather-Scott presented him, and he came forward, bowing slightly, the way a well-trained valet would have done.
It seemed that he looked after Mr. Heatherton-Scott in more ways than one, personally and professionally.
He said quietly, in a very pleasant baritone, “Sister.”
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Mr. Heatherton-Scott went on, “I should like you to tell us what you know about the Ashtons and about the people connected to this explosion. Please speak frankly. Nothing you say will leave this room. But it may help me to fill in the blanks of my knowledge.”
I started to sit down in the chair in front of the desk, but he was already rolling his chair out from behind it, moving toward the grouping of chairs by the hearth. It changed the atmosphere from formal to comfortable. Henry went to stand by the hearth. I expected him to take out a notebook, but instead, he simply stood there, looking out toward the double doors to the terrace, where the wind was battering at the bare trees. I had the distinct impression that he would not miss a word.
I began with my arrival in Cranbourne, and slowly told Mr. Heatherton-Scott everything I had known and done. He was most particularly interested in the embroidered cushion I’d discovered when Sister Morris was nearly suffocated.
“We may be dealing with more than one person here,” he said thoughtfully. “In France and in Kent.”
That had occurred to me as well, but I couldn’t think of anyone who might be a strong enough candidate for masterminding both Kent and the trenches.
When I said as much aloud, Mr. Heatherton-Scott glanced at his valet and then turned his gaze back to me. “Leave that to me to untangle. I have resources that you don’t, although your connections with the Army may be very useful to us in discovering precisely what happened to Sergeant Rollins. Are you certain you’ve remembered everything?”
I had—except for the remarks Mrs. Ashton had made to the night outside her broken window. That was too personal, and I wanted to be sure of my ground before mentioning it.
“You’ve been most helpful, Sister Crawford. And very concise, very clear. That’s even more helpful. Who do you think is behind the troubles that have faced the Ashtons?”
“I wish I knew.”
He nodded. “With luck we’ll soon find that out. Do you believe that Mr. Groves had intentionally tried to dissuade his client, Mr. Ashton, from standing trial?”
“He felt strongly about Mr. Ashton throwing himself on the mercy of the court. I don’t know why. But I sometimes had the impression, judging from events, that Mr. Groves was a man of limited imagination. I have not met Mr. Worley.”
“Cautious,” he said, surprising me. “Worley has made his reputation taking only those clients whose trials he believed he could win. He takes great pride in winning.”
“Then why did he agree to represent Mr. Ashton?” I asked.
“I can’t answer that question. It might well be that he has other reasons for taking on this case.”
I knew that Mr. Worley had relatives connected with the explosion. An interesting thought.
Was it possible he was behind what was happening? It was a chilling idea, and I wondered what he would do now that he and Mr. Groves had been dismissed.
It occurred to me then that no one had informed Philip Ashton about the change in representation. And that was worrying. I said as much to Mr. Heatherton-Scott.
“Not a concern, Sister. I intend to visit him after I’ve spoken to everyone and have formed a clear picture of what I’m facing. Meanwhile, I have a favor to ask of you. Could you draw me a rough map of Cranbourne? It needn’t be perfectly accurate. There’s a large sheet of paper on Mr. Ashton’s desk. I’d like to know where to find Mrs. Branch or St. Anne’s or the riverbank.”
I rose and went to the desk. Cartography wasn’t my strong point. Still, I’d watched the Colonel Sahib and Simon redraw maps from reconnaissance reports, setting out new information in relation to what was already known. What mattered was having reference points that put the new information into proper perspective. I thought for a moment and then picked up the pencil lying beside the blotter. I began to draw in the abbey grounds. After all, they were central to the town that had grown up outside them. Next the village square, and the River Cran. Given those landmarks, I could put in Abbey Hall, the warehouses, the ruins, the far side of the grounds where Miss Rollins and Mrs. Branch lived. By the time I had finished, there was a fair amount of information on the sheet of paper.
“Well done,” Mr. Heatherton-Scott said. He had wheeled himself across to the desk to watch what I was doing. “That will serve nicely. I could have asked Mrs. Ashton or the Major to help us with this, but I rather thought you might be more objective. And you are. You have made no excuses for including any place or for leaving any out. Again I must thank you, Sister Crawford.” I rose, taking that for dismissal. I was halfway to the door when he added, “Oh, yes, another matter. Henry, here, would be much happier if you didn’t acknowledge him if you happened to meet outside this house.”
Which meant, I thought, that he was planning t
o do a little reconnaissance of his own. Why wasn’t he in the Army? He looked fit enough. And young enough. How had he escaped conscription?
I was beginning to find Henry more and more interesting. It occurred to me that I didn’t know his surname. And valets were generally called by their last names, not their Christian names. Curiouser and curiouser . . .
“Yes, of course,” I said, my hand on the doorknob.
“And if you’ll ask Mrs. Ashton if she has a moment to speak with me?”
Two hours later, after he’d interviewed everyone in the house down to the lowliest kitchen maid, who had—I was told later by Mrs. Byers, who had been present—stared at him as if he had just landed from the moon, Mr. Heatherton-Scott was lifted into his motorcar and driven away by Henry. I went to find Mark.
He was in the study, writing a letter at his father’s desk.
“How did you find Mr. Heatherton-Scott?” I asked. “And how did you persuade him to represent your father?”
Looking up, he grinned at me. “I’m not precisely sure,” he said. “I asked a friend whose father is a K.C. where I might find someone I could trust. William has been invalided out of the Army after losing his leg, and it seems he’d met Heatherton-Scott in his doctor’s surgery in Harley Street. William never hesitated, he sent me round to Heatherton-Scott’s house with a note introducing me, and the next thing I knew we were driving down to Cranbourne with Henry at the wheel.”
“But what persuaded him that he could help your father?”
“I’m not quite certain whether it’s helping my father or besting Lucius Worley. Apparently there’s bad blood between them. But to his credit, Heatherton-Scott listened to everything I told him about the situation, and then he said, ‘It’s been mismanaged. From the start. How did you come up to London?’ I told him I’d come by train, and he replied, ‘Good, good. I’ll drive you down and you can tell me more on the way.’ That’s when I met Henry.”
“But what are his credentials? How good is he?”
“According to William—and he should know—Heatherton-Scott has one of the finest reputations in London. But he’s considered unconventional, and apparently that’s how he manages to win so often. And to tell you the truth, I liked what I saw.”
“Yes, I agree. You appear to have been very lucky.”
“Don’t I know that! I expected to interview a dozen men before I found one who cared about the situation and expressed any hope of saving my father. Heatherton-Scott has made no rash promises, but I have the feeling that he will make sure he wins. If only to annoy Worley.”
“And Henry?”
“God knows where Heatherton-Scott found him. I did hear him say that Henry had been with him for some twenty years or more.”
I’d put the barrister’s age at somewhere between forty and forty-five, well aware that his affliction, whatever it was that confined him to his chair, could also age a person. If only from the struggle to do the ordinary things a whole man would take for granted, and not taking into account any pain that followed in its wake.
Henry’s age I’d put as mid-thirties. Which meant that Heatherton-Scott had taken Henry on at a very early age, long before he could have been trained to be a competent valet. And that told me something else, that the lawyer had found someone he could trust implicitly, which was more important than skill and training. Henry had become his eyes, his ears, and most importantly, his legs. And that meant that Henry was not only trustworthy but also very intelligent.
It wouldn’t pay to underestimate either man.
As I was leaving the study, Mark asked, “How did my mother take the change in lawyers? Was she very put out with me this morning?”
Turning at the door, I smiled at him. “I think if you hadn’t got rid of Mr. Groves, she would have done it for you.”
He laughed—the first time I had heard his laughter in a long while.
I wanted to walk, cold as it was, and escape the confines of the house for a little while. But I was also wary of running into any of the local people. Nor did I feel free to take Nan for a run. After what nearly happened to her, we walked her in Mrs. Ashton’s private garden, throwing a ball for her or racing down the garden toward the pond. Not all the exercise she needed, but enough to keep her healthy.
I hesitated to invade Mrs. Ashton’s privacy as well, using her garden for my own pleasure. In the end, I borrowed a heavier coat from Clara, and a red cap to match, and walked down to the Cran. With the wind off the sea, no one was lingering there except the expectant gulls looking to see if I’d brought their dinner.
I walked along the river, in full spate just before the tide turned, the boats still at their anchors, and the surface of the water very smooth, except where the wind ruffled it as it passed.
The door to the shed where Alex Craig worked on his boat stood wide, and I debated turning around before he could see me out here. And then I decided that it didn’t matter, he was probably too busy with his sanding or staining or varnishing to pay heed to me.
I walked quietly past the opening, and if he glanced up, he must have taken me for someone else, without my uniform to set me apart. Glad that I had not hesitated, I walked to the end of the broad dock, looking out to sea, where there were whitecaps on The Swale and the Thames out beyond. In the distance I could pick out the shape of a frigate. I wondered if it was on station, patrolling the entrance to the river that led straight up to London.
The wind seemed to blow right through the cloth of Clara’s coat, warm as it had seemed when I had started out. I turned to walk back the way I’d come, and saw Henry standing at the far end of the lane, looking my way. I almost waved, but remembered his request to be ignored. I glanced around to see who might be watching, and realized from this position I had a perfect view of the ruins, better even than where Mark and I had stopped that first day and looked down on them.
Had anyone stood here the day of the explosion?
But that was impossible. Whoever it was, he or she would have been killed by the physical force of the explosion. It had shredded doors and roofs, for heaven’s sake, and flesh couldn’t have withstood it. And yet . . .
There was a street of older houses that ran along above the river. A few trees, the back gardens. I hadn’t really noticed them before, they were well away from the water.
Who lived in them? Their windows had been blown in, for one thing, and their roofs and walls must have suffered too, a chimney toppled here, a tree there. Surely the Army had interviewed those people?
I would have to ask Mark who they were.
When I turned back to the river, Henry had gone. I walked back the way I’d come, busy with my thoughts.
Alex Craig stepped out into my path.
Surprised, I said, “Hallo.”
“I didn’t recognize you in those clothes.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it true that Philip Ashton tried to kill himself? Rumors are flying.”
I debated how to answer him. It was Mark’s place, and his mother’s, to decide what the local people knew or were told. But I could see that Alex Craig badly wanted an answer. To gloat? I decided to test that possibility.
“It’s true,” I said, without elaboration.
“For what reason? Remorse? His conscience?”
“Despair,” I told him. “Because he’s innocent, and no one will listen. They’ve all decided he’s guilty, and they’re howling for his blood.”
“They?”
“The police. His lawyers. Everyone, it seems, in Cranbourne. The Swale villages. I shouldn’t be surprised if half of Canterbury also felt the same way.”
When he didn’t respond, I added, “They might as well hang him and be done with it. Even if he’s acquitted by some legal miracle, what sort of life can he expect to live here? No one will believe it was a fair trial. They�
��ll say that because he’s influential, the jury was afraid to convict. Or that his defense was too clever. There’s always a reason why the verdict didn’t run with popular sentiment.” There was contempt in my voice, although I tried to keep it out. “The punishment will go on and on.”
“And Mrs. Ashton?”
“Have you not seen her lately?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should make a point to see her. I’m told she was kind to you once.”
And I walked on.
He didn’t try to stop me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HAVING ENCOUNTERED HENRY down by the river, I wasn’t surprised to find the Heatherton-Scott motorcar standing in the drive as I came back to Abbey Hall.
As I walked into the house, I could hear voices from the open doorway of the study. Mrs. Ashton responded to a question, and I took this to be a family conference with Mr. Heatherton-Scott. I turned toward the stairs and was just starting up when Mark called.
“Bess?”
“Yes?”
“We’re in the study.” He came to the door and added, “Join us, please.”
I couldn’t tell from his expression whether the news was good or bad. I stopped only long enough to remove the red cap and Clara’s coat, draping them over the curve where the banister ended at the foot of the stairs.
Mr. Heatherton-Scott was by the hearth in his invalid chair, Mrs. Ashton and Clara seated before him. Henry was nowhere in sight.
He looked up as I walked into the room. “Sister,” he said, acknowledging me with a nod. “I was just telling Mrs. Ashton that I was able to visit her husband. Inspector Brothers was bent on thwarting me, but I was not to be thwarted.” He smiled. “I don’t think he believed that such a pitiful creature in a chair could be the new lawyer, and once I’d proved that I was, he took heart, certain that Mr. Ashton had gone from bad to worse when it came to representation. And so I was allowed, finally, to see him.”
