A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  “How was he?” I asked, having had no news since he left hospital. “Have his bandages been changed?”

  “Apparently they have. I made a point to look at them. I was just about to tell everyone about my first words with my client. Mr. Ashton was quite surprised to find me admitted to his cell, and I explained the change in management, as it were. His first question, as soon as the gaoler had walked away, was, ‘Are you here to convince me to admit I was responsible for the fire, if not the explosion? If you are, call that man back and tell him I have refused to receive you.’ ”

  Mrs. Ashton smiled. “That sounds just like Philip.”

  “It took very little time to persuade him that I had no such intentions, and that if I’d agreed with anything Groves and Worley had done, I wouldn’t have bothered to leave London for Canterbury. He was pleased to have word of you, Mrs. Ashton. As neither Mr. Groves nor Mr. Worley had seen you recently, they hadn’t been able to give him truthful news of his family. You, Sister Crawford, had set his mind at rest during your visit to his hospital room, and that counted for much. He was in better spirits.”

  “Will I be able to visit Philip now?” Helen Ashton asked eagerly.

  “No, sadly, but I shall be happy to take your letters to him, and his to you. That will help a little, I think.”

  A little . . . but not enough. Mrs. Ashton tried to school her face to hide her disappointment, but I saw the pain in her eyes.

  “This was my first conference with my client,” Mr. Heatherton-­Scott told her gently. “We shall see what inroads we can make in the next one or two. But I have made it official now. Groves and Worley are struck off the list. We will go forward from that.”

  Clara spoke up then. “I’d like to know what keeps the agitation at such a high level. It never seems to fade away, does it? Just as it seems about to calm down again, something else stirs it up.”

  It was the question I’d have liked to ask but didn’t feel free to bring up. Mr. Heatherton-­Scott had gone to great pains to reassure the Ashtons, and I could tell he was not best pleased.

  But he answered Clara with a smile. “That’s in hand. It’s all I can tell you at this stage, but I think I will have more to say on that subject later.”

  When Henry had made his report?

  Mark said, as we left the study and closed the door on Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, “Did you want to run into Canterbury to put in a call to your father?”

  We needed to know more about what had happened to Sergeant Rollins.

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Mark.”

  I went to fetch my own coat, returning the borrowed one to Clara, and we set out in the motorcar. The wind whipped around us, and I could feel my cheeks stinging from the chill in the air.

  As we passed through the square in Cranbourne, I glimpsed Henry standing outside the tobacconist talking to several men. He didn’t react when the motorcar passed by, but he must surely have seen the expressions on the faces of the men beside him as they turned their backs.

  That was a good thing, I thought. He would see for himself what the Ashton family had had to endure for months.

  When we had left the square behind, I asked Mark if he knew what Henry’s background was.

  “No idea,” he told me. “I was told that his name was Henry, and I could see that he was valet-­chauffeur and general dogsbody, enabling Heatherton-­Scott to do his work despite his disability. Even on the drive back to Cranbourne, when we stopped in Rochester for petrol, Henry appeared to be just that. But after my mother’s interview with Heatherton-­Scott, she asked me the same question.”

  I smiled. “If her interview was anything like mine, I’m not surprised. I drew a map for Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, but it was Henry who put it to use, I think. He was down by the river earlier.”

  “Was he indeed?”

  I had to wait three quarters of an hour for the use of a telephone. Seven officers had been given day passes from a clinic outside Canterbury, and they were eager to speak to their families. Such leaves were often a final test of a man’s return to full strength. I watched their high spirits, smiling at the general laughter and sense of well-­being. When my turn finally came, I met with disappointment.

  My mother was on her way into London to meet the Colonel Sahib’s train. I inquired after everyone, but it wasn’t the same as hearing their voices.

  Simon was still away. And that was worrying too. I wondered if my father knew where he was.

  Asking Iris to pass on my request for more information on Sergeant Rollins, I put up the receiver and stepped aside as another eager officer thanked me and took my place.

  When I came out of the hotel to where Mark and the motorcar were waiting, he asked, “Any news? No?”

  “No.” I was to leave for France tomorrow. There was nothing for it but to ask Sergeant Lassiter what he could find out about Sergeant Rollins’s death. “I’m sure my father will find a way to reach me when he has something to tell us.”

  We turned a corner back toward the square before the cathedral gate, and there was Henry, chatting with a man who looked very much like Mr. Groves’s clerk. I touched Mark’s arm and pointed. But there were others in the way before he could turn his head, and he couldn’t be sure who it was.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how Henry had managed that encounter.

  As we drove back toward Cranbourne, I said to Mark, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Who lives in that street of houses just above the river? Those you can see from the end of the dock?”

  “Mostly town merchants. It’s an older part of town, of course, and many of the houses were built when wool was king. Merchants who dealt in wool after the abbey was slighted made their own fortunes and wanted to live above the river. Times have changed, of course, but many of the houses have been renovated, and they were in great demand after the turn of the century. The branch manager of the bank lives there, and the greengrocer who once lived above his shop moved there in 1911. The doctor, of course. I expect the Vicar would prefer it to that drafty pile that’s the Vicarage now.”

  “Which means, if the inhabitants saw anything out their windows two years ago, they aren’t telling anyone. Their livelihood depends on the villagers, doesn’t it, and so they will cater to them politically just as they do professionally.”

  “Exactly. Nicely put. The doctor has been distinctly chilly since the troubles began, and the bank manager as well. Not to mention the greengrocer and all the rest. You very quickly learn who your friends are, in circumstances like ours. At the moment, I could count them on the fingers of one hand.”

  “How sad.”

  “I have every hope that Heatherton-­Scott will change that. Although once a friend has turned his back, it’s impossible to trust him afterward.”

  I was posted this time to the hospital where influenza patients were taken. I’d survived my own case, and it was felt that I had the immunity now to work with the more seriously ill. I had served in such a hospital before, and it was heartbreaking to watch a strong man sink into unconsciousness and die before the night was finished. Or hear others coughing and struggling to breathe, knowing so little could be done to help them. It was a dreadful disease, and it had taken a terrible toll on everyone, not just the British and French lines.

  On the third day, a Sister came down the row of beds and said quietly to me, “There’s a man by the ambulances who wants to speak to you. Don’t let Matron see you go, she doesn’t care for fraternizing.”

  I finished bathing the face of the officer I’d been sitting beside for what seemed hours. He was as stable as we could make him, but I could see how quiet he was, and I didn’t like it. In spite of the cool cloths, his fever was still very high.

  “Keep an eye on Captain Thomas for me, please,” I asked Sister Harris, who was working with the patient in the next bed.

  She nodded, and I hurried out to the ambu
lance line, expecting to meet Simon there. But it wasn’t, it was Sergeant Lassiter.

  “I heard you were back in France,” he said, welcoming me with a grin.

  I was certain he could find me wherever I was, so far-­flung was his network of watchers. I found myself thinking that if British Intelligence had anything to match it, we might have won this war in six months.

  “I’m glad you came. I need your help in a very important matter.”

  “It may well be that I’ve already done what you’re about to ask. It’s to do with Sergeant Rollins, I expect.”

  “Yes, the report of his death reached me in Kent, but there were no particulars. What happened to him, do you know?”

  “The first report claimed that a sniper got him. He was out of his tank, trying to rescue three men from another that was on fire. He was very close to the lines, well within range. But when the men he pulled out of that tank were able to talk, they told another story. It was murder, pure and simple. From our side of the line. But they never found the man. He got away while everyone else was watching the tank burn and the men who were on fire rolling on the ground trying to put out the flames. Several other men rushed over, using blankets to wrap them, then dragged the sergeant and the others back to safety.”

  “Then no one knows who shot him?”

  “That’s as may be, lass. But Rollins was still alive when they got him to the doctor. And he was reported to have said he was happy to die for Britain. But that’s not how it was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He kept saying ‘Britain. Britain.’ Three times he said it, and then he was gone.”

  “Britton,” I said slowly. “He meant Britton. Bless him, he left us a clue. It could very well be the same man who shot at the sergeant before and missed. I can’t believe two ­people were stalking him! Did the sergeant see him just as he was firing? Is that how he knew? Because I was nearly sure Sergeant Rollins knew who Britton was. Or did one of the men with him see who it was? I do know for a certainty that Britton was the ‘sleepwalker’ the night Sister Morris was attacked. The night our rooms were switched. All this is too much of a coincidence not to be true. And here I’d nearly convinced myself that Britton had nothing to do with Cranbourne. But it makes more sense now that the owner of that cushion did intend to smother me in my bed. Sister Morris just happened to be in it instead of me.”

  “Then I’ll have to be looking for this man Britton,” he said harshly. “Know his rank, lass? It would help if you did, but I’ll find him one way or another.”

  “He’s a corporal. From Devon. He’s serving with The Buffs, I think. Unless he’s been reassigned. But, Sergeant—­I want him alive and able to answer questions. Do you hear me? There’s more to this than getting my own back here, or even avenging Sergeant Rollins. I think he knows something about what’s going on in Kent—­otherwise, why would he try to kill Sergeant Rollins and me? The only connection between us is Cranbourne.”

  “If that’s how you want it,” he answered me. “I’ll even tie him up in a bow, if that’s what would make you happy. Red or blue?”

  “Getting to question him before the Military Foot Police find him would be satisfaction enough.”

  “I’ll see to it. Never fear.” There were ­people down by the hospital doorway, well within sight of us. And so rather than kissing me on the cheek as he generally did, he winked at me, then said in a low voice, “Mind yourself, lass. He may find you before I find him. But only if I miss him.”

  “I promise. Be careful, please. He won’t hesitate to kill you, if he suspects you’re after him.”

  He grinned, but there was no humor in it. “Be safe, luv.”

  And he was off, moving swiftly to where a messenger’s motorcycle was ticking over. Where he’d found it or what had happened to the driver, heaven only knew. But he was gone in a roar of sound, scattering earth and dust behind him as he headed north.

  As I walked toward the hospital, I heard in the distance that familiar sound of the kookaburra bird, even over the engine’s growl.

  When I got back to the wards, the Sister who had given me the message was waiting. “He’s quite attractive,” she said.

  “He brought me family news,” I said. “I’d been worried.” And I walked on to the chair where I’d been sitting.

  As I wrung out another cool compress for Captain Thomas’s head, he opened his eyes and smiled. I was so pleased to see him better that I wanted to embrace him, but that would never do. Instead I said, looking down at him, “Nice to have you back, Captain.”

  He was too exhausted to respond, but as he closed his eyes again, there was a glimmer of relief in them.

  My next visitor arrived very early in the morning, just as I was crossing to the canteen for my last meal before finding my cot. It had been a long night, and I had lost a patient. My spirits were sunk well down into my boots as I walked through a light drizzle toward the canteen door.

  “Bess.”

  I turned. It was Simon. I was so glad to see him I didn’t at first know what to say.

  Hurrying toward the large tree where he was standing, I realized how very tired he looked.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, suddenly worried for him. This influenza could find any weakness in the body’s defenses, and fatigue was one of the worst.

  “I haven’t slept in three days,” he said ruefully. “I was sent over to find out who killed Sergeant Rollins. Did the Colonel not tell you?”

  I shook my head. “Come and have some tea. And a biscuit. We can talk inside. The canteen is almost deserted at this hour.”

  I took his arm and we walked side by side toward the door. There were only two other ­people in the room, not counting the sleepy night staff behind the counter. Choosing a table by one of the back windows where I thought we might not be disturbed, I asked for two cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches.

  We sat down in silence, waiting until they were brought to us. The tea was fresh and hot, but the sandwiches were dry. Nevertheless, Simon tucked into them with the appetite of a hungry man.

  “I haven’t been able to reach my father,” I said quietly when we were alone. “He’s been in the north. At least that’s what he told me. I received one telegram telling me only that Sergeant Rollins had been killed. Nothing after that. When I telephoned Somerset, Iris told me that Mother was driving into London to pick up my father at the station.”

  “He sent you a second telegram. I expect it was delayed for military traffic or is still waiting for you in Kent. The doctor who examined the sergeant’s body told his commanding officer that it was not a sniper’s shot that brought him down. It was a regular issue Army rifle cartridge. And someone from his tank swore that he’d been shot by one of his own men. But no one knows who.”

  “I think I do,” I said, feeling a little better as I sipped my tea. I was hoping Simon felt the same. “It was Sergeant Lassiter who told me that very likely the shot had come from our own lines. And then he told me that the sergeant had spoken just before he died.”

  “Yes, that message was relayed to London. It will be sent to the King in due course.”

  “But it’s not what they thought it was, Simon.” I put down my cup. “He said the word three times. Britain. Everyone took it to mean that he was dying for Britain. A very brave last word from a hero. They didn’t know what I did. That a man named Britton had tried to kill me—­”

  Simon’s head came up, his eyes intent on mine. “You never said anything about this to your father. I’d have heard.”

  “He attacked the wrong Sister. She was given the room that was listed as mine, because she arrived earlier than expected and her own room wasn’t ready. They’re all alike. Ordinarily it wouldn’t matter. This night it did. She screamed and fought, and one of the night guards heard her. When he got there, she was scratched and coughing but very much alive. It was pu
t down to a drunken orderly, but no one ever found him, as far as I know.” I went on to describe the cushion that I’d discovered and dissected, then explained about the sleepwalking trench foot case. “I suspected then that he had some connection with Kent. Corporal Britton. He was from Devon but he was serving with The Buffs. He once served as batman to an officer. At a guess, when that officer was killed, he went back to his regiment and was eventually promoted in the field.”

  Simon had once been my father’s batman, his military servant.

  “Yes, that sounds logical. But what has he to do with Sergeant Rollins?”

  “I suspect he’d already attempted to kill the sergeant, but missed his shot. I tried to warn Rollins to be careful, but he felt he could take care of himself. Apparently when the first attempt failed, someone tried again. Sergeant Rollins was the only witness when the Ashton Powder Mill went up and then burned. The Army interviewed him. But now Philip Ashton is about to go on trial for murdering the men who died in that explosion and fire. And no one wanted to bring Sergeant Rollins back to question him again. The Army was only interested in saboteurs. Rollins himself refused to return to Kent when I proposed that he ask for leave to testify.” I gave Simon an account of what the sergeant had told me. “So it’s very likely that Sergeant Rollins’s death and the attack on me are connected, and the only possible connection is the Ashton family.”

  “I’m confused. Why should Britton be involved with that? Did he ever work for the mill?”

  “According to Mrs. Ashton, he didn’t. I don’t know his connection. Not yet. But if you can find him, you can question him about it. It might be the only way to learn why Rollins had to die.”

  “That’s very helpful, Bess. It should make my task much easier.”

  “You’d better hurry,” I told him. “Sergeant Lassiter has put out word that he wants Britton rather badly.”

  Simon said grimly, “He’ll have to find him before I do.”

  “What has happened with the black aircraft? I haven’t heard anything about it since I got back to France.”