A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  “Heatherton-­Scott must have friends in high places.”

  As we left the coast behind and made our way into Canterbury, I said, “I wish you could meet Mark Ashton.”

  “I must get back to Somerset. There may be new orders waiting.”

  I had hardly mentioned Mark’s name when I looked up to see Mark just crossing the street, walking with another man in uniform.

  “Simon—­wait. There he is.”

  When I hailed Mark, he turned, smiled, and made his excuses to the other officer.

  “I didn’t know you were back in England,” he said, coming up to the motorcar where Simon had pulled to the verge, “until Mrs. Byers told me this morning. You were still asleep when I left. The medical board has given me another ten days of leave.”

  “I’m glad. For your mother’s sake.” I made the necessary introductions, and went on, “There’s something else you should know, Mark. Corporal Britton is dead. He’d just been sent home from France, to Beaufort House. Simon was there to question him, but he had a fever and was raving. And someone must have been worried about that. He was smothered in the night.”

  Mark said grimly, “There’s no end of it, is there? First Rollins and then Britton.”

  “But Britton mentioned Collier in his ravings,” Simon told him. “Bess thinks Britton must have been his batman.”

  Frowning, Mark looked away. “There was a batman. I never met him. But my father must have done. He’d know who it was.”

  “But Mr. Heatherton-­Scott is the only person who can speak to him,” I said.

  “Then we’ll bring him to Canterbury.” Mark looked around. “My motorcar is by the hospital. If you’ll run me out to the house, Brandon, I’ll speak to Heatherton-­Scott straightaway.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I said, “You’ll need more room. I’ll stay here in Canterbury. There’s a telephone here, and I can put in a call to the Colonel Sahib to see what else he can discover. If he’s available,” I added almost under my breath.

  “A good idea,” Simon agreed. “Ask him about Henley as well. If he exists, it’s possible the Colonel can find out what his connection to Britton may be, and if he’s on his way to France or still in En­gland.”

  “I shall.”

  Mark gave me a hand down, and took my place beside Simon. “We’ll meet you by the police station,” he told me. “Wait there for us.”

  I set out to the hotel where I’d used the telephone before, and as before, I explained that it was war related, my call. The hotel policy was strict about public use.

  I tried my father’s club first, but I was told he’d left. I put in a call to my mother next, and she said, “My dear, it’s so good to hear your voice. Where are you? In Dover or Portsmouth?”

  “Actually I’m in Canterbury. I ran into Father at Victoria Station, and I brought Simon’s motorcar down to Folkestone for him.” I changed from English to Hindi, and explained as best I could about Corporal Britton and his death. I didn’t want the operator to hear what I was asking. “It’s important that I reach Father. Do you know where he is? I’ve tried the club.”

  “He’s on his way abroad,” she said, and I remembered then that he had come from Paris. “Is it truly urgent? What you need to know?”

  “Very.”

  “Can you wait? His papers are on his desk. There might be something that will help you.”

  But there wasn’t. More disappointed than I wanted her to know, I said, “Will you tell him, when you hear from him, that I need to find any connection between these four men? Sergeant Rollins, Corporal Britton, Lieutenant Collier, and Lieutenant Henley. And if I’m back in France, a telegram to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott at Abbey Hall will reach the right person.”

  “I’ll see to it. I do wish you could have come home, my dear. We’ve missed you.”

  “As much as I’ve missed you,” I said, and then regretfully told her good-­bye. I could see the hotel’s manager standing outside the glass doors of the telephone closet, his pocket watch in his hands.

  Opening the doors, I said, “I’m so sorry. My business took longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “What was this urgent matter?”

  “It’s about a murder,” I said. “The Military Foot Police are involved.”

  He stared at me. “I expect you not to say anything about this to the hotel’s guests.”

  I had to promise before he would let me go.

  I walked on to the police station, and stood nearby for a quarter of an hour. Restless, I turned and went to find myself a cup of tea. There was a shop not a dozen doors down the street. I could see through the window that it was filled with soldiers and their families. Hesitating, not certain how long it would take to be served, I recognized the man just leaving.

  It was the recruiting officer.

  I said, “Hallo. I don’t know if you remember me. Not long ago I asked you about Captain Collier, and a corporal by the name of Britton. I’ve learned since that Corporal Britton was Captain Collier’s batman.” I was fishing for more information.

  “Have you indeed? Is it helpful? I think you said you knew the Captain?”

  “Only casually, through friends,” I said with a smile.

  “Walk with me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you find the man. Have you been able to locate Collier? Is this how you learned he had a batman?”

  “I’m still looking for him. Apparently he’s not in France. Very likely this means he’s up in Scotland. At the mill that replaced Ashton’s.”

  “Surely the Ashtons would have kept up with him?”

  “I don’t believe anyone locally has. Which again leads to the supposition he’s in Scotland.”

  “Yes, I expect he doesn’t get down to Kent very often.”

  I could see the cathedral gate at the end of the street, and through the arches the church itself, the spires of the towers soaring above.

  “Well, again, I’m sorry that I haven’t more information to give you. Good day, Sister. I’ll leave you here.”

  He touched his cap to me, and strode off.

  Another dead end, I thought, watching him walk on.

  I debated finding another tea shop, then decided instead to go on down to the cathedral and step inside. The sun was just coming out after what felt like days of drizzle and downpours, and I thought the stained glass would be at its best just now. I had been about to go inside when first I’d encountered Mark.

  I passed through the high gate, feeling the chill of the shadows, and came out into the sunlight again. Ahead was the west front, and the doors were closed against the weather. Not that it helped—­these great churches were never warm, even in high summer.

  I was reaching out to push open the heavy door when for some reason I turned to look back the way I’d come. Someone was standing there, in the deeper shadows of the gate.

  My first thought was, Simon has come to fetch me. But whoever it was didn’t look at all like Simon. He wasn’t tall enough, and he didn’t carry himself the way Simon did. What’s more, the way he was staring in my direction made me uncomfortable.

  Was it Henry? Waiting there for me to go inside so that he could pursue his own affairs for Mr. Heatherton-­Scott?

  And then whoever it was turned and disappeared around the corner, as if he’d changed his mind about visiting the cathedral.

  All the same, I was uneasy. I opened the heavy door and went inside. But instead of letting it swing shut all the way, I held it open just enough to have a clear view of someone walking down toward the west front. If someone was following me, I wanted to know.

  I could hear footsteps coming toward the entrance, and then a man in uniform with a girl at his side shoved the doors wide, and I had to step hastily away out of their path.

  It was a corporal in a Shropshire regiment, and his sweetheart. I could t
ell by their smiles. Had he been waiting for her by the gate, and then changed his mind and gone to meet her? I felt rather foolish.

  While I moved on to enter the sanctuary, they didn’t follow. Behind me as I walked on, I could hear them laughing, then a moment of silence while they must have kissed. And then, laughing once more with the excitement of what they’d just done, they went out the doors again. It struck me that they’d just become engaged, and there was probably nowhere else they could snatch a private moment but here.

  Smiling, I stared up at the soaring roof of the nave, so delicate and airy that it still had the power to amaze, no matter how many times I’d seen it. The great windows splashed colored light on the stone floors and the clustered pillars, and there was a serenity here that was a breath of peace. And I had it all to myself.

  The church was silent—­even my own footsteps echoed as I went forward, looking up at the magnificent stained glass. The richness of the blues, an occasional deep green in a robe, a dash of yellow in a shoe, red for drama, but overall those wonderful blues that filled the church with glory. I knew about the quire, the tombs, the chapter house, the zodiac set in brass polished by so many feet. It was the glass I loved.

  Once, when we’d come back from India on leave, my cousin Melinda Crawford had brought me here on an outing. My father was in London, conferring with the Army and the War Office, and my mother had gone up with him. It was an odd choice of entertainment for a restless five-­year-­old. I couldn’t appreciate the architecture or the tombs—­indeed, even on tiptoe, I could hardly see over the tops of them. I couldn’t have told anyone what stories the glass had been created to tell. But the colors had enthralled me. India was gaudy with color; the temples and the gods and the women in their saris brightened the hot, dusty landscape with dazzling, almost garish life. This was somehow different. Brilliant but subtle, soothing but vibrant. When it was time to go, I hadn’t wanted to leave.

  Behind me I heard the door scrape open, and I turned, thinking that this was a fine place to be trapped. I don’t know why that thought popped into my head, but I moved to a point where I could see whoever it was just coming into the nave.

  An elderly priest stepped through the doors, his face blotched with age, his arthritic hand holding tightly to a cane. I watched as he came down the north aisle, and I thought he might be going to the place where Becket was martyred, but he made his slow and painful way to the chapter house and disappeared from view.

  Quiet descended once more, and I walked on to the crossing of the transepts where the tower of Bell Harry rose high over my head. I could look up into the shaft and see the ornate ceiling there, like embroidery on a ball gown, intricate and delicate and quite beautiful.

  There was the scrape of the door again, but I’d got over my anxiety, and didn’t hurry back to the nave to see who was there. I wandered on, looking up at the glass.

  Brisk footsteps came into the nave, then slowed. Starting up again, they seemed to be exploring, for they moved this way and that, as if admiring all that was on offer.

  I had gone into the apse, the chapel where the tomb of Becket had stood before the Reformation, where the blue of the glass seemed to surround me in the curved wall above my head. Absorbed, I lingered there. Then, remembering that I was to meet Simon and Mark at the police station, I turned and started back the way I’d come. And I ran straight into a man standing beneath the shaft of Bell Harry, looking up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HE SEEMED STARTLED to see me. It was the recruiting officer.

  “Hallo,” he said, smiling. “I come here sometimes to get away from the bustle of the town. I’ve just been to the railway station, seeing off a company of men I’d persuaded to enlist. I try to do that when I can.”

  “I’m sure it’s appreciated.”

  “I like to think so.” He fell into step beside me as I continued to walk toward the nave. “Actually, I’m rather glad I’ve run into you again. I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I was wondering if we could have lunch together. It’s early, I know, but my responsibilities are dealt with, and I don’t have to be back at the recruiting office until two o’clock. I’d like it very much if you would say yes.”

  “I’m so sorry. I have to meet friends, and they’re been delayed. That’s why I came here to see the stained glass.”

  “My loss,” he said with a wry smile. “Another time, perhaps? We seem to make a habit of running into each other unexpectedly.” We had reached the nave again, walking side by side. “Are you in Canterbury for very long?”

  “I leave for France tomorrow.”

  He took out his pocket watch to check the time, and stopped dead. “I’ve lost the fob.” Glancing around, as if it were somewhere underfoot, he said, “My father gave it to me. It’s in the shape of a frog. Passed down through the family from a great-­great-­grandfather. I wonder where it could have got to.” He felt in his pocket, then turned to stare back the way we’d come. “I took out my watch in the transept just before I saw you. It’s not keeping proper time, and I need to have it looked at. I say, you wouldn’t mind helping me search, would you?” An embarrassed note crept into his voice. “My eyesight isn’t the best. Which is why I’m recruiting soldiers instead of leading them.”

  I hesitated, knowing I was probably already late meeting Simon and Mark. But I could hardly walk away.

  “Yes, all right, let’s have a look.”

  We walked briskly down the aisle toward the transept and the tower crossing.

  “You’re sure it was there at that time? You didn’t lose it on the street or in the recruiting office?”

  “God, I hope not,” he said fervently. “But yes, I think it was still there when I took out my watch. It may have caught on my clothing as I put the watch back into my pocket.”

  We walked past the quire, the tombs, the long beautiful windows, and came to the transept once more. He began looking, staring down at the floor with fixed attention, and I moved a little beyond him.

  There was nothing on the floor that I could see. Certainly not something as large as a watch fob.

  Still, I kept looking. I could hear him behind me, swearing under his breath, and just then I saw a glimmer of gold in the dark shadows where the light from the transept windows couldn’t quite reach it.

  “Over here.”

  I went down on one knee and put out my hand to grasp a handsome little gold frog. No wonder he’d feared losing it.

  I had it in my hand and was just turning my head when something soft and white came slipping over my face, settling around my neck. I had a fleeting moment to realize that it was the long silk scarf pilots affected, and to think about Alex Craig, when the scarf began to tighten viciously.

  I was still on one knee, but I struggled to get to my feet and succeeded finally, even as the silk tightened again.

  “I’m not good at this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Stand still, damn you, and it won’t hurt as much.”

  It was hard to breathe now, and I knew very well how little time I had. He was behind me, I couldn’t reach his face or his eyes, and even his hands, drawing the scarf tighter, were beyond my fists, though I scrabbled over my shoulders trying to reach them.

  I knew that the pressure on the great arteries in the throat would make me pass out, and after that he could finish his work without interference.

  But I had my boots, those sensible, sturdy boots that could withstand the mud and rains of France. I made an effort to pull my body away, walking my feet away from him as the scarf tightened again. And then balancing myself on one foot, I stretched my leg out and brought it back against where I judged his kneecap to be, using all the force I could muster.

  The flat of my heel must have caught him squarely.

  He howled with pain and rage, dropping one end of the silk cloth as he fell back, away from me.

  I was very
dizzy as I pulled the free end of the scarf away from my throat. The strength needed to kick him had taken the last of my physical energy. I dropped to my knees, gasping for air, trying to clear the darkness from my sight, and all the while my brain was screaming at me to run.

  Getting up, I staggered, then found my footing, racing toward the north aisle. I could hear him struggling to follow me, cursing his knee.

  I cast one glance over my shoulder, then hurried on, knowing I had to reach the outer door before he could catch up to me. The pain and the numbness would not hold him for very long.

  I nearly ran straight into the aged priest. I don’t know which of us was more startled.

  “Sister?” he stammered.

  I saw the cane in his hand, and gently took it from him.

  “Please, Vicar—­”

  Just then my assailant came into sight, dragging one leg, his face flushed with anger and something else I didn’t want to think about.

  Elderly he might be—­he could have been ninety for all I knew—­but the Vicar drew himself up to his full height as he took in the situation at a glance.

  He was thinking rape, not murder, but I didn’t care.

  “Here,” he bellowed, in a voice that could reach the back of a church from the altar. “What’s this about, then?”

  Swiftly collecting himself, the Lieutenant stopped and said furiously, “She’s stolen my watch fob. It’s gold. Worth a pretty sum.”

  The Vicar turned to me. I realized suddenly that it was still in my hand, that even in my struggles, I hadn’t let go of it.

  “Show him.” The Lieutenant’s voice was almost a growl, deep throated and rough.

  I opened my fist, and there it lay, in a small pool of blood where I’d clutched it so hard.

  “He tried to strangle me. With a scarf. He claimed he’d lost the fob, and I’d gone with him to look.” It sounded weak in my own ears.

  The man opened his arms wide. “Do you see a scarf?”

  “This is a matter for the police,” the Vicar said firmly. “You’ll both come with me. Now, if you please.”