A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  But I knew he wouldn’t. That the frail old man was not going to stop him. I knew too much, I couldn’t be allowed to speak to the police.

  He surprised me. “Lead on.”

  Nodding, the Vicar took my arm, turning to guide me up the aisle, turning his back on the Lieutenant.

  I whirled in time, the cane still in my free hand, and lifted it high just as the Lieutenant raised his clasped fists and was about to bring them down hard on the back of the Vicar’s neck.

  He saw it coming, and tried to deflect it with one arm, thinking I was aiming for his head, but before he could react, I swung the cane like a cricket bat. It caught him across the throat and chest just beneath his raised hands.

  He went down, and a little to one side, and this time I felt no mercy toward him. As his right hand touched the cold stone of the pavement, I lifted the cane again and cracked him across the head with it.

  He collapsed and was still.

  Beside me, the Vicar was crying, “Here, no! You mustn’t.”

  He reached for the cane in my hands and with surprising strength wrenched it through my fingers.

  “Please, we must find the police. He was trying to kill me—­he’d have killed you as well if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  Instead the Vicar turned to the man lying at his feet, and he reached a hand down to feel for a pulse. “He’s breathing. We must find help for him.”

  “He’s unconscious,” I said, “but he’ll be rousing up shortly. Please, before that, we must find the police.”

  I think my urgency got through to the Vicar. Straightening with an effort, he said sternly, “You will stay with me, Sister. I have your description, if you try to run. We will find you.”

  “My name is Elizabeth Crawford,” I told him. “I live in Somerset with my parents. At the moment, I’m staying with the Ashtons in Cranbourne.”

  His brows rose at that, white tufts of wiry hair above surprisingly sharp gray eyes. “We’ll soon see if you’re telling the truth.”

  He took my arm again, although I could have knocked him down without any effort at all, and I meekly let him lead me up the aisle and through the heavy doors to the bright sunshine outside.

  Both of us blinked after the dimness of the church. He turned toward Christ Church Gate, and again I followed without demur. The sooner we found the police, the better we would both be.

  I cast a glance over my shoulder just as we reached the tall, lovely gate, and I saw the Lieutenant standing in front of the church, swaying, blood on his face. I wondered if I’d broken his nose, or if it was his head.

  And then we were outside, in the busy street, where there were ­people in every direction. I sighed with relief.

  Still gripping my arm—­I knew I’d have a bruise tomorrow—­the Vicar led me the shortest way to the police station. As we approached, two men came out the door and stood for a moment in the road, talking. It was Simon and Mark, and judging by their expressions they’d had no joy of Inspector Brothers. Or perhaps they’d had to wait, and he still hadn’t shown his face.

  It was Simon who turned, as if he sensed my presence, and said, “Bess.”

  Mark turned as well, and both of them came striding toward me.

  “What’s the matter?” Simon asked, his gaze moving from me to my escort, who was breathing a little hard from the pace he’d set us. Then his eyes fell to my throat.

  I reached up. The stiff collar of my uniform was crushed and pushed to one side, and my cap was askew. I thought, chagrined, that I must have looked as if I had been drinking, not like a Sister in good standing. I reached up to set them to rights.

  The Vicar regarded the two tall men, one in an officer’s uniform and the other in that of a Regimental Sergeant-­Major.

  “Do you know this young woman?” he asked.

  “She’s my Colonel’s daughter,” Simon replied shortly. “What’s wrong, Bess?”

  “The Vicar has rescued me from a man who accosted me in the cathedral. We managed to get away from him, although I think he’s got a very sore head and a very painful knee. Mark—­Major Ashton—­would you do me the greatest favor? Would you go to the cathedral and just there under Bell Harry, see if you can find a white silk scarf? The kind pilots often wear?”

  “I won’t go anywhere until you tell me what’s happened to you.”

  “Please? Before he remembers it and goes back for it. It’s the only proof I have.”

  The Vicar stared from me to Mark. “The proof is the gold watch fob she’s got in her hand.”

  It was in my pocket now, and I couldn’t remember just when I’d dropped it there. When I clutched at the Vicar’s cane? As he took my arm?

  It didn’t matter. I put my hand in my pocket. “Here’s the fob. In the shape of a frog. It belongs to that man. He accused me of stealing it, which isn’t at all the truth.”

  Mark said, brooking no argument, “The motorcar. It’s the fastest way back to the cathedral. Sir, if you’ll come with us now?”

  The Vicar clung to my arm. “The police . . .” he began.

  “Inspector Brothers isn’t in his office just now. If we are to speak to him, we must be sure we have all the evidence.”

  Confused, the Vicar followed him to the motorcar some ten feet from where we’d been standing, but he insisted that I must sit in the rear seat next to him, where apparently he could keep a close eye on me.

  Simon went to the crank while Mark got us into the vehicle, and then we were driving through the busy streets back to Christ Church Gate. As he drew up in front of it, Simon told him, “Stay with the motorcar, sir. I’ll have a look.”

  I knew what he intended. He hoped the man I’d mentioned might still be there. His mouth was drawn in a tight line, and although I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew they were angry.

  He got down, and strode briskly toward the cathedral.

  The Vicar called after him, “If you find the wounded man in the north aisle, give him what help you can.”

  Simon didn’t turn.

  We watched him walk through the shadow of the gate and continue to the cathedral doors, disappearing inside.

  The Vicar stirred restlessly. “I wish someone would tell me what’s going on. We should be speaking to the police. This young woman—­I tell you, I was a witness.”

  “We will, as soon as we have all the facts,” Mark assured him. “If Be—­ Sister Crawford believes there’s additional evidence still to be had there in the church, then we have an obligation to find it before we take her to the police.”

  “You say you know this young woman?”

  “She’s a guest of my mother’s. Mrs. Ashton.”

  “Your father is charged with that terrible explosion at the powder mill.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Mark answered stiffly. “But we aren’t convinced of his guilt.”

  He turned to me. “Who is this man—­the one the Vicar is so concerned about—­the one you tell me accosted you?”

  “The officer in charge of the recruiting office here in Canterbury.”

  Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Why should he attack you?”

  I didn’t know. But I was beginning, now that I was feeling less shaken, to pull the pieces together. “We met in the cathedral. In hindsight, I don’t know if it was accidental or on purpose. We were just leaving when he realized he’d lost that fob—­or claimed he had—­well, at any rate, I did find it where he’d said it might be—­and the next thing I knew he had a scarf around my throat and was choking me.” I told him the rest, while the Vicar listened, appalled, and I watched as Mark’s face changed.

  “I’m going after the Sergeant-­Major. If the man’s still there, by God, we’ll bring him out.”

  “I don’t believe he is. I saw him leaving the cathedral as we walked through the Gate. He was bleeding.”

  The Vicar
said, “Just what is going on, Major?”

  “If Sister Crawford says she was attacked, I believe her, the gold watch fob notwithstanding,” he answered harshly.

  Just then Simon came striding out of the cathedral. If he had the silk scarf, I couldn’t see it.

  We waited in silence for him to reach the motorcar, and as he got in, I said, worried, “Did you find it, Simon?”

  He put a hand into his tunic and pulled out the silk scarf. “It was where you said it would be. What’s more—­” He unfolded it, and lifted out his handkerchief. I could see the dark stains in the center of the linen. “This,” he went on, gesturing to the blood, “was on the paving stones in the north aisle, very close to where I was told to look for an injured man.”

  “It’s the young officer’s blood,” the Vicar said. “She was beating him about the head with my cane.”

  “What should we do?” Mark asked, cutting across the Vicar’s words. “I don’t trust Brothers any farther than I can see him. He’ll find a way to twist this, just as he’s twisted the evidence in my father’s case.”

  The Vicar spoke up. “If you don’t trust the police, may I suggest the Church?”

  It was Simon who settled the issue very simply. “It’s an Army matter. After all, a serving officer has attacked a member of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Ser­vice. But that can wait. First we’ll find this man.”

  The Vicar agreed. “He could be gravely injured. She struck him. Twice. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Simon turned in his seat. “You saw the final events, sir. Not the start of this business. Look at Sister Crawford’s throat.”

  I’d done what I could to make myself presentable again. Depend on Simon seeing the marks. But the Vicar, leaning forward, was peering at my throat.

  “There are red streaks that could be the beginning of bruising,” he said, surprised.

  “They are just showing up,” Simon told him. He turned to Mark. “Who would know the name of this recruiting officer?”

  In smaller towns and villages it was usually a sergeant, but here in Canterbury there was a Lieutenant in charge . . .

  Before Mark could answer him, I said, “The recruiting officer is Lieutenant Collier.”

  Mark and Simon turned to stare at me.

  “Are you certain?”

  “No. But it’s the only explanation. I’ve asked him about Captain Collier, you see. And he claimed not to know where to find him. What if the Captain’s been here from the start? Not in London or Scotland, as everyone thought. What if this was his punishment for the explosion at the mill? We’ve been told he was demoted in rank.”

  “But we’d have seen him,” Mark said. “Someone from Cranbourne would have recognized him.”

  “Perhaps someone did, and he saw his chance to take revenge on your father? If he could convince whoever it was to keep his secret, because he was being punished by the Army while your father went free, it would go a long way toward making whatever he said creditable. After all, it was all too clear that he was telling the truth.”

  The Vicar said, “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Mark hadn’t cut the motor. He took off the brake and let in the clutch. “If Collier, or whoever he is, is bleeding, he will go to the nearest doctor or hospital.”

  “I don’t know that he will,” I responded. “He won’t want anyone to know he was in a brawl. I’m sure that’s how it would look.” I gave him directions to the recruiting office, adding, “He’ll go to ground as quickly as possible.” As Mark carefully turned the motorcar, I said to the Vicar, showing signs of stopping him straightaway. “Please, there’s a good reason for our concern. I didn’t steal the watch fob. And I didn’t mean to hurt the Lieutenant. You couldn’t see—­he was on the point of attacking you. Knocking you down.” I tried to give him a brief account of what had been happening in Cranbourne for months. And as I did, I thought it might be too much for him to absorb. But he kept nodding as he took it all in.

  “It’s very different, what occurred in the cathedral, from what I believed at the time. I’m willing to suspend judgment until I know the whole. But I think you ought to give me the watch fob, for safekeeping.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was a test of some kind or not. But I reached into my pocket and brought it out, holding it in the palm of my hand. A stray flash of sunlight as we turned a corner struck gold fire from the little frog.

  “Please, take it. I’d rather not have to be responsible for it.” And I handed it to him.

  Nodding, he slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you, my dear. Now what can I do?”

  We were just up the road from the recruitment office. Simon signaled Mark to stop where we were. “He doesn’t know me, sir. Let me have a look.”

  “Yes, good idea,” Mark agreed. He pulled to the side of the road, and Simon got out. We watched him walk up to the door and try it. Next he put his hand up to cut out the back light as he peered through the window. Then, stepping back, he looked up, as if trying to see if Lieutenant Collier lived above it. He shook his head and came back to us at a trot.

  “He’s not inside. The door is shut and locked. Someone gives music lessons in the flat above. I could hear the piano, someone doing finger exercises.”

  “Where do you suppose he lives?” Mark asked.

  “Not on this street,” I said. “He wouldn’t want to live here.” It was a street of lower-­middle-­class shops, with flats above, and the ­people I could see walking by us were not the most prosperous. “Bad enough to serve out the war here. He’d want better accommodations elsewhere. Out of pride, if nothing else.”

  Mark began to drive randomly up that street and then down the next as we considered what to do. “I don’t know that I’ll recognize him. Even if we pass him.”

  “I will. Besides, there was blood all over his face. He will try to hide it,” I said. “He won’t want anyone stopping him to ask questions.”

  “We aren’t likely to find him by chance,” Simon put in. “If he’s smart, he’s at home and out of sight for the time being. Very likely we’ve lost him.”

  We had turned down the next street when we saw a cluster of ­people blocking it ahead of us. There was a good deal of shouting as well. We slowed as a constable arrived at almost the same moment, and began trying to sort it out.

  Behind us, others were hurrying down the narrow street, effectively blocking us in both directions now.

  “Do you think it’s Collier?” I asked quickly. “Trying to find a policeman?”

  Mark said, “Sergeant-­Major, will you see what this is all about?”

  Simon got down and walked swiftly toward the center of the commotion. I could follow the progress of his cap as he made his way through the growing crowd, for he was taller than most. ­People were coming out of shops now, drawn by the uproar.

  We sat there in strained silence, waiting. It was several minutes before Simon came back.

  As he got into the motorcar, he said, “A man in uniform, his face bloody, stopped a driver, demanding his motorcar, telling him it was official Army business, and urgent. The man refused to give up his vehicle, and the officer pulled him down and struck him with his revolver. Then he drove off.”

  “But where to?” I asked, thinking aloud. “Why should the Lieutenant require a motorcar? At a guess he walked to and from his work every day. Or he’d have his own if it was too far to walk.” And then almost in the same breath, I answered my own question. “Mark. The house. He’s on his way to Cranbourne. He’s still looking for me.”

  Simon got down again and cleared a path for the motorcar. At one point I heard him telling ­people that the Vicar was on his way to a sickbed. Sometimes he claimed we were on our way to hospital with the Sister and the Vicar. Slowly, reluctantly, a path opened, and Mark reversed through the staring crowd, some of them close enough
to touch Mark’s vehicle. And then we were clear, and Mark was able to turn back toward the road to Cranbourne. Simon got in and said, “Fast as you can. Sir.”

  But Mark didn’t need encouragement. As soon as we’d reached the outskirts of Canterbury, he drove like a madman. He knew the road, he knew every curve and dip, but we held on nevertheless, and said nothing.

  I said into the tense silence, “Mark, you’d gone to fetch Mr. Heatherton-­Scott. Is he—­was he planning to ask permission to speak to your father?”

  “He was waiting for Henry to return. I offered to drive him to Canterbury, but he’s used to Henry assisting him. He may be there by now, waiting for Brothers just as we did.”

  Mr. Ashton could identify the recruiting officer, if he was indeed Lieutenant Collier. All we needed now was to find the man and take him back to Canterbury.

  Coming down the hill into the little village, Mark slowed, but not by much. He stood on the horn as he made to pass a slower cart bringing coal into the square, and then he pulled hard on the brake as a crocodile of schoolchildren crossed the road ahead of us, on their way, I thought, to the abbey ruins. They were muffled to the eyes against the wind coming in off The Swale and the Thames ­Estuary. Finally we were free to run as fast as we could down Abbey Lane.

  But there was no motorcar in the drive before the house. We slowed, staring at the empty half circle.

  “I don’t want to disturb my mother,” Mark said sharply. “But where is he?”

  “The ruins,” I suggested. “The powder mill ruins,” I amended. “If he’s not there, then it’s possible he went to Mrs. Branch’s cottage.”

  “He may have gone to Dover,” Mark countered, his anxiety showing in the tension in his voice. “We could be losing time here.”

  “I can’t think why,” I answered. “He doesn’t have a pass to board a transport. Unless of course he intends to claim you attacked him, Mark.” And I felt a frisson of worry. If he did that, would he be believed? Would the evidence of his injuries speak for him?

  “Try the river,” Simon told Mark, omitting the obligatory “sir.”