A Pattern of Lies Read online

  Mark cleared his throat. “Later, Mother. He’ll be all right until later. I must speak to Mr. Groves as soon as possible. That means running into Canterbury.” Through the open study windows we could hear the front door closing and then the carriages beginning to move down the drive. It was so loud in that room, as if the sound had come rushing back to invade and fill the silence.

  For a moment no one said a word.

  “Mark, perhaps it would be best—­” I began, thinking that it would be an imposition for me to stay under the circumstances.

  Mrs. Ashton put out her hand. “Bess. No. You mustn’t leave.” Then to her son, she said, “I’ll see to his valise now. You must take it with you. It will make him more comfortable.”

  Clara stepped forward. “I’ll help,” she offered, but Mrs. Ashton shook her head.

  “Thank you, dear, but I’d rather attend to it myself. You might speak to Mrs. Lacey about some sandwiches, and a Thermos of tea. I don’t know what they serve in such places.” And she walked from the room like someone in a dream, only half her mind on the present.

  Clara hurried after her, turning in the direction of the kitchen. The spaniel slipped out between them, and I could hear it scratching at the house door, asking to be let out.

  Mark stared at me, but I don’t think he saw me. Then he shook his head and said, quite simply, “Hell.”

  I waited, not wishing to intrude. I couldn’t imagine the police coming to take away the Colonel Sahib right in front of me. A shiver went through me at the thought. After a few seconds Mark’s gaze sharpened, and I knew he was back in the study once more.

  He said, as if apologizing, “There was nothing I could do. You do see that?”

  “The last thing he would have wished is for you to make a scene. It would have been all the harder on your mother.”

  “I felt like knocking Brothers down.” His voice was suddenly quite savage, the aftermath of shock.

  “It would only have made matters worse for your father. And very likely they’d have taken you as well, and where would your mother be then?”

  “Yes. Still.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if they’ll let me see him. But Mother will insist that I try.”

  Collecting my wits, I said, “They’ll search the valise. A formality, a precaution. And look at the food. You mustn’t argue. Let them do what they must. Then they’ll let your father have his things.” I wasn’t sure if this was true or not, if they’d take away the razor and anything that he might use to harm himself. But I knew that it mattered to Mrs. Ashton, and if only a few things reached her husband, she’d be able to breathe more easily.

  “You’re quite right. Yes. I’ll remember.” And then his anger came surging back. “My father. Taken away in handcuffs. Of all the stupid, ridiculous, absurd things to do.” He slammed his fist down on the back of the chair nearest him, not noticing the pain. “Why would he kill men he knew, men who’d worked for him, men who’d worked at the brewery until it closed? He knew them all by name. It was a point of pride to be able to call a man by his name when speaking to him. He paid a decent wage. He saw to it that they had decent housing. There are cottages on the far side of the abbey for those who needed a place to live. What in God’s name could he gain, blowing up the mill?”

  “If there’s little or no evidence, if it’s only rumor and speculation, the police will sort it out soon enough.” But Brothers had mentioned depositions. That was far more serious.

  Mark frowned. “I can’t imagine who these ‘witnesses’ are. According to the Army there was only one witness. I’d nearly forgot about that. He claimed he was fishing out in The Swale. Surely he can swear that when my father walked away that morning, the buildings were still standing, the men inside still alive. And that my father had nothing to do with the fire any more than he’d had to do with the explosions.”

  “Who is he?” I wondered if it were the boat builder. And if it were, if he would testify on behalf of Philip Ashton.

  “A man by the name of Rollins. He calls himself a fisherman, but he spent as much time as possible far away from the sound of his sister’s voice, and fishing may have been an excuse. Their father left them the cottage in equal shares, I hear, and it’s very likely he enlisted to escape her. The trouble is, he was recovering from a wound at the time of the explosion. He must have gone back to the Front soon after the Army interviewed him about any signs of German incursions in the marshes. I don’t believe he’s been on any of the casualty lists. He must be still alive.” He was clutching desperately at straws.

  “Will they bring him home, do you think, to testify? Surely they must, if he can refute the testimony of these other witnesses.”

  “God alone knows,” he said, a touch of despair his voice. I knew this looked bleak; I could understand his gloom as his anger subsided. “Well, we’ll accomplish nothing if I don’t go and find Groves.” He crossed the room and said, “Bess, I’m so sorry. First the eggs and now this. But the worst is over, surely—­they’ve got what they wanted, the whisperers and the rumor-­mongers. Groves has been the family solicitor for years, he’ll know what to do next. How to turn this around.”

  It was whistling in the dark, but at least as soon as the solicitor came into the picture, the police would have to behave.

  I wondered if that would satisfy anyone who had driven the police to take action today. But I said bracingly, “And you will, Mark, between you. I’m sure of it. And don’t fret about me. I had nothing more pressing on my calendar than a few days of rest in London. I’ll see your mother through this shock, and then she’ll be herself again. I’ve never seen a more determined woman than Mrs. Ashton when she was in France. And she pulled you through. She’ll not let anything happen to your father.”

  His face brightened a little. “I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Lacey and Mother should have the valise and those sandwiches by now.” He touched my shoulder in a comradely fashion. “Truth be told, I’m glad you’re here. Eggs and Inspector Brothers notwithstanding.”

  And he was gone. I waited there in the study until the hall was quiet once more, and then I went in search of Mrs. Ashton.

  Instead I found Clara in the sitting room, a handkerchief in her hand and her eyes red.

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said wretchedly. “I want to stay here and help in any way I can. I want to stand by Mark, and Aunt Helen.”

  It was none of my business—­Philip Ashton had expressly asked her to consider leaving. For the sake of her own good name. There was no reason for her to be involved and it would be best for her to go. “I think you should stay,” I said gently. “At least in the beginning. They’ll have so much on their minds. They’ll need someone to see to things, to make certain they eat and go to bed, and that Mrs. Lacey knows what to order, and the staff goes on as before.”

  “Then why did Uncle Philip urge me to leave?”

  I answered reluctantly. “Perhaps he feels there’s worse to come. There will be more accusations, I should think. ­People will talk freely about him now, of course; they’ll say things that are unforgivable because they feel they can. That he’s guilty. This business might even come to trial, Clara, and that will be very hard for Mrs. Ashton to go through. Whatever is to happen in the next few days or weeks, your uncle wanted to spare you. To keep you from being dragged into this wretched business. And at some point, you might have to do just that. Leave. Where is it that you live?”

  “In Berkshire,” she said. “My mother was Aunt Helen’s sister.”

  “There won’t be the talk in Berkshire that there will be here. You will need a lot of courage to hear what’s being said about your uncle, and not be hurt or angry. And you’ll have to help your aunt to handle it as well. Now go put cool water on your face before Mrs. Ashton sees how upset you’ve been. It will hurt her to see you cry.”

  In France I’d often been responsible for training
the younger nursing Sisters and more than a few volunteers. Many of them had been shocked and frightened by their first experience of battlefield wounds, so different from the cases they’d worked with in hospitals in London. It made me feel ancient, but I’d had to learn to cope, just as they would have to do—­or be sent home. And Clara had had a shock too. Not torn bodies and the constant, nerve-­wracking sound of guns day and night, but it was no less devastating to watch her uncle taken away by the police on a charge of murder.

  She looked a little mutinous, as if she resented my suggestion that she put her own feelings aside for the sake of her aunt. But if she wanted to stay here in Cranbourne, she would have to be strong.

  Then she gave me a quavering smile and went out of the room.

  Thank goodness, I thought to myself. When I leave, she’ll be all right.

  I wanted to stay out of the way for a bit to give everyone a chance to deal with this shocking turn of events. Putting on a good face for the sake of a guest is very hard when pacing the floor or throwing something would make one feel better.

  And so I slipped into the drawing room, expecting to find it empty at this time of day.

  Instead I found Mrs. Byers, the housekeeper, standing by the front windows, her hands clasped tightly together. She must have watched Mr. Ashton leave.

  She turned quickly when she heard me enter, expecting Mrs. Ashton. Her face was streaked with tears and she was hastily trying to hide them when she saw who it was.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, putting up a hand to stop her from hurrying out of the room. “I’ve come here for the same reason you must have done. To give Mrs. Ashton a little time alone.”

  Mrs. Byers took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “I don’t know who is behind what’s happening, but it’s wrong. I’ve been housekeeper here for twenty years and Mr. Ashton is no murderer. Do you think I’d have stayed, even for a minute, even for Mrs. Ashton, if I thought he’d had anything to do with the disaster at yon mill? All those men, blown to little bits or burned to death—­I ask you, what sort of person could do such a thing? It was an accident, pure and simple. God knows it couldn’t be anything else.” She realized all at once that she was speaking to a guest in the house. Drawing herself together, she put her handkerchief away and was about to beg my pardon.

  I said quickly, “Who could hate the Ashtons enough to cause them so much trouble?”

  “God forgive me, and haven’t I stayed awake at night wondering who was behind all the mischief?” she asked bitterly. “And I can’t think of anyone vile enough.”

  “It could be more than one person.”

  “Whoever it is, they’ve spread their lies through the village. The butcher’s order is wrong, or the meat already turned. We send the horse to be shod, and it’s done backward. The post goes astray. A ha’penny’s worth of nails is strewn in the drive one morning. Mr. Ashton’s little boat is splashed with a dark red paint. Like blood, it was, and running everywhere. Another time the lines were cut and the mast hacked at.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Did Mark know all of this?” He’d been home for several weeks, he must have known. But he hadn’t mentioned these other problems.

  Mrs. Byers shook her head. “We were warned not to upset him. After all, he had enough trouble of his own. I felt that sorry for him, and everyone shouting in the hope he could hear a little. Mrs. Ashton didn’t want him to worry about his father. As it was, he learned soon enough that something was going on.”

  “Surely the staff has been questioned? By Mr. Ashton, if not by the police. Someone must have overheard talk. Some might know a name to begin with. A few must have family living there in the town.”

  “Not that many of them. What’s more, they all appear to be as much in the dark as I am.”

  Or pretended to be . . . It would be hard on the servants here, having to choose between their own families and the family they worked for.

  “We did have to let one of the maids go at the end of March this year,” Mrs. Byers told me with some reluctance. “She had lost both her brother and the man she was to marry in that explosion, and I think it slowly turned her mind. When we all believed it must have been sabotage, she hated Germans. She was volunteering for every committee in sight, knitting stockings and caps for our soldiers, then rolling bandages on her day off, even talking about going to work at the munitions plant over on Sheppey, to make the shells to kill more Germans. When it was decided there was no sabotage, she seemed to settle down a bit. I was all for letting her go; I thought she was apt to unsettle the others with her flights of fancy about Germans everywhere. Mrs. Ashton felt sorry for her. Besides, her mother had worked here before her death, and Mrs. Ashton was willing to give the girl the benefit of the doubt, for her mother’s sake.”

  “Has she ever come out and said anything against the Ashtons? Mr. Ashton in particular?”

  “Not until that last day, when I paid her what was owing to her and gave her a little extra to tide her over while she found other work. That was Mrs. Ashton’s doing too. Then she said outright that Mr. Ashton had put me up to letting her go, that he couldn’t bear looking at her because she was a daily reminder of two of the dead on his conscience.”

  “But why did you let her go, if Mrs. Ashton was against it?”

  “She wasn’t doing her work properly. I’d find a grate that hadn’t been cleaned, a fire that hadn’t been laid. A bed made worse than a junior maid could do the task, and the like. We were shorthanded already because of the war, and now one or the other of the staff had to go along behind her. I tried to talk to her, but she sat there without speaking, and I don’t think she heard a word. I’ve wondered what it was troubling her. But she would never say. I didn’t have any choice but to tell her enough is enough.”

  “Do you think she could have been behind the whispers? She knew the family better than most of the other survivors. She would know best how to hurt the Ashtons.”

  Mrs. Byers frowned. “Oh, I can’t think Betty would do such a thing.”

  But I wasn’t as easily convinced. Someone was behind the trouble here. If the maid hadn’t taken an active part, someone might have used her knowledge of the family for their own ends.

  “How long after Betty had left employment here did the harassment start?”

  “Much later. A matter of several months.” Her tone of voice told me she thought this eliminated Betty from any list of suspects.

  Perhaps it seemed a long time to Mrs. Byers but certainly not to someone who was already turning his or her attention to Philip Ashton as the person responsible for what happened.

  Four months ago, the rumors began.

  June, Mark had said. When we were so grateful the Americans were joining in the fighting. When the Marines held out at Belleau Wood against all odds. When it seemed that the war might actually end in victory. Only it wasn’t quite as certain now.

  How did it begin? A suggestion here, a comment there? Gaining no momentum at first, but slowly casting a shadow of suspicion over the Ashtons as more ­people passed on what they’d heard and finally began to believe it themselves.

  I remembered something Mark had said. “And the Ashtons’ friends—­neighbors. Do they believe these accusations too? Is there no one who would step forward and offer his help or defend Mr. Ashton?”

  “Not to speak ill of anyone,” Mrs. Byers said, turning her head to look out the window, “but I was that surprised when acquaintances stopped calling and invitations stopped coming. I don’t know that their friends believe all they hear, mind you. But where there’s smoke, there must be fire, if you take my meaning.”

  I did. It was very English to avoid unpleasantness, to adopt a wait-­and-­see approach to anything that smacked of being disagreeable. And certainly Philip Ashton was not a warm man, the sort of person who drew others close. He had been very kind to me, knowing how his wife felt abou
t me, but I had glimpsed a formality that must often have kept ­people at a distance. Mark had said much the same thing. Which meant in times of trouble, there were few who would risk censure by standing up for him. His arrest wouldn’t help matters. It would be seen as proof that friends and neighbors had been right to stay away, however much they might pity Mrs. Ashton.

  Mrs. Byers cleared her throat. “It’s wrong of me to be gossiping about the family,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, Sister, I have my duties to attend to.”

  I let her go. There was no reason to keep her, and as she brought her anger and distress under control, she was less and less likely to confide in me, a stranger and a guest.

  But I couldn’t help but think that whoever was behind this persecution would have seen the fruition of his or her plan as the police led Philip Ashton away to gaol on multiple charges of murder. ­People in the square wouldn’t look away from the police carriage taking him to Canterbury. They wouldn’t want to miss that sight.

  From now on, the Ashtons would have enough to worry about to satisfy anyone.

  I had stepped out into the passage, intending to go upstairs for half an hour, when Mrs. Ashton came out of the sitting room, saying, “Ah. There you are, Bess.” With an uneasy sigh, she went on. “I sent everything I could think of with Mark. Philip will want to be presentable, whatever happens, and at least he’ll have a decent meal tonight. I don’t know how the police will view our bringing in food on a regular basis, but that’s all right. It’s important for him to make the best of things, even the sort of food they insist on providing.”

  I thought as I followed her and sat down next to her favorite chair that she was trying to convince herself that her husband would be taken care of. ­People like the Ashtons had never set foot in a cell. Gaol was as foreign to them as the harem of a Turkish pasha.

  I smiled. “I’m sure he’ll manage well. He’s the sort of man who can.”

  Her blue eyes flashed warmly at the praise. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, my dear. He will manage. I must remember that. And it will be our duty to support him in any way we can think of.”