A Pattern of Lies Page 7

  “Should you walk around the house, to be sure whoever it is isn’t out there still?” Clara asked anxiously.

  Mark shook his head. “He wouldn’t linger. He wouldn’t risk getting caught.”

  “And now, I think we should all go back to our beds and try to sleep,” his mother said. She reached for the key that was in the door of the sitting room and ushered us out into the passage. “We’ll keep this locked until the police arrive. Clara, my dear, your feet are bare. They must be cold. Would you like a hot water bottle?”

  Clara was still very anxious. Mrs. Ashton had been right to draw her attention to her comfort, to take her mind off that frightful image of the burning chair.

  “I’ll be all right, Aunt Helen,” she said staunchly. She and Mark went up the stairs together, and Mrs. Ashton watched them out of sight.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve been a target,” she said quietly. “If you would like to go on to London, Bess, I wouldn’t blame you in the least. Mark can take you to Canterbury first thing after breakfast.”

  “I promised to stay and I shall. But do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  “I’m afraid I might. A widow, one who won’t be satisfied until my husband is dead as well. But proving it? That’s quite another matter.”

  I don’t think any of us slept for what was left of the night.

  To burn down a house with all the souls sleeping in it, not just the family, but the servants as well—­and it could have happened—­showed a vicious and determined mind behind the deed.

  Thinking about it, I wondered if the candle was an attempt to frighten or an attempt to kill.

  And the choice of rooms. Why not the study, which one would think of as Mr. Ashton’s? Why the sitting room, where Mrs. Ashton spent much of her day? Was it ignorance of the significance, an any-­room-­would-­do decision?

  I got out of bed, pulled on my clothes without lighting a lamp, and felt for the torch I keep in my kit. Then I stole down the stairs. The main door was locked, but opening it was easy enough, and I stepped out into the darkness before dawn.

  The chair, its pretty blue brocade dotted with tiny bouquets of flowers, stood like a blackened ruin in the middle of the drive where it circled by the front door. And the odor of smoke and burned stuffing was strong on the night air.

  There was a heavy dew, and I was grateful I had put on my nursing shoes, which made up in sturdiness what they lacked in charm. I stood there for a moment, turning off the torch and letting my eyes grow used to what light there was. Then I set out around the house, to my right.

  The drawing room. I could tell that quite easily, looking up at the pale linings of the curtains. The study cum library, with its long, diamond-­paned windows, was on the opposite side of the house, one of the older rooms. Next, the sitting room. I realized that standing here, I was deeper in the shadow of the wall. Had that helped the candle-­thrower to choose his target unseen? He’d been luckier than he knew that the candle hadn’t blown out as it flew, and that it had fallen on such fertile ground as the heavily upholstered chair. Had he waited to be sure it was burning? How many candles had he brought with him, just in case his first efforts failed?

  I had stayed well clear of the ground closest to the windows and the house wall, where someone must have stood to toss first the rock and then the candle. If there was any chance of finding footprints, I didn’t want to ruin it by walking over them in the dark.

  I stood there, looking up at the sitting room windows. How many times when the lamps were lit had someone looked in and seen Mrs. Ashton in her chair, or jealously watched the rest of the family as they drank their tea together or talked over the day’s events? I had noticed that the curtains were seldom drawn here, as if the wall behind me offered enough privacy. I tried to picture it.

  Almost as if I’d wished for it, light bloomed in front of me, and I realized that it must come from the ornate lamp on the table against the wall. I could see the shadow of a shape cast against the ceiling as someone moved about. And then whoever it was came toward the window, almost to where the broken glass lay, and I saw that it was Mrs. Ashton. Even though I couldn’t see her face clearly, the aureole of her white hair, back-­lit, identified her easily enough.

  She stood there, gazing down at the empty place where her chair had sat only a few hours earlier, and at the glass and sand and water all over her pretty carpet.

  There was a look of sadness on her face, followed by one of vehement anger.

  I felt like a peeping Tom. Looking away, I waited.

  But she came closer to the window, unmindful of the glass, and blotting out the light behind her, she stared out into the darkness.

  I was sure she couldn’t see me where I stood, not with the light in the room spoiling her night vision. And yet I felt naked, vulnerable, as if she were staring straight at me.

  I was just uncomfortable enough to step forward and call to her, hesitating only long enough to wonder how to go about it without frightening her.

  And then she spoke quite clearly, the words carrying to me where I stood, and I froze, unable to speak her name and identify myself.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “And if you are out there still, gloating, know this. Touch my family again, and I will do whatever I must to stop you. Hear me. Whatever I must. I have never meant anything more.”

  And then she turned and walked away, leaving the lamp burning. I could follow the crunching of glass under her slippers and then the shadow gliding across the ceiling before the door was slammed behind her and locked again.

  I felt cold. Her calm, icy voice had sent shivers down my spine. I hadn’t realized how apt that old expression was until I drew my arms around me as a shield against a chill.

  I waited until I was sure she had gone away before I crept back around the house. The night air was cool in spite of my uniform, and I could feel the dampness creeping up from the sea after the warmth of the day.

  I’d left the door off the latch, and to my relief, it swung wide, allowing me inside. I shut it carefully, silently, and then started up the stairs, praying I didn’t meet Mrs. Ashton in the passage above.

  I was halfway up the steps when the door to the dining room on the other side of the stairs opened. The room was dark, but there was a tall figure standing just inside the threshold. As I stopped, staring down at it, Mark’s voice spoke quietly.

  “Bess? Is that you?”

  I could hardly deny it. “Yes, I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Nor could I. There’s tea. In here.”

  I realized he’d thought I was coming down the stairs instead of climbing them. I went back the way I’d come and joined him in the dining room.

  As soon as I shut the door, he lit the candles in the sconce nearest me, then gestured. A teapot and a cup were sitting on a tray on the table. I could smell the whisky he’d added to his. “I’ll just fetch another cup,” he said, and disappeared into the butler’s pantry. He was back very soon, also carrying a plate of the sponge we’d had for dinner.

  With a grin he set them down on the tray and proceeded to pour a cup for me.

  As I took it, he said, amusement in his voice, “I learned to make tea in France. One of my finest accomplishments.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s one benefit of the war years.”

  The smile faded. “And probably the only benefit. No, I’ve learned to sew on buttons. My sergeant of all ­people taught me. He was the eldest of six or seven brothers, as I recall. He said he’d learned to be handy in many respects. I’m waiting for first light. I want to see if there are any footprints under the broken window. He’d have had to stand close to chuck the candle in. To make certain it went inside. If there are prints, I’ll make sure Constable Hood sees them. A pity it didn’t go out. The candle.”

  “Yes, a pity,” I agreed. I noticed
that he had used the male pronoun, while his mother believed it had been a woman. “Although he must have brought more than one with him. But who could have done this, Mark? Who hates your family enough to want to see you burn alive?”

  He sighed, stirring the contents of his cup, not looking at me. “I’m not sure that was the intent. But it could well have been the result. I seem to apologize to you every few hours, don’t I, for dragging you into this, Bess. I had no idea I’d be putting your life in jeopardy.”

  “No one did,” I agreed. “But what matters now is the future. Who could have gone this far?”

  “God, take your pick. Over a hundred dead souls? All of them leaving behind wives and sons, even daughters, not to mention grandchildren in one man’s case, although I doubt they would be up for this sort of thing. Or perhaps they were, perhaps they were just young enough and shortsighted enough to think a candle through a window was quite clever.”

  “Your mother said something last night—­this morning—­after we put out the fire, that made me wonder whether your father’s arrest might fail to satisfy whoever is behind these occurrences.” I had to tread carefully, not to betray what I’d overheard. “There’s also the possibility that the original purpose behind all the gossip and rumors might have been lost as more and more ­people believed them and acted on what they believed.”

  He looked surprised. “Independently?” Frowning, he considered that. “It’s an interesting thought, Bess. It could explain why we’ve felt like a fortress under attack. It bears looking into, doesn’t it? Whatever Constable Hood has to say, I’ll speak to Groves about it. Since it began before I came home, I can’t tell him what the first indication of trouble was. But the point is to find why it started.”

  Changing the subject, I asked, “What does your father have to say to the charges laid against him?”

  “Only that they’re ridiculous nonsense. Still, he says he’d feel the same if he’d lost members of his family in such a way. Looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame. And most of those victims brought in the only income their families had. The government has done a little, but far from enough. We’ve done what we could in the worse cases, but charity can only go so far, and sometimes it’s rejected out of hand, whatever we offer.”

  “You mentioned that a witness had come forward, when the Army first began to investigate,” I went on, finishing my tea.

  “Reluctantly. That’s the devil of it. I think what persuaded Rollins to speak up was the strong possibility that this was sabotage. That there were spies in our midst. Do you know how many German students were at Oxford and Cambridge when all this began? Many of them speak perfect English. They could probably pass as English. I think Rollins came forward to stop a witch hunt. Not necessarily for my father’s sake or even the Government’s.”

  “It depends, I should think, on his motive. ­People aren’t always altruistic, are they? If it’s to their advantage, they’re more likely to do their civic duty.”

  “Which could mean he might have seen something—­only it wasn’t a German raiding party. And so he could do his duty without betraying what else he knew. That could well explain his reluctance,” Mark said slowly. “I can see I’ve been too close to the problem, too personally involved to view the broader picture. Too worried about my father and my mother. Well, that will change, now.” Looking toward the windows, he added, “The sun is up. Not quite far enough, but we’ll soon be able to take a look.” For the first time he noticed the torch in my lap.

  “I didn’t want to frighten anyone by bumping into things,” I said. Truth, yes, but not all of it. Just like Rollins?

  “Then I shan’t have to go back for mine.”

  We talked a little until the sun was high enough above the horizon that we could blow out the candles and begin our search. This late in the autumn, I was afraid the household would start to stir quite soon.

  As we walked out the door, Mark said, pausing by the sadly burned chair, “I know, of course, that my mother was hardly likely to be sitting there at such an hour. Still.”

  “Do you think whoever threw the candle into the house knew which room it was?” I asked, testing my own theory. “Or was it random?”

  “God, I hope it was random. I can’t think why my mother should be a target. But if it was intended to set a fire there, it was where we might not have discovered it in time. And that’s rather frightening.” He added grimly, “I intend to keep the other possibility in mind.”

  I went back to the fact that his mother seemed to understand who was behind this business. Hadn’t she mentioned the possibility to her husband, if not her son? Or perhaps she had, and Mr. Ashton had discounted it. Mark tended to think of her as his mother. I’d seen a woman made of much sterner stuff in France, when her son’s life was in danger. I knew what she was capable of, if they didn’t.

  We walked in silence around the side of the house as I had done only hours before, skirting the lawn nearest the windows, beginning by the drawing room.

  It took nearly three quarters of an hour to search properly. Moving slowly inward, looking for any sign.

  Mark found it in the soft earth of the flower bed that ran along this side of the house. The border was wide enough, some three or four feet, that anyone looking out could enjoy it. Then green lawn ran all the way to the abbey wall some forty feet away.

  Just beneath the broken window was the impression of a shoe, pressed deep in the loam as its owner balanced on one foot to throw the stone toward the glass.

  But not the whole shoe, only the ball of the foot and the toe. That made it almost impossible to judge whether the wearer was a man or a woman.

  Mark leaned toward a man, but I was more open-­minded. Women could hate just as deeply. There were widows and orphans . . .

  We kept looking, but that was the only indication that someone else had been here in the night.

  Giving up at last, we walked back to the front of the house. Mark said, “I must find a glazier to repair the window. I don’t think my mother will be comfortable in that room again, not for a while, but I want it made habitable as soon as possible. Clara must put the maids to cleaning up as soon as the police leave.” He hesitated. “I also need to speak to the police. It’s unfair to ask you if you’ll go with me. But you were the first to raise the alarm. It might be useful if you are there.”

  “Your mother mentioned a Constable Hood. Is he here in Cranbourne?”

  “He is. But I’ve decided to go directly to Inspector Brothers.”

  “Perhaps,” I said as diplomatically as I could, “you should begin with the local man.” I smiled. “It’s rather like the Army, I think. Chain of command.”

  Mark frowned. “It was Constable Hood who took those depositions to Canterbury that resulted in the arrest of my father.”

  What he didn’t say was, his mother wouldn’t appreciate seeing a policeman in her house again.

  “Still,” I answered, “it’s best to follow procedure.”

  I saw his mouth tighten. But as we walked inside, he went on, “Yes, you’re right.” He took a deep breath. “Constable Hood it is.” Glancing down—­he was wearing a shirt and trousers—­he said, “I can’t appear at breakfast like this. Go on, Bess, I’ll join you shortly.”

  It was a gloomy meal. Mrs. Ashton didn’t appear, Clara was morose, and Mark was preoccupied. Nan sat on Mark’s feet beneath the table. I toyed with the food on my plate, then pushed it away.

  “What did you tell the staff this morning?” I asked Clara, who had been the last to come down.

  “I decided on the truth,” she replied. “I couldn’t think how to explain away the broken window or the burned chair. Mrs. Byers wanted to sweep up the glass straightaway, then send the kitchen maid for the glazier. Bless her, her first thought was Aunt Helen’s comfort. But I persuaded her that the police had to see the glass and everything, just as it was. Th
e staff is quite worried, of course, this coming after Uncle Philip was taken away. But they’re very loyal to Aunt Helen.”

  Her fright of the night before seemed to have disappeared in the need to be useful. “Mrs. Byers asked if we knew who might have done this, but I told her it was too dark and too late to be sure. I thought it best to say as little as possible, and leave it to you, Mark, to tell her what she needs to hear.”

  “Yes, well done.” He smiled at her as he rose, and she was pleased by his praise. I wondered how he could miss her feelings, but she was his cousin, and it probably never occurred to him to think of her in any other way. And he was still mourning the loss of Eloise. It had only been a matter of months since her death.

  I said, “Mark, where does this constable really stand on your father’s guilt or innocence? Do you know?”

  He folded his napkin, frowning. He’d eaten very little as well, a pretense at being the good host. “He claims to be objective. Still, he lost a brother in the explosion.”

  Then Constable Hood was an unknown factor. Well, we’d know soon enough what his views were now.

  Mark went up to speak to his mother, and Clara excused herself to have a word with Mrs. Lacey, the cook. But at the door she stopped.

  “I’ve seen to it that all the staff has had a good look at Aunt Helen’s chair. I didn’t want to mention that to Mark, but I thought it best to have other witnesses than ourselves.”

  I nodded. “I’m glad you did. Have you looked in on your aunt this morning?”

  “I took up her morning tea myself. I don’t think she’s slept more than a few minutes all night. Even before that stone came through the window. Whoever did that should be put in jail. I’m sorry, but it was cruel.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would do such a thing?”

  She laughed, but not with humor. “The list is a hundred dead men long, I should think. Or count all those out of work because of the explosion. The women who came in on the little trains, the brewery workers. The families who depended on those wages. Many of the women had already lost husbands and sons to the war. It was dangerous work, but it was employment. And the Ashton Powder Mill had always been safe. They counted on that. They trusted my uncle to see them safe.”