Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford Read online

  I went out into the passage toward my room, as I’d been ordered—but I went out the window again to look for Simon. I wanted a full account of everything that had happened. I knew my father wouldn’t tell me any more than he had, but I could cajole Simon into describing the action.

  I spotted him leaving the garden by a roundabout way so that he wouldn’t encounter Colonel Haldane, and as I hurried to catch him up, it occurred to me that if I hadn’t gone to the fortune-teller, the Maharani might well be in very real difficulty now. But it was Simon who had remembered that the patrol hadn’t been out today, giving my father the excuse he needed to act quickly, without consulting the colonel. My father ought to promote Simon for that, even if it meant losing him as his batman.

  Busy with my thoughts, I was halfway across the garden before I realized that I hadn’t done my duty. I stopped, hesitated, and then turned back to the house. The exciting details of the skirmish would have to wait. I needed to find my mother and Miss Stewart, to be sure my governess was all right. She was the one who’d suffered most at the hands of the man with the scarred face. And she must still be anxious, even though the worst was over. I didn’t know if she’d actually fainted, or if she’d been clever enough to pretend to. It didn’t matter. She had been terribly brave at a very bad time.

  As I clambered back through my window again and started toward the passage door and Miss Stewart’s room, one down from mine, I sighed.

  I’d had a far more exciting afternoon than merely going to the village fortune-teller. But I’d been my father’s daughter long enough to know I couldn’t possibly write to my friends in England and tell them all about it. What had happened would be hushed up, for the Government’s ears only. And to protect the Maharajah.

  I tapped on Miss Stewart’s door, then stepped into the room. She was lying on the bed, a cool cloth on her forehead, and some color had returned to her face. She was thanking my mother for saving her life. She turned to smile at me.

  “It’s a good thing I sent you to your room,” she said. “You might have been in the summerhouse with me, doing your lessons. I just hope you weren’t too frightened, hearing what that man made me say to your mother.”

  I glanced up at my mother, then smiled in return. “No, Miss Stewart. I knew my father wouldn’t let anything happen to you or her.”

  “There’s my brave girl,” Miss Stewart said approvingly.

  Over her head, my mother, quite relieved, nodded to me.

  Very likely nothing more would be said about my foray into the bazaar to find the fortune-teller. My father, Simon, and Sergeant Barton could be counted on not to speak about the rest of the afternoon.

  But a week later a silk-wrapped packet addressed to me arrived at our door, brought by a liveried messenger from the Maharani.

  In the packet was a velvet case holding the loveliest rope of pearls, as fine as any I’d ever seen her wear. There was no message in the case, although I did look.

  My mother let me admire them for a time, then closed the case. “When you are older,” she said. “It would attract too much attention for you to be seen to wear them at your age.”

  It didn’t matter. I understood. And I could guess too why they’d been sent without a note. My father had told the Maharani, if no one else, what had really transpired that day. I knew he trusted her not to speak of it. I was glad she knew, because I cared about her.

  Nothing was said about those events when next she came to call on my mother. It was as if nothing had happened since her last visit. Nor did she ask why I wasn’t wearing her pearls.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the latest

  Bess Crawford mystery

  A PATTERN OF LIES

  On sale August 18, 2015

  CHAPTER ONE

  Canterbury, Kent, Autumn 1918

  I DIDN’T KNOW much about the little town of Cranbourne, on The Swale in northeastern Kent, only that its abbey had been destroyed by a very angry Henry VIII when the abbot of the day refused to take the King’s side in certain matters. What stone was left had been transported to France to shore up the English-owned harbor in Calais. A young Lieutenant by the name of Merrill, standing by me at the railing of the Sea Maid, had told me about that as we came through the roads and edged toward where we were to dock. That was in 1915. Shortly after that, we were caught up in the rush of disembarking and finding our respective transports, and I doubt I gave it another thought.

  My next encounter with Cranbourne was while I was assigned to a base hospital in France. A critically ill patient was brought in for further surgery, and he sometimes talked about the village during his long and painful recovery.

  All in the past, that.

  And then yesterday I accompanied a convoy of badly wounded men to hospital in a village just outside Canterbury, in Kent. The hospital specialized in internal wounds, and it was a shorter journey to go directly there than to travel all the way to London first, and then arrange transport all the way back.

  They’d made the crossing from France safely, every one of my patients, even though Matron had been worried about the gravest cases. All the same, I was relieved to find a line of ambulances waiting for us in Dover, and again when the train pulled into Canterbury’s railway station. Soon after that we had every man in a cot with a minimum of fuss. Most of them were too exhausted to speak, but they knew they were in England, and their smiles were enough. Home. Alive. And on the way to recovery. I hoped it was true. Then I saw Lieutenant Harriman, the most seriously wounded, weakly giving me a thumbs-up, and I thought, Yes, they’ll be all right now!

  By three in the morning, we’d coaxed them to swallow a little thin broth before wearily seeking our own beds, leaving the night staff in charge at last.

  Late the next morning, I said good-bye to the men and to the nurses who had come over with me. They were needed in France, but I had earned a few days of leave.

  One of the doctors kindly ran me back into Canterbury to await my train to London.

  I was happily counting the minutes before I could call my parents in Somerset and tell them when to expect me in Victoria Station when I discovered that my train was delayed. Three hours, the stationmaster informed me, although from his gloomy expression, I didn’t hold out much hope of reaching London until midnight at the earliest. Well, so much for that, I thought, resigned to further delays. My telephone call would have to wait until I knew more.

  Rather than sit in the busy, noisy railway station, I decided to walk for a bit. It was a fine day, and I’d always enjoyed Canterbury. Leaving my kit bag in the growing pile of luggage pushed to one side for the London train, I looked at my watch to check the time, then set out.

  A handsome town with its bustling markets and its famous cathedral, the one always associated with the tomb of the Black Prince and the martyrdom of Thomas à Becket, Canterbury had much to offer. I could pass a pleasant hour or two exploring, and then call in again at the station for the latest news. If the train was still delayed, I could count on a quiet lunch somewhere nearby, and even browse in the shops, although many of them had very little to offer these days.

  Before very long, I came across a hidden gem of a garden open to strollers. Half an hour spent enjoying the autumn flowers blooming along a narrow stream was heavenly. There was so little left of beauty in the parts of France I saw every day, only the hardy poppies and a few wildflowers that straggled in any patch of rough ground. I badly needed something else to think about besides torn bodies and bloody bandages, consoling amputees and long vigils at the sides of dying men. Sitting on one of the benches, I closed my eyes and listened to the bees in the blossoms at my feet. For once I couldn’t hear the guns in France, and I let the Front fade away.

  Over my head in one of the lovely old trees growing along the stream, a jackdaw began to call, confused by this sudden burst of warm weather here in the autumn. I smiled as I listened to him.

  Feeling myself again, I set out for the High Street shops. Along the way I passed th
e Army recruiting office where men could enlist. In the early days of the war, August and September 1914, in particular, these had been nearly overwhelmed with volunteers, men who were determined to get into the fight before the Kaiser changed his mind and sued for peace. It didn’t quite happen that way, and it wasn’t long before the Government had had to turn to conscription to fill the ranks.

  The office looked rather forlorn, and through the open door, where a shaft of warm sunlight lit up the posters and the enlistment forms and the polished shoes of the officer seated behind the desk, I could almost catch a feeling of resignation. As if, with the war ending, this little room, once a small shop, had lost its usefulness and was just waiting for someone in London to remember it existed and close it down. A sign, perhaps, that the war would end, that no more men would be asked to die for King and Country.

  Strolling with no particular goal in mind, I soon found myself making my way toward the cathedral precincts. This was a lovely place to spend a quiet hour, and when I came to the massive Christ Church Gate set into the high wall, I stepped through it and walked down to where I had the best view of the west front.

  For a moment I simply stood there, looking up at the three ornate towers. It occurred to me how fortunate the French had been not to lose any of their great cathedrals. Damaged, some of them, but they would survive. Far too many of their lovely old village churches had fallen to artillery barrages. The sun was warm on my face, the view splendid, and in spite of the others here in the broad precincts, passing me on the walk, I was reluctant to step inside just yet.

  Someone called my name.

  “Bess? Sister Crawford? Is that you?”

  I turned toward the speaker, and he exclaimed, “Good Lord, it is!”

  I didn’t recognize him at first.

  He had filled out, his dark hair thick now and well cut. It had been shaved to attend to his head wound, although it was the wound in his side that we thought would surely kill him. But it didn’t, although he’d been quite thin and gaunt by the time he’d been stable enough to transport to England.

  “Captain Ashton,” I exclaimed, and held out my hand in greeting as he came to meet me. But he grasped the hand and leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. “How well you look.”

  “Thanks to you and the good doctors. And it’s Major now,” he added, touching his insignia. “How are you? And what are you doing in Canterbury?”

  I explained about the wounded, and he nodded. “It’s a good hospital. I spent some weeks there myself, if you remember. Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, in fact, I do,” I said. “They’ve no idea when my train will come in, and I’ve been passing the morning seeing the sights. Two minutes more and I’d have been inside the cathedral, admiring the stained glass windows.”

  “My luck that you hadn’t gone inside. Otherwise, I’d have missed you.” He fell in step beside me, offering his arm. There was the slightest sign of a limp in his gait, but he walked steadily along the path, and I was glad to see it.

  Captain Ashton—as he was then—had been very popular with the nursing staff. He was an attractive man, of course, but his sense of humor in the face of his severe wounds had won our admiration. Refusing the morphine as often as he could manage it, he did everything he was told with a smile, however shaky that smile might be, and made light of his suffering. It was true, there were many in that surgical ward in far worse shape than he was, but we’d worried endlessly that we might finally lose him to infection and loss of blood.

  “I don’t have to ask how you are, Bess,” he was saying. “You look well. Tired, yes, God knows, don’t we all? But still the prettiest Sister in the ward.”

  I looked up at him. “And you haven’t lost your skill at flattery. I thought you were to be married as soon as you’d recovered?”

  As I watched, a shadow crossed his face. “Yes, well. She died. In the first wave of the Spanish flu. I didn’t get home in time. They were burying her when I arrived.”

  “I am so very sorry, Major.” I meant it. I’d read him letters from his betrothed when he was too ill to read them himself, and written to her as well, to answer for him. Eloise was her name, though he called her Ellie, and I’d come to know her, in a way. I couldn’t think of a finer match for this man. I had so wanted him to survive and come back to her. A small victory for two people amidst the chaos of war.

  “I wouldn’t have had her suffer another hour. But I could have wished she’d lived until I was there to hold her hand.” He looked up at the tall cathedral gates to hide his pain. “But there it is.” Clearing his throat, he said, as he had so many times in the ward, “This too shall pass us by.”

  We walked on in silence, and just beyond the gates he found a tearoom and ordered for both of us.

  For a time we chatted companionably. About mutual friends, about those we’d lost, about the prospects, finally, of peace. I asked about his parents, and he asked after my mother and the Colonel Sahib.

  “What brings you to Canterbury? Are you on leave, or on your way back to France?”

  His fingers toyed with the milk jug for a moment, and then he said, “I’ve had trouble with my hearing. It’s coming back now, but when the tunnel went up nearly beneath our feet, I wouldn’t have heard an artillery barrage. I was luckier than some of the lads. The shock wave killed them. At any rate, I was sent home and told to give it time. I don’t think the doctors in France held out much hope, but I’ve got another week before I meet with the medical board, and I have every reason to think they’ll clear me now. Of course, if they whisper all their questions, I might still be in trouble,” he ended with a smile.

  Laughing, I said, “That’s wonderful news. Still, I’m sure your mother was glad to have you safe with her for a little while.”

  “Look, why not come home with me for an hour or two? My mother will be very happy to see you.”

  “Do you live here in Canterbury now?” I asked.

  “No. But not all that far from here. Not by motorcar. Cranbourne. It’s a small village up on The Swale.”

  “Cranbourne,” I repeated, all at once remembering. “Of course. And it had an abbey in the distant past.”

  “A ruined abbey,” he said, nodding. “Did I tell you about it? I must have done.” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “I ran in this morning to speak to the police. But Inspector Brothers isn’t in. I was told to come back later.”

  “The police?” I asked, surprised.

  He looked out the tearoom window, not meeting my eyes. “There’s been a spot of trouble. The police seem to be dragging their feet doing anything about it. Nothing to worry you about. But it would cheer my mother to no end to see you again.”

  When the Major—then Captain Ashton—had been so severely wounded, somehow Mrs. Ashton had got permission to come over to France and nurse her son. A small woman with snow-white hair, the same lovely blue eyes as the Major, and a spine of steel, she refused utterly to believe that he would die, and without getting in the way of the nursing staff, she sat beside him and read to him and fed him broth without a single tear shed. Only one evening, I’d discovered her in a room where we stored supplies, her face buried in a towel so that no one would hear her. It was the only time. I never knew where she went to cry after that. Or if there had only been that one moment of weakness.

  “How lovely,” I said, and meant it. “But first I should be sure about my train. There might be news.”

  “We’ll call in at the railway station first.”

  “Then I’d like to go, very much.”

  “Good.” He settled our bill and guided me down the street to where he’d left his motorcar.

  News of my train was not very reassuring.

  “There’s a troop train coming through shortly, and it will be filled with wounded going back,” the harassed stationmaster told us. “I’d find a room, if I were you, Sister. It could be morning before I’ve got anything for you.”

  “Never mind,” the
Major said. “But let’s collect your kit, shall we?”

  I looked at the baggage—now piled high by the side of the station, even overflowing onto the platform. I could just see mine squeezed between a large steamer trunk and the wall.

  “A very good idea,” I agreed, and Major Ashton helped me extract it. I could just picture what my clean uniforms must look like now, crumpled into a wrinkled twist. But there would be an iron I could borrow in Mrs. Ashton’s kitchen.

  As we walked back to his motorcar, he said, “There’s more than enough room at the Hall. The hotels are crowded, and you’ll be better off with us.”

  I protested that I didn’t intend to presume on his mother’s hospitality, but he said firmly, “Nonsense. You can’t wander around this town all day, only to discover there will be no train after all. Tomorrow the lines should be straightened out.”

  I hoped he was right. I still had my heart set on reaching London.

  And so we threaded our way out of Canterbury and took the main road toward Rochester, the old Watling Street of the Romans.

  The countryside was so beautiful. Roadside wildflowers had gone to seed, but the hedgerows were still thick and green, and sometimes trees along the way provided a canopy of cool shadows overhead.

  Major Ashton said, his eyes on the road, “Do you think you could manage to call me Mark? God knows we’ve known each other for several years. It wouldn’t be improper, would it? And ‘Sister Crawford’ reminds me too much of my wounds.”

  We were not encouraged to call patients by their first names. It fostered a familiarity that was unprofessional. But the Major was no longer my patient, and so I said, “Thank you. Mark, then.”

  “Much better.” He turned his head and grinned at me. Those blue eyes were twinkling. “I still look over my shoulder when someone calls ‘Major’ to see who it is they’re speaking to.”

  He was young to have achieved his majority. Thirty? But the war had seen the deaths of so many officers that it was more a mark of survival than time served, as it had been before the war.