A Pattern of Lies (11 page)

With a sigh I changed my apron for a clean one and went back to work, knowing that until such time as victory came, I still had much to do.

There was a letter from Mark Ashton waiting in my tent a day or two later. I opened it, hoping it must bring good news, since he'd had the time to write at all. But nothing had changed. His father was still in custody, the barrister was trying to bring the trial forward as quickly as possible, and he himself had been granted compassionate leave. However, he went on:

There's a new problem. The Army has refused to send home the only honest witness to the explosion. Their position is, he'd given his statement to the Army investigators at the time of the disaster, and that should be sufficient for the purposes of the trial. I've appealed this decision, but it seems that Sergeant Rollins is the best tank officer they have got and they won't hear of him being given leave to testify in person. Mr. Worley has hoped that putting Rollins in the witness box will allow him to cross-­examine the man and use that testimony to show that my father couldn't have caused either the fire or the explosion. Still the Army refuses to listen. I've written to the King, but I have very little expectation of my letter ever reaching him.

I could hear the despair in his words.

It was very likely that the Army had questioned Rollins only in regard to the possibility of sabotage. That had been their sole interest in the beginning, their need to hunt down the saboteurs as quickly as possible. Neither the Army nor anyone else would have considered the presence of Philip Ashton at the powder mill as anything to think twice about. After all, he ran the mill. How many Sundays had he walked down from the Hall to see how the foremen were managing? How many evenings, come to that, had he strolled to the banks of the River Cran and simply stood, taking the pulse of the day?

What had been far more worrying to the Government and the Army was the fact that in this part of Kent there was marshy ground where two main rivers emptied into the sea. There were watchers all around the coasts of Essex and Kent, to spot midnight landings or small boats coming in at dawn. But however many watchers the Army had set, no one could guard all the little inlets all the time.

Then, once sabotage had been ruled out, of course the next most likely cause of the explosion had been presumed to be an accident. Fate. A careless moment. Luck that had finally run out. A flash of spark, and the mill vanishing in a roar. No one would be happy with that, but the very nature of gunpowder made an accident not only likely but nearly inevitable as the need for it pressed men to do more and more, faster and faster.

At that stage, the Army had faced a far more important question, whether to rebuild the powder mill here in Kent—­or somewhere well out of the reach of the enemy and well away from villages.

Far away had won.

And very likely, Sergeant Rollins, long since back in France, had been forgotten. No one had even thought to ask him what else he might have seen from his little boat out there on the waters on The Swale.

I could see why Lucius Worley wanted to interview Sergeant Rollins.

On the other hand, I could see a point that might not have occurred to Mark at this stage. That the evidence Rollins might give could do more harm than it would help.

Perhaps that was why Mr. Worley had taken the Army's refusal as final, while Mark hadn't given up.

What more could this man add; what questions had never been put to him? Would he clear Mr. Ashton? Or convict him?

It wasn't until much later, as I was collecting myself to try to sleep, that I thought of something else. It had occurred to me before, but in a different situation. If Sergeant Rollins
had
seen something, had information that could clear up the mystery of the explosion and fire, why hadn't he told the Army about it at the time? Even if it had something to do with Mr. Ashton and nothing to do with saboteurs?

I sat up in my cot.

Why had he answered only the questions put to him? Because he hadn't seen anything, because he wanted to protect someone, because he didn't think he'd be believed?

There had been no word from the Colonel Sahib. I'd left the problem of Philip Ashton in his capable hands.

I could do more harm than good if I took it upon myself to meddle.

After a moment I lay back down again and firmly told myself to go to sleep.

Still, it was another quarter of an hour before I heeded my own advice.

In the morning, as I was eating my cold porridge, a runner appeared with a letter. I saw him speaking to the doctor, who was smoking a cigarette and staring out at the gray dawn. The doctor seemed to rouse himself, looked around, and after a moment pointed in my direction.

The mud-­splattered runner came over to me.

“Sister Crawford?”

“Yes?”

“Letter for you. Military pouch.” He looked me over, wondering how it was my letter shared the pouch with far more important orders and other Army missives.

I smiled and took it from him. From time to time my father or Simon wrote to me by this means in order to avoid having something pass through the censor's hands and possibly be lost. “Thank you, Corporal. I think there's another cup of tea in the pot over there.”

He grunted with pleasure and was gone.

Slipping the letter into my pocket, I finished my porridge and relieved Sister Herries, returning to my place in the receiving line of wounded.

When I could take a break, shortly after noon, I poured my own cup of tea—­for a wonder it was a fresh brew—­and went to my quarters to read my letter.

It was from the Colonel Sahib.

Bess, I've looked into the matter you spoke to me about, and I can tell you that there is very little I can do through my contacts here. Once the question of German involvement had been settled, the Army closed the investigation and set about moving the mill to a similar facility in Scotland. The investigation has now been reopened as a criminal inquiry. The Army will hold a watching brief, to be sure, but it will not interfere in a civilian criminal inquiry unless treason is suspected.

I did my best to find out where and when this reopening of the case had occurred. And who had initiated it. Who had brought the first charges against Ashton. But because it's a current case, this is between the Chief Constable and the Canterbury police, and I have no authority there. I can tell you, however, that despite the charges, no one has contacted Scotland Yard to take over the inquiry. It is being kept at the local level. For Ashton's sake, it would be better to have the Yard handling the investigation into the facts. I think you will understand why.

I must tell you that none of this is favorable to Ashton's chances. I understand there was an eyewitness to events, and that he is presently serving in France. But no request has been made to the Army by Canterbury police or the Chief Constable to release him to testify. Make of that what you will.

My dear, I am not happy about this. If there is any more that I can do, I will. At the moment it seems to be very little.

He went on to say that all was well in Somerset, and that my mother had heard from Mrs. Hennessey recently.

There was a final brief paragraph.

Our neighbor through the woods is recovering from boredom and will be joining us for dinner tonight. I am to convey his greetings and I am to tell you as well that he has met your young American Marine.

The neighbor, of course, would be Simon. Deciphering my father's cryptic comment, I gathered Simon Brandon had been rather busy somewhere, and he'd just arrived in Somerset, intending to sleep the rest of that day before joining my parents for dinner. The fact that he'd met “my young American Marine”—­a reference to a man I'd treated some weeks ago as he passed through our aid station—­told me that Simon had been involved in some liaison work with the Americans. Possibly the 5th Marines, possibly not. But he might well have encountered the man I'd treated or someone else in the Marine's company.

They were the bravest of the brave, those American Marines, holding out for a month at Belleau Wood in impossible circumstances and setting the Germans on their ear.

Smiling, I was about to fold up the letter when I saw the hastily scrawled postscript. My smile faded.

You should be aware that the local police are adamant that this is a matter for the Kent courts
.

Someone was determined to see that Mr. Ashton hanged. Someone had kept the inquiry out of Army hands and out of Scotland Yard's hands as well. But why should that matter if the evidence against Mark's father was so strong?

Was it Inspector Brothers? Or someone with even more authority? The Chief Constable could call in the Yard to take over an inquiry. Especially if Inspector Brothers requested it.

The Inspector's brother had been killed in the explosion . . .

There was no sure way of reaching the Ashtons with what I'd learned. Any letter passing through the hands of the censors could take days or weeks to arrive, and it was never certain what they would consider aiding the enemy or weakening the will of the home front. A friend had written to his mother about an herb garden he'd stumbled across while retreating down the Ypres Road, and that had been cut because it might tell the Germans where this company had found a speedy path south. Another had posted to his convalescent Captain a happy birthday message from his men, only to learn later that the names of the well-­wishers had been cut to keep the enemy from knowing who they were.

What I could do was find this Sergeant Rollins and let him know what was happening in Kent. It might be possible for him to speak to one of his officers and give evidence in a new deposition. At least this would assure Mr. Ashton a fair trial. I didn't care at all for the present odds. Guilty or innocent, a man deserved a fair trial. It was the bedrock of English law.

And I had a resource that I could call upon.

My Australian soldier who had helped me more than once to find information I badly needed: Sergeant Lassiter. If there was anyone who knew more about the men fighting this war than anyone else, it was he.

I spoke casually to a sergeant from a Wiltshire regiment, asking if he'd ever encountered an Aussie by the name of Lassiter.

He frowned—­I was sewing up a leg wound at the time, and hoping to distract him.

“Name's familiar. Can't say I've ever run across him. But I've heard rumors. An Aussie, you say? It wouldn't be that crazy fool who took out a machine-gun nest because it interfered with his sleep?”

I hadn't heard about that. “It might be,” I answered warily, finishing the last stitch and tying off the thread.

“And what do you want with him?”

“Actually, it's a friend in Kent who is looking for news of him. I told her I'd do what I could to see if he's all right. I'm afraid he's not much at writing letters.”

“I'll pass the word,” Sergeant Wills told me, although he didn't sound too hopeful.

Once his leg was properly dressed, he hobbled back to his lines.

The next person I chose to ask was in the ranks of a Lancashire regiment. Corporal Denton. He'd lost part of his ear to a sniper, and as I cleaned and dressed the wound, I asked again about Sergeant Lassiter. He started to shake his head, then remembered his ear. “Doesn't ring a bell, Sister. But I'll pass the word.”

I was always careful that no one else was within hearing as I put my questions. No need to bring trouble down on the sergeant or on me.

We were moved shortly after that, the entire forward dressing station, and I was sent to another sector.

I had to start again, planting that same seed and professing no personal interest in the sergeant. A corporal, grinning at me as I bandaged his hand, wanted to know if the friend in Kent looking to find the Australian was pretty. I assured him that she was quite pretty, although a little on the large side.

“Oh, well, then, I'll help the sergeant along with his romance.”

And a few days later it paid off.

A private said to me as I was cleaning his shoulder, “There's someone asking for Sergeant Lassiter. Do you know the Sister who's looking for news of him?”

“I don't,” I said, concealing my excitement. “But I'll pass it on.”

Private Howell nodded. “The sergeant's a little occupied at the moment, but as soon as may be, he'll send word to Kent that he's all right.”

That must mean he was in the midst of a push and couldn't get away. I could wait. But I wasn't sure for how long. It had occurred to me that I could have passed the word to find Sergeant Rollins rather than go through Sergeant Lassiter. But the trouble was, Sergeant Rollins didn't know me; he wouldn't have understood any message I could have made up to draw his attention. I couldn't mention the Ashtons, as it would only cause trouble if the Army had already forbidden any contact.

But Sergeant Lassiter could find Rollins for me, and if he was alive, I could try to contrive a meeting.

And then another letter arrived from Abbey House, and this time it was from Helen Ashton.

After giving me news of Mark and Clara and herself, she added,

I am sitting in my little garden, where I can drop the cheerful face I wear to keep everyone's spirits up. I shouldn't be telling you my troubles, there's nothing you can do, and the last thing I wish to do is burden you with them. That said, I need to talk to someone. Ellie should be here to sit by me and listen to my worries, but she isn't, and I miss her more with every passing day. I don't really know how Mark has managed to carry on without her.

I felt a wave of sadness for her.

Turning the page, I read on.

Someone else has come forward, Bess. Claiming to be a witness but this time with more damning evidence than the earlier so-­called witnesses appeared to have. Mr. Groves has been given her name. I don't yet know who it is, but I have the most awful feeling about this. Why should she speak out now, two years late, swearing she knows Philip is a murderer? If she's so certain, why didn't she tell the Army in 1916? Is she a widow, vindictive enough that the truth doesn't matter? Don't any of them realize that my husband could hang, if found guilty?