A Pattern of Lies (15 page)

“He's on his way to Rochester, I'm afraid. He was kind enough to stop here for me.” I waved at Lieutenant Jamison, and he lifted a hand as he let in the clutch and went on his way.

“I'm so sorry to come in so late,” I said softly, following her toward the stairs. “But I had nowhere else to go.”

“Think nothing of it, Sister. Your room hasn't been aired, but the sheets are fresh. You'll be all right for what's left of the night.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Byers. I'm so grateful.”

“Shall I fetch you something from the kitchen? A sandwich, perhaps? And I believe there's even a little soup.”

It sounded heavenly but I was too tired to swallow a bite of food, and thanked her for being thoughtful.

She opened my door for me, and I set my kit down by the armoire. “It needs a fire,” she said, going at once to the hearth. “There's a chill tonight.”

“Don't bother,” I began, but she was already kneeling to make sure that everything was as it should be. I handed her a match, and she carefully lit the bit of rag that acted as tinder. Watching it catch properly, she got to her feet. “There, that should see you through the night. And I'll fetch a pitcher of water for you. Those towels are fresh. Are you sure you wouldn't care for a cup of tea, at least?”

I'd have loved one, but I shook my head. “Thank you. A comfortable bed is all I need.”

By the time she had got me settled, I was feeling the weight of my fatigue, and I was asleep, I think, before she'd climbed the stairs again to her own room.

The next morning when I came down I could see that Mrs. Byers had spread the news. I was welcomed by Mrs. Ashton and Mark. Even Nan lifted her head and wagged her tail a thump or two.

Mrs. Ashton looked worn, as if worry about her husband had been slowly taking its toll. Mark too looked very tired. Clara came in shortly after that and greeted me warmly as well.

“What is the news?” I asked eagerly as I helped myself to toast and eggs. “I have thought of you so often, and hoped that all was well.”

“Philip is still incarcerated,” Mrs. Ashton said slowly. “They refuse to set him free. Multiple counts of murder, they say. He could flee to Ireland, or even to Canada. But Mr. Groves remains optimistic that he'll be cleared.”

Mark looked up at that. “I wonder sometimes. They've postponed the trial again. I think it's rather malicious on the part of the K.C., but I'm told it's the number of cases before the justices at the moment. You'd think Kent was suddenly a hotbed of crime.”

“I saw Sergeant Rollins while I was in France,” I began, and added quickly before their hopes rose too high, “He's not interested in returning to give a statement. And he didn't offer to give one to me. Of course,” I went on as their faces fell, “I'd just bandaged his hand, you see.” I took my plate across to the table. “Does his sister still live here in Cranbourne?”

“She does,” Mrs. Ashton replied. “There's a cottage on the other side of the abbey ruins, down near the water.”

I also gave them the rest of the information my father had given me about Scotland Yard and the determination of the local courts to try the case in Canterbury. “I'm so sorry I couldn't bring you better news,” I added.

“But how did you come to meet the sergeant?” Clara asked, frowning. “I don't understand.”

I had no intention of mentioning Sergeant Lassiter.

“I see so many wounded,” I replied. “Occasionally I recognize a face or a name. Mark had mentioned Sergeant Rollins, and the man I was treating was in the tank corps. And so I asked if he came from Kent.”

“It was so kind of you to try,” Mrs. Ashton said gratefully. And her gratitude stung because I'd wanted so much to help. “We are in need of news. There has been so little of it.”

“But what is Mr. Groves actually
doing
?” I asked. “Or this man Worley? You tell me he's one of the best in the county. Surely he's looked into what happened? He can use the investigation done by the Army to show that the authorities were satisfied that this was an accident, tragic though it was. Gunpowder mills do blow up. It's not as if this is a first. What about the men on duty that day? I'm not accusing them of carelessness, please understand that, but were they the best trained? Were they new to the process? Had there been changes in that process? Did they have any personal worries that might have made them forget to do something? Or was it the weather that day, making it more likely that a spark might happen? Was it too hot for April?” I stopped, suddenly conscious of overstepping the bounds of friendship. “I'm so sorry. It's just that I've had time to think about this. I'm sure Mr. Groves or Mr. Worley has done the same.”

Mark and his mother exchanged glances.

“Mr. Worley,” Helen Ashton said after a moment, “feels that it would do no good and possibly a great deal of harm if he sets about interviewing ­people and calling their ‘evidence' into question. They've already made up their minds. He feels,” she added, “that this case rests on my husband's reputation in the field, and his integrity.”

But that's what a barrister does, isn't it?
I wanted to ask her, but stopped myself in time.
Examine the evidence for flaws and prejudice? For a pattern that might indicate witnesses are being coached or coerced? Anything that will allow an opening to challenge the charges. Most particularly if the jury is already predisposed to find his client guilty.

Whose side was Mr. Groves on? And what sort of defense was Lucius Worley planning to mount?

“Mr. Worley is an experienced barrister,” Mark said, a little stiffly, I thought. “His record is impeccable.”

“No doubt that's true,” I agreed. “Does he believe in your father's innocence? Have you asked him?”

It hadn't occurred to Mark to ask. I could read the answer in his face. He'd assumed this was the case, and trusted that Mr. Worley wouldn't have taken on his father's defense if he hadn't believed.

One gentleman to another.

Trying to make some amends, I said, “I'm sure you're right about his record. Mr. Worley's. Mr. Groves must have handled your family's affairs for many years, and he would certainly choose the best.”

“As a matter of fact, this is his son. Our Mr. Groves has had to retire for reasons of poor health,” Mrs. Ashton said. “That was two years ago. As I remember, it was just after the explosion.” She turned to her son. “Mark?”

“Yes, that's right,” he said. “His heart. We were all so afraid it was the work of saboteurs. And we didn't know at first whether they were German or German sympathizers. Mr. Groves's mother was German.
Our
Mr. Groves, I mean. Her father had come over to work in the brewery. His family had owned a very large brewery outside Berlin. I know there were whispers. But of course there would be. Nothing came of it. Still, it was very stressful for him.”

Disentangling this family tree, I deduced that “young Mr. Groves” was the great-­grandson of the German brewer. And his grandmother had been German as well.

Oh, dear. Was this the first time there had been a conflict of interest between Groves and his son and the Ashtons? Would a willingness to help defend Mr. Ashton revive any unpleasantness about their German background?

I could say no more.

I replied, “How interesting.” And let it go at that.

Clara said, “I never knew the Groves family had a connection to the brewery.”

“I expect it never came up. That was so long ago. But some ­people did remember the story, when the mill blew up. Our Mr. Groves had come down from London and joined his other grandfather's firm in Canterbury,” Mrs. Ashton said. “He earned a partnership before Timothy Groves retired, and now his son is head of the firm. They've been in the same chambers for nearly seventy years.”

Our Mr. Groves. Young Mr. Groves. A household like the Ashtons, very like the royal family, kept connections over the generations. One had one's boots made at the same shop that had made one's great-­grandfather's boots, and ordered one's clothes from the same tailor in London, one's hats from the same hatmaker, one's wines from the same wine merchant. Mrs. Ashton's calling cards and stationery would have come from the shop where her mother had ordered hers. And the merchants who supplied them would keep to the same high standards as their own forebears. It was a part of country life. My mother had her favorite dressmaker, and my father ordered his uniforms from the same London tailor that had made his great-­great-­grandfather's before Waterloo. To change—­short of gross mismanagement on a supplier's part—­was unthinkable. My grandmother had even had her favorite chocolatier, who knew her tastes and never failed to please her.

Casting doubt on Mr. Groves senior or junior would not be wise. But my cousin Melinda Crawford also lived in Kent, and she might know more about him.

Changing the subject, Mrs. Ashton said, “They aren't allowing me to send in Philip's meals, but I have been able to see that he's well dressed when he has an interview with Mr. Worley. That has mattered, I know.”

Keeping up appearances . . .

I was glad for her; I knew how much this meant to her.

After breakfast, Clara went into Canterbury with Mark to call on a friend from school who lived there now. She was happy to have this outing with him, and we saw them off before retiring to the sitting room.

I had intended to go with them, to take the train up to London as I'd planned. But when we were alone for several minutes, as Mark and Clara went up to change, Mrs. Ashton had begged me to stay with her for “a day or so.”

“I need someone to talk to, Bess. Mark and I try, but he wants to believe his father will be safe, and I am so afraid he will lose this battle. I'm so afraid we're being lied to, lulled into accepting whatever we're told. Something is wrong, and I can't speak to Philip, I can't ask him to tell me what he thinks. Does
he
trust the lawyers? I'd feel so much better if I knew the answer to that.”

And so, reluctantly—­though I managed to hide it well—­I agreed to stay.

In the sitting room, there was a new carpet on the floor and a new chair under the window. I said nothing about them as we sat down.

Mrs. Ashton sighed as she picked up her knitting. Like so many women, she had volunteered to make scarves and gloves and stockings for the Army. “I keep up a good front for Mark's sake,” she began, “but I haven't been sleeping well, Bess. I wish I could take something to help me, but I'm afraid of that sort of thing.”

“And you should be. You're safer letting sleep come when it will.”

“I sleep in that big empty room, in that big empty bed, no one to talk to at the end of the day, to share my life with or plan for the morrow. I feel like a widow—­and my husband is still very much alive.”

I could understand her feelings. “I'm so sorry,” I said, and meant it. “This has been very trying for all of you.” It was trite, but there was no other way of expressing myself.

“Thank you, dear.” She gave me a tentative smile.

“And you've had no more trouble in the night? Since the fire? I've been worried about that.”

“A few breaches of walls, a dead rat in Mark's motorcar one morning, someone outside my window in the middle of the night shouting ‘Murderer.' Eggs thrown at the house door—­quite rotten, it took Mrs. Byers two days to rid the steps of the smell. And Mark will have to request more leave. His time is nearly up. They didn't see fit to extend it indefinitely, and I think that was partly Mark's eagerness to get back to his men. He chafes at our wretched circumstances. But he says nothing to me.”

I remembered the man I'd seen by the river and again in the drive near the door.

“And that reminds me. I never had a chance to tell you when I was here the last time. I saw Alex Craig on the drive in the middle of the night. He never came to the door, he seemed to stand and stare up at the first-­floor windows.”

“I expect that's because Eloise died in a room facing the drive. I've never seen him here, but it doesn't surprise me.” She smiled wryly. “I mustn't think about the past. I must see to Philip's shirts and the pressing of his coats. It's the only thing they'll allow me to do for him. I ask Mark, but he swears Mr. Grove says Philip hasn't lost weight. That he's taking care of himself. But I can't see how that could be possible. He doesn't exercise, and this is a man who walked all over his lands, thinking nothing of it. And I can't imagine how he finds an appetite for the meals brought to him.”

“If you want my opinion, Mr. Ashton will make certain that his gaolers never see a moment's weakness. If he has to, he will pace his cell to stay fit, and he'll eat what he's given without a word of complaint.”

Her face brightened. “Do you know, I think you're absolutely right? That's precisely what Philip will do. I've fallen into such a habit of worrying—­wives do—­that I haven't considered
his
views on being in jail.” She put aside the knitting and rose. “Now, will you be all right on your own for a bit? It's time for me to confer with Mrs. Lacey.”

“I'll be perfectly fine.” A thought occurred to me. “I wonder. Would you mind if I called on your former housemaid, Betty, I think her name was? Mrs. Byers mentioned her to me once. If she lives in the village, she may know more about the source of these rumors than anyone in this household.”

“Betty Perkins,” she said, frowning. “I was sorry to lose her. But she couldn't seem to find her way after her brother and her fiancé died. One more victim of that tragedy. Yes, that's rather a good idea, Bess. I've thought of calling on her to see how she was getting on, but Philip felt it would only open old wounds.”

She gave me directions, and then at the door, she turned. “If you would like to call on Agatha Rollins as well, you'll find her direction there on the desk. I'd been wondering whether she could contact her brother for us. But I don't know what her feelings were about Philip. It would have been—­unpleasant—­if she happened to be among his accusers.” She gave me a wry smile. “It might be construed as attempting to work my way into her good graces to reach her brother. Which of course would be the truth. You, on the other hand, have no reason to feel embarrassed. But I do want to warn you. She's not an easy woman to approach. Still, she and her brother were always at odds.”