A Pattern of Lies (24 page)

In the end, he and Clara went off to Canterbury together, although I knew it to be hopeless.

Grateful for this opportunity, I turned to Mrs. Ashton as we walked in her enclosed garden. The day had turned decidedly chilly, and we wore wraps against it, even though we were protected from the wind.

“What happened to the officer who was the liaison between Mr. Ashton and the Army?” I asked, not knowing any better way to broach the subject.

She stared at me, then walked on. “I have no idea. The Army recalled him.”

“But you don't believe that,” I said. “You think he's still here, somewhere, in Cranbourne or else in Canterbury or one of the nearby villages.”

“No, truly, he was recalled. To London. They felt he was too close to the situation to take part in the Army's inquiry into what happened,” she said. “I expect he's in France somewhere by now. If he's still alive. Philip didn't keep in touch with him, so I have no idea.”

“Then why did you stand at the window on the night of the fire, when you thought everyone had gone to bed, and threaten someone if he hurt your family?”

Surprised, she walked on a few steps, and then turned.

“Bess. How did you hear that?”

“I had walked outside, hoping to find footprints or something else, to show Constable Hood in the morning.”

“I wanted to lash out at whoever had done this. I thought perhaps it was one of the women who had been widowed, and she might be frightened off if she could be convinced we knew who had started the fire. But I don't really believe that all these ­people making our lives so wretched are acting on their own. I've lived in Cranbourne since Philip brought me here as his bride. I know these villagers. And so I've been looking for whoever it is who began this business. But I can't find him—­or her. Every time I think I might be getting close, I realize I'm wrong again. I tried to persuade Philip that it was all a conspiracy, but he never wanted to believe his own ­people had turned against him.”

I didn't know whether to believe her.

“Why were you out there?” she asked, as she realized the implications of what I'd told her. “Was Mark with you? Clara?”

“No one was with me.” And then, goaded by disbelief, I said, “I saw your face, Mrs. Ashton. You believed you
knew
.”

She walked on, and I followed her. I was about to ask again, even if she threw me out of her house, when she stopped.

“Yes, all right. At one point I was afraid it was Alex. Alex Craig. Well, no, that's not quite true. I didn't want to believe it could be. But I was frightened too, you see. Not thinking clearly. I knew he sometimes came to the house late at night, when he couldn't sleep. He loved Eloise the way I'd loved someone once, when I was very young. And he lost her twice. First to Mark and then to the Spanish influenza. I had hoped letting him say good-­bye to her would help him. And so I felt betrayed that night, when we had the fire. I was upset over Philip, and seeing the sitting room alight was the last straw. And I couldn't tell Mark what I feared, could I?”

Some of the tension went out of her face, as if she was glad to have told someone what she believed at the time. But I still wasn't sure I believed
her
. Yet, in a quick search in my memory of all the ­people I knew of who might be involved, I couldn't think of anyone else she might feel so intense about. And until the incident with Nan, the dog, the personal attacks had actually seemed to stop.

“Tell me about the liaison officer,” I asked, attempting to turn the conversation now. “Do you think he would speak on behalf of your husband if we could find him? It might go a long way in the trial if he explained to the jurors what working in the mill was like.”

“Captain Collier? I didn't like him very much.” She walked over to the border and snapped off a seed pod. It fell apart in her hand, and she looked at it in surprise, as if it had hurt her.

“You didn't?”

“He was always on about what should be done to increase production, and Philip had enough on his mind without that constant pressure,” she said, slowly, as if trying to put her feelings into words. “He was ambitious, anxious to prove himself. To keep that temporary rank.”

Ambitious
. I was suddenly reminded of the portion of a letter I'd found in the study, secreted in a Jane Austen novel. Had Mrs. Ashton asked questions about Collier of a friend in London, because she was worried about her husband? Possibly even before the explosion? I thought it might be likely. Who else could it have been? And, of course, she wouldn't have wanted her husband to know about her query.

She was still talking about Collier. “And yet he had very little experience with gunpowder. Or at the Front, for that matter. He'd worked in Stores—­he'd had some experience with manufacturers; boots, blankets, that sort of thing. And so it was thought he could learn about cordite as well. He wanted to be seen as the Army's man in Cranbourne, and it was a constant battle to rein in his enthusiasm for new methods that hadn't been tested. Philip was always trying to keep him focused on what was possible or realistic. I don't think he realized what a pest he'd become. Even at social gatherings he was always looking for some advantage to himself. I learned to avoid him. But to answer your question, I don't think his testimony would go very far in helping Philip. Even if he willingly came forward.”

“I've heard you and Mark mention several times that Captain Collier pushed the workers too hard for greater output. Does Mr. Groves know this? It could be important.”

She shook her head. “Not hard enough to make them careless. That was the last thing he'd want to happen. It was Philip he pushed. And it made Philip appear old-­fashioned, uninterested in progress or improvement. Which was unfair, when he had so many lives to consider.”

“Did the Captain blame Mr. Ashton for what happened?”

“He was as stunned as everyone else. He'd gone into Canterbury the evening before, to have dinner with a friend on his way to the Front, and that morning they went to early ser­vices before Captain Collier saw him off on his train. He was just leaving the railway station when the explosion occurred. ­People were shocked, wondering if Dover was being shelled by a German cruiser or if there had been an earthquake, or a zeppelin raid, and it was an hour before the Captain could find someone to take him back to Cranbourne. By that time, it was too late, the fire was well and truly burning, and there was nothing anyone could do. To his credit, he sent men straightaway to The Swale and all along the coastline to look for German boats and saboteurs. The Army commended him for that. But of course there weren't any.” She let the seeds sift through her fingers, watching them fall. “In some ways we'd have been better off, all of us, if it had been Germans. Even the Captain. He might well have gained a promotion out of it. Have you said anything to Mark about finding Collier and asking him to appear?”

“Briefly. He didn't know what had become of the Captain.”

“Not surprising. Mark barely knew him.” She smiled wryly. “Except through my letters, complaining about the Captain's latest peccadillo.” We stood for a moment by the fishpond, watching the wind ripple the clear surface. “I'm afraid, Bess. I don't know where to turn for help. Philip had so many friends. And so many of them have fallen away since the troubles began. Or had already moved to London for the duration. I've thought of writing to several of them, but I never quite found the courage. I was afraid they might reject my plea for support. I've had enough of rejection now.”

She turned to stare unseeing at the house. “There's something else that could be looked into. The women who worked at the mill were terribly upset. For one thing, of course, they'd just lost their livelihood and many of their friends if not relatives. A number of them had breakdowns. It haunted them that if it had been a Saturday or a Monday, they'd have been killed as well. For another, there's the fact that we found so few remains. The ruins were searched as soon as they were cool enough. There had been talk about a mass grave. But there wasn't enough to bury, Bess. If you go into St. Anne's, to the nave, there's a large brass memorial plaque to the dead. We had that put up, listing every man's name. But the women who survived the dead, and the women who might have been killed if the explosion had happened on another day, felt it was not enough. They raised the money themselves to put up a stone in the churchyard.” She cleared her throat, as if it was suddenly tight. “It was as if they felt our money was tainted. That the brass plaque was erected to salve our consciences.”

I hadn't seen either of the memorials.

“They can bear grudges, these village women. They might even want to see Philip hang.”

I didn't have the heart to tell her that they had also turned their backs on the Vicar.

“Well,” she went on. “That's water under the bridge, is it not? I can't bear to think about it any longer. Are you absolutely certain that Philip's wounds weren't life-threatening? That he didn't at least try to kill himself? You aren't holding back something, are you?”

But even as I tried to reassure her, I knew it wasn't enough.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

M
ARK HAD NO
luck at the hospital. He was refused permission to speak to his father, or even to see him.

Angry and worried, he went to call on Mr. Groves, and as he related the meeting to his mother and to me, it was clearly not a pleasant one.

“It's true what Father told Bess—­that they want him to throw himself on the mercy of the court and claim that the fire was an accident. They're suggesting that when he went over to see the extent of the damage, he inadvertently set off a spark that started the blaze. Groves and Worley feel it's the only way to avoid a far worse outcome.”

I said, “But I thought no one was certain whether the fire caused the explosion or followed it. Besides, if your father admits culpability, he could be held responsible for the deaths of workers who might have survived the blasts.”

“No one could have survived,” Mrs. Ashton said.

“But there's no proof of that, is there? He could find himself faced with endless claims for wrongful deaths—­loss of income—­whatever someone wants to accuse him of. Even the Army could come back to you and demand money because they couldn't rebuild in the ruins.”

Mark said, “I know. It would break us financially. But the alternative could well be a hanging.”

“Philip will never agree to such a plea,” Mrs. Ashton said.

Clara, who had been silent for a time, spoke up. “What if he does agree? And the court refuses to accept his plea? And they insist on trying him anyway? He'll be seen as doubly guilty. By his own admission and by the findings of the jury.”

“She's right,” Mrs. Ashton said. “Is Mr. Groves so certain that such a plea would be accepted?”

“He can't promise anything. Feelings have run high, there have been comments made in the newspaper.”

“Then we have no choice but to agree to the trial. And hope for the best.”

“It's difficult to change a trial to another town,” I said. “But it would be worth trying. That is, if the police or the Chief Constable would allow it.” I wanted to tell them instead that a change of briefs would be much wiser. Finding someone who believed in Philip Ashton and would fight for him.

But all of us, sitting there in that pleasant room, knew that the trial would very likely end with a conviction.

Unless something was done soon.

Mark got up and paced the floor. “I can't believe this is happening. Not to my father. I feel
helpless
.”

“Sit down, my dear, I'll pour you a whisky. We'll think of something.”

But of course none of us believed we could.

Later that afternoon, I walked as far as St. Anne's and found the large stone in the churchyard marked with a cross and the words
Our Loved Ones
. Followed by the date. Very simple and possibly all they could afford, the survivors and the women who worked in the mill. But it brought tears to my eyes.

The church door was unlocked, and I slipped inside. It was cool and dim, the way churches so often are on weekdays. My footsteps echoed, and I was glad to find that no one else was there.

I walked first down the side aisle to my right, looking for a large brass plaque. There were small ones here, clusters of them, memorials put up to the dead buried in France. An officer here, a private soldier there, giving their rank and the date and name of the battle in which they'd been killed. Others gave the name of the battle below the date of death, and added,
Died of Wounds.
It was a sad array.

I found the larger, more ornate plaque set between two lovely stained glass windows. It depicted a simple cross at the top with engraved lilies to either side.

This was followed by the words:

IN MEMORIAM

THE VICTIMS OF THE ASHTON MILL
EXPLOSION AND FIRE

There followed the date and then, in four rows, the names of all the men who had been killed that day.

And below the list was a final line:
Oremus pro invicem
.

If I remembered my Latin, it meant
Let us pray for one another.

A very touching tribute. I thought it must be Mr. Ashton's dearest wish, that they comfort one another, the dead and the living.

It occurred to me that grief sometimes divided ­people rather than drawing them together.

I was just leaving the church when I encountered the Vicar coming in, a hymnal in his hand.

“Sister Crawford,” he said in some surprise. “I didn't know you were back in Cranbourne.”

“I came to look in on Mr. Ashton.”

“Is he free? I hadn't heard.”

“According to the police, he tried to cut his wrists.”

“Dear God.” He stared at me. “I must go to him. If the police will allow me to visit with him? I've heard that they are very strict about this.”

“I don't know. They seem to be unwilling to put themselves out.”

“But surely if he's in need of comfort? A man in such despair? I'll travel to Canterbury this evening. And Mrs. Ashton? How is she holding up?”

“Quite bravely. I think events have been hardest for Major Ashton.” Changing the subject I added, “I've wished to ask you. By any chance do you know where I can find Captain Collier?”

“He was living in the former foreman's house on the far side of the mill. It was refurbished for the Army's use. While the Army was investigating what had happened, Captain Collier was reassigned. To London, I believe. I never had his address there. But I doubt he stayed in the city for long, given the need for men in France.”

“He hasn't come back to visit since he left?”

“Not to my knowledge. Oddly enough I did think I caught sight of him in Canterbury one day. But that was nearly a year ago. You know how it is; you see someone you believe you recognize, but when you catch him up, he generally isn't. There are so many men in uniform.”

“Do you get to Canterbury often?”

“Sadly no, my duties have kept me closer to Cranbourne and the Swale villages. Without the mill for employment, there have been hardships. My fellow priests and I do what we can to alleviate it. And then there are those of our parish who receive bad news.”

I remembered the Vicar at home in Somerset telling us when he came to dine that his duties had trebled since the war began. Often without the resources necessary to help those in need. My parents had been generous. I wondered if the Ashtons also gave freely.

“Do you remember a Corporal Britton? I'm told he was from Devon, but he appears to have been serving in a Kent regiment.”

“The name isn't familiar. And I expect I'd have remembered someone from Devon. They have such a queer accent, don't they?”

I had to smile. Kent had its own accent. And Somerset too, for that matter. I could understand it, having spent a large part of my life there, but to some ­people it was incomprehensible.

I thanked him and went on my way.

I was aware of the stares as I walked back, and the snubs by those I passed. The mist was beginning to lift, and I hurried, not wanting to deal with a confrontation.

Halfway to the Hall as I turned a corner near the abbey wall, I literally ran into Alex Craig.

He caught my arms to steady me, then recognized me as he released me and stepped back.

“Sister,” he said, touching his hat.

“Hallo,” I said. And then before I could think better of it I asked him, “I wonder. Do you by any chance know where I can find a man named Britton?”

His mouth twisted. “Still trying to save the Major's father? He's guilty, you must know that.”

“There's been no trial,” I replied. “Legally, Mr. Ashton is still only a suspect.”

He considered me for a moment. “You must love him deeply to fight so hard for his father.”

Exasperated, I said, “I don't think you realize how self-­absorbed you sound. I have no desire to replace Eloise in Major Ashton's affections. Now or at any time in the future. You remind me of his cousin, Clara, leaping to conclusions because you're so filled with jealousy you can't think about anything else.” I hadn't meant to mention Clara, but it came out before I could help it. And remembering Mrs. Ashton's fears about this man, I wondered for a frightful moment if he'd tried to burn down the house just because he believed Mark had brought his new fiancée home to meet his parents. It never occurred to me that Alex Craig might have leapt to such a conclusion about my visits. But logic doesn't always enter into the picture where love is concerned.

“I'm not
jealous,
” Alex Craig told me, as angry as I'd ever seen anyone. “I wouldn't have replaced Eloise so quickly. I couldn't have. She deserves more than that.”

“If you think Mark Ashton hasn't mourned her as fiercely as you appear to have done, then you're sadly mistaken. Whatever else Eloise was, she seems to have touched you and the Major very deeply. I can't imagine what kind of woman she must have been, to be able to do that. But you dishonor her memory if you judge the grief of others and measure it by your own. Now answer my question, if you please, or go away.”

“I have no idea who he might be,” he said tightly. And with that he brushed past me and limped on down the path by the wall toward the center of Cranbourne.

Watching him, I felt a sudden
frisson
of unease. Alex Craig was certainly in a position to make life unbearable for the Ashtons, as punishment for Mark having won Eloise's heart. He was angry enough to feel many things besides jealousy. I could easily picture him meddling in the Ashton family affairs to salve his own wretchedness at losing Eloise. Even though Mrs. Ashton had been kind to him when Eloise lay dying. Ungrateful man!

Perhaps it wasn't the ghosts of the dead he saw but the ghost of what might have been.

Then I turned away and scolded myself for being quite so fanciful. But that very odd feeling was slow to go away.

Since Alex Craig was definitely not down by the river this morning, I decided it was safe to explore a little on my own. I wasn't quite ready to go back to the Hall.

I walked briskly through the thinning mists toward the river. And when I reached the Cran, I saw that the tide was out and I could cross almost dry-­shod.

I scrambled down the embankment and chose my footing carefully. It was a little more difficult to climb the other side because an outcropping of chalk made it very slippery just there. But used as I was to the mud of France, I made it up to the grassy verge of the river.

Careful of the marshy bits, I walked down toward The Swale, watching the long grasses of late summer blow in the wind. The Swale was a cold steel gray, and beyond I could just catch the ripples of current in the estuary as the sun came out and sparkled across them. The Isle of Sheppey was still partially floating in mist, but close in I thought I could pick out sheep idly grazing. In the distance on this side of The Swale I could see where the fishing fleet lay waiting for the war to end, and in between lay the abbey, of course, and closer to that, the land belonging to the Ashtons. There were the sheep meadows, there the plowed land for the hop gardens.

Turning, I walked toward the ruins of the gunpowder mill. At first I felt only a scattering of stones beneath my boots, and then they were large enough to trip me up. By the time I could see the broken foundations I stopped.

Men were buried here. I wouldn't intrude.

In the distance to my right, I could see a straggling village, and nearer to, the house that must have belonged to Captain Collier, situated very close by where the tracks must have come in from the other Swale villages. They were still shrouded in mist.

The extent of the ruins gave me some feeling for the size of the mill. After all, during the week, three hundred or more souls had been employed here in the manufacture of cordite. Now I could identify the ragged, blackened foundations of several dozen smaller buildings grouped by tasks and the broad crater where perhaps a larger one might have stood. The pond that had fed the operation was now shallow and algae covered, as if it had been neglected, but a pair of mallard ducks floated in the small clear pool where it must still be deep enough for them.

I wondered if this winter the nailbourne would rise again, and feel triumphant that there would be no interference with it now.

And throughout the site stood those shattered and broken trees, some of them struggling to put up new shoots, for a leaf continued to cling to the branches here and there, as if desperate to hide the still raw wounds of this place.

I could believe the ruins were haunted. The way the wind whispered in the tall grass sounded like muted voices, and at night there would be a black and shapeless jumble that belonged only to hunting owls or prowling foxes. No one in his right mind would wander here after dark, for no other reason than fear of breaking a limb among the scattered and only half-­visible stones.

I turned away, crossing the field of grass toward the river. The tide was just turning, and I made my way back to the far side before my boots were soaked. It was with a feeling of relief that I reached the lane that ran down to Abbey Hall.

Mark was preparing to return to Canterbury. I met him just coming out the door on his way to the motorcar.

“There you are,” he said with a smile. “I'm going to have another word with Groves. There has to be something we can do. I can't wait here while they sort it out. Somehow I have to convince Lucius Worley to put up a fight. Do you want to come?”

“Yes, I'd like to. I can stop in the hospital and see what I can learn there.”

“Good, yes, that might work.” He held the door for me and I stepped in, realizing as I did that my boots were muddy from crossing the river and there were burrs on my skirts from the high grass.

Oh, well. It didn't matter.

We made good time into Canterbury, and found the city nearly empty this morning. Mark dropped me at the hospital, asking, “Do you want me to wait for you?”