A Pattern of Lies (26 page)

 

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

M
RS.
A
SHTON WAS
silent, shock in her eyes.

I hadn't realized just how much she had still hoped that Sergeant Rollins would relent in the end and somehow help her husband clear himself. She hadn't spoken to him in France as I had done; she still believed that by some miracle, he would change his mind.

But he wouldn't now. Whatever he'd known had died with him.

Mrs. Byers, still holding up the lamp, looked from one to the other of us. “It's bad news, then.”

“I'm afraid so,” I answered.

“I'll put the kettle on. You'll be needing a cup of tea.”

She turned to go down the stairs, and without a word we followed her. Not just to the sitting room but down to the kitchen below stairs.

It was immaculate in the light of her lamp. She lit another to chase away the shadows, and then went to test the stove and to put the kettle on. We sat down at the long table where the staff usually took their meals. Butler and footmen, housekeeper and maids. Only it was a much reduced staff these days.

Mrs. Ashton said, “He was famous, wasn't he? Rollins? The best tank man we had.”

“Yes. His tank was named for his sister. Agatha.” I could have bit my tongue as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

Mrs. Ashton said quickly, “What else did you know about him?”

“Not much. He took very good care of his men. He'd been in the tanks almost from the start. He was respected by everyone.”

She nodded. “Yes, he's been called a hero. Here in Cranbourne. What do you think he could have told the court?”

I shrugged lightly. “Your guess is as good as mine. I'd hoped he could tell us whether he'd seen flames from his vantage point on The Swale, well before Mr. Ashton reached the ruins. It was possible. And it would have helped.”

She sighed.

“I couldn't be sure whether he refused to testify or give a statement because he knew it would help—­or send your husband to the gallows. I don't think he liked Mr. Ashton, particularly. Perhaps that's why he wouldn't help. But it's even possible that he hadn't seen anything of importance, just as he'd said in his first statement. He hadn't seen any Germans, and he hadn't seen anyone else.”

“Well,” she said as Mrs. Byers set cups in front of us, “there is nothing we can do, is there? No, Mrs. Byers, sit here, at the table with us,” she added as the housekeeper turned to leave us to speak privately. “Thank you for the tea. I badly needed it. And I think Sister Crawford did as well.”

I smiled. “Yes, thank you.”

“But what, if I may ask, does this change?” Mrs. Byers wanted to know, speaking diffidently. “If he wasn't going to testify at all, Mr. Ashton's situation hasn't changed at all, to my way of thinking.”

“There was hope,” Mrs. Ashton said gently.

“Yes, hope, there's that. But if he didn't absolve Mr. Ashton, at least he didn't bury him either.”

Mrs. Ashton put down her cup. “It's true. We're no better nor worse off than we were before.” But however bracingly she said the words, I knew how much the news had hurt her.

Hope taken away could be a very painful loss.

We sat there in silence for quite some time, sipping our tea, our thoughts far away from this tidy room with its cream walls and brown floor, the lamps casting shadows into corners and the silence somehow reminding us of the cheerful voices that usually filled this space.

Our cups empty, we set them in the sink for the morning, and Mrs. Byers blew out the kitchen lamp, leading us back up the kitchen stairs into the hall.

We had just turned toward the steps when the outside door opened and Mark came striding in.

He stopped short at the spectacle of three women in their nightdresses standing at the bottom of the stairs and staring at him as if he were the ghost of Sergeant Rollins.

Mrs. Ashton was the first to recover, smiling at her son and then breaking into a nervous laugh. “Mark,” she said, as if she barely recognized him.

“What the devil—­! Has something happened?” He looked around, as if expecting to see smoke or flames billowing out of one of the rooms to either side of the staircase.

Mrs. Byers said formally, “Major Ashton. We weren't expecting you tonight.”

“Apparently not. My father?” The door was standing wide behind him, and I could just see the headlamps of a motorcar lighting up the night outside.

“He's all right, my dear. As far as we know. But there's been a telegram about another matter.” She held out her hand, and I passed the telegram to her. She in turn gave it to her son.

Mrs. Byers brought the single lamp forward so that he could read it better. As it shone on his face, I could see the lines of fatigue around his mouth and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

Scanning the telegram quickly, he said, “Well. I'm glad I got rid of Groves.”

Then, remembering, he added, “You won't know about that, Mother. I'll explain later.” He gave her the telegram, turning to Mrs. Byers. “I've brought a houseguest down from London with me. He has—­er—­special needs and has his valet with him. Sorry to ask you to wake up a maid and prepare two rooms, but it's important.”

I said, before the astonished housekeeper could think what to do, “I'll help her, Mark. I'm sure there are rooms ready, Mrs. Byers? A change of sheets or a fire lit on the hearth?”

She looked at me, and I knew what she was about to say, that I was a guest.

Mrs. Ashton spoke. “And I'll help as well. We mustn't keep our guest waiting. And I'm not dressed to receive anyone. At breakfast, Mark?”

“Yes,” he said, clearly relieved. “Thank you, Mother. Bess. Mrs. Byers.”

But we were already hurrying up the steps, Mrs. Ashton deciding on which rooms to assign to the guest and his valet, Mrs. Byers nodding as she considered the state of each one. Mrs. Ashton and I continued down the passage while Mrs. Byers went to the linen closet for fresh bedding. Mrs. Ashton chose a room several doors down from mine, hurrying to open a window a crack while I knelt at the hearth.

“Mrs. Byers was right,” I said. “It only needs a match.” Rising, I found one in the container on the mantelpiece, thinking to myself that despite the war and the lack of staff, here were two bedrooms with fires ready laid and sheets sprinkled with lavender, in the event someone arrived without notice. Just as my room had been ready for me.

Mrs. Byers came in with the bedding and the three of us made short work of changing the linens. The fresh ones also smelled of lavender. The window was closed, we checked that the fire was drawing well, already taking a little of the chill off the unused room, and then we hurried next door. It was smaller, but just as well prepared. We repeated what we'd done a matter of minutes before, and then nodded in satisfaction. When Mrs. Ashton wasn't looking, Mrs. Byers ran a finger over the wood of a table by the window. It brought no dust with it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Byers,” Mrs. Ashton said as we closed the door behind us and started down the passage. “And will you tell Mrs. Lacey that we will have two more guests for breakfast, one in the dining room and the other with staff downstairs? Indefinitely?”

“I will that. Good night.”

She walked on toward the servants' stairs at the end of the passage, while Mrs. Ashton and I went on toward our rooms.

“I hope whoever it is that Mark brought with him is a better man than Mr. Groves,” she said as she opened her door. “We're going to need him. Good night, my dear. Thank you.”

I went the dozen more steps to my own door, and was just closing it when I saw a strange man coming up the stairs and setting down an invalid chair at the top before disappearing down them again.

It was an unexpected sight.

I closed my door smartly as voices came up the stairwell, Mark's among them.

The next morning the Hall had a feeling of bustle about it. As I walked into the dining room, I saw that Mark was already there, and at his side at the table sat a thin, bespectacled man in an invalid chair—­the chair I'd glimpsed last night.

Mark rose and presented me to Theodore Heatherton-­Scott.

“She's a houseguest at the moment, but I can't tell you how much she has done for all of us. It was Sister Crawford who received the telegram I spoke to you about. The one informing us that Sergeant Rollins had been killed.”

I walked around to his chair and he took my hand. “Good morning, Sister.” His voice was strong and deep, and behind the spectacles intelligent gray eyes met mine. “I'm sorry for the midnight arrival, but we wanted to be in Canterbury as quickly as possible.”

I wasn't sure just who this man was, but Mark quickly enlightened me.

“Mr. Heatherton-­Scott has come to represent my father in his upcoming trial. He'll dispense with a local solicitor at this stage. There's a man in London who will act on our behalf, as necessary.”

Mrs. Byers came in just then, carrying a fresh rack of toast. She greeted me, and then said to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, “Your valet has finished his breakfast, sir, and has asked me to tell you that he's ready whenever you ring.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Byers.”

I filled my plate from the buffet and sat down. “I don't know whether it's bad news or good that Sergeant Rollins has been killed. I intended to go into Canterbury this morning and send a telegram to my father, asking for further details.”

“Yes, your father is Colonel Crawford, is he not? I know him by reputation. A cousin served under him in India. A Lieutenant Scott.”

I remembered him. A very pleasant officer who was not only popular with the men under him but with the ladies as well. Everyone liked him, and we were sorry to lose him to a virulent fever he'd picked up while in Lahore.

I told Mr. Heatherton-­Scott that.

“Indeed. We were all devastated. But as to the sergeant, we will manage quite well without him.” He smiled, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “I have the disadvantage of being chair bound, but Henry is mobile and very useful. Would you be insulted if I asked you to tell him all you know about this affair? We will put him to good use, and he has the advantage of not being known in the community.”

“I'll be happy to.”

“I'm grateful. Ah—­” He broke off as Mrs. Ashton came in. “I'm sorry to have arrived like a thief in the night,” he said to her as she came to greet him. “I'm replacing your Mr. Worley. I hope you won't mind.”

Charmed, she walked over to his chair as I had done, and he took her hand. “I am grateful, Mr. Heatherton-­Scott. I can't tell you how grateful.”

In the course of their conversation he asked her about speaking to Henry, and by this time I was curious about the valet. I'd only glimpsed him briefly at the head of the stairs.

After we'd finished breakfast, I was summoned to the study, where Mr. Heatherton-­Scott sat in his chair behind Mr. Ashton's desk, papers spread out around him. I looked for Mark, but he wasn't present.

Another man was, who rose politely as I entered. This time I had a very good look at him. He was tall, but not noticeably so, quite broad in the shoulder, and, I had a feeling, quite strong as well. His hair was thick and brown, well cut to the shape of his head, and his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, the most notable feature about him. It occurred to me that Henry could walk anywhere and not draw attention to himself unless he wished to.

Mr. Heather-­Scott presented him, and he came forward, bowing slightly, the way a well-­trained valet would have done.

It seemed that he looked after Mr. Heatherton-­Scott in more ways than one, personally and professionally.

He said quietly, in a very pleasant baritone, “Sister.”

“Now that that's out of the way,” Mr. Heatherton-­Scott went on, “I should like you to tell us what you know about the Ashtons and about the ­people connected to this explosion. Please speak frankly. Nothing you say will leave this room. But it may help me to fill in the blanks of my knowledge.”

I started to sit down in the chair in front of the desk, but he was already rolling his chair out from behind it, moving toward the grouping of chairs by the hearth. It changed the atmosphere from formal to comfortable. Henry went to stand by the hearth. I expected him to take out a notebook, but instead, he simply stood there, looking out toward the double doors to the terrace, where the wind was battering at the bare trees. I had the distinct impression that he would not miss a word.

I began with my arrival in Cranbourne, and slowly told Mr. Heatherton-­Scott everything I had known and done. He was most particularly interested in the embroidered cushion I'd discovered when Sister Morris was nearly suffocated.

“We may be dealing with more than one person here,” he said thoughtfully. “In France and in Kent.”

That had occurred to me as well, but I couldn't think of anyone who might be a strong enough candidate for masterminding both Kent and the trenches.

When I said as much aloud, Mr. Heatherton-­Scott glanced at his valet and then turned his gaze back to me. “Leave that to me to untangle. I have resources that you don't, although your connections with the Army may be very useful to us in discovering precisely what happened to Sergeant Rollins. Are you certain you've remembered everything?”

I had—­except for the remarks Mrs. Ashton had made to the night outside her broken window. That was too personal, and I wanted to be sure of my ground before mentioning it.

“You've been most helpful, Sister Crawford. And very concise, very clear. That's even more helpful. Who do you think is behind the troubles that have faced the Ashtons?”

“I wish I knew.”

He nodded. “With luck we'll soon find that out. Do you believe that Mr. Groves had intentionally tried to dissuade his client, Mr. Ashton, from standing trial?”