A Pattern of Lies (30 page)

“Best to find the Sergeant-­Major, then.”

Despite the heavy rain, the state of the roads, and the traffic trying to get through them, we reached the hospital before I was to go on duty in one of the wards. And that was thanks to Sergeant Lassiter's skill with a motorcycle. My heart was still in my throat as I dismounted—­and nearly fell on my face when my limbs refused to hold me up. A laughing Sergeant Lassiter held on to me until the circulation returned, and then I stamped about vigorously until all the feeling was back again. The constant jarring and the tenseness of holding on regardless of the machine's gyrations had taken their toll.

It would require a bath and a complete change of clothes to remove both the mud and the smell the ride had left in its wake.

I thanked the sergeant for his help, and he in turn told me he'd see that word was passed to Simon.

“Don't worry that you couldn't get what you needed from Britton, lass. Leave him to the Sergeant-­Major. He'll know how to go about it.”

Which made it sound as if Simon would use the rack or the iron maiden to make Britton talk.

I smiled. “Let us hope.”

But it was three days before Simon appeared at the influenza hospital. I found time to sit down with him in the canteen and tell him what had happened to Corporal Britton and that I'd spoken to him twice without any luck.

“I'm glad. I've been chasing rumors over half of Flanders.”

It was rather late, and the canteen was nearly empty. I was keeping an eye out for Matron all the same, even though I'd seen her go to her quarters some forty-­five minutes ago. Her face was drawn, and I suddenly worried that she might be coming down with influenza herself. She worked as hard as any of the staff, and sometimes even harder, I thought. And the number of deaths hadn't begun to decline. It was heartbreaking to lose a patient to a disease before which we were so completely helpless. Like some ancient plague brought back from the hot sands of Mesopotamia or Egypt to devastate the modern world.

“Have you news of home?” I asked as I finished my tea.

“Not since I saw you last. You?”

“No. We've heard so many rumors. Do you really believe this war will end soon?” I asked. “Everyone seems so hopeful. It would be sad indeed to disappoint them.”

“I expect by Christmas,” he told me. “I've heard rumors that Germany is in a terrible state, lacking just about everything. Their troops still have the courage to fight on, but even they're finding it hard to defeat the Americans as well the French and the British.”

“I just want the killing and maiming to stop. I want to stop worrying about you and the Colonel Sahib and all my friends—­those who're left. I want my mother to have a little time to herself, instead of traveling around England comforting widows and families of the dead. Or visiting hospitals to cheer up the wounded and the dying.”

He put his hand over mine where it lay beside my cup. It was warm, strong, comforting.

“You've done wonders yourself, Bess. Are there no scars to take home with you?”

“A good many scars,” I admitted. “Sleep will never be quite the same for any of us. Peace will never be quite the same, with so many gone.”

And then it was time for him to leave for Rouen.

I walked back to my quarters and sat down on my cot, knowing that it would be a while before I could rest.

Simon was back within forty-­eight hours. His face was grim, lined with fatigue, and there was anger there as well.

“He's been transferred to England,” he told me straightaway. “Britton. His doctor was concerned about that leg, where the surgery was done. About infection. And so he sent Britton back to England.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Not yet. But I'm leaving for Calais at once. The sooner I'm there in England and can find him, the better.”

I held out two envelopes. It had occurred to me that he could carry my letter home for me, without the delays of censors and the erratic mail. “Will you see that this arrives in Somerset? And that this one reaches the Ashtons in Cranbourne? I told them about Britton, and even though he's been moved from Rouen, it's still information they need to know.”

“I'll see to it.”

“Sergeant Lassiter swears he hadn't touched Britton, and I believe him,” I reminded Simon.

“I expect Britton is in something of a quandary. If he tells anyone that he was beaten by some of the men in the tanks corps, it will be tantamount to confessing to the murder of Sergeant Rollins. They won't admit to beating him, or they'll be up on charges. This will be a crime that goes unsolved.”

“Yes, I thought of that when I tried to question him. Still, it was worth the journey to Rouen. Sometimes after anesthesia or strong sedatives, one's guard is down.”

“A pity it didn't work. All right, I must be on my way. Take care, Bess.”

I watched him out of sight, then went back to my duties.

We lost three more men that night, and two the night afterward, all of them to pneumonia, one of the risks in influenza. But more were brought in each day to take their places.

I had almost no sleep the third night, as several more patients reached their crisis, then in the morning, a messenger brought me a letter from Simon.

It was brief.

I've been delayed. Storms. Leaving tonight.

I told myself it wouldn't matter. Corporal Britton would be sedated for the journey back to England and then the first day or two after his arrival to be sure he rested and that the limb stayed quiet while the bone knit and the stitches healed. It would be examined several times a day to be certain there was no infection, neither the purpling nor the odor of gangrene. The staff wouldn't let him be distressed by questions.

It wouldn't matter.

But I had an uneasy feeling that it would.

I'd been there during the surgery on his leg. I knew the risk of infection.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

W
E HAD A
large number of patients who had survived the influenza and were no longer contagious, but who were suffering from the weakness and malaise that often followed, leaving the body exhausted and unable to cope. It was decided—­I think because of the rumors of peace—­to transfer these patients to England to be cared for in a hospital in the country, where fresh air and exercise would restore them to health. And of course, duty.

I had suffered that weakness myself, unable to lift my hand to feed myself, even to turn my head on the pillow. I knew how humiliating it was for grown men to be as helpless as small children, and sometimes they pushed themselves too hard and suffered a relapse.

When the convoy was arranged, Matron asked if I should like to take it in charge.

I was grateful for the opportunity. I hadn't heard from Simon or from the Ashtons and I longed to see my parents. And so I walked the convalescent wards with Matron, assessing the condition of patients.

Two days later, I was coming down the gangway to meet my counterpart, Sister Cameron, who was arranging transport to London.

“Good evening, Sister Crawford,” she said, walking up to greet me as I was watching the preparations for unloading my charges. “Let's begin, shall we?”

We sent the stretcher cases to the London train first, haggard men with sunken, dark-­rimmed eyes, followed by seven men in invalid chairs pushed by orderlies. They gazed at the white cliffs rising beyond the harbor with amazement, as if unable to believe what they saw. One soldier hadn't been home in three and a half years.

“Died and gone to heaven,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Heavy clouds hung over the castle ramparts, and a cold drizzle was falling. We hurried to get our charges under cover as quickly as possible.

As I worked, I looked for Diana or Mary, hoping that they might be passing through. But no such luck. An orderly waiting for the next ship back to France promised to send a telegram for me, letting my parents know that I was on my way to London. There was no assurance it would arrive in a timely fashion, but I could hope.

We reached London, and there was my father, chatting with the stationmaster. I finished arranging for the last patient to be sent onward, and as I signed the last papers, he came striding toward me.

“You're in London,” I said in surprise. “Is Mother here as well?”

“She's in Somerset, but she managed to reach me.” He looked tired. “I've just arrived from Paris,” he added, “but that's for your ears only. I got in two hours ago, and her message was waiting for me at my club.”

He took up my kit and we walked toward the exit to the station. “She's well,” he went on. “And sends her love. How much time do you have?”

“Not a lot, sadly.”

“Simon is in a convalescent hospital outside Folkestone. Your man Britton was taken there as soon as he landed. As I understand it, his fever spiked, and there was some concern about sending him on to Hampshire.”

“That's worrying,” I told him. “Has he spoken?”

“I don't know that Simon has been allowed to see him. I expect you want to reach Folkestone as soon as possible.”

“Yes, if you don't mind.” I smiled ruefully. “I seem to be dashing away almost as soon as I arrive. Did you discover anything about this man, Corporal Britton?”

“Unfortunately, very little that would help you or the Ashtons. I did learn that he was in France in late May of 1916. That's when he was promoted to corporal. Half his company was killed in an attack that went wrong, and he got himself and the rest of the men back safely. With that information I sent one of my ­people to Devon to find his recruiting officer. Sergeant Hull told us that Britton had enlisted just after war had been declared and one step ahead of the police. He was wanted for questioning in a housebreaking case where the owner was badly hurt. But no one would name him, everyone was too afraid of him, even though the local man was certain who it was. In fact, Constable Lake was happy to let the Army take Britton off his hands just to get him out of his patch. Britton went through his training with high marks. The officer in charge called him a natural soldier. Then he was injured on the last day of exercises, and had to be pulled from the ranks. I expect that's how he came to be assigned as someone's batman. I also wonder if that injury might have been contrived by his mates. He was not particularly liked by the men he trained with. Since 1916, there have been a few blemishes on his record, mostly insubordination, but never severe enough to strip him of his rank or report him for discipline.”

“A natural troublemaker.”

“So it would appear.”

“And someone who might have no qualms about killing,” I said. But it could also mean that Britton and Rollins might have a history we didn't know existed. Still, that left Sister Morris to be accounted for.

I was on the point of mentioning this to my father when I saw Simon's motorcar waiting just outside the railway station.

“He left it in London,” the Colonel explained. “And I've commandeered it. However, he needs it in Folkestone. Shall I act as your chauffeur as far as Rochester?”

“What is in Rochester, that you're traveling there?” I asked.

“A staff motorcar that will return me to London.”

I laughed. “You should have joined the Army. You're very good at organizing transport.”

He laughed in his turn, and we set out for Kent.

His staff motorcar was waiting at the railway station in Rochester, and I said good-­bye to him there. I had enjoyed our journey. The qualities that had made the Colonel Sahib such a good officer had made him a good father as well, and I missed his reassuring presence beside me as I turned the motorcar toward Folkestone. It had been busy as a port through most of the war, relieving the pressure on Dover to handle all the traffic to and from France.

It was nearly dawn and still drizzling when I reached Canterbury. And I was very tired by that time. I decided that Simon wouldn't mind if I went out of my way very briefly, both to rest and to call on the Ashtons.

The maids and the kitchen staff were up and busy with their duties when I arrived at six. Mrs. Byers, smiling to see me, took me at once to the room I was accustomed to using, got me into bed with a minimum of fuss, lit the fire, and brought up a hot water bottle to put at my feet until the room warmed a little. I barely remember seeing her shut the door.

Accustomed to managing on very little sleep, I was awake by nine. I bathed and dressed before going down to Helen Ashton's sitting room.

She was there with Clara, but Mark was in Canterbury, seeing the military board about extending his leave. Mr. Heatherton-­Scott was still in possession of Philip Ashton's study, but no one knew quite where Henry was.

“He's a miracle worker,” Mrs. Ashton said as she rang for a belated breakfast for me. “According to Heatherton-­Scott, Henry has managed to speak to quite a few ­people, and he reports that most of them never saw Philip near the ruins of the mill that day. But they had all heard from someone else that he was behaving suspiciously, and that the fire began while he was standing there. He waited until it was sufficiently alight before telling everyone who came to rescue any wounded to stay away. And Henry learned that the Benning woman claimed in her statement to have seen Philip hand the foreman something when they were talking earlier that morning. It was thought he'd given the man cigarettes.”

“And they still believe that? In a gunpowder mill?” I shook my head. “Mr. Ashton doesn't smoke. Did anyone think to ask if the foreman did?”

“According to the ever resourceful Henry, the foreman's widow claims he'd never smoked in his life because of his work in the mill. Still, it's interesting to see just how many ­people are willing to believe something they've been told when they're already looking for a reason to dislike someone. It's all a pattern of hearsay and rumor, a pattern of lies, and yet it's accepted as truth.”

“But what good will this do at Mr. Ashton's trial, if you still don't know how these rumors started?”

Her enthusiasm faded. “That's been troubling. Even Henry hasn't found a name. ­People remember all the accusations, but when he asks who told them such and such a story, it's a neighbor or someone at the greengrocer's or overheard as they're walking out of church on a Sunday. One man claimed it was a woman standing in a queue at the post office in Canterbury who told him Philip Ashton had wanted more money from the Army, and had even threatened to blow up his own mill if he wasn't given it.”

“Mrs. Branch, she of the chickens,” I said, gesturing to where Nan lay curled up on the hearth rug. “There was someone with her when we were there to confront her. Has Henry looked into that?”

“She vehemently denies it.”

“I saw him. I watched him leave her house.”

“She talks vaguely about a friend's son bringing her a jar of cherry preserves. But she can't remember who it was or when. She says we frightened her, and it went out of her head.”

“Frightened her?”

“We threatened her, according to Henry.”

“How does he manage to make these ­people talk to him?” I asked.

Clara said, “He has a
knack
. According to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott.”

“Does he indeed? But with Sergeant Rollins dead, you have very little hard evidence to use in a courtroom,” I pointed out.

“This man Britton who killed the sergeant—­we asked Henry to find out what he could about him. But ­people shake their heads and claim not to know anyone by that name. And Mark consulted Philip's records. There isn't a Britton, male or female, on the rolls of the mill. I didn't think there was.”

I didn't tell them what my father had discovered about the corporal's troubles with the police. I wanted to talk to Simon first. But I did say, “I'm on my way to see Britton. I've learned he's in a hospital outside Folkestone.”

“Is he indeed?” Her eyebrows rose. “Then we must tell Henry. The Beaufort House? Yes, it must be. They offered it to the Army as a hospital after they'd lost a son at Ypres. The first time gas was used. Mark remembers him. There was a party there before the war, on the occasion of the son's engagement. A lovely house, with views down to the Channel.”

I asked to speak to Mr. Heatherton-­Scott, and he listened intently to what I had to say about Corporal Britton.

“The question we must ask now,” he said, “is how to connect Rollins and Britton and the explosion. Otherwise the prosecution will claim it was a personal quarrel between the two men. Beaufort House, you say? I'll put Henry on it.”

“There's the matter of Sister Morris. If we can show that someone intended to attack me instead, it should go a long way toward providing a link. I'd been trying to convince Sergeant Rollins to give the police a statement. And generally talking to ­people in Cranbourne. Someone could have been worried about that. It's the only conclusion I can draw.”

“There's that. And I tend to agree with you. Still, it would be better if there was definite proof. See if Corporal Britton will talk to you about Sister Morris. He's back in England, now. He can be brought to testify.” He paused, playing with his pen. “Henry did say he has encountered any number of faulty memories in the course of his inquiries. Britton could be a name that ­people prefer
not
to recall.”

“I'm on my way to speak to him now. If I learn anything, I'll let you know.”

“Yes, thank you. That would save time. The trial is next week.”

Stunned, I stared at him. “But you have almost nothing to show that Philip Ashton is innocent.”

“We have a few things. Sergeant Rollins's original statement to the Army doesn't mention Ashton. Surely if he'd seen something suspicious, he would have told the Army straightaway? The Army was seeking answers, and if Rollins had known it was Ashton rather than German saboteurs, it would have changed the direction of their inquiry immediately. Surely they wouldn't have spent so much time on searching for Germans if they'd had their miscreant in the beginning.”

A good many
surely
s there, I thought. Mr. Heatherton-­Scott was probably absolutely right in his assumptions, but would a jury accept them as facts? Still, added to the clear explanation of the rumors and the lack of supporting evidence behind them, it just might work.

“And, of course, Inspector Brothers had relatives killed in the explosion, which affects his objectivity. He would naturally wish to see their deaths avenged. And then there is the financial point of view, that a small explosion or fire in one building would have achieved Mr. Ashton's purpose, if that was to draw the government's attention to his demands.”

“Unless that small explosion got out of hand.”

“True. But he knew his mill.”

It was a very carefully constructed defense, far more effective than anything Groves had attempted to draw up. But was it enough? Without Rollins there?

Mr. Heatherton-­Scott must have read the doubt in my face. He smiled. “Even bricks are made of straw, but put together they can hold up a house.”

“I thought I had more, that Sergeant Rollins could provide mortar at least. But it wasn't to be.”

“Juries are strange creatures, Sister Crawford. When they see me in my invalid chair, they're amused. A great barrister is like Mr. Worley, tall, imposing, with a shock of white hair that makes him look rather like Beethoven. Or a Sistine Chapel vision of God. A puny man in a chair can't amount to much. But they listen to me because they're curious. And when that happens I know I have them.”

I smiled. “I wish I could be there to see it.”

He laughed, a deep chuckle. “You would stand amazed.”