A Pattern of Lies (6 page)

“Do you think she could have been behind the whispers? She knew the family better than most of the other survivors. She would know best how to hurt the Ashtons.”

Mrs. Byers frowned. “Oh, I can't think Betty would do such a thing.”

But I wasn't as easily convinced.
Someone
was behind the trouble here. If the maid hadn't taken an active part, someone might have used her knowledge of the family for their own ends.

“How long after Betty had left employment here did the harassment start?”

“Much later. A matter of several months.” Her tone of voice told me she thought this eliminated Betty from any list of suspects.

Perhaps it seemed a long time to Mrs. Byers but certainly not to someone who was already turning his or her attention to Philip Ashton as the person responsible for what happened.

Four months ago, the rumors began.

June, Mark had said. When we were so grateful the Americans were joining in the fighting. When the Marines held out at Belleau Wood against all odds. When it seemed that the war might actually end in victory. Only it wasn't quite as certain now.

How did it begin? A suggestion here, a comment there? Gaining no momentum at first, but slowly casting a shadow of suspicion over the Ashtons as more ­people passed on what they'd heard and finally began to believe it themselves.

I remembered something Mark had said. “And the Ashtons' friends—­neighbors. Do they believe these accusations too? Is there no one who would step forward and offer his help or defend Mr. Ashton?”

“Not to speak ill of anyone,” Mrs. Byers said, turning her head to look out the window, “but I was that surprised when acquaintances stopped calling and invitations stopped coming. I don't know that their friends believe all they hear, mind you. But where there's smoke, there must be fire, if you take my meaning.”

I did. It was very English to avoid unpleasantness, to adopt a wait-­and-­see approach to anything that smacked of being disagreeable. And certainly Philip Ashton was not a warm man, the sort of person who drew others close. He had been very kind to me, knowing how his wife felt about me, but I had glimpsed a formality that must often have kept ­people at a distance. Mark had said much the same thing. Which meant in times of trouble, there were few who would risk censure by standing up for him. His arrest wouldn't help matters. It would be seen as proof that friends and neighbors had been right to stay away, however much they might pity Mrs. Ashton.

Mrs. Byers cleared her throat. “It's wrong of me to be gossiping about the family,” she said. “If you'll excuse me, Sister, I have my duties to attend to.”

I let her go. There was no reason to keep her, and as she brought her anger and distress under control, she was less and less likely to confide in me, a stranger and a guest.

But I couldn't help but think that whoever was behind this persecution would have seen the fruition of his or her plan as the police led Philip Ashton away to gaol on multiple charges of murder. ­People in the square wouldn't look away from the police carriage taking him to Canterbury. They wouldn't want to miss that sight.

From now on, the Ashtons would have enough to worry about to satisfy anyone.

I had stepped out into the passage, intending to go upstairs for half an hour, when Mrs. Ashton came out of the sitting room, saying, “Ah. There you are, Bess.” With an uneasy sigh, she went on. “I sent everything I could think of with Mark. Philip will want to be presentable, whatever happens, and at least he'll have a decent meal tonight. I don't know how the police will view our bringing in food on a regular basis, but that's all right. It's important for him to make the best of things, even the sort of food they insist on providing.”

I thought as I followed her and sat down next to her favorite chair that she was trying to convince herself that her husband would be taken care of. ­People like the Ashtons had never set foot in a cell. Gaol was as foreign to them as the harem of a Turkish pasha.

I smiled. “I'm sure he'll manage well. He's the sort of man who can.”

Her blue eyes flashed warmly at the praise. “Yes, you're absolutely right, my dear. He
will
manage. I must remember that. And it will be our duty to support him in any way we can think of.”

Her concern was evident, but so was her absolute certainty that right must prevail, that her husband would come home again as soon as this unfortunate mistake had been sorted out.

There was a scratching at the door, and Mrs. Ashton rose quickly to let the spaniel in. It went directly to the hearth rug and curled up with a forlorn sigh.

“Poor Nan,” Mrs. Ashton said gently, coming back to her chair. “You don't understand, do you? Well, neither do I.”

It occurred to me then how very little I knew about Philip Ashton. The gracious host who'd welcomed me might be quite different in other circumstances. I had only the views of others to judge by, and his family, his staff, would wish me to believe the best of him. Yet, to be honest with myself, I couldn't even be sure he was innocent. But for Mark's sake and Mrs. Ashton's sake, I prayed that he was. He'd certainly dealt with his arrest with a coolness that spoke of a strong self-­control. He'd resisted any temptation to argue or struggle or run. And that was a measure of his strength of mind.

But cool nerves and self-­control could work both ways, as I'd already seen.

I remembered that one of my friends in Somerset—­sadly dead at the first battle of Mons—­had told me about his time at University. How the town and the gown were always at odds, living together in an uneasy alliance. It was certainly true between Cranbourne and Abbey Hall, and not because of any of the public drunkenness, bawdiness, and outrageous pranks that annoyed the citizenry of Oxford. The question was, what had turned the usually cooperative relationship between the village and the Hall so sour? Was it the recent deaths of so many men, or had it been stewing under the surface for a much longer time, waiting for the right circumstances to burst through?

But when I tried to approach this idea obliquely, Mrs. Ashton shook her head and told me, “Philip's father had such progressive ideas about his responsibilities at the mill. It shocked a good many ­people, but his view was that if the workers were to be handling something that could kill them and everyone around them in an instant, they needed to be reasonably healthy. And he took it upon himself to look into their welfare. Philip has felt the same way.” She smoothed the pretty brocade that covered the arm of her chair, small bunches of cream flowers against a blue background. “My father told him once that coddling ­people in the village would only give them an exaggerated opinion of their own worth and lead to trouble. It was the only time I saw Philip lose his temper with my father. They never did agree. Not that my father mistreated anyone, no, it was more a question of letting the villagers get on with their own lives, and helping when it was necessary.”

The light from the tall windows next to her chair showed only too clearly how tired and distressed she was, and I quickly changed the subject. Before very long she was telling me how she and her husband met—­at a ball at Leeds Castle—­and about a wedding that was all she could have wished for. “The sun came out of the clouds that morning, and it was the most glorious day. Warm enough, but not too warm. A lovely blue sky. I couldn't believe my good luck. My sister's wedding day had been rain from morning to night.” And then she was remembering the evening that Mark had been born, and how pleased everyone was with her for providing the family with an heir straightaway. I listened as she recalled other happier times and watched as the tension around her eyes lessened a little.

Mrs. Byers had just brought in our tea when we heard the house door opening.

Helen Ashton lifted her head, listening eagerly. Nan rose from the hearth rug, her ears alert, also listening. Mrs. Byers, transfixed, the tea tray still in her hands, stared at Clara. And Clara's eyes widened with hope. But all we could hear was one set of footsteps coming down the passage. Nan's tail drooped, and she went back to her accustomed place.

Mark appeared in the doorway. He looked as if he'd been fighting a battle, and I was sure he had been. Verbally, at least. His face was drawn, his mouth set. And then he smiled for his mother's sake.

“Did they allow him to have his valise?” she asked quickly.

“Yes, and the food. This once.” He took a deep breath. “Groves was allowed to see him. The police haven't given us all the evidence yet, but this is a start. We'll know more tomorrow.”

Mrs. Ashton passed him a cup of tea. I thought perhaps he'd have preferred a whisky, but in deference to his mother he took it, drinking it while still standing.

“I'm sure Mr. Groves knows what he's doing,” she said briskly, putting a good face on his news. “And we'll find the best barrister in Kent. In the event your father isn't released by tomorrow.”

“I've spoken to Groves about that. The man's name is Worley. Lucius Worley. Groves is arranging a meeting with my father as soon as may be.”

“Worley,” Mrs. Ashton said pensively. “I know that name. Now from where?”

“Groves asked my father about him. He said he hasn't met him.”

She finished her tea and set the cup on the table. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.” Looking up, she smiled. “Shall we dress for dinner, tonight? Bess, I'm sure Clara can find something suitable for you. I know how tired you must be, Mark, dear, but keeping up appearances matters most at a time like this.”

I saw the flicker of doubt in his face, and then he nodded. “Yes, of course.”

We came down to dinner at seven. Clara had given me a lovely gown in pale peach, which went well with my light brown hair and dark eyes. I tried to remember the last time I'd dressed for dinner in something other than my uniform, but I couldn't.

It was not the happiest of meals. I was amazed by what Mrs. Lacey had managed to do, in spite of shortages of nearly everything. Still it didn't lift our spirits, and afterward, sitting in the drawing room struggling to make pleasant conversation felt rather odd, without Mr. Ashton's presence. Nan followed us, as she had done all evening, patiently waiting for her master's return.

I think we were all relieved when Mrs. Ashton said with a sigh, “I expect I should go up. I'm rather tired. Bess, do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ashton. And my gratitude to you, Clara, for the loan of your gown.”

“It suits you,” Mark said, lightly. Then he added, “While waiting for Groves to come back to his chambers, I walked over to the railway station. No sign of a train for you yet. The stationmaster is beside himself.”

“Mark, how kind of you to think about that.” I was both amazed and grateful.

He turned to his cousin. “And, Clara, I must say I've always liked that particular blue gown,” he added with a smile. She blushed at the compliment, but thanked him prettily. “I'll take a turn outside before retiring. Good night, Mother.” He came to kiss her cheek and then walked with us as far as the stairs. Nan got to her feet, shook herself vigorously, and trotted to the door.

“I'll take her outside,” he said. “And put her in Father's room afterward.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

When I looked back from the landing, I could see the sadness in his face as his gaze followed his mother. And I couldn't believe that Mr. Groves had given him any news that could possibly be construed as hopeful.

My window looked over the high wall and down on the abbey grounds. Even in the light of day there hadn't been much to see. All that was left was the barest outline of what had once been a prosperous community of monks. No tall traceried windows, empty of glass, no great arches and bits of transepts and towers to give a sense of what once had stood there. Not even the stumps of buttresses. Grass had taken over, covering the foundations, which ran as lumpy lines here and there, and an occasional tree growing out of a jumble of stone offered shade. In the distance I could just see flower borders where someone had tried to add a bit of color to the grounds, but the spirit of the place, the heart of it, had long since vanished. All the way to Calais, where the stones had shored up the harbor? Or to some house or shed or pigsty that had benefited? In the dark, there was only a vast emptiness, enclosed by the black line of the wall. I heard a fox bark in the distance, but couldn't conjure up the evensong of the monks.

The cool night air was refreshing, and I left my windows wide.

With a sigh I turned away and undressed, washing my face and hands before climbing into bed. Someone had thoughtfully left several books by the carafe of water on my table, but I wasn't in the mood to read. I set my watch beside them and blew out the lamp.

For a moment my thoughts wandered to London, where I had lived in lodgings in Mrs. Hennessey's house since the first weeks of the war. Had one of my flatmates come in on leave? And where was the Colonel Sahib, or for that matter Simon Brandon?

He now lived in the cottage just through the wood behind our house, and in India he'd taught me to ride and shoot, shielded me from retribution for the worst of my childhood transgressions, and, young as he was, served as my father's Regimental Sergeant-­Major. That was, until a few years before the war, when my father had retired from active duty. Recalled to special duty in 1914, they were often off on some mission or other, much of it secret. My mother and I never asked where or why.

Or had my father and Simon spent the evening with my mother? And where was she? In Somerset, or visiting a recent war widow, giving her consolation and support?

With a sigh, I scolded myself for feeling a twinge of homesickness, and instead thought about the evening here at Abbey Hall.

I could commiserate with the Ashtons, trying to keep up appearances as Mrs. Ashton had put it. But it had been even more painful for her and her son, I thought, than just giving in to the moment and dining in our street clothes. It had only emphasized the fact that Mr. Ashton was not in his customary seat at the head of the table. Or his usual chair in the drawing room. And Mark had not presumed to sit in either one tonight.