A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  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.”

  Surprised, I said, “Thank you.” I’d wondered how to discover where Miss Rollins lived, if for no other reason, to find out what she might have told her brother about events in Cranbourne, and if her version of them had helped turn him against the Ashtons. And if he had told her anything about having been shot.

  “And would you mind taking Nan with you? Her lead is hanging on a hook in the hall. You can’t miss it. I’m afraid Mark hasn’t had time to walk her properly, and somehow I haven’t had the heart to drag her away from the study. If the door’s ajar, she’s in there before we can stop her.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  I found the directions, and studied them for a moment. I didn’t know Cranbourne well, but I thought perhaps I could find my way to both women without too much difficulty.

  But what was I to say to either of them?

  Setting out with Nan on her lead, I found my first quarry easily enough.

  Betty Perkins lived on a side street not far from the village square. It was an older house, already showing signs of needing a new coat of paint and new steps at the door. Another of the war’s victims, I thought. There were not enough painters or plasterers or carpenters or thatchers or roofers or chimney sweeps left to keep such houses in good condition. The tradesmen were at the Front, recovering from wounds, or doing other war work instead. I mounted the steps carefully, knocked, and waited for someone to answer my summons.

  Finally a young woman came to the door, opened it narrowly, and said, “What is it you want? If you’re collecting for the wounded, there’s nothing to give you.” Her hair was a stringy brown pulled tight to her head, and she looked very tired, circles beneath her brown eyes. Her hands were red, as if she’d been doing washing. There was a faint yellow tinge to her skin. I’d heard this was the price of working with cordite.

  “Betty Perkins? My name is Bess Crawford. I’m a friend of the Ashtons. Would you mind terribly if I came in and spoke to you for a bit?”

  “What about?” she asked warily.

  “About the explosion at the powder mill. About the whispers circulating that blame Mr. Ashton. I’d like very much to know why these rumors ever got started.”

  She glared at me. “You weren’t here, were you? You didn’t send your brother off to work, and then have someone tell you there wasn’t enough of him left to bury. I don’t know how he died. Nor the man I was to marry. Was they blown to bits, as I was told? Or was they badly hurt and left to burn alive, with no one to save them? You tend the wounded. How does it feel to have your legs blown off, and not be able to move as the fire comes toward you? How long does it hurt?”

  I had no answer for that—­it would only have made her nightmares worse. But I said, “I would be surprised if anyone survived the blast. They wouldn’t have known about the fire.”

  “You don’t know. I dreamed about it for the longest time. Terrible dreams, where I could hear them calling, and I couldn’t help them. I would run through the fire and not be in time—­all I’d find were blackened bits, like a roast left too long in the oven. But I could see their eyes, pleading with me, even though it was too late.”

  “Do you blame Philip Ashton for what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “But if it wasn’t for the war, the mill wouldn’t have been running flat out. They wouldn’t have tons of TNT waiting to be sent to the munitions factory. It was very hot for an April day, and the leaves hadn’t fully come out on the trees that were put in to shade the mill. My brother said it wasn’t like the old ways, it was harder to make the cordite. So many stages. Everyone had to learn the new methods. It was easy to make a mistake. I work now filling shells over on Sheppey. Killing Germans in the only way I can. It’s better than housework any day.”

  But very dangerous. Those women were extraordinarily brave, I thought, to take such risks. They wore garments that were unbecoming, nothing metal, even their hair in a cap. Hardly stylish, but who was there to see them? Only the other women and a handful of men.

  “Have you heard the rumors about Mr. Ashton?”

  “I have. But they don’t do me any good, do they? They won’t bring Joey back, nor Bobby, will they? At least I can have a taste of revenge, filling shell casings. That’s more satisfying.”

  “But who started these rumors? Where did they begin?”

  She shrugged. “How do I know? I just hear them from time to time, and then whoever is telling me the latest gossip remembers I worked for the Ashton family, and they stop.”

  “You’ve never wondered who could hate your former employers so much?”

  “If you’re asking if I’m curious, the answer is no. I don’t really care. It’s no longer my business, what they say about the family. The Ashtons let me go, after all. I don’t owe them any loyalty now, do I? Besides, I have more important things to think about than whether the grates are cleaned properly or the beds tidy and smooth, a room aired. I put the bands on every shell, and I think, ‘This one’s for Bobby. That one’s for Joey.’ And it’s important to get it right, to see the shell isn’t a dud. I don’t want to make duds. They don’t kill anyone.”

  I thanked her for her time and left. Betty Perkins had moved on. The fate of Philip Ashton didn’t weigh with her. She would not go out of her way either to help him or to condemn him. It was her feelings about every shell that mattered, and I thought that must explain the fatigue taking its toll on her body and her spirit. She hadn’t died in the explosion, but it had killed more than her brother and her fiancé.

  I turned back the way I had come, reached the abbey wall, and followed it toward the part of Cranbourne where Agatha Rollins lived. But it took me several minutes to put Betty Perkins and her pain out of my mind.

  Stopping to let Nan sniff a particularly interesting clump of grass by the abbey gates, I forced myself to think about my next approach.

  Should I tell her that I’d encountered her brother in the course of my duties? Like Mrs. Ashton, I had no desire to make matters worse by alienating her. I knew her brother avoided her, but I had no way of knowing how she felt about him.

  I was suddenly reminded of a woman I’d known in our village in Somerset. Surely Miss Rollins co
uldn’t be any more ferocious than Mrs. Clegg—­I remembered as a child believing she must be a witch, poor woman.

  Waiting for Nan, I looked through the abbey gate at the ruins. It must have been a small monastic church compared to the extensive ruins I’d seen elsewhere. Nothing to match great cathedrals like Canterbury or Winchester or Salisbury. I wondered if it had been a way station for pilgrims, a place where the poor could find alms and the wealthier travelers could find lodgings on their way to pray at the shrine of Thomas à Becket. Pilgrimages had not only been popular, they had also brought money into the coffers of the church. And Chaucer had made Canterbury famous as a destination.

  Nan, finally satisfied, turned and trotted politely by my side, quiet and well behaved.

  Thinking about Chaucer, I didn’t notice a group of young boys standing on a street corner watching me from a distance. It was Nan’s low growl and pricked ears that made me look in their direction.

  Ages twelve to fifteen, at a guess. They made me uneasy, staring at me. Having already run the gantlet of their elders on market day, I had the feeling they might prove to be more troublesome. Like dogs that minded their own business when trotting down a street alone, only to turn dangerous when in a pack of four or five.