A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  They were of an age, too, to have heard their parents talking about the Ashtons, and then consider it something of a lark to tear down pasture walls or throw rotten eggs at a house door in the middle of the night. Constable Hood had referred to high spirits, and he might have known what he was talking about. Although high spirits in this case was little more than pure vandalism.

  Speaking softly to Nan to calm her down, I was debating what to do if they crossed the road.

  And then Alex Craig turned into the same street, slowed as he saw them, and with a few words, scattered them about their business. I couldn’t tell if he’d seen me or just the prospects for trouble of some kind.

  I came to the end of the abbey wall, where it turned down toward the water. A long drive went in through a plantation of trees that obscured the house at the end, and I thought it must be the other surviving building from the abbey, whose present owners were living in London. Indeed, there was a heavy chain across the drive farther along. I walked on, staying on the main road until I’d come to a pair of lanes, one running back into the village and another snaking through high grass toward a row of cottages leading down toward the distant blue of water. I thought these might belong to fishermen, because one or two had nets spread to dry on racks and left there to rot when the fishing fleet found itself shut in by the German raiders and the men who manned it went off to fight in France. In the distance now, beyond a line of what appeared to be sheds, I could see the sturdy fishing boats themselves pulled up out of the water for the duration and left like driftwood along the shoreline. High grass grew up their sides and caught in the rudders, even as vines had run up and over the gunwales.

  The fifth cottage in was a little larger than its neighbors, and I wondered why the Rollins family had prospered enough to build on. The addition had settled, indicating it was probably a good thirty years old, but it had nearly doubled the size of the original cottage and could well have cost more than a fisherman earned.

  Nan and I went up a walk set off by seashells and the dying stalks of marigolds and petunias on either side, and I knocked lightly on the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NO ONE ANSWERED at first, and I thought perhaps Miss Rollins wasn’t in. Then the door opened a crack and a woman’s face peered out.

  “And what may you be wanting, Sister?” she asked in a cold voice.

  “Miss Rollins? May I come in?”

  I didn’t expect her to let me set foot through the door, but to my surprise, after a moment she stepped back. I looped Nan’s lead around a boot scraper, and followed Miss Rollins inside. I had to bend my head a little to pass through the door, and I thought with amusement that Simon would have had a narrow miss with the lintel, even ducking to pass through.

  The smile was still there as I straightened up, and I met with a scowl, as if she thought I was judging her home.

  The room was immaculate. Colorful rag rugs carpeted the floor, and the furnishings, while of another generation, gleamed with polish. There was a lovely old nursing rocker by the hearth, and through a doorway I could see the glow of copper pots hung on a rack above the cookstove. A spinning wheel stood in a corner, and all the chairs had lace antimacassars where one’s head and hands might rest. There were lace curtains at the three windows, and several pots of herbs sitting on the ledges.

  House proud was the expression that came to mind.

  Nor was there even a hint of masculinity, as if Miss Rollins refused to acknowledge the fact that her brother also lived here.

  Leaving the door open to indicate that she expected the interview to be brief, she grudgingly offered me a seat. As I thanked her and took it, I had my first really good look at Miss Rollins.

  She must have been quite pretty when she was young. She had good bones, as my mother would say, the kind of structure to her face that would carry over well into age. But disappointment and bitterness had soured her, her mouth turning down, her hazel eyes hard now. And the lines bracketing her lips were deeper than they should be at what I guessed to be her age: thirty-­five, although that might be off by a year or so either side. She was still slim, but I guessed that she no longer cared about her appearance, for the dress she was wearing was tight at the waist and across the shoulders, as if she had gained weight since her brother’s enlistment.

  “I’ve just arrived in Cranbourne last night,” I said. “I was told you lived here in the village. I thought you might wish to know that I saw your brother while I was in France. He’d burned his hand, but otherwise he was well. He’s in the tank corps, I believe?”

  She stared at me. “Is that what brought you here?”

  It was unexpected.

  “Knowing a loved one is safe is good news to many.”

  “And you went about the village, did you, spreading this cheer?”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Miss Rollins. I treat any number of patients, and I do what I can for all of them. Whether they live in Cranbourne or not.”

  “And what are you to him, might I ask?”

  “The nursing Sister who dressed his hand,” I replied, in Matron’s no-­nonsense voice. “He passed through the forward aid station where I was posted. He’s quite a hero, and everyone seemed to know him.” A slight exaggeration, but it didn’t matter.

  “And so you have come to call.”

  Through the open door I could see Nan from where I sat. She had stretched out with her nose on her front paws.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  That gave her pause. She hadn’t expected me to agree with her.

  When she said nothing, I added, “I’m told in the village that your brother was the only witness when the Ashton Powder Mill went up.”

  “To his sorrow.”

  “I’m curious. What did he see?”

  “He didn’t see Germans, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I didn’t suppose that he had. My father is in the Army. He knew a little something about that inquiry into the cause of the explosion. He told me so.”

  She hadn’t expected that, either.

  Sitting down across from me in the other chair, she said, “What really brought you to my door?”

  “I told you. Curiosity. The explosion, coming just before the First Battle of the Somme, cost the Army dearly. Every shell and cartridge we could make was sorely needed. For the artillery, for the rifles, for the machine guns. Not even taking into account the loss of life.”

  “The Army concluded it was an accident.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was. Manufacturing gunpowder of any kind is dangerous work. A dropped tool setting off a spark, a moment’s lapse in concentration, can make a difference. It’s just that the Ashton mill had been luckier than most. Over the years it hadn’t had a serious accident, much less a calamity, to mar its record. I’m told that was because of the stringent rules regarding each step of the process. But it was a Sunday, of course.” I left it there.

  “What does a Sunday have to do with it?”

  I shrugged. “Some ­people enjoy their Saturday evening a bit too much. You never know.”

  Goaded, she said, “There was another witness. Just come forward.”

  I raised my eyebrows to let her see I was shocked. “Was there, now?”

  “Oh yes. Closer than my brother. She saw the whole thing. Start to finish.”

  “Why didn’t she speak up at the time?”

  “She did. The Army wasn’t interested in what she had to say. They only wanted to hear about the Germans. Besides, she was a woman. What does she know about such matters?”

  Was that true about the Army? “Women worked in the mill.”

  “They did. Her sister was one of them. Only she wasn’t working that Sunday.”

  “What is her name?”

  Miss Rollins gave me a sly smile. “It’s for the police to know. You don’t even live in Cran
bourne.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t saboteurs, then it doesn’t matter what she saw, does it?” I said.

  “The police listened. This time. And there were other depositions before she spoke up.”

  “I can’t imagine why. It’s been nearly two years, for heaven’s sake. A little late to be bothering them with such stories now.”

  “That’s what you think. They were that eager to hear what she had to say.”

  “I don’t see that it would do anyone any good to rake it all up again.”

  “That’s what the Ashtons would like to believe. Well, they’ve had it their own way for long enough.”

  “Surely you aren’t saying she saw the owner do anything wrong? I can’t think why he’d blow up his own source of livelihood.”

  “That’s just it. The Army wasn’t paying him enough. He wanted more. It was one thing when they made the original agreement, he and the Army. They thought the war would be over by Christmas, didn’t they? But when it dragged on, he thought he’d have the Army over a barrel. That they’d give him what he asked. And when they wouldn’t, he arranged for the fire. Only it didn’t go as planned, did it? All those men died.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re wrong. It’s unthinkable.”

  “Unthinkable or not, that’s what happened.”

  Putting suspicion in my voice, narrowing my eyes, I said, “And how is it that you know so much about it?”

  “I was the one who encouraged her to go to the police,” she said triumphantly.

  “What did the Ashtons ever do to you that you should make so much trouble for them? You don’t pay them rent, do you? This isn’t their land?”

  “My family has lived in Cranbourne as long as they have. Longer. My family served the abbey for generations. They manned the fishing fleet that brought in the fish the abbey salted and dried. They owned the coasters that traded up and down the shore, from here to Norfolk and all the way round to Hastings and beyond. They even made a foray now and again to the coast of France and brought back goods. Salt, French wines from Normandy and cloth from Nantes, and even gold coins that could be melted down for collars and rings. The abbots liked fine things. And they were grateful to us. Until King Henry brought down the abbey and gave the Hall to the Ashtons—­hangers-­on at Hever Castle, the Ashtons were. Nobodies. Jumped-­up connections of the Whore. Anne Boleyn. For her sake they turned out the monks and the lay brothers, and burned the boats to the waterline. They took away our livelihood without a thought for what might happen to us.”

  That was when? Nearly four hundred years ago. Surely the Rollins family hadn’t nursed such a grievance for hundreds of years?

  Then what had stirred up this ancient history, and made Agatha Rollins so bitter about her family’s ruin? Hardly ruin, I realized, looking about me. But then who was I to judge what it was that Agatha Rollins wanted? And if she had been convinced that the Ashtons had wronged her, it would take more arguments than I could muster to change her mind.

  Still, I said, “It wasn’t an Ashton who turned out the monks and burned the ships. It was Henry VIII. If you have a quarrel with anyone, it’s the Tudors, although I don’t think there are many of them left today. Henry would have given the property to someone in his retinue. Better, I should think, for it to be someone from Kent, than an absentee landlord who lived in Leicestershire or Hampshire and simply collected the rents. Besides, the Ashtons themselves built the powder mills, and through the years employed a good many ­people. That had nothing to do with the Crown.”

  “That’s what you’d like to think, isn’t it?” she retorted darkly. “I know better.”

  I rose. “It’s none of my concern, anyway. Holding grudges is a tiresome business. All the same, I can’t help but wonder what your brother would have to say about this new piece of testimony. Have you even asked him? Perhaps he knows more about the witness than you do.”

  I could see from her face that she hadn’t told him. It had very likely never occurred to her. A shadow of uncertainty appeared in her eyes.

  “It’s none of his business,” she said stoutly, but with less conviction than I would have expected.

  “And coming so late in the day, one does wonder if it’s trustworthy. What this new witness might have to say. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Rollins.”

  She got to her feet with alacrity, and followed me to the door. “Your kind always stick together. I shouldn’t have let you in, to start with.”

  “My kind? I’m a nursing Sister, Miss Rollins. I’m trained to care for the wounded, as I cared for your brother. I don’t ask where he came from or how much money he has on deposit in a bank, or what connections he might have socially. When a man is bleeding and in pain, such things don’t matter, do they?”

  With a smile, I gathered Nan’s lead in one hand, turned, and walked up the path to the lane. Nan seemed to be as glad to go as I was, trotting beside me with no desire to linger. But I could sense Miss Rollins standing there in the doorway, uncertain what to make of my visit—­and whether she might have said more than she had intended to.

  But as I reached the lane and turned to look back the way I’d come, she shut the door smartly. I didn’t look back again.

  Miss Rollins hadn’t mentioned her brother’s head wound. And so I had decided against saying anything. It was very likely the Army hadn’t notified her yet, which meant it was not my place to meddle. Still, I found it very curious.

  However good the grammar school in Cranbourne, I couldn’t quite believe that the lessons taught there included such a detailed history of Henry VIII’s assault on Cranbourne Abbey and the Ashton family’s connection to Anne Boleyn’s career—­even if the stories were true. Even if Hever Castle, the Tudor home of the Boleyns, was not all that many miles away from here. Of course some account could have been passed down in a few of the families, but it was oddly complete, down to naming the Ashtons as throwing out the monks and burning the boats. Personally. If such hard feelings had existed for centuries, surely the Ashtons would have been seen as the local villains long before 1916, and it wouldn’t have taken such an intense campaign of lies to draw the attention of the police to their latest crimes?

  Then who had filled Agatha Rollins’s head full of such tales?

  It was a very good question, but one I had no answer to.

  What appeared to be a concerted effort to bring down the Ashton family had to have its roots somewhere. But I didn’t think it was the Rollins family that had started the lies.

  Who could hate them so much that even someone like Miss Rollins had been drawn into the fray? Or her brother?

  I walked back toward the Hall, thinking about this.

  The instigator would have needed a surrogate. And yet someone from the police or Canterbury or even a neighboring village would have stood out as a stranger here in this poorer part of Cranbourne. There would have been gossip, talk about whoever it was. Arguments over whether to believe him or not. As I was sure there would be gossip about my visit to Miss Rollins.

  Constable Hood? Would he have been a willing representative of someone intent on making life wretched for the Ashtons?

  Possibly. He’d been determined not to find the culprits who had been wreaking havoc around the Ashton property. He’d blamed it on high spirits, which could be true—­I’d seen that group of young boys, looking bored and ready for any mischief. How many more were there like them? Harmless until fed by what they’d heard at the dinner table or around the schoolyard and finding an outlet for their boredom in the Ashtons. Still, even they couldn’t be held accountable for all of it.

  I was back to the main point. It all had to start somewhere.

  And it must have begun with a hatred that would be satisfied only by the destruction of a family.

  Who had Mrs. Ashton believed to be responsible for the candle that burned her chair? I didn’t think it was Miss Rol
lins, for Mrs. Ashton had helped me find my way there.

  Alex Craig? Did he hold them responsible for Eloise’s death, or was it just the fact that Mark Ashton had won her hand?

  A servant like Betty? Unlikely. A tool, perhaps, but not the originator of all this trouble.

  What had Philip Ashton done to incur such enmity? Was it the explosion at the mill, followed by a fire? Or something much deeper? Although I was hard-­pressed to think what could be worse than killing more than a hundred men in a matter of seconds.

  When I reached the house, I found a calfskin valise standing just inside the door. It was one of those used to take Philip Ashton’s clothing to and from his prison cell. Mrs. Byers, just coming through from the nether regions, was carrying an armful of undergarments, and I held the valise open while she tucked them in. Nan sniffed the valise with interest, but when I removed her lead, she trotted to the study door and dropped down against it.

  “There,” Mrs. Byers said with satisfaction. Looking down at the valise, she added, “How many more days will we be doing this? I wish I knew.” Glancing at me, as if hoping I hadn’t heard those last words, she politely asked, “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Most of the female staff is afraid to venture far. It’s a shame. Mrs. Ashton is in her garden, if you’re looking to find her.”

  “Yes, thank you, I’ll step out there.”

  I found Mrs. Ashton sitting in one of the chairs at the far end of the garden, her head in her hands. She straightened up at once, her face flushed, as she heard the sound of the door opening.

  Hesitating, I stopped on the threshold.

  “I thought it was Clara,” she called. “Come and join me, Bess.” I could see her struggle to regain her composure but I pretended I hadn’t noticed.

  She had seemed to be at peace when I’d left her earlier. Now as I approached the chairs I could see she was very upset, even close to tears.

  I sat down beside her and took her hand. “What is it? What happened?”