by Charles Todd
I looked at him. “What will you say to Mrs. Ashton if her husband is found guilty? In spite of your prayers and the best efforts of Mr. Worley?”
His face was drawn. “It won’t come to that. It can’t.”
“But it could,” I persisted. “That’s why I’ve spoken to you. The attacks now are vicious, personal—trying to burn down the house, accusing the spaniel of killing Mrs. Branch’s hens, threatening Mrs. Ashton directly. It’s got out of hand. However it started, for whatever reason, it’s like a witch hunt now. And that’s frightening.”
“There’s nothing more I can do. I tell you, no one trusts me.” There was anguish in his voice now.
“Not even the Ashtons?”
Shaken, he said, “I’ve gone to Canterbury, I’ve spoken to Groves. I’ve told him this is a farce, that it’s vindictive. He thinks I’m exaggerating, that we attribute every small incident to hatred of the family. I don’t know that Mark has talked to him about what’s happening at home. The Ashtons have always dealt with their own problems, you see. They’ve never needed anyone else to fight their battles for them. For a start, he must speak to Groves.”
But later that evening, when I broached the subject to Mark, he shook his head. “I’ve consulted Groves. He doesn’t believe it will help us to be seen as victims. The prosecution will twist it, like everything else, and claim we set the chair ablaze ourselves, for sympathy. That we’ve torn down our own stone walls and cut the hop vines and let the sheep run to show that we’re the ones being persecuted.”
“You didn’t kill Mrs. Branch’s hens,” I said before I could stop myself.
He smiled wryly. “No. But so far there’s been no real damage done, you see. It’s all been”—he searched for the right word—“superficial.”
“Or a matter of sheer luck.”
“That too.”
“And so until someone actually attacks you—or your mother or Clara, or one of the staff—and you can show the physical bruises to Mr. Groves, nothing can be done?”
“I think Groves would tell you that it will never go that far. Not if whoever is behind this wants to see my father hanged. The person who is in real danger is my father.”
“But you went to the police. When there was trouble.”
“And it stopped there. No one cared to look into any of the allegations. For the very reason I’ve given. No harm done.”
I took a deep breath. What game was Young Mr. Groves playing? But I thought I knew. He didn’t want to defend Philip Ashton, for fear that people would bring up his German background if he succeeded in having the case dismissed or helped Worley win in an open trial. That they would turn on him, just as they’d turned, whoever they were, on the Ashtons. He was afraid. It was the only explanation I could think of. Spy fever had declined from those first mad days of September and October 1914. But there had been any number of people arrested—London waiters in restaurants, students attending University, importers who had done business with German firms, the list went on. It must have put the wind up many people with German ties. And it wouldn’t easily be forgot that such people had suffered, whether they actually favored Germany or not.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Mark about that German connection, but he changed the subject before I could.
The next morning I was back in Dover, on my way to France.
There had just been time to put in a telephone call to Cousin Melinda. She was happy to hear my voice, and she asked half a dozen questions before I was able to answer even one of them, mainly hoping all was well and that I could come to her for a few days. As soon as I was able to say more than two words, I asked if she knew of a solicitor in Canterbury by the name of Groves.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “That’s to say, not personally. Only that he’s reputed to be a good solicitor. Why? Are you in need of a solicitor? Or is it someone you know, my dear? Whatever his problem, I’ll do what I can.”
I smiled at the telephone. “I was wondering. Do many people know that the Groveses, Père and Fils, are German in background on one side of the family?”
“Oh, dear. Don’t tell me someone is trying to bring that up. That was two generations ago. Although I must tell you, Carlotta—the grandmother—was the loveliest young girl. I’ve seen a miniature of her by an artist in the Royal Academy. It’s in a private collection. But it was the talk of London the year it was shown. Apparently he’d seen her in Canterbury and asked her father permission to paint her. Of course that was when the Germans were allies. Even Prince Albert had German connections.”
“Do you think anyone remembers the painting now?”
“I’ve no idea. But someone would only have to go to Somerset House to find out about the past of the Groves family. They needn’t have seen the painting. You remember how mad it was, after the Kaiser invaded Belgium. A friend took all the German authors out of his library and burned them in the back garden. Quite ridiculous. But I’m sure the Groves family must have known more than a moment’s anxiety at the time.”
And I couldn’t ask anyone in Canterbury about those early days of the war, for fear I’d remind them of things best forgot, like Carlotta, the elder Groves’s German mother. Most especially if I was looking in the wrong direction. But I couldn’t believe that I was.
We talked for a few minutes more, and then I had to rush back to the quay.
I was just preparing to board my transport when I spotted a familiar face in the throng of men behind me.
Calling out to Simon, I stepped out of the queue and waited for him to make his way to me.
“I was hoping I might catch you,” he said, smiling down at me. “I was ordered by your mother to see that you had this.” He handed me a small satchel, and I heard the clink of jars inside.
I could feel my face lighting up. “Jam? Honey?” I asked eagerly.
“And Branson pickles,” he told me. “There’s a tin of tea as well, and another of milk.”
“Bless her!” I said, torn between laughing and crying. I’d so missed seeing my parents, and Mrs. Hennessey, and all the familiar faces of home. “And you, for bringing them all this way.”
He grinned. “I was beginning to wonder what to do with the lot of them if I didn’t find you. Luckily, I’m a passenger on the Sea Maid myself. I’m carrying dispatches for your father.”
“Are you indeed?” I couldn’t help but think luck had nothing to do with our taking the same transport.
“Yes, and we’d better hurry, or there will be no place to sit.”
He shouldered my kit, took my hand, and led me the rest of the way aboard. We found a sheltered spot on the lee side where we could watch the crew casting off. The wind had increased since I’d left Canterbury, and I could feel its bite as we pulled out of our berth and headed slowly into open water. The first waves picked up the ship, and the first of the men crowded into every available space made a dash for the railing and hung wretchedly over it, staring down into the gray and roiling sea.
I felt for them, although I’d always been a strong sailor. Simon watched them for a moment too, then said, “Tell me about Cranbourne.”
I looked over his shoulder, but he had chosen well; we were out of hearing of almost everyone, tucked into a space under the ladder to the bridge, giving us a modicum of protection.
I told him what I knew—and after that, what I guessed.
“What worries me most is that whoever is behind this terrorizing of the Ashton family will stop at nothing. Simon, they even tried to have Philip Ashton’s little spaniel put down. There’s a cruelty in that, and it means that whoever it is doing all of this isn’t afraid of the local government, the police, or the court.”
“What about enemies?”
“The relatives of the dead men, of course. They’ve been led to believe that Mr. Ashton is guilty of causing the fire, if not the
explosion. And that’s the problem, you see. Whoever started these rumors may have lost control of those he—or she—stirred up.”
“Was Ashton responsible?”
“I don’t know—I find it hard to believe. But whether he was or not, the family is at risk too. Besides, Simon, there’s the fact that someone tried to kill Sergeant Rollins. Why? I can only wonder about the connection with Cranbourne. He’s refusing to come back to testify and he won’t give a statement. If he won’t help Philip Ashton, then why attack him? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It would if someone is afraid that Rollins knows more than he’s willing to tell. It could explain why he won’t come back to England. I should think that if he believed he would damn Ashton with what he saw, he might jump at the chance to do just that.”
“That’s a very good point,” I agreed. “Except that most of the people who are attacking Philip Ashton are civilian. We’d have to look for someone who has relatives serving in France. But you can’t simply write to your brother-in-law and ask him to arrange a quiet little murder for you. You’d have to be sure, wouldn’t you, that he could be trusted to do it without getting caught. And it would have to be murder. If Rollins was only wounded, he’d be sent home to England anyway.”
The bow wave was sending a spray of cold gray foam over the railings now as we moved into deeper water. Simon took my hand and we made our way toward the nearest watertight door. As it shut behind us, cutting off the roar of the wind and the sea, I could hear myself think again.
“And that,” said Simon, leading me toward the canteen, “might have been the intent, not murder. Perhaps someone wanted him sent home to testify.”
It was a very different way of looking at what had happened to Sergeant Rollins.
Had someone intended to kill him? Or only to make certain that he did in fact reach England before Mr. Ashton’s trial began? Or was I leaping to conclusions? Even on a battlefield, one could make enemies.
“That opens up a new list of suspects,” I said ruefully.
“It does. You told me Mark Ashton had loyal men in the ranks. Could he have asked one of them to wound Rollins?”
Shocked, I said, “Mark? No, I can’t believe that of him.”
And in the same moment I realized that there might not be anything he wouldn’t try to save his father’s life. To protect his mother . . .
Simon managed two cups of tea for us and found a place where we could sit down to drink them, although we had to step over several men stretched out asleep on the carpeted salon floor.
“I’m convinced that Mrs. Ashton knows more than she’s telling. But why would she keep to herself anything that would help her husband?”
“Because she can’t prove it. And she’s afraid that if she gives them a name, and she’s wrong, it will cause more harm than good. Which puts her in danger. You realize that, don’t you?”
Thinking about his question, I asked, “Was that the reason to try to have the spaniel put down? Nan would raise the alarm if someone tried to slip into the house. And someone could, there are any number of doors. Not all of them would be proof against a housebreaker. I wish I’d thought of that sooner.”
“Either that, or to lower Ashton’s spirits. Remember, he’s in a cell, helpless to do anything for his family. The Colonel Sahib has looked through all the records regarding the destruction of the mill. He could find no reason to charge Ashton. That means all of this is coming from someone locally. And those same people are now the ones who believe he’s guilty, and are coming forward with ‘new’ evidence that the Army didn’t have at the time.”
I looked away, my mind coming to terms with the new possibilities Simon had brought up. “I don’t think Mrs. Branch or Miss Rollins or even Constable Hood have the ear of enough people to start such a groundswell of suspicion. They’ve been used, of course. And they might have added their bit without urging. But I don’t see how they could have brought off such a coup as having Philip Ashton arrested.”
“Where there is smoke,” Simon replied.
“True. But nearly all of the people involved lost someone in that explosion And because of the fire, no one could hope to find survivors. That’s the key, Simon, that nothing could be done for the men buried under all that rubble. It’s rather like a disaster in a mine. People are concerned for those still underground, not for the men who escape in time. They couldn’t save anyone, they couldn’t get at the truth, they couldn’t even bring the bodies out for a funeral. And so it’s still unfinished. Anyone could prey on that feeling.”
We’d come to the same conclusion, Simon and I, that there was very little to be done. And yet it rankled. I felt as helpless as the Ashtons.
I asked for news of home, and learned that my father had been summoned to London on Army business while my mother had taken on yet another charity.
“And you? Why are you on your way to France? It isn’t just dispatches, is it?”
“This time it is,” he said. “No one wants these messages falling in the wrong hands.”
“To do with the end of the war?”
“I wasn’t told what was in the messages.”
A counteroffer to help speed the end of the war? I didn’t ask, I knew better, but I was glad it wasn’t another foray behind the lines or acting as an observer for the American forces.
We settled into a companionable silence. And then I remembered the black aircraft that had been toying with ambulance convoys.
Simon had heard of him. He said, “They’ve sent over a special team of marksmen to bring him down.”
“Whoever he is, he’s a superb pilot. They’ll have their work cut out for them.”
Simon saw me to my transport, and then went off to find his own. I’d been glad to see him, a bit of home. I’d given up two leaves to help the Ashtons, and while I had no regrets, I missed my parents and Mrs. Hennessey and my flatmates.
We rattled and bounced across the quagmire that passed for roads, dodging reinforcements and lorries laden with cases of ammunition and other gear. I didn’t know what we were carrying—the canvas flap was across the back. But I discovered later that it was a shipment of wooden coffins moving north toward the Front.
I was posted this time at a field hospital well behind the lines. As darkness came down we could see the muzzle flashes of the big guns in the distance, and hear the steady thunder that followed.
How many months and weeks and days had I traveled these roads? I’d lost count long ago.
The driver, a taciturn Scot, had little to say, but he was a good driver and spared me the worst of the ruts and gullies when he could. All the same, my back felt as if it had been used as a washboard.
I reported to Matron, who gave me ten minutes to wash my face, change my apron, and take my place in the surgical unit, where I’d had previous experience. An orderly showed me to my quarters and waited to point out where the various parts of the hospital were located. The overworked Sisters in the wards welcomed me with relief, for it seemed that there had been no reduction in the number of patients coming in from the forward aid stations. And then I was turned over to the surgical team, where a Dr. Lytton was dealing with a variety of conditions.
We cleaned a shrapnel-torn leg and a lacerated arm, set two fractures, and dealt with five cases of trench foot, cleaning and binding the toes, before an ambulance delivered a half dozen machine-gun cases with badly damaged knees. It was dark when I was finally relieved and allowed to stumble back to my cot. I expected to fall asleep at once. Instead I lay there reliving each patient, my eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling.
The next thing I knew someone was shaking me awake. It was the doctor, calling my name and telling me to come with him at once.
I’d been too tired to think about undressing, and so I found my shoes, laced them quickly, and followed him to one of the surgical units.
But there was no patient on the table. Instead, seated in a chair by the door was one of the nurses I’d replaced last evening. Her name, I thought, was Morris, Sister Morris.
She was choking and coughing, her face streaked with tears and her hands shaking so badly she was sloshing hot tea all over her apron. I saw that one hand was badly scratched and bleeding. There was another long scratch on her face.
I looked at Dr. Lytton standing beside her chair, not sure whether she had fallen or had had a severe shock of some kind.
The doctor kept his voice low. “She was attacked in her sleep. Someone covered her face and nearly smothered her. The sentry making his rounds heard something and rushed into her quarters, but he himself was knocked to the ground as someone shoved him to one side and disappeared. He’s having his head looked at in another room. Possible concussion, and a gash from hitting the corner of a chest.”
“Is she hurt, other than the attempt to smother her? I see blood on her fingers.”
“She clawed at the person holding her down. Partly his blood, partly hers.”
“But who would do such a thing?” I asked.
“That’s what you’re to find out. I have a chest wound to deal with.”
And he was gone.
I knelt beside her chair and took the cup of tea from her, holding it to her lips.
But she was unable to drink, and I set it aside. “Did you see who it was? If you did, you must tell me, and we’ll begin a search.”
She shook her head, saying huskily, “I don’t know. It was dark in the room.”
“Tell me what happened,” I asked gently. “It will help.”
“I was asleep, and suddenly there was something pressed against my face. I couldn’t breathe, and I tried to push it away. But it wouldn’t move, and that’s when I realized someone was holding it down. I kicked out wildly, trying to call for help, and the bed was creaking—I thought it would break under our combined weight and I’d be hurt. Then someone else was in the room, and the pressure lifted. I heard the sentry cry out as he fell and struck his head. I was already struggling to light the lamp, but I knocked it over instead. By that time the sentry was back on his feet, and he asked if I was all right. I was in tears, I couldn’t answer him, and he took me by the arm, pulling me after him. Dr. Lytton was just going into the surgical unit, and he saw us. He sent the sentry away with one of the nurses, and went to find you himself.”