by Charles Todd
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 surelys 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.”
I found I liked him.
“I must meet a friend. I have his motorcar, and he’s waiting for it to travel back to London.”
I said good-bye to Clara and to Mrs. Ashton, and asked her to thank Mrs. Byers for putting me up last night. Mrs. Ashton had written out directions to Beaufort House, and I was soon on my way. It was only just going on ten. I heard the church clock strike as I passed by.
When I arrived, Simon was waiting in what had been the small drawing room in the lovely old Beaufort House. His expression in repose was grim, but he smiled in surprise when I walked through the door. An orderly had told me where to find him.
“I didn’t think the Colonel would be here much before noon.”
“He met my train in London and told me he’d commandeered your motorcar. I simply relieved him of it. But I had to stop outside Canterbury and rest a little. Have you spoken to Britton? Will they allow me to see him?”
“He’s dead, Bess.”
“Dead?” I stared at him. There were others within hearing, and with a hand at my elbow Simon led me to a small room in the back of the house where men exercised during recuperation. We had it to ourselves at this hour. “Was it a clot? That was a very difficult surgery. I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened. Infection? Or gangrene?”
“He was murdered. Someone held a pillow over his face.”
I sat down on the nearest chair. “But who could have done such a thing? A hospital like this is always busy, day and night. Who could just walk in here, kill a man, and walk out again?”
But even as I said it, I knew from my own experience that these wards were very different from a real hospital. This was a house, after all. The rooms were used to the best possible advantage, with six to eight men in each one, and only so many critical care or surgical wards, depending on the need at the time. And there were half a dozen doors going outside, with no reason to lock or even guard them.
“There were only the two men in the critical ward. The other soldier hasn’t regained consciousness,” Simon was saying, as if he’d heard my thought. “When I was trying to question Britton, it was for all intents and purposes a single room.”
“When was he killed?”
“Last night. Since dawn I’ve been talking to everyone in Beaufort House. At first the staff were reluctant to report what had happened. More than half must have feared it was another patient. But there are no head wounds that need to be restrained here, and no tank men. I can tell you this: as his fever rose and Britton was increasingly delirious, he talked about the war and his past. And then the night before he died, his ramblings grew more coherent. That’s when I began taking notes. He mentioned Rollins a number of times. It was difficult to understand most of it, something to do with a burning tank.”
“A tank was on fire when Rollins was shot.”
“Yes. After that he began to talk about Cranbourne. Apparently he didn’t think much of the people there and had as little to do with them as possible. But he appeared to know more about what happened than could be accounted for by just reading a newspaper.”
“Are you saying he might have been responsible?”
“More along the lines of considering the search for Germans foolhardy when they should have been pointing the finger at the men running the day-to-day operations. He thought them incompetent.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his tunic. “You can look at these later, but the main facts are that he must have known Rollins and the Ashtons, and a man named Collier. He also said something about you, which I omitted from my notes. He cursed you.”
Ignoring that last, I said, “But Captain Collier was the Army’s liaison man in Cranbourne. What on earth was Britton doing there?”
And then I remembered. Britton had been an officer’s batman. We’d assumed the officer he was assigned to must have been killed in France and Britton carried on with his old regiment. That was the usual course of events. But what if his officer had been reassigned and no longer needed a servant?
I told Simon what my father had learned about Britton’s past, put together with what I’d already discovered on my own. “There’s the connection we’ve been searching for, Simon. Britton, Collier, Rollins, the Ashtons. All of them here when the mill blew up. But Britton has been in France since May of 1916. He couldn’t have been behind the campaign of whispers.”
“Where is Collier?”
“No one seems to know. London? Scotland? France? Except that he isn’t on the active duty roster.”
“Britton had no visitors, Bess. But the other man in the surgical ward had an unexpected one the second day after Britton arrived. And the day after that. His name was Henley. Lieutenant Henley. I was later told that he sat with the other patient for an hour or more, even though the man was unconscious. He would have heard everything that Britton was saying. To someone who didn’t know the man, it would have made almost no sense. To the right person, it would have been a warning.”
“Where did this Lieutenant come from? And how did he discover that Britton was here?”
“He claimed he’d just been posted to Folkestone. But no one in charge there knows anything about a Lieutenant Henley. I expect he’d seen the casualty lists, and managed to find out where Britton was taken. If it had been Yorkshire or Dorset, no one would have known what he was saying in his delirium. Here in Kent, it was too great a risk. In fact, one of the Sisters asked me if Cranbourne was Britton’s home.”
“If Henley doesn’t exist, then who was the man? And why would he wish to silence Britton?” I answered my own question. “One, someone who’d served with Rollins? Two, an old enemy of Britton’s from before the war? Or this elusive Captain Collier?”
“The tank corps had already got its revenge in France. An old enemy is always a possibility, but too much of a coincidence, I think. Which leaves us with Collier. As for Henley—or whoever he might be—he wasn’t here earlier, when Britton was going on about the tanks and his past in Devon. By the time he was sitting in that room, Britton was already talking about Cranbourne. And Henley must have heard enough to put the wind up.”
“I even asked the recruiting officer in Canterbury if he knew where the Captain had been sent, but he didn’t. It’s possible he really did go north with the newly expanded mill there.”
“If he’s at the mill, we’ll be able to find out if he took leave this past week.”
“Who will handle Britton’s death? The Army? The local police?”
“It hasn’t been decided.”
“You know, it’s likely the corporal would have been dead very soon anyway from the infection in that leg. Henley needn’t have drawn attention to himself by resorting to murder. He could have simply waited. Unless he was afraid he couldn’t afford to.”
The trial was set for next week. Had he found that out?
We spent the next hour talking to the Sisters in charge of Corporal Britton’s care, but they couldn’t help us very much. Yes, they’d seen Lieutenant Henley sitting by the unconscious man’s cot. One of the orderlies had admitted him, but he was an officer and passed through without question. Had he returned in the night? No one could say for certain whether he had or not.
As for when Henley had last come to Beaufort House, no one could answer that. As one of the Sisters commented, “Most of the convalescent men are in uniform. Some of them volunteer to read to the bed patients, and others walk the passages for exercise. We have men who are allowed to walk on the grounds. If this Lieutenant was cleared to visit a patient, no one would take particular notice of him.”
“But you’d recognize a stranger? Surely?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
“We’re run off our feet, Sister. We could use a dozen more staff, and they send us new patients every day. We weren’t supposed to take Corporal Britton, but his fever was very high, and we were the nearest hospital with a surgeon. In case.”
In case they’d had to remove that leg.
We did get a description of sorts. Medium height, fair. Nice face. And probably blue eyes as well. Which would fit half the British Army.
After speaking to the Inspector from Folkestone, who had just arrived, we walked out into the house grounds, Simon furiously angry beside me.
“No one saw fit to tell me about Henley, even though I had left orders that no one was to visit Britton. This could have been prevented.”
“A determined man . . .” I said. “Still, everyone thought he’d come to see the other patient in the ward. He was even seen sitting by him. It wouldn’t have occurred to the staff that he was actually listening to the delirious ramblings on the other side of the room. What will you do now?”
He took a deep breath. “Britton is dead. They wouldn’t allow me to go through his belongings—not without permission from his next of kin. I’m not sure it would have changed anything. If Britton killed Rollins, it’s too late to do anything about it. I did suggest to the local man that he insist on looking in Britton’s kit for that cushion you’d told me about. He didn’t seem to think it important. He feels that whoever killed Britton is well away. I’ve questioned everyone, I’ve done what I could to help the local man take over the inquiry. I’ve asked that a final report on Britton’s death be sent to the Colonel. I have no more authority here.” But I could tell he was unhappy about the situation.
“The Ashtons will be grateful for any information,” I agreed. “Then if you’re on your way to London, you can drop me in Canterbury or Cranbourne. I go back to France tomorrow.”
Half an hour later, as we turned west out of Beaufort House’s drive, I told him about Heatherton-Scott and his man, Henry.
“I recognize the name,” Simon replied. “I’ve never met him. Interesting man.”
“And Henry has gleaned a great deal of information in his forays. Intelligence could use a man of his skill.”
“He could be a conscientious objector,” Simon answered thoughtfully.
“I hadn’t considered that. Then why isn’t he serving in a hospital or as an orderly?”