Read A Pattern of Lies for Free Online

Beef and pork allotments were stringently rationed, while chickens were a little less so if grown for a household.
    It was a pleasant meal, and no one mentioned the problems facing the Ashtons and Abbey Hall. I was glad I had come here.
    The Ashtons and Clara regaled me with descriptions of what it was like trying to communicate with poor Mark while he was as deaf as a post. Hasty searches for pen and paper when encountering him unexpectedly, falling back on shouting loudly in the hope of being understood, and then charades. They made it sound entertaining, but I knew it must have been very difficult for everyone. And Mark took it all with good grace, and laughed with us. But I could tell that his experience with silence had been worrying, because he’d never been able to believe his hearing would come back. I’d dealt with similar cases in France; I could read the signs.
    We finished our meal and took our tea in Mrs. Ashton’s sitting room. Even Clara seemed to be less ill at ease, realizing, I think, that I was only a temporary threat. I had to smile. Much as I cared for Mark, I wasn’t in the market for a husband, certainly not with the war still going on. Then I found myself wondering how long she’d had this attachment to Mark. Since Eloise’s death or before? Because attachment there was.
    Then at two o’clock, without warning, everything changed.
    After the tea tray had been removed, Mark and his father went off to speak to someone about estate matters, and I could see that Mrs. Ashton was tiring. All that vivacious chatter at lunch had been a mask. It worried me, because I’d seen how strong she was in France when Mark’s life lay in the balance. But she was under a great deal of stress, and I wondered if she was sleeping at all.
    She offered to show me to my room, and on our way, Mrs. Ashton suggested that I might find the abbey grounds a pleasant place to stroll, if I cared for a little exercise after our lunch. “It’s safe enough,” she told me, “and Clara sometimes walks there.” As I thanked her, I realized that this was the perfect excuse for me to allow Mrs. Ashton to rest, rather than entertain her unexpected guest. She gave me directions, urging me to treat this as my own home and enjoy myself, even offering to accompany me.
    â€œYou mustn’t worry about me,” I said, smiling. “If I can find my way across the north of France, I’ll have no trouble. I only need to follow the abbey wall to a gate.” And if further proof was necessary that I’d done the right thing, I noticed that she made no objection.
    â€œOf course you can!” she’d answered brightly. “An hour? That should be just right to see everything.”
    I went down the drive with every intention of visiting the abbey ruins. Instead, when I reached the corner of the wall, I found myself walking back toward the river.
    No one could mistake me for Clara now; my uniform would be the first thing anyone noticed. And so I felt relatively safe. Shocked as I’d been by the suddenness of the eggs flying at the motorcar, I had come to realize that they weren’t intended for me, and indeed, neither egg had been meant to hit the passengers. It was just a show of meanness, and if I’d been the Ashtons, I’d have taken that to heart.
    My own reason for going back was to get a better picture of the scene, because it had occurred to me at some point during lunch that once I reached London, I might ask my father, the Colonel Sahib, what he knew about the explosion and whether something could be done to ease the situation here before it actually became dangerous. If the police were taking such a hands-­off attitude, perhaps the Army might have a quiet word in someone’s ear about it. In India, my father had made something of a reputation for himself by defusing issues that way. The local ­people had come to respect him and understand that they