A Pattern of Lies by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online

doors. He didn’t bother to lock them. Coming to join me where I stood watching the tide run in fast, he said, “They wouldn’t put a hospital here, you know. Even though the Ashtons and others with large houses offered. Too close to the mill.”
    â€œThat’s interesting,” I said. We walked a little way, and I asked, “How did the fire start? The explosion was bad enough.”
    â€œNobody knows. But it put paid to any attempt to find out how the explosion occurred. Or to look for survivors who might have known the truth.”
    Which must have pointed an even stronger finger at Philip Ashton.
    The man was looking closely at me. “You’re very curious about all this.”
    â€œWouldn’t you be?” I gestured toward the blackened ruins. “Even two years after the explosion, it’s frightful. So many lives lost?” I shook my head. “If there is any place where ghosts walk, it’s there, across the river.”
    I’d meant it metaphorically, not literally. But I saw the shock in his eyes before he turned away.
    â€œDo you believe in ghosts?” he asked after a moment as we left the river behind and turned toward the abbey.
    â€œI don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve never seen one.”
    He didn’t quite know how to take that answer.
    We parted company at Abbey Lane, and he nodded to me before turning to go. “Enjoy your stay,” he said. With bare politeness.
    â€œThank you,” I said. And as I walked back to Abbey Hall, I wondered what he’d seen in those ruins that had made him take me so literally when I spoke of ghosts.
    When I walked into the hall, Clara was just coming down the stairs. “There you are! Aunt Helen is lying down. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you remember the way to your room?”
    â€œYes, I do, thank you, Clara.” Turn right at the top of the stairs. Third door on my right. “I’m sorry to put everyone to such trouble.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble at all. Would you like to see Aunt Helen’s garden? It’s a part of the old abbey, and quite lovely. I shouldn’t wonder if it had been an herb garden. Monks knew a great deal about healing. Somehow it has managed to survive for centuries. That’s rather remarkable.”
    â€œI remember your aunt talking about it to Mark while he was feverish,” I said lightly. “I’ll enjoy seeing it.”
    We walked in silence to a door at the side of the house that opened into the garden. And we stepped out into a little bit of paradise.
    There were still herbs, many of which I recognized, in beds that were separated by perennials. And in the stone wall itself here and there were pockets of tiny wildflowers that spilled down in miniature falls of color. As if holding on to summer as long as possible in this protected space. At the bottom of the garden was a slightly raised terrace where graceful iron chairs, painted white, sat beneath an arbor that was thick with wisteria vines, still green. That, I thought, must be Helen Ashton’s personal contribution to this wonderful space.
    â€œThis is really lovely.” But as we stepped out into it, I began to notice that no one had deadheaded the blooming plants or trimmed the wisteria recently, a measure of how little time Mrs. Ashton had spent here of late. A measure too of her worry?
    Stopping to admire a display of flowers I didn’t recognize, I became aware of Clara’s frown.
    â€œYou nursed Mark when he was so ill? Aunt Helen came home singing your praises. She said you saved his life with your care and your training.”
    She was jealous. I’d realized that but hadn’t expected her to be so blunt about it.
    I smiled. “That’s very kind of her,” I said quietly. “The truth is we had the best doctors imaginable and an experienced nursing staff. And Mark wasn’t the only miracle they’ve