A Christmas Visitor

“THERE, MR. RATHBONE, SIR, ARE YER RIGHT?” THE old man asked solicitously.

Henry Rathbone tucked the blanket around his legs where he sat in the pony trap, his luggage beside him. “Yes, thank you, Wiggins,” he replied gratefully. The wind had a knife-edge to it, even here at the railway station in Penrith. Out on the six-mile road through the snow-crusted mountains down to Ullswater, it would get far worse. It was roughly the middle of December, and exactly the middle of the century.

Wiggins climbed up into the driver’s seat and urged the horse forward. It must know its own way by now. It had come here most days when Judah Dreghorn was alive.

But Judah was dead now—and that was Henry’s miserable reason for coming back to this wild and marvelous land he loved. Even the place names woke memories of days tramping up long hills, wiry grass under his feet, sweet wind in his face and views that stretched forever. He could see in his mind’s eye the pale blue waters of Stickle Tarn looking over toward the summit of Pavey Ark; or the snow-streaked hills of Honister Pass. How many times had he and Judah climbed Scafell Pike to the roof of the world, and sat with their backs to the warm stone, eating bread and cheese and drinking rough red wine as if it had been the food of gods?

Then three days ago he had received a letter from Antonia, her words almost illegible on the paper, to say that Judah had died in a stupid accident. It had not even happened on the lake, or in one of the winter storms that raged down the valley with wind and snow, but on the stepping stones of the stream.

He stared around him now as the pony trap left the town and headed along the winding road westward. The raw, passionate beauty of the land suited his mood. It was steep against an unclouded sky, snow glittering so brilliantly it hurt his eyes, blazing white on the crests, shadowed in the valleys, gullied dark where the rocks and trees broke through.

It was ten years since the four Dreghorn brothers had last been at home together. The family’s good fortune in gaining the estate had meant they could all follow their dreams wherever they led. Benjamin had left his church ministry and gone to Palestine to join in the biblical archaeology there. Ephraim had followed his love of botany to South Africa. His letters were full of sketches of marvelous, unique plants, many of them so useful to man.

Nathaniel, the only other one to marry, had gone to America to study the extraordinary geology of that land, exploring features that Europe did not possess. He had even trekked as far west as the rock formations of the desert territories, and the great San Andreas fault in California. It was there that he had died of fever, leaving his widow, Naomi, to return now in his place.

Antonia had written in her letter that they were all coming home for Christmas, but what a bitter and different arrival that would be. Little wonder Antonia had wanted her godfather to be there. She had terrible news to tell, and no other family to help her. Her parents had died young, she had no siblings; she had only her nine-year-old son, Joshua, who was as bereaved as she.

Henry had known her all her life, first as a grave and happy child, eager to learn, forever reading. She had never tired of asking him questions. They had been friends in discovery.

Then as a young woman a slight self-consciousness in her had put a distance between them. She had shared more reluctantly, but he had still been the first to learn of her love for Judah, and with her parents dead, it was he who had given her away at her wedding.

But what could he possibly do for her now?

Henry tucked the blanket closer around himself and stared ahead. Soon he would see the bright shield of Ullswater ahead, and on a day as clear as this, the mountains beyond: Helvellyn to the south, and the Blencathra range to the north. The high tarns would be iced over, blue in the shadows. Some of the wild animals would have their white winter coats; the red deer would have come down to the valleys. Shepherds would be searching for their lost sheep. He smiled. Sheep survived very well under the snow; their warm breath created a hole to breathe through, and the odor of their sweat made them easy enough to find for any dog worth his keep.

The Dreghorn estate was on the sloping land above the lake edge, a couple of miles from the village. It was the largest for miles, containing rich pasture, woods, streams, and tenant farmhouses, and went right down to the lake shore for more than a mile. The manor house was built of Lakeland stone, three stories high with a south-facing façade.

They went through the gates and pulled up in the driveway. Antonia came out of the front door so soon that she must have been waiting for them, watching at the window. She was tall, with smooth, dark hair, and he remembered her having a unique kind of calm beauty that showed the inner peace that day-to-day irritations could not disturb.

Now as she walked swiftly toward him, her wide, black skirts almost touching the gravel, her grief was clearly troubled by anger and fear as well. Her skin was pale, tight-stretched across her bones, and her dark eyes were hollowed around with shadows.

He alighted quickly, going toward her.

“Henry! I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said urgently. “I don’t know what to do, or how I can face this alone.”

He put his arms around her, feeling the stiffness of her shoulders, and kissing her gently on the cheek. “I hope you didn’t doubt I would come, my dear,” he answered. “And do everything that I can for as long as it may help.”

She pulled away and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She controlled her voice only with the greatest difficulty. “It is so much worse than I wrote. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do to fight it. And I dread telling Benjamin and Ephraim when they arrive. I believe Nathaniel’s widow will come, too. You didn’t know Naomi, did you?”

“No, I did not meet her.” He searched her face, wondering what worse news she could have than Judah’s death. What was it she must fight, but had not told him?

She turned away. “Come inside.” She gulped on the words. “It’s cold out here. Wiggins will bring your things in and put them in your room. Would you like tea, crumpets? It’s a little early, but you’ve come a long way.” She was talking too quickly as she led the way up the steps and in through the high, carved front doors. “The fire’s hot in the drawing room, and Joshua is still in class. He’s brilliant, you know. He’s changed a lot since you were last here.”

Inside, the hall was warmer, but it was not until they were in the withdrawing room with its red-ochre colored walls and the log fire roaring in the grate that the heat relaxed him a little. He was glad to sit in one of the huge chairs and wait for the maid to bring their tea and toasted crumpets with hot butter.

They were halfway through them before he broke the mood. “I think you had better tell me what else it is that troubles you,” he said gently.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “Ashton Gower is saying that Judah cheated him.” Her voice shook. “He says that this whole estate should rightfully have been his, and Judah had him falsely imprisoned, then stole it from him.”

Henry felt as if he had been struck physically, so stunned was he by her words. Judah Dreghorn had been a judge in the local court in Penrith, and the most honest man Henry had ever known. The idea of his having cheated anyone was absurd.

“That’s ridiculous!” he said quickly. “No one would believe him. You must have your man of affairs warn him that if he repeats such an idiotic and completely false charge, you will sue him.”

The shadow of a smile touched her mouth. “I have already done that. Gower took no notice. He insists that Judah took the estate after charging him falsely and imprisoning him, when he knew he was innocent, all in order to buy the estate cheaply. And of course that was before the Viking site was found.”

He was confused.

“I think you had better tell me the whole story from the beginning. I don’t remember Ashton Gower, and I know nothing about a Viking site. What happened, Antonia?”

She drank the last of her tea, as if giving herself time to compose her thoughts. She did not look at him but into the dancing flames of the fire. Outside it was already growing dark and the winter sunset lit the sky and burned orange and gold through the south windows onto the wall.

“Years ago Ashton Gower’s family owned this estate,” she began. “It belonged originally to the Colgrave family, and the widow who inherited it married Geoffrey Gower, and was Ashton’s mother. It all seemed very straightforward to begin with, until Peter Colgrave, a relative from the other side of the family, raised the question as to whether the deeds were genuine.”

“The deeds to the estate?” Henry asked. “How could they not be? Presumably Gower’s father was the legal owner, on his marriage to the Colgrave widow?”

“It was a question of dates,” she replied. She looked tired, drained of all strength. The story was miserably familiar, even if it was also inexplicable. “To do with Mariah Colgrave’s marriage and the death of her brother-in-law, and the birth of Peter Colgrave.”

“And this Colgrave contested Gower’s right to it?” he asked.

She smiled bleakly. “Actually he said the deeds were forged, and that Ashton Gower had done it in order to inherit it himself. He insisted it went to court, so naturally in time it came before Judah, up in Penrith. The first time he examined the deeds he said they looked perfectly good, but he kept them and looked again more closely. He became suspicious and took them to a very good expert on documents in Kendal. He said they were definitely not genuine. He would testify to that.”

Henry leaned forward. “And did he?” he asked earnestly.

“Oh, yes. Ashton Gower stood trial for forgery, and was found guilty. Judah sentenced him to eleven years’ imprisonment. He has just been released.”

“And the estate?” Although he could guess the answer. Perhaps he should have known, but when he had been here before, there had always been better, happier things to talk of—laughter, good food, and good conversation to share.

She shifted a little in her seat.

“Colgrave inherited it,” she said ruefully. “But he did not wish to live here. He put the estate on the market at a very reasonable price. I think actually he had debts to pay. He lived extravagantly. Judah and his brothers all put in what they could, Judah by far the most, and they bought it. He and I lived here. Joshua was born here.” Her voice choked with emotion and she needed a few moments to regain control.

He waited without speaking.

“I’ve never loved a place as I do this!” she said with sudden fierce passion. “For the first time I feel absolutely at home.” She gave an impatient little gesture of her hand. “Not the house. It’s beautiful, of course, a marvelous house. But I mean the land, the trees, the way the light falls on the water.” She searched his face. “Do you remember the long twilight over the lake in the summer, the evening sky? Or the valleys, grassland so green it rolls like deep velvet into the distance, trees full and lush, billowing like fallen clouds? The woods in spring, or the day we followed Striding Edge up toward Helvellyn?”

He did not interrupt her. To remember the beauty that hurt was part of grief.

She was silent for a moment, and then resumed the story. “Of course it’s worth a great deal financially as well, even before we found the Viking site. There are the farms, and the houses on the shore. It’s easily sufficient to provide for Benjamin, Ephraim, and Nathaniel to follow their own passions.” Her face tightened. “And now that Nathaniel’s dead, for Naomi, of course.”

“What is this Viking site you keep referring to?” he asked.

She smiled. “A shepherd from one of the farms found a silver coin and he brought it to Judah. Judah was always interested in coins, and he knew what it was.” She smiled. “I remember how pleased he was, because it was rather romantic, it was Anglo-Saxon, Alfred the Great, who defeated the Danes, or at least held them at bay, in the late 800s. The coin we found might have been part of the Danelaw tribute, since the rest of it was Viking silver, ornaments, jewelry, and harness. When we found the whole treasure there were Norse Irish brooches, and arm rings, Scandinavian neck rings, Carolingian buckles from France, and coins from all over, even Islamic ones from Spain, North Africa, the Middle East, and as far as Afghanistan.” Her wonder stayed for a moment or two longer, then faded as the present intruded again.

“Judah invited professional archaeologists in, of course,” she resumed. “And they dug very carefully. It took them all of one summer, but they uncovered the ruins of a building, and in it the whole hoard of coins and artifacts. Most of the things are in a museum, but lots of people come to see the ones we kept, and naturally they stay in the village. Our lakeside cottages are let nearly all the time.”

“I see.”

She turned to look at him directly. “We had no idea it was there when we bought the estate! No one did. And the whole village profits from the visitors.”

“Is Gower suggesting that you did know about the hoard?” he asked.

“Not in so many words, but he is allowing it to be understood.”

“What exactly is he saying?” He could not help her to fight it if he did not know the truth, however ugly or distressing. The thought of Judah, of all men, being accused of dishonesty was most painful.

“That the deeds to the estate were genuine,” she replied. “And that Judah knew it all along, and bribed the expert to lie, so Colgrave could inherit, sell the property quickly and cheaply, because he needed the money, and Judah could buy it, and then pretend to discover the hoard.”

Henry saw at a glance both that the charge was preposterous, and that it could also be extremely difficult to disprove because it rested on no reasonable evidence. Gower was obviously a bitter man who had been punished for a particularly stupid crime, and now lashed out seeking some kind of vengeance, rather than trying to salvage and rebuild his life.

“Surely no one believed him,” he said aloud. “The expert said the deeds were forged, and there is nothing to suggest anyone at all knew of the Viking site. After all, it must have been there for centuries. None of Gower’s ancestors knew of it, did they?”

“No! No one had the faintest idea,” she agreed.

“Chance,” he replied.

“I know that. But Gower is saying that we only waited long enough to make it seem as if we didn’t know. But it alters nothing, if the deeds were genuine. It is only a small lie on top of a greater one.” Her voice dropped a little. The fire was burning lower and the lamplight softened the misery in her face. “Can you think of anything worse than to send an innocent man to prison, and blacken his reputation in order to steal his inheritance? That is what he is saying Judah did. And now he is not even here to defend himself!” She was close to losing control. The careful mask, which cost her so much, was beginning to slip.

Henry felt the need to say something quickly, but it must be both helpful and true. False comfort now would only make things worse later, and though she might well understand why he had done it, she would never trust him again.

“He made these charges before Judah’s death?” he asked. The truth was a poor refuge, but it was all he had.

She looked up at him.

“Yes. He came out of prison in Carlisle, straight back here.” Suddenly anger took hold of her. “Why couldn’t he have gone somewhere else, and started a new life where he wasn’t known? If he’d gone to Liverpool or Newcastle, no one would have known he’d been in prison, and he could have begun again! I’ve never seen anyone so filled with anger. I’ve seen him in the street, and he frightens me.” She looked terrified. Her magnificent eyes were wide and hollow, her face almost bloodless.

“Surely you don’t think he would hurt you?” he exclaimed. The lights were exactly as before, and the coals were still hot, but it was as if the room were darker. “Antonia?”

She turned away from him. “No,” she said quietly. “You’re really asking if he hurt Judah, aren’t you?” She drew in a long breath. “We’d been into the village for a violin recital. It was a wonderful evening. We took Joshua, even though it was late, because we knew he’d love it. He is going to be one of the world’s great musicians. He has already composed simple pieces, but beautiful, full of unusual cadences. He took one of them, and the violinist played it. He asked if he could keep the copy.” Her face filled with pride at the memory.

“Perhaps he will be England’s Mozart,” he answered.

She said nothing for a few moments, struggling to regain her composure.

“Perhaps,” she agreed at last. “When we came home it was after ten o’clock. I saw Joshua to bed. He was so excited he wanted to stay up all night. Judah said he wanted to walk. He had been sitting all evening. He … never came back.” Again she took a few moments before she could continue. “A while after, I woke Mrs. Hardcastle, and we sent for Wiggins. He and the butler and the footman went out with lanterns to look for Judah. It was the longest night of my life. It was after three when they came back and said they had found him in the stream. He had apparently tried to cross in the dark over the stepping stones and slipped. They are very smooth there, and could be icy. There is a slight fall a few yards down where they are jagged. They believe he slipped and struck his head, and the water carried him.”

“Where to? It’s not very deep.” Was he thinking of the right place, remembering accurately?

“No, but it doesn’t have to be to drown. If he had been conscious he would naturally have climbed out. He might have caught pneumonia from the cold, but he would be alive.” She took a deep breath. “Now I must fight the slander for him.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “It is hard enough to lose him, but to hear Ashton Gower say such evil things of him, and fear that anyone at all could believe it, is more than I can bear. Please help me prove that it is absolutely and terribly wrong. For Judah’s sake, and for Joshua.”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “How can you doubt that I would?”

She smiled at him. “I didn’t. Thank you.”

Supper was early, and there were only the three of them at the table. Henry did not sit at the head, in Judah’s place. It seemed an insensitive thing to do, not only for Antonia, but for the grave, pale-faced Joshua, who had not yet reached his tenth birthday, and was so suddenly bereft of his father.

Henry did not know him well. Last time he had been here Joshua had been only five, and spent more time in the nursery. Already he had played the piano and had been too fascinated by it to pay much attention to a middle-aged gentleman here for a week in the summer, and more interested in hill walking than music lessons.

Now he sat solemn-eyed, eating his food because he had been told to, and staring at the space on the wall opposite his seat, somewhere between the Dutch painting of cows in a quiet field, and an equally flat seascape of the Romney Marshes with light glistening on the water as if it were polished pewter.

The servants came and went with each dish, soundless and discreet.

Henry tried speaking to Joshua once or twice, and received a considered answer each time. Henry had a son, but Oliver was a grown man, one of London’s most distinguished barristers, well known for his brilliance in the criminal court. Henry could hardly remember now what Oliver had been like at nine years old. He too had been intelligent, certainly, precocious in his ability to read, and as far as Henry could remember, in his taste in books. He had been inquisitive, and profoundly argumentative. He could recall that clearly enough! But that was nearly thirty years ago, and the rest was hazy.

He wanted to speak to Joshua, so as not to appear to ignore him.

“Your mother says you composed a piece of music that the violinist at the recital played,” he observed. “That is very fine.”

Joshua regarded him soberly. He was a handsome child with wide, dark eyes like Antonia’s, but his father’s brow and balance of head.

“It did not sound exactly how I meant it to,” he replied. “I shall have to work harder at it. I think it ends a little soon … and it’s too quick.”

“I see. Well, knowing what is wrong with a thing is at least halfway toward putting it right,” Henry replied.

“Do you like music?” Joshua asked.

“Yes, very much. I can play the piano a little.” Actually, he was being quite modest. He had a certain flair for it. “But I cannot write for it.”

“What can you do?”

“Joshua!” Antonia remonstrated.

“It’s quite all right,” Henry said quickly. “It is a fair question.” He turned to the boy. “I am good at mathematics, and I like to invent things.”

“You mean arithmetic?”

“Yes. And algebra and geometry.”

Joshua frowned. “Do you like it, or is it that you have to do it?”

“I like it,” Henry replied. “It makes a very beautiful kind of sense.”

“Like music?”

“Yes, very much.”

“I see.”

And then the conversation rested, apparently to Joshua’s satisfaction.

After a postprandial half hour by the fire, Henry excused himself, saying that he wanted to take a walk and stretch his legs. He did not ask Antonia where Judah had died, but when he had his coat and boots on, and a hat and scarf as well, he inquired from Wiggins, and was given directions to the stream nearly a mile away.

It was nearly half past eight, and outside the night was dense black, apart from the lantern he was holding, and the few lights he could see from the village a couple of miles away. The sound of his feet on the gravel was loud in the cloaking silence.

He moved very slowly, uncertain of his way, wary of tripping over the edge of the lawn, or even of bumping into the drive gates. It took a few minutes for his eyes to become sufficiently accustomed to see ahead of him by starlight, and make out the black tracery of bare branches against the sky. Even then it was more by the blocking of the pinpricks of light than the line of a tree. A sickle moon made little difference, just a silver curve like a horn.

Why on earth had Judah Dreghorn walked so far late on a night like this? The cold stung the skin. The wind was from the north, off the snows of Blencathra. Here in the valley the ground was frozen like rock, but there was no gleaming whiteness to reflect back the faint light. He wound his scarf more tightly around his neck and a trifle higher about his ears, and moved forward on what he hoped was the way Wiggins had told him.

Judah had not simply gone for a walk. Henry felt it was stupid to persist in believing that. The recital had been splendid, a triumph for Joshua. Why would a man leave his wife and son after such an event, and go feeling each footstep over the frozen ground in the pitch dark?

Except, of course, it was more than a week ago now, so the moon would have been almost half full and there would have been more light. Still, it was a strange thing to go out at all, even with a full moon, and why so far?

Judah had gone to the stream, and tried to cross over it. So he had intended going even farther. To where? Henry should have asked Antonia where the Viking site was. But why would Judah go there at night? To meet someone urgently, or with whom he did not wish to be seen.

Henry was following some sort of path. If he kept the lantern out in front of him, he could walk at about normal speed. It was bitterly cold. He was glad for gloves, but even with them his fingers were stiff.

Who would Judah meet secretly, beyond the stream, at that time of night? The answer that leaped to the mind was Ashton Gower. If it had been any other man, Henry might have thought he was looking for some accommodation, a bargain regarding the trial and the deeds, and Gower’s subsequent accusation, but Judah had never equivocated with the truth.

If, on the other hand, he had taken pity on Gower in any way, he would have done it openly, before lawyers and notaries. If he made any threat, that too would have been plain and open.

Perhaps it had not been Gower, but someone else. Who? And why? No believable answer came to his mind.

The land was rising and he leaned forward into the wind. Its coldness stung his skin. He could hear the stream rattling over the stones, and somewhere in the distance a dog fox barked, an eerie sound that startled him so he nearly dropped the light.

He moved slowly now, lifting the lantern so it shed its glow farther. Even so, he nearly missed the path to the stones. The water was running quite rapidly, oily black breaking pale where the surface was cut by jagged lumps poking through, sharp-edged. Then he realized it was the fall he was looking at. The stepping stones were upstream about thirty yards, smooth, almost flat.

But when he reached them and looked more closely, he saw the rime of ice where the bitter air had frozen them moments after the current had washed over. What on earth had Judah been thinking of to try standing on them? What had absorbed his mind so intently that he had taken such a risk?

Puzzled and weighed down by sadness, he turned and made his way back toward the house.

In the morning he was woken by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hardcastle. She was smiling and carrying a tray of tea. He sat up, startled to see daylight outside. That must mean it was nearer nine o’clock than eight.

“And why not?” she asked reasonably when he protested that she should not have let him lie in. “It was a long way you came yesterday. All the way up from London!” She set the tray down, poured the tea for him, then went and drew open the curtains. “Not so nice today,” she said briskly. “You’ll be wanting all your woolies on, likely. Wind’s off the water, and there’s snow on it for sure. Take the skin off your face, it will, if it blows up proper.” She turned back to him. “Mrs. Dreghorn said to tell you as Mr. Benjamin’s coming today. Telegraph says he’ll be in Penrith by noon, so we’ll be going to fetch him, as long as the weather holds off. If not, he’ll be having to stay at the inn there, which would be a shame, since he’s come a fair distance, too.”

Mrs. Hardcastle could have little idea of the reality if she could liken a train journey from London to rail and ship and whatever else it had taken for Benjamin Dreghorn to come from Palestine to the Lakes in the middle of winter. But Henry forbore from saying so, since very probably she did little more than read and write. Geography may not have been among her needs.

“Indeed,” he said, sipping his tea. “Let us hope the weather favors us.”

But it did not. By half past ten when Henry set out in the trap with Wiggins, clouds were piling up in the north and west over the Blencathra Mountains, shadowing the land and promising more snow. Wiggins shook his head and pursed his lips, and added more blankets for his passengers.

They were at least halfway to Penrith before the sky darkened and the wind rose with a knife-edge to it, and the first white flurries came. Henry had not seen Benjamin Dreghorn for several years and normally would have looked forward to meeting him again, but this time it would be very hard. He had offered to go, in order to save Antonia having to be the one to break the news. Naturally, when Benjamin had set out from Palestine several weeks ago, there had been nothing but happiness in view. The bitterness of his arrival would be totally unexpected.

Henry huddled with the blanket around him and the driving snow at his back as they went the last few miles. He hoped the train had not been delayed. If the snow was bad over Shap Fell, it could hold them up. They would simply have to wait for it. He twisted around in his seat, staring behind him, but all he could see was gray-white, whirling snow; even the closer hills and slopes were obliterated.

Wiggins hunched his shoulders, his hat over his ears. The pony trudged patiently onward. Henry tried to arrange his thoughts so he could tell Benjamin as gently as possible.

The train was no more than twenty minutes after the hour. The snow was beginning to drift in places, but the wind had driven it on the lee side at Shap, and the line was not badly affected.

Henry stood on the platform and watched the carriage doors open and searched for Benjamin’s tall figure among the dozen or so people who got off. He was the last to come, carrying two largish cases and smiling broadly.

Henry felt his chest tighten as he forced himself to walk toward Judah’s brother.

“Henry Rathbone!” Benjamin said with unaffected delight. He put the cases down carefully on the snowy platform and held out his hand.

Henry took it, wrung it, then reached for one of the cases to help.

“It’s good to see you!” Benjamin said enthusiastically. “Are you staying for Christmas?” He picked up the other case. “What filthy weather! But by heaven, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how incredibly clean it is, after the desert. And water everywhere.” He strode forward and Henry had to make an effort to keep up with him. “I used to hate the rain,” Benjamin went on. “Now I appreciate that water is life. You get to value it in Palestine. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it is to walk where Christ walked.”

A blast of icy wind struck them as they turned the corner into the street, and took a few minutes to exchange greetings with Wiggins, load the luggage, and make their way out of the town and onto the road west again.

Benjamin resumed his tale. “You wouldn’t believe the places I’ve been to, Henry. I’ve stood by the shores of Galilee, probably the very hill on which Christ preached the Sermon on the Mount. Can you imagine that? I’ve been to Capernaum, Caesarea, Bethlehem, Tarsus, Damascus, but above all, I’ve walked the streets of Jerusalem and out toward Golgotha. I’ve stood in the Garden of Gethsemane!” His voice rang with the wonder of it. Even muffled against the wind and snow his sunburned face glowed.

“You are very fortunate,” Henry replied, meaning it, in spite of how irrelevant it seemed now. “Not only to see it, but to be so aware of its meaning.”

“I’ve brought something very special as a Christmas present for Joshua,” Benjamin went on. “I’m not sure if he’ll like it, yet, but he will in time. I’ve got it in the brown case, that’s why I’ve been so careful with it. Antonia will keep it for him, if necessary. But he must be nine by now. I think he’ll understand.”

“What is it?”

Benjamin smiled broadly. He was a handsome man, strong-boned, and he had excellent teeth. “A piece of manuscript—an original of half a dozen verses from the New Testament, just a page, but can you imagine how the man who wrote it must have felt?” His voice rang with enthusiasm. “It’s in a carved, wooden box. Beautiful work. And it smells marvelous. They told me it was the odor of frankincense.”

“I am sure he will like it,” Henry responded. “If not just yet, then in a year or two.”

“Wait until Judah sees it,” Benjamin said eagerly.

Henry could leave it no longer. Not to speak now would amount to a lie. He turned sideways, the wind making his eyes water.

“Benjamin,” he began. “I came to meet you personally, not only because I am pleased to see you, but because I have some very hard news which I wanted to spare Antonia from having to tell you herself …”

The light and the joy drained out of Benjamin’s face. Suddenly his blue eyes were bleak and the biting cold of the snow and the wild, color-bleached landscape seemed hostile, the chill of it getting into the bones.

Henry did not wait. “Judah died in an accident eight days ago. He went out at night and slipped on the ice of the stepping stones crossing the stream.”

Benjamin stared at him. “Died! He couldn’t have—it’s only a couple of feet deep at the most, if that!” he protested.

“He must have hit his head on the stones.” Henry did not go into any more detail. The explanation made no difference to the truth of it.

“What was he doing there at night?” Benjamin demanded. “There’s nothing there!”

“No one knows,” Henry replied. “He just said he wanted to stretch his legs before going to bed. He had taken Antonia and Joshua to a recital in the village.”

“It doesn’t make sense!”

Henry did not argue. He knew better than to say that such unexpected tragedy seldom did.

Benjamin turned forward and stared into the snowstorm, his face immobile, marked with uncomprehending grief. How could the whole world change in an instant, and with no warning?

They rode for at least another mile without speaking again, and were rounding the last curve in the road when the snow eased and a blue patch appeared in the sky. A bar of light like silver shone on the flat surface of the lake, so brilliant it dazzled the eyes. The village itself was almost invisible with its white-blanketed roofs.

If Henry were to tell Benjamin about the accusation, and save Antonia from having to do it, then he had little time left.

“Benjamin, that is not all I have to tell you before we reach the house,” he said aloud. “I would prefer that Antonia, who told me, did not have to go through it all again.”

Benjamin turned slowly. “Judah’s dead. What else can there be?” His face was full of pain. He had loved his brother profoundly, and his admiration for him had been intense. The only thing worse than having to tell him of Gower’s accusation would be having him find out from someone else.

“Ashton Gower is saying that Judah imprisoned him wrongly, in order to be able to buy the estate,” Henry said simply. “It is nonsense, of course, but we need to find a way to force him to retract it, and never repeat it again. It is causing much distress.”

“Ashton Gower is in prison, where he belongs,” Benjamin replied a trifle coldly. “Exactly who is it that is spreading these lies? I’ll put a stop to it, by law, if necessary.” He spoke forcefully. He was a powerful man, as were all the Dreghorn brothers, but he had a remarkable intellect as well. He had succeeded brilliantly at university and it was something of a surprise to his family when he had chosen to study theology. But then when his income from the estate had freed him from the need to earn his way, and he had followed his scholastic dreams to the Holy Land, everyone had found it quite natural.

“Gower has served his sentence,” Henry corrected him. “He is free, and unfortunately has chosen to come back to the Lakes.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“Then I’ll go and see him myself. I’m surprised he hasn’t been run out of the village. What kind of a man slanders the dead, and adds to the bereavement of a widow and her child? He’s less than filth!”

“He is a deeply unpleasant man …” Henry began.

“He is a convicted forger and a would-be thief!” Benjamin retorted. “If it hadn’t been for Colgrave he’d have got away with it.”

“But he made his accusations when Judah was still alive,” Henry finished. “I don’t believe he has repeated them publicly since then, but no doubt he will do. He is determined to clear his own name.”

Benjamin gave a bark of laughter and his face set hard and angry.

There was no more time for conversation. They approached the gates of the estate and Henry climbed down to open them, then close them after the trap. He walked behind them up the gravel to the door just as Antonia came out.

Benjamin leaped out of the trap and strode the couple of paces over to her and took her in his arms, holding her gently as if she were a hurt child.

Then he looked up and saw Joshua standing in the front doorway, dwarfed by the massive lintels and looking embarrassed and unhappy.

Benjamin let go of Antonia and walked up the step. For an instant he seemed uncertain how to treat Joshua. He hesitated, torn between taking him in his arms or grasping him by the hand.

Joshua gulped, standing perfectly still. “Hello, Uncle Benjamin,” he said very quietly.

Benjamin knelt down. “Hello, Joshua.” He held out his arms, and the child allowed himself to be embraced, then after a long moment, very slowly returned it, sliding his arms around Benjamin’s neck and laying his head on his shoulder.

Henry found himself overcome with emotion also, and turned away to Antonia. He offered her his arm up the steps, and Wiggins followed with Benjamin’s cases.

The following morning Henry got up early because he did not want to lie in bed thinking. When he reached the dining room he found Benjamin already there, with a plate of Cumberland sausage, eggs and bacon, and thick, brown toast on the side. Instead of marmalade there was a dark, rich jam in the dish. He remembered from the past that it was witherslacks, a tart kind of small plum, known as a damson in the rest of England, and Benjamin’s favorite.

Benjamin gave him a tight, miserable smile. “Good morning, Henry. I’m going to see Colgrave this morning. It must have snowed most of the night. It’s pretty deep. We can ride. It’s only a couple of miles or so. He’s an oily swine, and if he had an ounce of decency he’d have stopped Gower already, but we might be able to put a little backbone into him.” He took another mouthful from his plate. “Or make him more frightened of us than of whatever he thinks Gower will do to him. Ephraim should be here any day, but you can’t tell how long it will take to sail from South Africa. What a terrible homecoming!”

“Antonia is expecting Naomi, too,” Henry told him.

“I doubt she can help.” Benjamin’s broad shoulders slumped. “I still miss Nathaniel. What’s happening to us, Henry? Judah was the oldest, and he was only forty-three, and two of us are dead already! Joshua’s the only heir to the Dreghorns.”

“So far,” Henry agreed.

Benjamin did not answer the remark. “Have some breakfast,” he said instead. “You can’t go out in this weather without a good meal inside you.”

And in spite of the fact that it was only just over a mile and a half to Peter Colgrave’s house, it was not an easy journey. The snow had drifted in the night and in places it was more than two feet deep.

They rode toward the lake and crossed the stream lower down where there was a rough bridge made of two long slabs of stone balanced at either end, and on a central stone. On foot, one balanced with care, but on horseback it was a matter of splashing through, more than hock-deep, and up the other side.

Half a mile beyond they saw the square-towered stone church and the vicarage, then a hundred yards farther was Colgrave’s house, also of stone. It was handsome, deep-windowed, the roof immaculately slated. One could see where the money from the sale of the estate had been used to remain and extend it, and to build new stables. That was where they left their horses.

“Come in,” Colgrave said, covering his surprise and considerable reluctance with an effort. “Good to see you, Dreghorn. My deepest condolences on your brother’s death. Terrible tragedy.”

“Thank you,” Benjamin said briefly. “You remember Henry Rathbone, don’t you?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Colgrave answered, looking Henry up and down, trying to place his lean figure and mild, aquiline face. “How do you do, Mr. Rathbone.”

Henry replied, finding it difficult to smile. Colgrave was broad, tending to fat a little, although he was no more than forty at the most. He had dark brown hair and a clever, thoughtful face, somewhat guarded in expression.

“Come in, gentlemen,” Colgrave invited, ushering them through a wood-paneled hall decorated with fine portraits of men and women who were presumably his ancestors. The fire was already burning well in his study and the room was warm. The shelves that lined the walls were stocked with leather-bound, gold-lettered books. “What may I do for you?” Colgrave asked. “Anything I can, to be of assistance. You will be returning to the east? Palestine, isn’t it? Must be fascinating.” This was directed to Benjamin. He considered Henry to be of no importance, merely a friend brought for company, and perhaps that was close enough to the truth.

“Not until I have cleared my brother’s name,” Benjamin said bluntly.

“Oh!” Colgrave let out his breath. “Yes. Fearful business.” His face tightened in distaste. “Gower is a complete outsider, quite appalling. The man is a fraud, a cheat, and now slanders the name of a good man. Pity we can’t set the dogs on him.” He gave a slight shrug of his heavy shoulders.

“If it were as simple as that, I should not need your help,” Benjamin retorted. “You saw the original deeds that he is saying were genuine.”

Colgrave raised his eyebrows.

“Of course. They were so badly forged I don’t know how anyone believed them for a moment, except that I suppose many of us are not familiar with such papers, and we are not in the habit of suspecting our neighbors of such a stupid crime.”

“But you would swear that they were forged?” Benjamin pressed.

“My dear fellow, I did! In court. Not that it rested on my testimony alone, of course. There was an expert from Kendal, came and also swore they were complete forgeries from beginning to end. We all knew that.” He waved his hand. “This will blow over, you know. No one with any sense at all believes Gower. The only ones who ever listen to him are newcomers. There are half a dozen families, one or two with money, I admit, who weren’t here at the time, so they don’t understand.”

“Who are they?” Benjamin asked.

“Leave it alone for a while,” Colgrave said soothingly. “I’ll speak to them on your behalf, and tell them the truth of the thing. Go now, in hot blood, and you’ll only make enemies of them. No one likes to be shown up for a fool, you know?”

“A fool?” Benjamin asked.

“Certainly, a fool. Who but a fool would believe a convicted forger like Ashton Gower? They’ll learn the truth of him soon enough. Wait until he loses that foul temper of his with them! Or borrows a horse and brings it home lame, as he did with poor Bennion, or tries to borrow money we all know he’ll never return. Then they’ll wish they’d had more sense than to give him a moment’s credence. As angry as you are, quite rightly, of course, you’ll make enemies of them now.”

Henry disliked having to agree with Colgrave, but honesty gave him no choice. They excused themselves and left, but as soon as they were outside Benjamin turned around.

“Before we get the horses, I want to go to the churchyard.” He took a deep breath, his face bleak and half turned away. “I must see Judah’s grave.”

“Of course,” Henry agreed. “So must I. Or would you rather be alone?”

Benjamin hesitated.

“I’ll wait,” Henry said quickly. “I can go later. I’ll fetch the horses, then we don’t have to go back.”

Benjamin nodded, unwilling to commit himself to speech, but his gratitude was in his eyes.

Henry stood still for a moment or two, watching him walk slowly, crunching through the snow, until he reached the stone wall of the churchyard, and then was lost behind the yew branches.

He went back to the stable yard, and by the time he returned, Benjamin was waiting for him.

“I want to see Leighton, if he’s still the doctor here,” he said, taking his horse from Henry and mounting. “If not him, then whoever is. I don’t know how Judah could have been stupid enough to slip on the stepping stones. He’s lived here all his life. Where was he going, anyway? What was he doing crossing the stream alone at that time of night? Why did he go out at all?”

“I don’t know,” Henry admitted, keeping the horses in step, side by side as they rode toward the village. “Are you sure it matters now?”

Benjamin looked at him sharply. “Of course it matters! It doesn’t make any sense. There’s something wrong, and I intend to get to the truth. Ashton Gower has to be silenced, and permanently. We can’t let Antonia live in fear that he’ll start up again.” He was angry with Henry for not understanding; it was clear in his face and the tone of his voice.

Grief and confusion were wounding him and Henry understood that. Still the response stung, and it was an effort to control his own reaction. He had liked Benjamin all the years he had known him, as much as he had liked Judah, and the sense of loss incurred was no stranger to him. It was many years since his wife had died, but the memory was still there.

It was still snowing very lightly but the wind had dropped. Fifteen minutes later they were at the doctor’s house and the horses by the gate. It was another quarter of an hour before he was free to see them.

“Terribly sorry,” Leighton said to Benjamin. “Dreadful thing to happen. Good of you to come up, Rathbone. What can I do for you?” He was a thin man, full of nervous energy but with a grave voice, nearer Henry’s age than Benjamin’s.

Benjamin’s face was slightly flushed, as much from helpless anger as the sharp edge of the cold outside. “There’s a lot about Judah’s death that makes no sense,” he replied. “I wanted to find the truth of what happened.” He stood in the middle of the room, lean, broad-shouldered, skin burned brown by the sun of the Holy Land, his face hard.

Leighton had been a country doctor for twenty years. He understood grief and the anger that prompted men to fight it. He leaned against the bookcase and regarded Benjamin seriously. “The facts are simple. Judah went out for a walk at about half past ten in the evening. There was a half moon, but it was still extremely dark. He took a lantern, which was found washed up on the banks of the stream a few yards from where he was. When he did not return home, some little while after midnight, Antonia became sufficiently alarmed to send out the male servants to search for him. They found his body caught in the rocks of the fall a short distance below the stepping stones.”

“I know all that!” Benjamin said impatiently. “Henry told me. What was he doing there? Why did he go out at all? Why did he try crossing icy stepping stones at night? Where was he going? How does a strong man drown in two feet of water? The stream isn’t running fast enough to sweep anyone off their feet, even at this time of the year. I’ve fallen off those stepping stones a dozen times, and got no worse than wet clothes!”

“You can fall off a horse a hundred times and get no worse than bruises, or a broken collarbone,” Leighton said reasonably. “But the hundred and first fall can kill you. Benjamin, don’t look for reasons where there are none. He slipped in the dark and fell badly. He struck his head on the stones and it knocked him senseless. If it hadn’t, no doubt he’d have climbed out and walked home again. Tragically, it did.”

“How do you know he struck his head when he fell?” Benjamin challenged. “How do you know no one struck him?”

Leighton’s face darkened. “Don’t start thinking like that, Benjamin,” he warned. “There’s no evidence to suggest anything of the sort. Judah slipped. It was a tragic accident. He drowned. The stream carried him down to the fall, and …”

“You examined him?” Benjamin interrupted.

“Of course I did.”

“What did you find, exactly?”

Leighton sighed. “That the cause of death was drowning. There were several abrasions on his head and shoulders, one where a smooth stone had struck him, which would be when he fell, several others rougher, where the current carried him down onto the fall.”

“Are you sure it was those stones?” Benjamin persisted.

“Yes. The wounds had little bits of riverweed in them, and his hands were scraped by the gravel at the bottom.” His face was sad and patient. “Benjamin, there’s nothing more to it than I’ve told you. Don’t look for reasons or fairness in it. There aren’t any. It is an unjust tragedy, the death of a good man who should have lived a long and happy life. These things happen, probably more often than you know, because it doesn’t hit you like this unless it was someone you loved. People die on the mountains, there are boating accidents on the lakes, falls in the hunting field. I’m sorry.”

“But why was he out crossing the stream in the middle of the night?” Benjamin could not let it go.

Leighton frowned. “Nobody knows that. I don’t suppose we ever will. Look to what matters now. Help Antonia to come to terms with it. Be a support to her, and do what you can for young Joshua. They need your strength now, not a lot of questions to which we’ll find no answers. And even if we found them all, they would make no difference to what happened. Make the best of what is left.”

Benjamin looked bewildered. “And Ashton Gower?” he demanded angrily. “Who is going to silence him? I swear by God, if he goes on blackening Judah’s name, I will! And if he had anything to do with Judah’s death, anything at all, I’ll prove it and I’ll see him hang!”

Leighton’s face was grim. He straightened up, frowning. “You can be forgiven a certain amount for the shock of your loss, Benjamin, but if you suggest, outside this room, that Gower had anything to do with your brother’s death, you will be even more guilty of slander than he is. There is nothing whatever to indicate that he met Judah or had any intention of harming him, then or at any time. Please don’t bring any more grief on your family than it already has. It would be utterly irresponsible.”

Benjamin stood without moving for a long moment, then turned and strode out, leaving the door swinging behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Henry apologized for him. “Judah’s death has hit him very hard, and Ashton Gower’s charges are vicious and profoundly wrong. Judah was one of the most honest men I ever knew. To blacken his name now is an evil thing to do. I agree with Benjamin completely, and regardless of what he does, I will do all I can to protect Judah’s widow and son from such calumny.”

“Everyone in the village will,” Leighton said gravely. “Gower is a deeply unpopular man. We all remember what he did over the forged deeds. He’s arrogant and abrupt. But if Benjamin accuses him over Judah’s death, he will make it a great deal more difficult than it has to be, because some are then going to see injury on both sides, and it will become a feud, and split the village. That kind of thing can take years to heal, sometimes generations, because people get so entrenched, other grievances are added, and they can’t turn back.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Henry promised. Then he excused himself and went outside into the snow to catch up with Benjamin.

Benjamin was standing holding both the horses. He looked at Henry defiantly, his blue eyes burning. “I know,” he said before Henry could speak. “I just hate being told by that satisfied, self-righteous …” He stopped. “It’s thirsty work walking in this. Let’s go to the Fleece and take a pint of Cumberland ale. It’s a long time since I’ve tasted a jar of Snecklifter. It’s too early for lunch, or I’d have had a good crust of bread and a piece of Whillimoor Wang. There’s a plain, lean cheese for you to let you know you’re home. I’d like to hear a tale or two of good men and dogs, or even a fanciful yarn of demons and fairies, such as they like around here. They used to write that in as cause of death sometimes, you know? Taken by fairies!”

Henry smiled. “That must have covered a multitude of things!”

Benjamin laughed harshly. “Try explaining that to the constable.”

An hour later, warmed and refreshed, entertained by taller and taller stories in broad Cumberland dialect, they emerged into the street again to find the weather brighter, and the sun breaking through wide rifts in the clouds, dazzling on the snow and reflecting on the lake in long blue and silver shards.

They had ridden barely a hundred yards, past small shops, the smithy, the cooper’s yard, and were just level with the clog shop where the clog maker was hollowing out the wooden soles with his long, hinged stock knife when they almost ran into a broad-shouldered man with densely black hair.

The man was on foot and Benjamin looked down at him with an expression of cold fury. The man’s eyes were narrowed, hard with loathing as he stared back. Henry did not need to be told that this was Ashton Gower.

“So you’ve returned from following the footsteps of God!” Gower said sarcastically. “Much good it’ll do you. I’ll give you a decency of mourning, for the widow’s sake, though those that profit from sin are as guilty of it as them that do it. But I suppose a woman’s got to stay by her man, she’s little choice. It’ll make no difference in the end.”

“None at all,” Benjamin agreed harshly. “Speak another word against my brother, and I’ll sue you for slander and see you back in prison, which is where you belong. They should never have let you out.”

“Slander’s a civil suit, Mr. Dreghorn,” Gower replied, glaring up at him. “And you’d have to win before you could do anything to anyone. I’ve no money to pay you damages. You and your kin have already taken everything that was mine. You can’t rob me twice, even if you could prove I was lying, which you can’t, because every word I say is the truth.”

Henry tensed, afraid Benjamin might lunge at him, even mounted as he was.

But Benjamin did not attempt to strike Gower. He sat quite still in the icy air. “The pity is that I cannot slander you, Gower,” he replied. “Nothing I could say about you is untrue. You are proven a liar, a forger, and a would-be thief. You only failed at it because you were so clumsy, so damned bad at forgery that they could see at a glance that the deeds were rotten. You didn’t even do it well!”

Gower’s face flushed dull red, his eyes like black holes in his head. Now it was he who looked for a moment as if he would find it impossible to control his physical desire to lash out, even grasp at Benjamin and pull him off his horse. He moved, his arm out, then stopped.

“Is that what happened to Judah?” Benjamin asked, his voice grating between his teeth. “He called you a failed thief, and you lost your temper?”

Slowly Gower relaxed and a slow smile spread across his face. “I’m not sorry he’s dead, Dreghorn. I’m glad. He was a corrupt man, an abuser of power and office, and there’s not much worse than a judge who uses his position to steal from the men who come before him believing they’ll receive justice. If the judge himself is rotten at the heart, what hope is there for the people? That is a high sin, Dreghorn. It stinks to heaven.”

He stepped back, lifting his head. “But I did not kill him. He wronged me bitterly. He sent me to prison for a crime I did not commit, and he stole my inheritance from me, as well as eleven years of my life. I spoke against him, and I shall do so as long as I have breath, but I never raised my hand, or told any other man to. As far as I know, it was a just God who finally punished him. And if I wait my time, and plead my cause before the people, perhaps He’ll give me back what’s mine as well.”

“Over my dead body!” Benjamin said bitterly. “I’ll not accuse you of murder until I can prove it, but then I will. And I’ll see you on the end of a rope.”

“Not if there’s any justice under heaven, you won’t,” Gower retorted. “I didn’t kill him.” And with a harsh, sneering smile still on his face he strode past them through the snow back toward the center of the village, the wind off the lakeshore tugging at the tails of his coat.

Benjamin watched him until he was out of sight, then he and Henry rode back toward the estate.

“I love this land,” he said after a little while. “I’d forgotten how good it feels. I couldn’t bear it to be poisoned by that man. I know Judah. The idea that he would be dishonest in anything is absurd. What can we do about it, Henry? How do we stop him saying these things?”

Henry had been dreading that question. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to think of a way, but after meeting Gower, every sort of reason seems doomed to failure. He has convinced himself that the deeds were genuine.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Benjamin said abruptly. “They were not only forgeries, they weren’t even good ones. The expert swore to it, but anyone could have seen it when one looked. Gower’s just so corroded with hatred he’s lost his wits. Maybe prison has turned his mind.” He looked at Henry. “You don’t think he’s a danger to Antonia, do you?”

Henry did not know how to answer honestly. He longed to be reassuring, but there had been a wild hatred in Ashton Gower which defied reason. He had no doubt that the man was guilty of forging in a stupid attempt to get the estate. It had apparently been such a poor attempt that any serious look at it must have told him it was not genuine. Even if Henry had not known Judah, there was the testimony of the expert. Perhaps Benjamin was right, and Gower had lost his mental balance in prison. Heaven knows, he would not be the first man to do that.

“Henry!” Benjamin said sharply.

“I don’t know.” Henry was forced to be honest. “I think we should warn Antonia. The servants must be told. The house must be locked securely at night. You have dogs, they would warn of anyone who should not be around. It may all be unnecessary, but as long as Gower remains in the area, and in the frame of mind he is, I think it would be better.”

Benjamin stopped, reining in his horse hard, and turning in the saddle. “Do you think he murdered Judah?”

It was a jarringly ugly thought, but it had been on the edge of his own mind, too. “I really don’t know,” Henry admitted. “I think he is an evil man, and possibly a little mad. But better we should take preventions we don’t need, than that we should fail, and regret it afterwards when it is too late.”

“How can we warn Antonia without frightening her?”

“I don’t believe we can.”

“But that’s … God damn Gower!” Benjamin swore savagely. “God damn him to hell!”