A Christmas Visitor

IT STOPPED SNOWING IN THE EVENING, AND A HARD wind blew down the lake, whining in the eaves and rattling the windows. But in the morning when Henry pulled the curtains, even before Mrs. Hardcastle came with tea, there were bare patches on the north and west faces of the hills, and lower down the snow had drifted deep against walls and fences.

The postmaster arrived after breakfast with a telegraph message from Ephraim, sent the day before from Lancaster, to say that he would be arriving on the midday train. The lawyer also rode up from the village, before going on to Penrith, to speak about the estate to Antonia and Benjamin. Therefore, it was again Henry who stood on the platform when the train came in, belching steam into the air, and nearly an hour late because of snow drifting over Shap Fell.

He saw Ephraim immediately. He was as tall as Benjamin, but leaner. And he walked with a loose, easy gait in spite of the cold. He carried only one case; it was quite large, but in his hand it seemed to have no weight at all. Like Benjamin he was burned by the sun and wind, and frowned very slightly as he saw no one he was expecting on the platform waiting for him. He glanced up at the sky, perhaps fearing the snow had been worse here, and he would not be able to go farther until it cleared.

“Ephraim!” Henry called out. “Ephraim!”

Ephraim turned, startled at first, then his face lit when he recognized Henry, and he dropped the case and came forward to clasp Henry’s hand.

“Rathbone! How are you? What are you doing here? You’ve come to stay with us over Christmas? That’s wonderful. It’s going to be like old times. You look cold, and sort of pinched. Where is everyone? Where’s Judah? Have you been waiting long?”

“Not on the platform,” Henry answered with a smile. “I’ve been at the inn with a pint of Cockerhoop.” That was the light ale that was so popular locally. He felt a lift of gratitude that Ephraim could welcome him so generously at what had been intended as a family reunion. He was, after all, not a Dreghorn, merely Antonia’s godfather, an honorary position, not one of kinship. He dreaded having to tell him the real reason he was here; his stomach knotted up and his throat was tight. Was it better to crush his pleasure immediately with honesty, or allow a little time, let him take joy in homecoming first?

Ephraim was smiling broadly. He was quieter than his brother, a man of deep thoughts he shared seldom, and great physical courage. Whatever fears or doubts he had about anything, he mastered them without outer show. But after being in Africa for four years, the sight of his beloved lakes again woke a joy in him that found expression easily.

“Sounds perfect,” he said with enthusiasm. “We’ll go for some long walks in the snow, climb a bit even, and then sit by a roaring fire and talk about dreams and tell each other tall stories. I’ve got a few. Henry, there are things in Africa you wouldn’t believe!” He picked up his case and matched Henry stride for stride out to the waiting trap which Wiggins had brought around ready when he heard the train draw in.

“How’s Judah?” Ephraim asked as soon as they were in the trap and moving. “Have you heard from Ben yet? And Naomi? Is she coming, too?” There was an eagerness in his voice when he mentioned her name, and he turned away as if to guard the emotion in his eyes from being seen.

Thoughts teemed through Henry’s mind, an awareness that there was a new dimension he had not even thought of, and pain he would not be able to read in Ephraim as well as he had in Benjamin, depths he could neither understand nor help. And yet there was no alternative. Now was the moment.

“Benjamin is already here,” he answered the easiest question first. “He arrived two days ago …”

Ephraim turned toward him, blue eyes puzzled. “Is he all right?”

“No,” Henry said frankly. “We are none of us all right. Judah died in an accident eight days ago.” He looked at Ephraim’s face as the shock struck him, followed by disbelief, then pain. “I am sorry I am the one to tell you, but the lawyer called this morning regarding certain estate matters, and Benjamin stayed with Antonia to see him.”

“Hunting?” Ephraim said hoarsely. Judah seldom hunted, but it was the only way to keep foxes down in the Lakeland, and they devastated sheep if left. Ewes and lambs had their throats torn out, whole flocks of chickens could be slaughtered.

“No,” Henry replied, and told him briefly all they knew so far.

Ephraim huddled into his coat as if suddenly the wind cut through it and it was no protection to his body. “Where on earth was he going?” he asked huskily. “At night?”

“We don’t know. He said it was just to get a little air before going to bed. They had all been at the village listening to a visiting musician. A violinist. He had actually played a small piece Joshua had written.”

“Joshua?” Ephraim repeated the name. “Judah said he was brilliant. He was so proud of him.” He controlled himself with difficulty. There was nothing in his face, but his voice broke. “I brought something for Joshua from Africa. Seems irrelevant now.”

“It won’t be, later,” Henry assured him. “Benjamin brought him a beautiful gift also, a piece of scripture, original, in a carved wooden box.”

“I brought him a chief’s necklace of office, an African version of a crown,” Ephraim said. “It’s made of gold and ivory. At a glance it seems barbaric, but when you look more closely it’s very beautifully carved. Nothing like European at all. I suppose you are right, and in time he will like it. Today it’ll seem utterly pointless.”

“That is not all I need to tell you before we get to the house,” Henry went on. They were making quite good speed. The wind had cleared most of the snow off the road. There were one or two places where it had drifted, and they got out and took the spades from the space where the luggage was and helped Wiggins dig a path. Henry saw Ephraim attack the heavy piles with an energy born of anger, his back bent, his weight thrown behind each shovelful. Then they put the spades back and climbed up again to go forward. It was necessary only three times.

“What else?” Ephraim asked without interest when they were on their way again and the broad, white-flecked surface of the lake lay ahead.

“Ashton Gower is out of prison and saying that he was wrongly convicted. The deeds were genuine, and Judah knew it,” Henry answered, pulling the rug a little tighter around both of them. His feet were wet, as were the bottoms of his trousers.

“That’s nonsense.” Ephraim dismissed it as of no worth, even to discuss.

“I know it is nonsense,” Henry agreed. “But he is repeating it very insistently, and Benjamin feels it is important that he is stopped. There are many people in the village who were not there at the time of the trial, and don’t know the truth. He is being offensive, and causing Antonia some distress. We cannot ignore him.” He did not add that Benjamin suspected the possibility of his having been involved in Judah’s death. Ephraim was not as easy for him to read, and he was uncertain of his anger, or the depth of his pain.

Ephraim did not reply for some time, at least another hundred yards farther along the road. Now the white roofs of the village houses were clear in the hard light and the trees were dense black against the gray water.

“Henry, are you saying that there are people who believe him?” he asked at length. “How could anyone who knew Judah at all consider such a thing even for a moment? There was never a more honest man than he, and Ashton Gower is a vicious cur, without honor, kindness, or any other redeeming virtue. Who is there anywhere that can say he has done them a good turn without expecting payment for it?”

“I know it, Ephraim,” Henry replied. “I think perhaps prison turned his mind. But it doesn’t change the fact that he is furious, and bent on clearing his name, whatever the cost.”

“You speak as if you believe he is a danger,” Ephraim said gravely. “Is he?”

Henry was compelled to admit it. “I don’t know. Benjamin thinks it is possible he had a hand in Judah’s death. I cannot discount it, either. We met him in the village yesterday, and he has a hatred in him that chilled me. We have told the household servants to be careful locking everything, and to leave the dogs loose at night. It is deeply unpleasant, Ephraim. We can’t leave the Lakes, and Antonia and Joshua alone, with this unexplained.” He looked at Ephraim’s face, pale under the African sunburn. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you better things.”

Ephraim put his hand on Henry’s arm and clasped it hard. “The truth, Henry. That is all that will serve us. Thank you for coming. We shall need your help.”

Henry did not say that they had it; Ephraim knew that.

It was a quiet, somber evening, rain and snow alternately beating against the windows and the fire roaring in the hearth. They ate Lakeland mutton and sweet, earth-flavored potatoes with herbs mixed in. Spices were imported along the coast, and Cumberland gingerbread was famous. Hot, with cream, it made an excellent pudding.

Ephraim and Benjamin spoke quietly together, sharing memories, and Henry sat by the fire with Antonia, mostly listening to whatever she wanted to say, and when she preferred, telling her tales of London and the busy city life that she had never experienced.

Henry slept well, tired after the drive through the wind and snow to Penrith, but he woke early, while it was still dark. He did not wish to lie in bed any longer, and he rose and dressed warmly and was outside before the dawn.

By the time the sun rose over the mountains to the southwest, and spread soft, pearly light through a mackerel sky, he was more than halfway to the stepping stones at the upper crossing where Judah had died.

Thoughts whirled in his mind as he trudged over the crisp unbroken snow, splashed pink by the sun. Was he imagining the emotion in Ephraim’s voice as he asked if Nathaniel’s widow was coming as well? Even as he asked himself the question, the certainty of the answer was in his mind: Ephraim himself had been in love with her then, and the memory of it was sharp still.

Of course he would not have seen her since the last time they had both been home, which, as far as Henry knew, was seven years ago. People could change a great deal in such a time. Experience could refine their feelings, or obliterate them.

Henry had not met her, and knew nothing except that she was English, from the east coast, and Nathaniel had known her for only a few months before marrying her. They had left for America shortly after that. Antonia had spoken warmly of her; Judah had seemed to have some reservations, but he had not said what they were. Had they been only an awareness that his youngest brother had loved her as well?

He was making his way downhill very slightly now, being careful not to slip. The stream lay ahead of him, running fast. The recent snow had added to it; it washed almost to the top of the stepping stones placed across it, ten in all, flat, carefully chosen.

Where the stream had carved little bays and hollows out of the bank the current had carried ice down and left it, glittering in the broadening light. The far bank rose more steeply. Henry looked from left to right, but there was nothing except faint indentations where sheep had made tracks for themselves. What on earth would bring Judah here, at night? To be alone with thoughts that troubled him so intensely he could not address them in the house, with Antonia present? Or to meet someone?

Had he been afraid of Ashton Gower and the damage he could cause? Had Gower threatened Antonia, or even Joshua? Would Judah have considered paying him in some way, to protect them?

That was nothing like the man Henry had known. But do people change when those they love are threatened?

He stared up and down the swollen stream. In the daylight he could see the fall clearly, the water splashing white over the jagged rocks. They were certainly sharp enough to have caused the injuries Leighton had described. Everything fitted with the facts. Ice on the stones, one false step, poor balance, even simple tiredness, and a fall could cause a blow that would render one senseless. Face down and one could drown in minutes—the water did not need to be deep. The current could carry a body down to the fall and cause the lacerations Leighton spoke of.

But knowing Gower, why on earth would Judah meet him here, alone at night? The answer was simple. He would not. And to suppose chance, made no sense either. Gower would not wait here on a bitter, winter night in case Judah came! That was absurd.

Ashton Gower might well have wished him dead, and rejoiced when he was, but there was nothing whatever to suggest that he had killed him, except the madness of the man and his hunger for revenge, and they proved nothing at all.

Reluctantly he turned and made his way back, shivering in spite of his coat, scarf, hat, and thick, fur-lined gloves. Everything in him wanted to believe Gower was responsible. It was factually absurd, and emotionally the only thing that made sense.

With the daylight the snow was thawing and by the time he reached the house his feet were thoroughly soaked, as were the bottoms of his trousers. He went up the back stairs to his room and changed before coming down again to the dining room.

Mrs. Hardcastle brought him a late breakfast, and he was joined by Benjamin, curious to know where he had been.

“To the stepping stones,” Henry replied when asked. “Tea?”

Benjamin sat down. He looked tired, his eyes hollowed round with shadows. He accepted the offer. Henry poured for them. “Why?”

“Just to see if what Leighton told us makes sense. It does, Ben. I can’t imagine Judah going there to meet Gower at night, and it’s ridiculous to think Gower waited there for him by chance.”

Benjamin looked at him steadily. “You think it was simply an accident?”

Henry did not know how to answer. His intelligence and his instinct fought against each other. He was a man used to logical thought, brought up in the discipline and the beauty of reason. And yet his knowledge of Judah Dreghorn made the deductions sit ill with him. He answered the only way honesty could dictate. “There must be something we don’t know, perhaps several things.”

Benjamin gave a rueful smile. “Same old Henry, careful thinker.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “We need that now more than ever. What do we tell Antonia?”

Henry did not have to weigh his answer. There was only one they could afford, and he had a firmer trust of Antonia’s courage and judgment than Benjamin had, sharp memories of her frankness, her curiosity, and the courage with which she met the answers, so many of which she had had to face alone. It hurt him deeply that her happiness had been so short. “The truth,” he replied.

The opportunity did not come until the evening. Either one of them had been otherwise occupied, or Joshua had been with them, but after dinner they were all gathered around the fire, and Joshua had gone to bed. It was Benjamin who began, looking at Antonia with grave apology.

“I’m sorry to raise it again, but I believe we need to understand better what happened the night Judah died.”

“I don’t know anything I haven’t told you,” she answered, her hands knotted in her lap, unornamented but for her gold wedding ring.

He was gentle. “What did you talk about on the way home from the recital?”

“The music, of course.”

“How was Judah? Of course he would be proud of Joshua, but was he otherwise just as usual?”

She considered for a few moments. “Looking back on it, he was more than usually absorbed in thought. I believed at the time it was the emotion of the music, and that perhaps he was tired. He had had a difficult case in Penrith. I didn’t know then just how awful Gower had been. Judah had not told me, I only learned after his death of the details. He’s an evil man, Benjamin. To hate so much is a kind of insanity, I think, and that is frightening.”

“Did Judah mention him at all? Can you remember?”

Ephraim sat motionless, his face deep in thought. Henry felt a chill of anxiety. There was a power in Ephraim, a courage that stopped at nothing. If he once were convinced that Ashton Gower had killed his brother, nothing would deter him from pursuing justice. Such strength was disturbing.

“When I think of it,” Antonia replied, “he actually spoke very little. He only answered me.”

“He didn’t say where he was going, or why he wanted to walk at that hour?” Benjamin persisted.

“Not really, just for the air,” she answered. She looked uncertain. “I thought he wanted to think.”

“Outside, on a winter night?”

She said nothing, now deeply unhappy.

Henry was gentler. “Did he suggest you should not wait up for him?”

She had to think for a moment. “Yes. Yes, he did say something like that. I don’t remember exactly what.”

“So he expected to be gone an hour or more,” Henry deduced.

“An hour?” Benjamin questioned.

“By the time Joshua had got over his excitement and gone to bed, and then Antonia herself had,” Henry replied. “It sounds as if he intended to go as far as the stream. What lies beyond it? Where is this Viking site, exactly?”

“Farther down the stream,” she said. “Just above the lower crossing before you get to the church. He wasn’t going to the site. There’s nothing really beyond the higher crossing, except a copse of trees, and a shepherd’s hut. Do you suppose he was going there? What for?”

There was only one answer, and it hung in the air like an additional darkness.

“If it was someone he didn’t trust, he’d have taken the dogs. They’d have attacked anyone who threatened him.”

“Or he was going to see someone he trusted,” Henry said.

Antonia stared at the fire. “Or there was no one else. He slipped, that’s all, just as Dr. Leighton said.”

Benjamin’s face was bleak. “Which could not have been Gower. We are no further forward.”

Another thought occurred to Henry. “Unless he went with the purpose of helping Gower, perhaps to offer him some kind of assistance in getting himself work, or some establishment in the community again.”

Ephraim’s eyes opened wide. “After what Gower had been saying about him? But if he was, why there, of all places? And in the middle of the night!”

“Judah might have helped him anyway,” Antonia said quietly. “He helped all kinds of people. But I can’t think why meet there!”

“Neither can I,” Benjamin agreed coldly. “What happened? Gower killed him for his trouble? Or else when Judah slipped, just left him there to drown? I know the man was a swine, but that’s inhuman.”

“If he did, we’ll prove it.” Ephraim stared at him. “I’ll see him answer for every word, every act. He’ll never blacken a Dreghorn name again.”

Antonia smiled and nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

But alone upstairs in his room, Henry looked out of the window toward the vast, snow-bleached expanse of the mountains under the star-glittered sky, and thought what he had not dared say to the family. He had known Judah well, they had been friends for years, shared all manner of things both with words and in silence. They had understood the emotions that were too complicated to explain, and talked all night of the philosophies that lent themselves to endless exploration.

Judah would not have met alone with Ashton Gower to offer him help, after Gower had accused him of fraud, at the stream or anywhere else. He was far too sophisticated not to realize that Gower could then blackmail him with the threat that he had helped only to hide his own guilt, and Gower would do that. That was the kind of man he was, and Judah knew it.

The more Henry weighed the facts they had, the less any answer fitted them. Each one left loose ends and questions unanswered. He drew the curtains across and prepared to go to bed. Tomorrow he would have one more journey to make to the station at Penrith, and one more time to break the news.

In the morning the thaw had set in and everything was dripping. Much of the snow had melted and there were long streaks of black over the hills where the slopes were bare. Trees that had been hung with icicles yesterday were naked today, branches an unencumbered lace against the sky.

A grim-faced Mrs. Hardcastle served breakfast of eggs, bacon, Cumberland sausage, toast, jam made of witherslacks, or brambles known as black kite, and scalding hot tea in a silver pot. The reason for her anger became known quite early on: Ashton Gower had resumed his accusation and one of the newcomers in the village was repeating it. Mrs. Hardcastle’s opinion of her should have turned the milk sour.

Henry was ready to set out for the station when Ephraim strode across the stable yard, coattails flapping, and climbed in beside him. He offered no explanation and Henry made no remark. He had a strong idea why Ephraim had come, and he was not sure whether it would make the task of breaking the news to Naomi Dreghorn easier or more difficult. He half expected Ephraim to offer to go in his place, but he did not. It seemed that in this first meeting again after the years between, and Nathaniel’s death, he did not wish to be alone with Naomi.

There was little wind, but the damp in the air made the journey cold. Neither of them had anything further to say about Gower or the subject of his accusations. Henry asked Ephraim about Africa, and was caught up out of the grief of the moment listening to his answers.

Ephraim smiled, and for a space of time he did not see the sweep of snow-scattered hills or the ragged clouds above, but felt the hot sun on his skin and dry winds of Africa carrying the scents of dust and animal dung, eyes narrowed against the light as he saw in his mind’s eye the endless plains with vast herds of beasts and the curious flat-topped acacia trees.

“You can hear the lions roar in the night,” he said with a smile. “It’s primeval nature as you never see it in Europe. We’ve grown old and become too civilized. You hear a hyena’s maniacal laughter in the dark, and it’s as if you heard the first joke at the beginning of the world, and he’s the only one who knows it.”

For a moment Henry also forgot the knife-edge wind with the rain behind it.

“And the plants,” Ephraim went on. “Every shape and color imaginable, and nothing lost or wasted, nothing without a use. It is so superb that sometimes I feel drunk just looking at it.”

They continued to talk.

The time of the journey flew by, and because of the change in the weather, the train pulled in within moments of midday. There were clouds of steam, shouts, and a clanging of doors.

Henry did not know Naomi by sight. He realized with surprise that he did not even know what manner of woman to expect. He had been too preoccupied with present events even to form a picture in his mind, tall or short, dark or fair. Now he stood on the platform without any idea at all.

Five women alighted from the train. Two were elderly, and accompanied by men, a third was dark and spare with a grim countenance and severe clothes as if she were applying for a place as a governess in some forbidding establishment. Henry knew Ephraim well enough to not even consider her.

The other two were handsome, the first fair-haired and dainty, a most feminine woman. She looked about her as if searching for a familiar face.

Henry was about to go forward, certain this must be Naomi; then he saw the other young woman. She was taller, broader of shoulder, and she walked with an extraordinary grace, as if movement were a pleasure to her, an unconsidered and natural art. Her face had an unusual beauty, partly a strength of feature, but even more an intelligence, as if everything were of interest to her. If she had ever felt fear, there was no mark of it in her bearing. Henry could not help wondering if it was complete innocence, or a most remarkable courage.

He looked sideways, momentarily at Ephraim, and the last doubt vanished that this was Naomi.

Henry stepped forward. “Naomi Dreghorn?”

She smiled at him, charming but cool. She did not know him, and for a moment it seemed that she had not recognized Ephraim either.

“My name is Henry Rathbone,” he introduced himself. “I have come to meet you and take you to the house. You may remember, it is about six miles away, on the lake.”

“How do you do, Mr. Rathbone.” Her smile was wide and full of pleasure, and she offered him her hand, as if she had been a man. It was slim and strong, and she gripped his firmly.

He picked up her case. “And I expect you remember Ephraim?”

Her face was calm, but the warmth in it was suddenly distant.

“Of course. How are you, Ephraim?”

He replied a little stiffly. She might have thought it was coolness, but Henry could see the uncharacteristic awkwardness of his movement—his usual ease which had its own kind of grace was entirely vanished. He was at a disadvantage which was unfamiliar to him.

They spoke of trivialities until they were seated in the trap and on their way out of Penrith and once again going westward, the damp wind in their faces, smelling of rain.

Ephraim asked Naomi about America, sounding as if it were mere courtesy that made him inquire. She replied warmly, with imagination and wit, so that whether he would or not, he was compelled to care. She described the vast plains of the west, the herds of buffalo that made the earth tremble when they ran, the high deserts to which she had traveled from the west, where the earth was red and ochre and the colors of fire, wind-eroded to fantastic shapes, like castles and towers of the imagination.

She did not speak of Nathaniel’s death, and neither Henry nor Ephraim asked, each waiting for the other to broach the subject of death, and break the news to her. They had half an hour’s truce with death while she described travel and adventure, hardship made the best of, and they found themselves laughing.

“I brought a gift for Joshua,” she said with a smile that held a trace of self-mockery. “I think I chose it because I like it myself rather than because he will, but I didn’t mean it to be so. I like to give people things I would keep.”

“What is it?” Henry asked with genuine interest. What would this most unusual woman have brought, to go with Benjamin’s scripture in its carved and perfumed case, and Ephraim’s royal necklace of ivory and gold?

“An hourglass,” she replied. “A memento mori, I suppose you would call it. A reminder of death—and the infinite value of life. It is made of crystal and set with semiprecious stones of the desert. The sand that runs through it is red, from the valleys that look like fire.”

“It sounds perfect.” Henry meant it. “We spend too much of our lives dreaming of the past or the future. There is a sense in which the present is all we have, and we cannot hold it dearly enough. It sounds like a gift of both beauty and memory, like the other gifts he has been brought.”

“You think so?” She seemed to care for his opinion.

If Ephraim was not going to tell her, then he must.

“I do. But before we reach the village, I am afraid there is hard news we have to share.”

“What is it?” She saw that it was serious and the light vanished from her face.

Briefly he told her about Judah’s death and Ashton Gower’s accusations.

She listened very gravely, and spoke only when he had finished, by which time they were less than a mile from the house.

“What are we going to do about it?” she asked, looking first at Henry, then at Ephraim. “This man must be silenced from slander, and if he is in any way responsible for Judah’s death, then we must see that he answers for it! Apart from justice, Antonia and Joshua are not safe unless he is imprisoned again, and his words shown as lies.”

This time it was Ephraim who answered. “We have to prove he was there,” he said grimly. “It isn’t going to be easy because he will have made sure he told no one, and no one else would be out at such a place at night.”

“Why else would Judah go out there in the snow at night, except to meet somebody?” she asked.

There was no answer, and they were approaching the drive gates.

The next hour was taken up in the emotion of arrival and welcome, exchanges of concern, of grief, and of a depth of understanding between the two women, who had both experienced widowhood while still so young. Although they had known each other only briefly, and that several years ago, there was an ease in their communication as if friendship were natural.

They resumed the conversation in the late afternoon over tea by the fire with scones, hinberry jam, and slices of ginger cake, baked with spices and rich molasses from the West Indies.

This time Antonia joined in. “The more I think of it, the more certain I am that he intended to meet someone,” she said gravely. “I hadn’t remembered before, but he took out his pocket watch several times in order to check the time. I thought then that it was to see how long the recital had been, but he would not do that more than once.”

“The difficulty will be to prove that it was Gower,” Benjamin pointed out. “It is not the easiest place for them to meet, and frankly, a ridiculous time.”

“But Judah was there!” Antonia argued. “However absurd it is, it is the truth.”

“There is still something we do not know,” Henry insisted. “Either something important, or that we have misunderstood, and it is not what it seems.”

Ephraim’s face set hard. “Well, two things I am sure of: Judah would not have done anything unjust or dishonest; and the other is that Ashton Gower is a convicted forger, driven by hate and the passion for revenge on the family who legitimately bought his estate. Judah is dead, and Gower is alive and slandering his name.”

“None of that is at issue,” Benjamin agreed. “The problem is to prove it.” He turned to Antonia. “What was Judah wearing that night?”

She looked puzzled. “It was an evening recital. We were all dressed quite formally.”

“He didn’t change before he went out afterwards?”

“No.” She bit her lip. “I assumed he simply wanted to walk a little after sitting in the hall all evening, and in the carriage on the way back. Why? How can that help?”

“I don’t know,” Benjamin admitted. “But there is no point in trying to find anything on the ground where it happened. All marks or prints will have disappeared long ago. His clothes will have been kept safely. I thought there might be something, a tear, even a note of a meeting, anything at all …” He tailed off, losing belief in the hope as he spoke.

“There could be a note,” Henry said, rising to his feet. “Sometimes things remain dry inside a pocket. If anything at all is legible, it might help. Let us at least look.”

“Of course,” Antonia agreed, standing also. “I didn’t know what else to do with them. I couldn’t bring myself even to clean them …” She gave a brief, tight little smile. “Maybe it is for the best?”

They followed her up the stairs and across the landing to Judah’s dressing room. Henry found it disturbing to go into a dead man’s private space, see his hairbrushes and collar studs set out on the tallboy, cuff links in boxes, shoes and boots on their racks. His razor was set beside an empty bowl and ewer in front of the looking glass in which he must have seen his face so many times.

He glanced quickly at Benjamin, and saw reflected in his expression exactly the emotions he felt himself, the grief, the slight embarrassment as if they had intruded when Judah was no longer capable of stopping them. It was uncomfortable for reasons he had not expected.

In Antonia he saw only the pain of her loneliness. She must have been in here many times before.

Ephraim, several years younger than Judah, carried his loss inside him, concealed as much as he was able. His face was tight, muscles pulling his mouth into a thinner line, eyes avoiding others.

Naomi put her arm around Antonia. She had perhaps done exactly this same grim task, and knew how it felt.

It was left to Henry to go to the top of the chest of drawers where the dark suit was folded, dry and stiff from river water and heavy traces of sand and silt.

He opened the jacket and looked at it carefully. It had been little worn, perhaps no more than a year or two old, and made of excellent quality wool. It was beautiful cloth, probably from the fleeces of Lakeland sheep, but the label inside was that of a Liverpool tailor. It told him nothing at all, except the taste of the man who had worn it, which he already knew.

Then he looked in the pockets one by one. He found a handkerchief, stained by water, but still folded, so probably otherwise clean. There were two business cards, a shirt maker in Penrith and a saddler in Kendal. In the wallet there were papers, some of which looked like receipts, but were too smudged to read, a treasury note for five pounds—a lot of money; not that anyone had assumed robbery. The last item was a penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle set with a silver, initialed shield. Presumably any coins would be in his trouser pockets. Henry was about to look when Antonia’s voice stopped him.

“What’s that?” she said sharply. “The knife?”

He held it up. “This? A penknife. He would have one, to sharpen a quill.” It was a very usual thing to carry. He did not understand the strain and disbelief in her face.

“That one!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand.

He passed it to her.

She turned it over, her eyes wide, her skin bleached of color.

“What is it, Antonia?” Benjamin asked. “Why does it matter? Isn’t it Judah’s?”

“Yes.” She looked at each of them in turn. “He lost it the day before he died.” The words seemed to catch in her throat.

Benjamin frowned. “Well, he must have found it again. It’s easy enough to misplace something so small.”

“Where did he lose it?” Henry asked her.

“That’s what I mean.” She stared at him. “In the stream. He was bending over and it fell out of his pocket. He searched for it, we both did, but we couldn’t find it again.”

Ephraim said what Henry was thinking. “Maybe that’s why he went back the night he died.” It was obvious in his face and his voice that he loathed admitting it, but honesty compelled him. “It’s a very nice knife. And it has his initials on it. Perhaps it was a gift, and he cared very much about losing it.”

“I gave it to him,” Antonia said. “But he didn’t lose it at the stones where he was found.” She had to stop a moment to struggle for control of her voice.

There was utter silence in the small dressing room. No one moved. No one asked.

“It was by the bridge a mile and a half farther down. The two stones set across the water above it.”

“Farther down!” Benjamin was incredulous. “That doesn’t make any sense. It …” He did not say it.

Henry knew what they were all thinking. It was in their faces as it was in his mind. Bodies do not wash upstream, only down.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

It was the proof they needed. Judah had been moved after he was dead, and left where it looked as if he had fallen accidentally.

“Are there any sharp rocks at the lower bridge where he lost the knife?” Henry pressed.

“No! Just water, deep … and gravel.” Antonia closed her eyes. “He was murdered … wasn’t he?”

Henry looked at Benjamin, then at Ephraim, then at last back at Antonia.

“Yes. I can think of no other explanation.” He felt stunned by the reality of it. Judah’s death had made no sense and they had all been convinced that Ashton Gower was capable of murder. Henry had believed it himself. But it was still different now that it was no longer theoretical but something from which there was no escape.

“What are we going to do?” Naomi asked. “How do we prove that it was Gower? Where do we begin?”

Ephraim put his hand up and pushed his hair back slowly off his brow. His eyes were unfocused, staring at something within himself.

Benjamin looked at Antonia, then at Henry. There was horror in his eyes and a deep, painful confusion. Death had hurt him, as he had expected it would, as Nathaniel’s death had, but hatred and murder were apart from all he had known. They looked to Henry because he was older. He had an inner calm that concealed his emotions, and he did not betray the pain or the ignorance inside him. He had come to terms with it long ago.

“Tomorrow, when it’s light,” he replied. “We should go to the place where Judah lost the knife, and therefore found it, and see if we can learn anything. We can at least see how long it would take anyone to carry a body from there, upstream to the place he was found, and then go back to the village. If we follow in the steps of whoever did it, we may learn something about them.”

“Yes,” Benjamin agreed. “That’s where we should begin. In the morning.”

They set out together after breakfast. The light was glittering sharp, the lake gray, with silver shadows like strokes from a giant brush. Underfoot the ice crackled with every step, hung in bright strands from the branches of every tree. The wind drifted ragged clouds, tearing them high, like mares’ tails.

They set out walking, Henry and Benjamin ahead, Ephraim alone after them, Antonia and Naomi last, high leather boots keeping their feet dry. No amount of care could keep their skirts from being sodden by the loose snow.

The route to the lower crossing was actually easier. They stood on the bank and stared at the wild, almost colorless landscape. Everything was black rocks, shining water, and bleached snow. Of course it would be possible to fall off the stones, but if one did, it would be far from any jagged edges. There were no rocks, no race or fall to cause the injuries Judah had suffered. The bottom of the stream here was pebbles and larger, smooth stones.

“That proves it,” Ephraim said grimly. “He couldn’t have fallen accidentally and hit his head here. Someone killed him, and then carried or dragged him upstream to where he was found.” He looked along the bank as he said it, and everyone else’s eyes followed his.

“How?” Benjamin asked the obvious question. The ground rose sharply, and a hundred yards away there was a copse of trees straddling both sides. There was no path, not even a sheep track. “How could anyone carry a grown man’s body along there, let alone a big man like Judah?”

“On a horse,” Naomi said quickly. “That’s the only possible way. It’s steep, rough, and uphill.” She looked at Antonia. “A horse would leave marks in the snow, at both places. We can’t find out now about this place, but Wiggins would remember if there were prints of a horse’s hooves where Judah was found.”

“There was nothing,” Ephraim answered for her. “I asked, because I wanted to prove that he went there to meet someone.”

“Did it snow any more on that night to fill them in?” Benjamin asked.

“No.” This time it was Antonia who spoke. “If there were no prints, then there can’t have been anyone else there. You can’t walk on snow without leaving a mark, whoever you are.” There was pain in her voice, as if a vestige of sense had been snatched from her just when she had thought she understood.

“But he was killed here!” Ephraim insisted. “Nothing floats upstream!”

“Water,” Henry said aloud.

Ephraim’s face tightened, his eyes as cold and blue as the sky. “Water does not flow upstream, Henry,” he said bitterly. He only just refrained from adding that the remark was stupid and unhelpful, but it was in his expression.

“You can walk in water without leaving a mark,” Henry corrected him. He turned to look up the slope again. “You could drag a body up the river, walking on the bed and letting the water itself help bear the weight. It’s only a mile or so. You’d leave no trace, and it’s extremely unlikely anyone would see you. Even if anyone were out, the bed is low-lying naturally, because the stream has cut it. Anything you disturbed would look as if the current did it, and if anyone did come in the light of the half moon, you would see them black against the snow. And if you bent over, you would simply look like an outcrop of rock, an edge of the bank.”

Benjamin breathed out gently. “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s a superb answer. The clever swine! How can we prove it?”

“We can’t.” Ephraim bit his lip. “That’s why it’s so extremely clever. Sorry, Henry.”

Henry brushed the apology aside with a smile. “What I don’t understand is how Judah lost the penknife the first time, and couldn’t find it, yet the second time, in the dark and when he must have had other things on his mind, he saw it!” He looked around at the snow-covered bark, the water clear as glass above the stones, and the dark, roughly cut edges of the stones used for the bridge. They were carefully wedged so they would not slip, even with a man’s weight on them.

“Where did he drop it?” Benjamin asked Antonia.

“He bent forward to look at his boot,” she replied. “He thought he might have cut the leather, but it was only scuffed.”

“And where did you look?”

“On the path, in the snow, and at the edge of the water, in case it went in. The mother-of-pearl would have caught the light,” she replied.

Henry looked at the bridge stones where they were wedged. “Did he put his foot up here to look at the boot?”

“Yes. Oh!” Antonia’s face lit. “You mean it fell between the stones there? And perhaps he remembered …”

“Is it possible?” He knew from her face that it was.

Ephraim turned his face toward the stream. “Do you suppose Gower took the horse up there, with Judah slung across it?”

They all followed his eyes, seeing the winding course of it, the deeps and shallows.

“Possibly,” Henry answered. “Or left it here, and walked, dragging him. Neither would be easy, and it would have taken far longer than we originally thought. He must have been away from home a good deal of the night, and half dead with cold after going a mile or more upstream, up to his thighs in icy water, either leading the horse, which would have been reluctant, or dragging the body. And then he had to tramp home through the snow. I wouldn’t be surprised if his feet were frostbitten by it.”

“Good!” Ephraim snapped. “I hope he loses histoes.”

“He wouldn’t risk going to Leighton with it,” Benjamin said thoughtfully. The wind was rising and over to the west the sky was gray. “There’s more snow coming,” he went on. “We know now what happened. We can make plans what to do best at home. Come on.” And he turned and started to lead the way back again, offering his arm to Antonia.

After having taken off their wet clothes, they assembled around the fire. Mrs. Hardcastle brought them hot cocoa and ginger cake, then they set about the serious discussion of what they could each do to bring Ashton Gower to justice.

No one questioned that Benjamin had a high intelligence, a keen and orderly mind that, if he governed the overriding emotion of outrage, he could use to direct the investigation. He could make sense of all they could learn and integrate it into one story to lay before the authorities. His leadership was taken for granted.

Ephraim had courage and a power that would accept no defeat as sufficient to deflect him from his purpose. Now they were certain that there was a crime to solve, his strength would be invaluable.

It was Henry who suggested that they should also make use of Naomi’s charm to gain what might otherwise be beyond their reach. Laughter and a quick smile often achieved what demand could not, and she agreed immediately, as keen as anyone else to help.

Antonia, newly widowed and with such a young child, was required by custom and decorum to remain at home. Apart from that, she had no desire at all to leave Joshua with a governess or tutor while he puzzled as to what all the adults were doing, knowing something was desperately wrong, but not told what it was, or how they hoped to resolve it. However, her reputation and the regard she had earned in her years in the village would stand well in their favor.

“We will take luncheon early and begin this afternoon,” Benjamin declared. His face was grave as he turned to Ephraim. “There is at least one man in the village who knows what manner of man Gower is, and that is Colgrave. He is not an easy man to like, but he is our best ally in this. Go to him and gain as much of his help as you can. He won’t find it hard to believe that Gower could have killed Judah, but don’t raise that question unless he does. Remember that we have two objectives: to establish exactly how Judah died.” His mouth pinched tight and his eyes were full of anger. He was finding it hard to control the pain of loss he felt. Judah had been his beloved and admired elder brother. His memories were full of laughter, adventure, and friendship. To have a creature like Ashton Gower not only end the future but sully the past as well was almost insupportable. “And to prove it and find justice for him,” he went on. “But we must also silence his lies forever and show to everyone that all he says is false. Colgrave might be able to help in both. But be careful how you ask.”

Ephraim’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Don’t worry, I shan’t trust him,” he replied. “But he’ll help me with everything he can, I promise you.”

Benjamin turned to Naomi. “Henry and I already spoke to Gower. We met him by chance in the street. He’s consumed with hatred. Even death isn’t enough to satisfy him. He wants to justify himself and get the estate back for …”

“I’ll see him in hell first,” Ephraim said huskily.

“There’s no good confronting him,” Benjamin argued. “We need to determine where he was that night, and if it was even possible for him to have been to the crossing where Judah was killed, and also the stones where he was found. Does he have access to a horse, or did he take one? Did anyone see him, and if so, where and at what time? If we gain anything from him it will be either by charm, or tricking him. Naomi …”

“No!” Ephraim cut across him, instantly protective. “You can’t ask her to speak to him. For God’s sake, Ben, he murdered Judah!”

Naomi flushed, seeing the emotion in Ephraim’s face.

“He won’t know who she is,” Benjamin pointed out, apparently oblivious of it, or of her embarrassment. He could think only of plans. “And if she went with Henry …”

“I’d rather go alone,” Naomi said quickly. She flashed a smile at Henry, as if he would understand, then looked back at Benjamin. “To begin with at least, I can pretend anything I wish, or allow him to assume it. If I go with Mr. Rathbone, Gower will take against me from the outset, because he knows Mr. Rathbone is your friend.”

“He’s dangerous,” Ephraim told her, finality in his voice. “You forget where he’s been already. He was eleven years in prison in Carlisle. He’s not a …”

She looked at him with the shadow of a smile on her mouth, but her eyes were direct, even challenging. Watching them, Henry realized that there was far more between them than he, or Benjamin, had supposed, and a great deal more emotion.

“We suspect that he murdered a member of our family,” she replied coolly. “I understand that, Ephraim. I am going to see him openly, and in daylight. He is evil, we are all perfectly certain of that, but he is not stupid. If he were, we would not find him so difficult to catch.”

The dull red of anger spread up Ephraim’s cheeks, and a consciousness that he was betraying his emotion too far. It was as if their exchange was not new but merely something in the middle of an established difference.

Benjamin looked at his brother, then at his sister-in-law, aware that he had missed something, but not certain what it was. “Are you sure you would not prefer to have Henry with you?” he asked.

“Quite sure,” Naomi answered. “If Gower sees me with anyone from this house we will in a sense have tipped our hands.” She looked at Antonia, and bit her lip. “Sorry. That is a card-playing expression I have heard men use. I’m afraid I have mixed with some odd company when traveling. Geological sites are not always in the most civilized of places.”

Antonia smiled for the first time since Henry had arrived, perhaps since Judah’s death. “Please don’t apologize. Some time, when this is past, I would like to hear more about it. There are advantages to having a family, but there are chances you lose as well. But I understand the reference. You might be surprised how fierce and how devious some of the ladies of the village can be about their cards.”

Now it was Naomi who smiled self-consciously. “Of course, I didn’t think of that. The desire to play and to win is universal, I suppose. But believe me, I shall play better against Mr. Gower if I do it alone.”

Benjamin conceded. “I shall go to the village, then follow the path Gower must have taken to see exactly how long it requires, including walking up the bed of the stream.”

“You’ll freeze!” Antonia exclaimed with concern.

He smiled at her. “Probably. But I’ll survive. I’ll have a hot bath when I get back. I won’t be the only man to get soaked through. Shepherds do it regularly. It’s time we did something for Judah, apart from talk, and grieve.”

No one argued with him. As he stood up he glanced at Henry. They had not asked him to do anything specific, but the question was in Benjamin’s eyes, and Ephraim’s also as he rose.

“Oh, I have one or two things to be about,” Henry said, excusing himself as they parted in the hallway, he to go upstairs, change into heavier clothes, then head out to the stables to borrow a horse. He was not willing to tell them what he intended. He looked further ahead, and for that he needed to speak to Judah’s clerk in his offices in Penrith.

He rode out quickly, hoping not to be seen. He did not wish to be asked his purpose, not yet.

As he climbed the steep road eastward, the wind behind him, he turned it over in his mind. What if Benjamin were to discover that it was not practically possible for Gower to have traveled the distance in the time he had? What if Naomi’s questions actually proved Gower’s innocence, not of intent, but of being able to have committed the act himself? If they failed to prove Gower’s guilt, what lay ahead after that? He wanted to find something, a next step to take, other answers to seek. Was there anyone else Gower could have used, willingly or not? Might there have been an ally in the original case, someone who had not come to light then? Did anyone else profit from that tragedy, or from this?

It was a fine horse, and he found the ride exhilarating, his mind sharper.

There was always the major possibility that in their loathing of Gower and his appalling accusations, they seemed not to have considered whether Judah had other enemies. He had been a judge for some time. There was little enough crime of any seriousness in the Lakes, but it did exist. He must have sentenced other men to fines or imprisonment.

Who else bore him grudges? He did not think for an instant that Judah had been corrupted in anything, but that did not mean that others could not imagine it. Many people refuse to accept that they, or those they love, can be in the wrong, or to blame for their misfortunes. In the short term, it seems easier to blame someone else, to let anger and pride encase you in denial. Some live in it forever. Some accept their own part only when all vengeance has proved futile in healing the flaw that brought them down. The longer you persist in blaming others, the more difficult it becomes to retreat, until finally your whole edifice of belief rests on the lie, and to dismantle it would be self-destruction.

Who else, apart from Gower, might exist in such a self-made prison? He needed to know, just in case the grief and the anger, the lifelong hero worship of an elder brother, had blinded Ephraim and Benjamin to other thoughts.

Henry did not imagine even for an instant that Judah was guilty as Gower accused. He had known Judah well, and loved him as a friend. He had seen him more clearly, having no childhood passions or loyalty of blood. Judah had had faults. He could be overconfident, impatient of those slower of thought than himself. He was omnivorous in his hunger for knowledge, untidy, and he occasionally overshadowed others without realizing it. But he was utterly honest, and as quick to see his own mistakes as anyone else’s, and never failed to apologize and amend.

Henry needed to know the truth, all of it. They could not defend Judah, or Antonia, with less.

By the time he arrived he knew exactly what he wanted to do. It took him only a few inquiries at the ostler’s where he left the horse, before he was sitting in the office of the court clerk, a James Westwood, who received him with grave courtesy. He sat behind a magnificent walnut desk, his spectacles balanced on the end of his rather long nose.

“I can tell you nothing confidential, you understand,” he warned pleasantly.

“Yes, I do understand.” Henry nodded. “My son is a barrister in London.”

“Rathbone!” Westwood’s face lit up. “Really? Oliver Rathbone? Well, well. So he is your son? Fine man.” He smiled. “I still can’t tell you anything confidential. Not that much of it, mind you. Nasty business. All very foolish.”

“The estate was in the Gower family?” Henry began. He repeated essentially what Antonia had told him.

“Precisely,” Westwood replied. “Originally the estate was in the Colgrave family. Then Mariah, the widow of Bartram Colgrave. She married Geoffrey Gower and had two sons by him. One of them died as a child, the other is Ashton Gower. But the whole thing was much smaller than before they built that big house, and of course long before they found the archaeological site with all the coins and so on. But I’m ahead of myself.” Westwood coughed and cleared his throat. “The widow, Mariah Colgrave, brought not only the land, but a great deal of money to her second marriage. With it Geoffrey Gower purchased more land, and built that house that is the center of the estate now. When he died, it passed to Ashton, his surviving son.”

Henry was puzzled. “Then what was it that was forged? And how could Ashton Gower be responsible? It seems to have happened before he was born. How could Peter Colgrave have had any right to it? He wasn’t in direct descent.”

Westwood pursed his lips. “It’s not the estate itself, it’s the date of it that’s at issue,” he explained. “It all hinges on whether the extra part of it, which includes the house, the better part of the land, and the place where the Viking hoard was found, was purchased before Wilbur Colgrave died, or after.”

“Who was Wilbur Colgrave?” Rathbone was following it with difficulty.

“Bartram’s brother, and Peter Colgrave’s father. A matter of which way the inheritance went, you see?” Westwood said. “Before and it should pass to Peter Colgrave, after and it passes to Mariah, and then to her son, Ashton Gower.”

“Didn’t they know that at the time?” Henry still did not understand. “And if it was a forgery, then Ashton Gower was not even born, so he couldn’t possibly be to blame.”

Westwood waved his finger in the air. “Ah, but it was only questioned when Mariah died, just over eleven years ago. Before that everyone took it for granted.”

“Well, if Mariah forged it, or Geoffrey did, it is still not Ashton Gower’s fault!”

“That is the crux of it!” Westwood said, his face sharp with interest in the problem. “The forgery was recent! They knew that from the ink on the paper, even though whoever did it lifted all the seals off the old one, the family one, and reused them. Very clever, but the rest of it was rubbish!”

“Then why didn’t Wilbur Colgrave claim the estate, and the money, at the time? It was rightfully his!” Henry pointed out.

“That is a very good question,” Westwood agreed keenly. “He is a bit of a scoundrel, and rumor has it that he was always more than a little in love with Mariah—his brother’s wife. By all accounts, she was a real beauty in her day. They even said she paid for the land with personal favors.”

He blushed very slightly. “Least said the soonest mended, I think. Anyway, the part that concerns Judah Dreghorn is that when Ashton Gower came to claim his inheritance, Peter Colgrave swore that the Gower deeds to the estate were forged, and it should be his, as heir to Wilbur Colgrave, who was the younger brother and heir to Bartram, rather than his widow, who forfeited it on remarriage. It was entailed, and supposed to remain in the Colgrave name, except that Wilbur died, too, leaving his widow and child, Peter. All rather a mess.”

“And Ashton Gower took advantage to try to prove the estate was his by forging a new deed with the right date for Mariah, and thus for him?”

“Precisely,” Westwood agreed. “But it failed. The land went back to the Colgrave family, the only one left—Peter. Which was probably where it should have been all the time.”

“And Gower went to prison,” Henry concluded.

“Quite. It was a great deal of money he attempted to steal by fraud,” Westwood said gravely. “It could not go unpunished. The sentence was perfectly fair and appropriate.”

“So Ashton Gower lost his home and the fortune he had always assumed to be his. No wonder he was bitter.” Henry could imagine it, the young Gower growing up loving the land, riding on it, climbing the hills, feeling he belonged. Then suddenly he lost his father, and his inheritance, the whole nature of his identity and his place in the community was lost. Little wonder he was so angry he could barely think wisely. But it did not excuse dishonesty, and certainly it was not Judah’s fault.

“Why did he blame Judah Dreghorn?” he said aloud.

“Ah!” Westwood steepled his fingers. “That is something I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Gower completely lost control of himself. He ranted and raved at the judge, accusing him of corruption, even at the trial. And then afterwards, when Colgrave sold the estate very quickly, and Dreghorn bought it, Gower swore revenge on Dreghorn for having lied about the whole thing. He said the deeds were genuine, and Dreghorn knew it. Which was all patently ridiculous. But it was extremely ugly. Most distressing.”

“And now Judah is dead, in very odd circumstances.” Henry looked steadily at Westwood. “Do you believe Gower could be so bent on revenge that he would harm him?”

“Oh, dear.” Westwood shook his head a little, obviously distressed. “You are asking me a highly improper question, Mr. Rathbone. It is one I would prefer not to answer. In fact, I really feel that I cannot!” His eyes were very steady, sharp, and bright. His refusal was an answer in itself, and he looked at Henry long enough to make sure that he understood it as such.

“I see.” Henry nodded. “Yes, quite plainly. Do you know why Peter Colgrave did not wish to keep the estate?”

“He is another man about whom I prefer not to express an opinion.” He smiled very slightly and stared at Henry over the tops of his spectacles. “Don’t press me into something that would be indiscreet, and might embarrass us both.”

Henry gave a half smile. “Thank you. At least I think I understand something of the actual issues, but not why Ashton Gower imagined he could get away with anything so stupid.”

“Arrogance,” Westwood said quietly. “I imagine he made the forgery in the heat of anger, perhaps when he discovered the original and realized what it would mean to him. Then he could not back out of it. But that is only my guess.”

Henry thanked him and went outside into the cold, already darkening afternoon.

They met before dinner, a little later than usual. Mrs. Hardcastle had prepared a magnificent meal, and the whole house was decorated for Christmas with wreaths of holly, ivy, and pine. There were polished apples and baskets of nuts tied with gold ribbons.

Henry saw it with surprise, in view of the recent, terrible bereavement, and glanced uncertainly at Antonia, in case the servants should have done it without her permission.

She smiled back at him. “It’s still Christmas,” she said very quietly. “We must not forget or ignore that. Without Christmas, there would be no hope. And I have to have hope: wild, unreasonable, against all the logic that man can have, things only God can do.”

“We all have to,” he agreed as they walked into the dining room side by side. “We’ll definitely keep Christmas. Thank you.”

They took their places and the dishes were served one after another. They were ready for pudding when they finally approached the subject of their achievements during the day.

“I walked all the distances,” Benjamin said thoughtfully. “It’s possible, but only if you don’t hesitate at all. And there would be no time for Gower to have waited for Judah more than five minutes. Not if Judah went straight there. Of course he could have waited for Gower, because we have no idea when he died, except that it was some time before three o’clock when they found him. Also we don’t know what time Gower got home again.” He turned to Naomi. “Perhaps you do? Did you manage to see him?”

Naomi gave a rueful little shrug. “It was easier than I expected.” She looked at Benjamin, avoiding Ephraim’s eyes, but both imagined she was perfectly aware that he was looking at her.

“How did you do it?” Antonia asked.

Naomi smiled at her. “With more invention than I am proud to admit,” she answered. “Let me do you the favor of not telling you, so you can meet the village with complete innocence. People speak of you so highly.” She looked at Antonia with candid regard. “You are much admired, even by those who are stupid enough to listen to Gower. Your reputation is your greatest asset. And when we all go away again, you will remain here and it will matter that it is not changed.”

Antonia smiled, but she did not attempt to speak.

Henry had not thought of it in quite those bold terms before, and he realized that perhaps Antonia had not either. None of them had looked beyond the shock and anger of the present. But of course Benjamin would return to the Holy Land. He was probably in the middle of some great excavation. Ephraim would go back again to Africa and his exploration, the plants and discoveries that so fascinated him. Naomi would make the long journey back to America, and then westward once more to take up Nathaniel’s work, and her own friends in the life they had made there. Even Henry would return to Primrose Hill, and the joys and cares of London. Antonia would then taste the full measure of her loneliness.

Henry remembered the death of his own wife. At first, shock numbs much of the deepest ache. There are things that have to be done, people told, arrangements made. One forces courage to surmount weakness and for the sake of other people, one behaves with dignity.

But afterward, when the first mourning is over and the attention goes, friends and family return to their own lives, then the true weight of loss descends. Everything one used to share is no longer as it was. The silence of the heart is deafening. Antonia had yet to face that.

Naomi had already experienced it, but she at least had some work that would occupy her energies and her thoughts. Of course Antonia had the estate to run, and her care for Joshua, but his grief was her burden as well.

“What did you learn?” Benjamin was asking Naomi now. She had already answered some of his questions, and Henry had not been listening.

“He seems to have spent the evening with the Pilkingtons,” Naomi replied, a faint look of distaste on her face. “Mrs. Pilkington is a woman of extraordinarily generous bosom, balanced by an opposingly mean spirit. She has opinions as to the moral value of everything, good or bad. Decadent is her favorite word. I don’t know why, because I don’t think she knows what it means.”

“She is new money?” Henry inquired, aware of all the social differences that carried, the envy and the ambition.

Naomi’s face lit with a smile, broad and candid. “Exactly! Old money must be immorally obtained. Hers is new, of course. She has espoused Gower’s cause, precisely because the older families can’t stand him. And the violin recital was ‘decadent,’ so she did not attend. She probably doesn’t know Bach from Mozart, and doesn’t want to be upstaged, poor soul.” There was a sudden thread of pity in her voice, as if the absurdity of pretension had betrayed its inner fear and its emptiness.

Ephraim saw it, and a shred of its meaning registered as surprise on his face, not at the village, but at what he had glimpsed in Naomi, a new beauty. “But Gower was there?” He grasped at the personal meaning.

“Yes. He left to go home at just after ten,” she replied.

“Then he could have got to the lower crossing by the time Judah did,” Benjamin deduced. “But it would have been hard. Don’t the Pilkingtons live right down by the water?”

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment. “He would have to have had luck on his side,” he said. “Or else Judah stood around for some time waiting for him. I asked everyone I could about that day, the servants here, the post office and in the village. There’s no word of anyone delivering a message to Judah to meet Gower, or one from Judah to him. And it’s not a place anyone would meet by chance.”

“Frankly, it’s not a place anyone would meet at all,” Henry said. “I still find it hard to accept.”

“We have to,” Benjamin argued. “That’s where Judah was, or he couldn’t have found the knife. And the higher crossing is just as absurd, but that’s where he was found.” He turned to Naomi. “What did you think of Gower?”

She hesitated. “A very angry man, one who hits out first, in case he doesn’t get a later chance,” she replied. “A man so filled with his own emotions he doesn’t have time or room to consider anyone else’s. I’m not sure that I wanted to see any good in him, but if there was any, it was easy to overlook. But he is far from a fool. Which is why I wonder how he ever thought he could get away with such a stupid forgery.”

“Even the most intelligent people can behave idiotically once in a while when their passions are in control,” Henry said, pursing his lips as memory stabbed him. “We lose peripheral vision and see only what we want. It’s a sort of mental arrogance. Being intelligent is not always the same thing as being wise—or honest.”

Naomi looked at him and the warmth of her smile was as if the fire had suddenly burned up, dispelling the shadows and the cold places in the room.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “But they are the things most worth winning, and without them the rest is of little value. I should be more sorry for Ashton Gower, and for stupid Mrs. Pilkington. It’s themselves they are cheating in the end.”

Ephraim sat very quiet, almost without moving. One needed to look at him carefully to realize how fully his concentration was on Naomi.

“Could he have killed Judah? Is it possible?” Benjamin asked softly.

Ephraim turned to him. “Yes,” he answered. “And I can’t like Colgrave, he’s a cold man, for all that he hides it, but he’ll help us, at least in this. He hates the injustice, for us and for the whole village. It’s bad for everyone.”

Benjamin nodded. “Good. We have made a start, but it is not proof.”

“What else can we do?” Antonia asked. She was troubled, trying hard to hide the desperation inside her. She was beginning to face the long future ahead after they had gone and she was alone in the village, the whispers, the thoughts, her dead husband’s memory to protect and her son to nurture, and keep his faith and certainty strong.

Benjamin looked at her. “I don’t know yet. But we will succeed. Judah was our brother, and I, at least, will never leave here until I have cleared his name, I promise!”

“Nor will I,” Ephraim said fiercely. “I give you my word, for you, for Joshua, and for Judah himself.”

She bent her head, the tears spilling over her cheeks. “Thank you.”

The morning was sharp with high, drifting clouds and a thin sunshine. Henry rose early, had a cup of tea, and then dressed and went out. He preferred to walk alone and think. They had spoken brave words the evening before, but they had no plans that were assured of giving them the proof they needed. They were loyal, that was never in question. They were brave. Benjamin had the logic and the acute intelligence to marshal all the information they could acquire, and the force of mind to present it. Ephraim had the strength to face whatever unpleasantness, difficulty, or obstruction the people in the village might use, or to face Ashton Gower himself. Nothing would cause him to retreat from what he believed to be right, no matter what the cost.

And Naomi had a charm and wit, an imagination to understand others, a warmth to disarm them, so she could glean all kinds of information that a more direct, confrontational approach would not. Henry found himself liking her more with each encounter. He could easily see why Ephraim had fallen in love with her, and remained so even over the years since she had left. In fact it was less easy to understand why Benjamin had not!

Why had she chosen the quieter, far less dynamic Nathaniel? That was something Henry felt he would never understand. But then what man ever really understands the choices of women?

He walked rapidly westward along the way Judah had gone on the night of his death. Apparently it was the easiest way from the house to the site of the Viking hoard, and he had not yet seen it. The air was crisp and sweet, and he saw wild birds wheeling in the sky and only a little higher on the slopes of the hills, the dark forms of deer grazing. A winter-coated hare loped across the snow only twenty yards away. He thought how infinitely more beautiful this was than the dripping, smoke-darkened streets of London, or of any other city.

He crossed the stream over the narrow stone bridge, balancing with great care, although there was not actually ice on it, as he was much relieved to find.

Then instead of going toward the church, he turned upstream and followed the path where it had led along the bank, and then climbed away. There was a small wooden notice indicating that he was almost there.

He saw it as soon as he breasted the rise, its remaining walls etched dark against the snow. Behind it a lone man stood staring across the wind-rippled water, which was blue and silver and gray. He knew who it was before his footsteps crunching on the snow made him turn: Ashton Gower, bare-headed, his black hair and fierce eyes making him look as if he belonged to the landscape, even to the period when this shrine had been built. It gave Henry an odd feeling of intrusion, as if he were trying to alter history to make his own people belong in someone else’s heritage.

He dismissed it with irritation. It was a trick of the light and his imagination. “Good morning, Mr. Gower,” he said politely. He considered saying something agreeable about the view, or even the possibility of more snow blowing up from beyond Helvellyn, and changed his mind. It would make him sound as if he were nervous. He did not mean it, and they both knew that.

Gower swept his arm wide. “Like it?” he asked. “I’d welcome you to my land, but the law has taken it from me. You can come here any time you want, if the Dreghorns say you can. I can come here only to the point open to the public. But I refuse to pay!”

“Has anyone asked you to?” Henry inquired, standing beside him and looking at the water, the mountains, and the sky, wild, wind-ragged, ever-shifting patterns of light and shadow.

“Not yet,” Gower replied. “Even Dreghorn hadn’t the nerve to do that. He knew he was wrong, you know? He couldn’t look me in the eye. More grace than his brothers.” His mouth twisted. “Or more guilt!”

“I’ve known Judah Dreghorn for twenty years,” Henry told him levelly, controlling his temper with difficulty. “Apart from what I know, there’s no one else who has an ill word to say of him. I also know what they say of you, Mr. Gower, and it is far less flattering. I assume you are claiming that the expert in forgery was lying as well? Why? Are you so hated here that men will perjure their souls to see you punished for something you did not do? Why? What have you done to earn that?”

Gower shivered, hunching his shoulders as if the wind were suddenly blowing off ice. “The deeds I got from my father’s safe were genuine,” he said, facing Henry directly. “I can’t prove that, but they were. The land was his. Wilbur Colgrave might have been in love with my mother, but no Colgrave yielded his land for anyone. The reason he didn’t claim it was that he had no right to. That whole story of an affair was a slander. But who can prove that now?” There was pain in his voice, deep and angry, but so real Henry could feel it tear inside him also. Perhaps it was for his mother’s reputation as much as for himself. Henry would find it unbearable were such a thing suggested of his mother.

How much can pain justify? Did Colgrave have to have revealed that very private detail? Could he not at least have kept that much silent? There was an unspoken understanding that one did not blacken the names of the dead who could no longer speak for themselves!

But then that was exactly what Gower was doing to Judah. Henry said as much aloud.

Gower turned to stare at him, confusion and frustration in his face. “How else can I defend myself?” he demanded, his voice almost choking. “This land is mine! They took my home, my heritage, my mother’s good name, and mine! And made me pay for it with eleven years of my life, while they took the spoils. Now I’m a branded man, without a roof over my head except I labor for it, and pay week by week. I’m supposed to accept that? That’s your idea of justice, the Dreghorn way?”

“And the forged deeds?” Henry asked. “Or did the expert lie? Why? Is Judah Dreghorn supposed to have paid them, too?”

“I don’t know. I do know the document I gave them was genuine, and it said the land was my father’s. The dates were right.” There was no doubt in Gower’s face, no flicker, only blind, furious certainty.

There was no answer. Henry turned away and walked back to the house. He went straight to the stable, requested a horse, and rode out along the road to Penrith. He needed to know the exact history of where the deeds had been kept from the time of Geoffrey Gower’s death until the expert from Kendal had examined them and pronounced them to be forged. Doubt was gnawing at his mind, shapeless, uncertain, but fraying the edges of all his thoughts. He did not doubt Judah’s honesty, but could he have been mistaken, perhaps duped by someone else? It was a disturbing idea, but Henry could not leave it unanswered.

The town was busy with the usual trade and market. The streets were crowded with people coming and going. Wagons were piled with bales of woolen cloth. All the traditional manufactures of the Lakes were there: clogs, slate, bobbins, iron goods, pottery, pencils. And every kind of food: oats, mutton, fresh fish, especially salmon, potatoes, Forty Shilling and Keswick Codling apples, and spices from the coast.

Henry pushed his way through and eventually found himself at Judah’s offices again. It was a long, tedious task to trace the arrival of the deed and its exact whereabouts from that time forward until it was taken to be shown to the specialist in Kendal.

“Ah, yes,” the junior clerk said knowingly. “Very sad. Never suspected Mr. Dreghorn of anything like that, I must say. Goes to show.”

Henry froze, anger built up inside him. “Goes to show what, Mr. Johnson?” he said coldly. “That memories are short and loyalty thin?” Then the instant he had said it he regretted his lack of self-control. He was making his own task harder.

Johnson flushed scarlet. “I don’t believe them!” he protested. “You do me wrong to think I did, sir, and that’s a fact.”

Henry shifted his own position, perhaps a little less than honestly. He had assumed the man was speaking for himself. There had been no outrage in his face. “I was referring to those who do, whoever they are,” he amended. “I trust that having known Mr. Dreghorn you would be the last to agree, and the first to defend him.”

“Of course I would,” Johnson said with a sniff.

Henry used his advantage. “Then I am sure you will be as eager as I am to clear it up beyond question. I need to follow the history of those deeds that were sworn to be forgeries. When did they come here? Who brought them and from where? Where were they kept? Who had access to them, and who took them to Kendal to show to … what is his name?”

“Mr. Percival, sir.”

“Yes. Good. If anyone did tamper with them, it was not Mr. Dreghorn.” He made it a statement that could not be argued with.

“Of course it wasn’t!” Johnson agreed truculently.

But it was a slower task than Henry had expected, and Johnson was, above all, protective of his own reputation. He now had a new master and was determined to appear in the right. Judah was gone and could be of no more help.

Henry caught him in a couple of self-serving lies before he was certain beyond argument as to the history of the deeds. The matter had taken well over a week, and during that time no one had looked at them. Undeniably, Judah could have altered them, or replaced them with forgeries. But so could a number of other people with either access to the office, or to the messenger who had carried them to Kendal. And of course it still left the time they had been in Mr. Percival’s care, a further two weeks or more. All were unlikely, but none was impossible.

Henry thanked Johnson, who was now a good deal more anxious, then returned to the stable where he had left his horse, and set out on the long ride back to the estate.

He turned the problem over in his mind all the way. Who had had the time, the opportunity, and the skill to make the forgery? The paper had apparently been wrong, and the ink, so they were easy enough to come by. The old seals had been removed from the original deeds, and glued back on the new ones. Time seemed to be the major element. But they had been in Judah’s offices for a week, then transported to Kendal and in Percival’s office for another two weeks. For anyone familiar with the deeds, it would take only a day to take them, create the forgery, destroy the original, and put the forgery back.

It might be more difficult to prove who had actually done it. Unfortunately Judah was the person with the best opportunity, apart from Mr. Percival, of course. But there was no reason to suppose he had any interest in the matter.

Henry continued to think about it as he rode. He found the stark beauty of the winter landscape peculiarly comforting. Its clean lines, wind-scoured, had a kind of courage about it, as if it had endured all that the violence of nature could heap on it, and pretension was swept away. The cold air stung his face, but his horse was a willing and agreeable animal, and there was a companionship in their journey. He thanked it with affection when he finally dismounted in the stable yard and went into the house.

The evening was much more difficult. No one else had learned anything they felt to be of use. The whispers in the village were growing louder and each of them had heard remarks which at the best could be regarded as doubting, beginning to question whether Judah was actually as honest as he had seemed. Other cases were recalled where people had protested their innocence, even though a jury had found them guilty. There was no direct accusation, nothing specific to deny or disprove, just an unpleasantness in the air.

Henry said that he had been to Penrith. He did not want to make a secret of it or it might seem underhanded, and anyway the groom would know because of the horse. But he did not tell anyone why he had gone, or precisely where.

They sat around the dinner table with another delicious meal. Mrs. Hardcastle had made one of the local delicacies for pudding—a dish known as rum nicky—made of rum, brown sugar, dried fruit, and Cumberland apples.

Antonia spoke because it was her home and they were her guests. She would not allow them to sit uncomfortably in silence, but it was all trivia, little bits of news about sheep dog trials last summer, boat races on the lake, who had climbed which mountain, what weather to expect.

Henry was aware of Ephraim one moment looking at Naomi, the next carefully avoiding her eyes. Whatever it was that he felt for her, she did not wish to acknowledge it, and yet Henry was absolutely certain that she knew.

And all the time at the back of his mind was the fear that they would all have to be told the possibility that in some way, through misplaced trust, inattention, some kind of carelessness, Judah had made an error, and Gower was not guilty of forging the deeds, which must mean that someone else was.

Who else profited? Peter Colgrave, that was obvious. Had anyone else thought they could buy the estate cheaply? Had anyone known of the Viking hoard, with its gold and silver coins, its jewelry and artifacts, not to mention its historic value? That was another thing to find out, if possible.

But sitting at the table, seeing their faces, the tension, the anger, and the grief, he dared not approach it yet. But how long could he wait?

After the meal was finished Antonia went upstairs to say good night to Joshua, and Henry knew from the evenings before that she would be gone for quite a long time, perhaps an hour or more. Joshua was nine years old, still a child in his hurt and confusion, trying hard to earn the respect of his uncles, to behave like the man he thought they expected him to be.

And he was also intelligent enough to know that they were protecting him from something else. Henry had seen his face as they changed the subject when he came in while they were speaking of Gower, or the village. They did not know children. They did not realize how much he heard, how quick he was to catch an evasion, a note of unintended patronage. He could see fear, even if he could not give it a name.

Henry could remember how Oliver had constantly surprised him with his grasp of things Henry had assumed to be beyond him. He watched, he copied, he understood. Joshua Dreghorn was just as eager and as quick. Antonia knew that, and she was spending her time, and perhaps her emotions, with him.

Henry invited Naomi to accompany him for a short walk in the starlit garden, which she accepted. He held her cloak for her, then put on his own coat, and led the way to the side door.

“What is it?” she asked as soon as they were a couple of yards from the house. “Have you learned something?”

There was no time to approach it obliquely. “I went to see a clerk in Judah’s office in Penrith,” he answered. “I asked him exactly where the deeds had been since they were taken out of Geoffrey Gower’s safe.” He spoke quietly, although the crunch of their footsteps on the frost-hardened grass might well have disguised their voices, had anyone near an open window been listening. “There was time and opportunity for someone to have altered it … changed it for another.”

“You mean put a forgery in place of a genuine one?” She saw what he meant immediately, and there was fear in her voice. With the hood of her cloak up he could see little of her face.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You believe Gower?” It was a direct question, filled with incredulity, but asked nonetheless.

He could not answer immediately, not with complete honesty.

“Mr. Rathbone?” she demanded, gripping his arm and pulling him to a stop.

“I don’t believe Judah would have done such a thing, for any reason whatever,” he said unhesitatingly. Of that he was absolutely sure. “But he may have trusted people he should not have.”

Her voice was very low. “Have you told that to anyone else?”

“No.” He was smiling in the dark, but it was self-mockery, there was no pleasure in it at all. “I have spent all my ride back from Penrith and a good deal of the evening trying not to do so. But it is a possibility we have to face.”

“You are sure there was opportunity?”

“Yes.”

“Who? If not Gower, why would anyone else? He was the only one who would profit from such a stupid forgery!”

They started to walk again, heading farther away from the house, and anyone who might look out and see them.

“He made the date into the one that would mean the property was his!” she went on, still holding his arm. “The other date would have left it as Peter Colgrave’s, as it was. Then we bought it. No one else had anything to gain from changing it.”

“There is no answer that fits the facts,” he told her. “Ashton Gower swears that the deeds were not forged, the expert says that they were. The forged date favors Gower.”

“Yes. Isn’t that proof?”

The thought he had been fighting against all day crystalized in his mind.

“What if the forgery is not a change at all?”

“But that makes no …” She stopped. “Oh, no! You mean if the forgery is an exact copy of the original, date included? So Gower was telling the truth when he said the deed was genuine? Then it was replaced by an obvious forgery, with exactly the same date, so Gower would be disbelieved—lose his land!”

“Yes.”

“That is terrible! But who? Colgrave?”

“Perhaps. Or anyone else who thought they might be able to buy the estate cheaply.”

“Judah bought it from Colgrave, at the price he asked. He was in a hurry for the money. I think he had debts. Maybe someone else expected to buy, and didn’t get the chance. That could be anyone!”

“Maybe someone else had already found the Viking hoard and knew what it would be worth,” Henry pointed out. “Colgrave didn’t, or he would have asked a far larger sum.”

“And Gower believes it was Judah.” Her voice was somber and tight with strain. “Perhaps he really didn’t do it, is that possible? Without knowing it, Judah sent an innocent man to prison!”

“Yes, it is possible.” He loathed admitting it. “Of course it is also possible that he is as guilty as sin of killing Judah,” he added. “Somebody did. No one else we know had a reason—except the real forger.”

“Perhaps Gower has enemies, too?” she suggested. “He’s a most disagreeable man. Is it possible he is the real intended victim, and Judah is only the means they use?”

“Yes, of course it is. And I don’t know where we would even begin to look for them!”

She bent her head. “This is terrible!” she said in a whisper. “We have to know! Don’t we?”

“I think so. Could you rest with it unanswered?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter for me. When it’s over, when we’ve silenced Gower, I’ll go back to America again. I have the excitement, the discovery, the sheer blazing beauty of it. There is a magic to the unknown like nothing else.” Her voice was filled with vitality.

It reminded Henry of Ephraim when he had spoken of Africa and the wild beauty of that country, too. Again he wondered why Naomi had chosen the safer Nathaniel with his softer ways.

“Do you miss it?” he asked aloud.

“I’ve been too busy to, so far,” she said honestly.

“We will have to tell them the possibility that the deeds were changed,” he said as they came to the end of the lawn and looked across at the glimmering light on the lake, visible only as movement, like black silk in the wind.

“I know. Antonia will be terribly hurt, as if we have suddenly abandoned her.” She sighed. “Benjamin will be confused, but I think he can’t be utterly shocked. He’s too clever not to have thought of it, even if only to deny it.”

“And Ephraim?” he asked, knowing she would find that the hardest to answer.

She hesitated before she spoke. “He’ll be angry. He’ll think we have betrayed Judah. He doesn’t forgive easily.”

Henry looked at her, the little of her face he could see in the starlight, but all he could glean from her was the emotion he heard in her voice. Was it in general she thought Ephraim did not forgive, or was there some specific sin she spoke of? Had Nathaniel really been her first choice, or was he second, and she would not now make a decision, even for her own happiness, which she felt betrayed him? She had used the word herself, referring to Ephraim’s emotions.

He asked, even though it was intrusive. “You speak as if you know him well, and I can’t help seeing his feelings for you.”

She smiled. “You are wondering why I married Nathaniel, when Ephraim also asked me?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Because love is more than passion and excitement, Mr. Rathbone. If you trust your life and your love to someone, you need to admire their courage, and Ephraim has any amount of that. But if you are going to live with them every day, not just the good ones, but the bad ones as well, the difficult ones when you fail, make mistakes, feel bruised and afraid, you need to be certain of their kindness. You need someone who will forgive you when you are wrong, because you will be wrong sometimes.”

He did not interrupt. They stood side by side looking toward the water. It was cold and very clear, the stars tiny, glittering shards of light in the enormity of space.

“Ephraim has not been wrong often enough to understand,” she said almost under her breath.

“It seems to me you are not wrong very often, either,” he observed. “And yet you have a gentleness.”

This time he saw her smile. “I have been. I look like my mother. She behaved badly. I never knew why, but I imagine sometimes how lonely she might have felt, or what made her do as she did. My father never forgave her for it, so even if she had wished to return her heart to him, he did not allow her to.”

He pictured another woman like Naomi, perhaps bored with nothing on which to use her intelligence, no adventure to take her from the domestic round, and possibly loved more for her beauty than for her inner self. How deeply had her unhappiness marked her daughter that she chose the gentleness of a forgiving man rather than the passion of one she feared might repeat her parents’ history?

“I see,” he said very gently. “Of course you did. We all need to be forgiven, one time or another. And we need to talk, to share our own dreams, as well as those of the one we love.”

She reached up very gently and kissed his cheek. “I always liked Nathaniel, and I learned to love him. I loved Ephraim from the beginning, but I don’t trust him to forgive my mistakes, and forget them, and to hold my heart softly.”

For a moment or two he did not speak. When he did, it was of the problem they shared, now a burden growing heavier by the minute.

“I think I shall go to Kendal tomorrow and see the expert who testified about the deeds.” He turned to face her. “Then I have to tell Benjamin and Ephraim what I find, and I suppose if it is irrefutable, Antonia, too.”

“Do you think Ashton Gower was imprisoned falsely?” she asked.

“I think that it is possible, and if it is true, then we must acknowledge it and try to redress as much of the injustice as may be reached now.”

“But somebody killed Judah!” she protested. “His body did not wash upstream! And if Gower really was innocent, does that not give him the most intense reason to seek revenge? Perhaps he didn’t mean to kill Judah, it was just a fight that ended when Judah slipped and fell, and for some reason Gower dragged his body all the way up to the higher crossing. But why would he do that?”

“Maybe at the time of Judah’s death there were some signs in the snow that another person had been there, and even of the struggle,” Henry reasoned. “He could not afford to have it investigated, or at that time it might have been easy enough to show he was there, too. And with their history, who would believe him that it was accidental?”

“I think he is a loathsome man,” she said, beginning to walk slowly back toward the house. “But I am sorry for him. If it really was an accident, then if we could help him prove it, we ought to—oughtn’t we?”

“Yes.” He had no doubt.

“The family won’t like that.” There was certainty in her voice, too, and fear. She wanted to belong. She had loved them all since she had first known them. They were the only family she had. Like Antonia, she was otherwise alone.

“We don’t know yet,” he pointed out. “At least not beyond doubt. I’ll go to Kendal tomorrow.”

And with that they walked back up the grass and in through the door again to the warmth.