A Christmas Visitor

IN THE MORNING HENRY RODE EARLY TO PENRITH, and took the train to Kendal, which was the next stop on the way south toward Lancaster. He was in the town by half past ten, and found the office of the expert in forged documents, Mr. Percival. He was younger than Henry had expected, perhaps no more than in his middle thirties. He was clean shaven, with a thick head of reddish-brown hair, and an agreeable expression as he showed Henry into his office.

The pleasure in his face faded rather rapidly when Henry explained the area of his interest.

“Yes, I heard that Gower was making accusations,” Percival said drily. “A great shame. A most unpleasant man, and completely irresponsible. A tragedy that Dreghorn should die in a wretched accident like that. However, I don’t think that there is anything I can do to assist you, Mr. Rathbone.” He leaned back a little with a slight smile. “You need a solicitor. Such slanderous talk should be addressed by the law. I am sure Mrs. Dreghorn already has someone who represents the family, but if you need anyone further, I can recommend someone easily enough.”

“Thank you, but that is not necessary.” Henry reminded himself that this man was a forgery expert, a witness in court, but not a lawyer of any kind. Nothing that he said to him was he obliged to keep in confidence. “I am interested in learning more of precisely what happened. I think that is a far better defense than legal restriction, and certainly swifter and more honest than suits for slander, which may drag on and become most unpleasant.”

Percival leaned back in his chair and bit his lower lip. “The truth, Mr. Rathbone, is that the deeds to the estate owned by Geoffrey Gower and bequeathed to his son, Ashton Gower, were actually forgeries, and not very good ones. That has been established at law, and Ashton Gower sentenced to prison for his part in it.”

“How do we know that it was Ashton Gower who forged them, and not his father?” Henry asked with an air of innocence.

Percival smiled patiently. “Because in earlier sight of them, during previous transactions, they were never questioned. And frankly, Mr. Rathbone, the forgeries were extremely poor. No one used to dealing in legal documents of any sort would have been fooled by them.”

“And yet you did not immediately report the fact that they were forged,” Henry pointed out. “At first glance, you noticed nothing amiss.”

Percival colored uncomfortably. “I looked only at certain parts of them, Mr. Rathbone, I confess to that. The first reading of them in their entirety showed us the falsity of them. There is no question. Frankly I am not sure what it is you are trying to prove. Gower is a forger. Judah Dreghorn had no choice but to sentence him to imprisonment. Everything else is spurious, just a weak and vicious man making excuses for himself.”

“You have a deep personal dislike for Gower, Mr. Percival,” Henry observed.

Percival’s face tightened. “I do. And I am far from alone, Mr. Rathbone. He is a most objectionable man, without the grace or the honesty to repent of his crime, nor the courage to begin again and attempt to live a decent life. Instead of that, which might earn him forgiveness, he has attempted to blacken the name of an honest judge who did no more than his duty. If you had known Judah Dreghorn, you would understand my anger.”

“I did know him,” Henry said, keeping his voice calm only with an effort. “He was my friend for over twenty years. Mrs. Dreghorn is my goddaughter. That does not address the question of who forged the document, and when.”

“For heaven’s sake, man!” Percival snapped. “Ashton Gower forged it at some point between the original being taken from his father’s safe, and this forgery produced to justify his claim to the estate!” Percival snapped.

“You are an expert in forgery?”

“I am!”

“So it would be brought to you for that purpose, but not until forgery was suspected?”

“Of course.”

“Who saw it first, prior to that?”

“William Overton, a solicitor.”

“Did he testify in the case?” Henry asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was not called. Why should he be? No one claimed that the deeds were genuine, except Gower himself, and he was obviously lying. As I said, Mr. Rathbone, the work was shoddy to a degree. Any examination of them made the fact plain. Now, if you don’t mind, I have other clients to see, to whom I may be of more service. I am afraid I cannot help you, and to be candid, I have no desire to. You seem to be defending a man who has maligned a judge we all admired, and who apparently considered you to be a friend.”

Henry remained sitting. “When is it supposed that Gower forged the deeds, Mr. Percival?”

Percival was barely patient. “Before he brought them to his solicitor, sir! When else?”

“Mr. Overton?”

“Precisely.”

“They passed from him to Mr. Overton, to you?”

Percival hesitated, his face a trifle flushed. “No, not exactly. They were questioned by Colgrave, and he demanded sight of them, which happened in Judge Dreghorn’s office, I believe.”

“Why not in Mr. Overton’s? Was he not the Gowers’ solicitor?”

“Mr. Colgrave required that it be before a judge, and Mr. Overton was perfectly satisfied that it be so. I really don’t understand what it is you are trying to prove, Mr. Rathbone!” Percival said irritably.

“I am trying to see when they might have been tampered with, that Mr. Gower could sustain an accusation that Judah Dreghorn, or anyone but himself, could have forged them,” Henry replied.

“For heaven’s sake, man! You don’t believe him!” Percival was aghast.

“I am trying to prove Judah Dreghorn’s innocence,” Henry answered. “If he never had them in his possession, then he must be!”

“Well … well, his reputation is sufficient. The deeds were in several different people’s possession, if you wish to be legal about it. It would be far better, and wiser, if you were to allow the matter to drop. No one will believe Gower. The man is already a convicted criminal.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed. He rose to his feet. “Where may I find this Mr. Overton?”

“In the offices at the end of the street. I do not know the number.”

“Thank you. Good day, Mr. Percival.”

Percival did not reply.

Henry walked as directed, and found the offices of William Overton after the briefest of questions. He was obliged to wait only twenty minutes in order to see him.

“Come in, Mr. Rathbone,” Overton said with courtesy. He was older than Percival. What there was of his hair was gray, almost white, but his lean face was only slightly lined and he moved with ease. “My clerk says that you are concerned about the deeds that were forged regarding the Gower estate. Terrible tragedy that Judah Dreghorn drowned. I am most deeply sorry. A charming man, of the utmost honesty. What may I do for you?” He waved at the chair opposite his desk, and resumed his own seat.

Henry sat down and told him as briefly as he could.

Overton frowned. “I am not an expert in forgery, Mr. Rathbone. I admit that the document seemed genuine to me, and I have handled a good many in the course of my profession.”

“What was the date on the original document that you had from Geoffrey Gower’s safe, compared with the document presented in court, which Mr. Percival testified to as forged?”

“They were the same, Mr. Rathbone,” Overton replied, frowning. “That is why I do not understand the claim that the deeds presented at court were forged.”

“The dates were the same?” Henry swallowed hard. “You are certain?”

“Of course I am certain.”

“Then what was the purpose of the forgery?”

“I don’t know. But most certainly it was not to gain the estate for Ashton Gower. It was his anyway.” Overton leaned forward across his desk. His face was sad and touched with a deep distress. “It seems to me that someone changed a true document for a false one, but it read exactly the same. The only purpose in that would have been to discredit the genuine deeds. That possibility does not seem to have occurred to anyone at the trial.”

“When were you aware of this, Mr. Overton?” Henry was puzzled. Why had this apparently honest man not spoken of what seemed to be a monstrous miscarriage of justice?

“Just over two weeks ago, on the day of Judah Dreghorn’s death, he came to me with just the questions you have asked …”

Henry felt as if he had been struck a physical blow. Ashton Gower was innocent, and Judah had known it! Why, then, would Gower have killed him?

Or was it not Gower at all, but someone else?

He heard Overton’s voice as if from a long way off—words garbled and making no sense.

“I beg your pardon?” he said numbly. “I’m afraid I did not hear you.”

“You look ill, Mr. Rathbone,” Overton repeated. “May I pour you a glass of brandy? I am afraid this has come as a great shock to you.” He suited his actions to his words, rising to open a cupboard and pour a fairly stiff measure of very good brandy into a glass, and place it on the edge of the desk where Henry could reach it.

“Thank you.” Henry took it and drank it slowly. He felt its fire inside him and was grateful, but it did not take away the knowledge that filled him with horror.

“Judah was here, and you told him what you told me?” He knew he must sound foolish, but he could not grasp the idea of it.

“Yes,” Overton agreed. “And he was as horrified as you are. He realized what had happened … what he had done, if you like, albeit in complete innocence.”

“Did he …” Henry swallowed. “Did he say what he intended to do?”

Overton smiled, a small, unhappy gesture full of pity. “Not precisely. He left here quite early in the afternoon. I think he took the half past two train to Penrith. He said he intended to see someone, but he did not say who, nor what he meant to say to them. He would have been in Penrith before half past three, and perhaps home by five, if he had a good horse. He wished to go to a recital in the village where he lives. It was something to do with his son, who I understand is remarkably gifted.”

“Yes. Yes, he is.” Henry was still thinking in a daze. He tried to imagine what must have been in Judah’s mind as he traveled home that day. He knew that Ashton Gower had been innocent. Was it Gower he had intended to see? Or someone else—someone who was guilty?

Had he been too late to see them before the recital? He would not miss it and disappoint Joshua. Had he planned to see that person after his return home, at the lower crossing? Why there? Closer to the village, but yet private? Closer to the church? The Viking site? Colgrave’s house? Or halfway between the estate and someone else’s house?

Who was it, and what had transpired? If it was Gower, then had Judah’s death been the tragic and idiotic result of an explosion of rage at the injustice of the eleven years Gower had spent in prison for a crime he had not committed?

That was possible.

It was equally possible that it was not Ashton Gower at all, but someone else. Peter Colgrave? Or someone who had intended to buy the estate, and been prevented?

One thing was certain: Henry could not leave the matter secret now. The injustice burned like a fire inside him, demanding reparation. If he permitted Ashton Gower to carry the shame of the first crime, and then the fear of the stigma for the second, he would be more guilty than Gower could ever be, because he knew the truth.

“Why did you not do something when you heard of Judah’s death, and knew he could not right it?” he asked Overton.

“My dear Rathbone, I have no proof!” Overton replied, turning up his hands. “I saw the original deed, but it is destroyed now. Only the forgery remains. What could I say, and to whom? Judah Dreghorn could have, but he is dead.”

Of course. Henry should have seen it. Again he felt as if the ground had risen up and struck him, bruising him bone deep. It rested with him. There was no one else.

Slowly and a trifle shakily, he rose to his feet, thanked Overton, and made his way back to the station. He sat in the train all the way to Penrith thinking about it, mulling over anything and everything he could say to the family. None of it stopped the pain in the least, and none of it would be acceptable to them, or dull their anger with him.

He arrived at the house just in time for dinner. It was one of the most miserable of his life. The food was rich, succulent, as if preparing for the taste for the Christmas goose and all the added fare of the season, but it might have been so much stale bread, for any pleasure it gave him.

“We are accomplishing nothing!” Benjamin said miserably. “Gower is still blackening Judah’s name. I heard more of it today and I don’t see how we can stop him, except by going to law. Antonia?”

She looked sad and frightened. Henry knew her thoughts were even more of Joshua than for herself. Like any woman who had a child, her will, her emotions, her instinct were all to protect him. She must hurt for Judah also, but her first thought would be for the living. She would perhaps do her real mourning after he was safe.

“If it has to be,” she conceded, but Henry heard the reluctance in her voice, and she turned to him for confirmation that this was the only course.

He hesitated. He would have to tell her the truth, but he dreaded it, and he had not the words yet.

Naomi also looked at Henry, but in her eyes was the question formed by knowledge he had been to Kendal today. He had not told her, he had had no opportunity to speak to her alone, but in that glance she understood. Would she have the courage to risk the love of the family, and help him?

Ephraim filled the silence. “Only if there’s no other way,” he said grimly. “We won’t leave until we’ve cleared Judah’s name from this stupid charge, and proved to everyone that Gower killed him. Then he’ll be hanged, and no one will ever repeat anything he said.” He looked at Antonia with a sudden gentleness. “He was our brother, we’ll see justice for his sake. But you are as much a part of our family, and Joshua is the only Dreghorn of the next generation. We would never leave you unprotected.” That was his way of saying that he loved them. Such plain, emotional words were not in his nature.

“Thank you,” Antonia said warmly. “I know how eager you are to return to your work, and to the marvelous places you travel.”

Benjamin smiled. “When I go back to Palestine we’re going to be working in the streets of Jerusalem. We’re tracing the way Christ took on Palm Sunday, when he entered in triumph.” His face was lit with a fire that had nothing to do with the chandelier above the table. His mind saw the far-off glory of a different and deeper kind, and for a moment all anger was forgotten. The fire of his emotion burned away lesser, worldly griefs. “Next we are going to find and make certain of the garden where Mary Magdalene spoke to the risen Christ on Easter Sunday. Can you imagine? We will stand where she stood when He said ‘Mary,’ and she knew Him!”

“Perhaps that is where we are all trying to stand,” Naomi said very quietly. “Only I’m not sure it is a place, I think it is a matter of spirit, it is who you have become.”

There was another long moment’s silence.

“But it must be wonderful for you to see it, of course,” she added, as if not to spoil his excitement. She turned to Ephraim. “Where will you go next?”

He smiled very slightly—an inward pleasure. “The Rift Valley, in South Africa,” he answered. “The plants there are different from anywhere else on earth. I expect to see some wonderful animals, too, but I shan’t be studying them. We could find new foods, new medicines, and of course the beauty of them is staggering, shapes and colors you never see here.” His voice warmed and became more urgent, and without realizing it he was using his hands to echo the shapes he envisioned. “The variety of creation amazes me more and more every day. It’s not just the endless invention of it, it’s how every design has unique and absolute purpose! You know …” He stopped, realizing with a moment of self-consciousness how his love of it had swept him along. “Another time,” he finished. “When we have dealt with Gower.”

Again Henry tried to think how to begin what he must tell them, and his nerve failed. How blunt should he be? How immediate, or how gentle?

Ephraim had asked Naomi where she was planning to go, and his face was tense, as if he too were struggling with inner turmoil as to what he should say, and how. He feared another rejection. Henry could see that in the tight angles of Ephraim’s body, as he sat at the foot of the table. But like Henry, Ephraim was torn in two ways. If he let her go again without saying anything, when would he have another chance? Would he ever? What if she married someone else? The time while they were back here was painful, filled with anger and grief, and yet it would still slip by too quickly for him.

“Not quite a valley,” Naomi answered, and her face too lit with the excitement of her inner vision. “I’ve heard of a geological phenomenon unlike any other in the world: a gorge so deep you can see almost the whole history of the earth in it.” Her voice quickened. “The American Indians speak of it as a holy place, but then the whole earth is sacred to them. They treat it with a respect if we ever felt, we have forgotten. Perhaps we did anciently? Druid times? But this canyon is so beautiful it is beyond description, and bigger than anything we could imagine. I am going to see that, and climb down it to the river.” She stopped and turned to Antonia. “I’m sorry. We’re all getting carried away with our dreams. What are you going to do? You have a treasure as well, a whole new world to explore. What about Joshua and his music? Are we one day going to be a footnote in history as the family of the English Mozart?”

Antonia blushed, but it was with pleasure. “Perhaps,” she answered, meeting the mood with hope and optimism of her own. “As soon as he is old enough we … I … shall send him to the musical academy in Liverpool. It will be terribly hard to part with him, but it is the only way he will get the education that is right for him. I can go and spend time there now and then, to be near him. It is the right thing to do.” She looked to Henry for his agreement.

He realized how bitterly hard it was going to be for her to bring up such a remarkable child alone, make the decisions, try to be both mother and father to him.

And he was about to add an even greater burden for all of them, but he could not remain silent. He could feel Naomi’s eyes on him also—waiting.

He cleared his throat. “I went to Kendal today,” he began. He could feel his stomach tightening and in spite of the fire and the good food, he was cold.

They were waiting, knowing he would go on and tell them the reason.

“I went to see Percival, the forgery expert …”

“We all know it was forged,” Ephraim interrupted him. “It’s already been proved in court! We need to show that Judah was murdered, and that Gower did it, out of hatred and revenge.”

“For heaven’s sake, let him finish!” Benjamin said tartly. “Why did you go, Henry? What can Percival do to help?”

“I think it would be best if I gave you the whole story I found out,” Henry answered. “Rather than follow my path of discovering that Mr. Percival dislikes Gower intensely, so much so that he seems to have allowed his animosity to govern some of his decisions. He admitted he was quick to come to conclusions, and to pass them on to Judah.”

“Are you saying that he was wrong?” Ephraim demanded. “That is the only fact that matters.”

Henry ignored his manner because he understood the emotions that drove it. “The date made the property legally Ashton Gower’s, but the forgery was so bad it could never have passed for genuine.”

“We know that,” Benjamin agreed. “Ashton Gower is both a villain and a fool.”

“No,” Henry contradicted him. “He may have killed Judah, which would make him a villain, but he is not a fool. And if you think about it honestly, you know that.” He leaned forward across the table. “Percival gave me the name of the original solicitor, who was not called to testify. He did not believe the deeds were forged, but he is not an expert. He was willing to be overruled.”

“Your point, Henry?” Benjamin asked. “All this means nothing.”

“Yes it does, Benjamin,” Henry replied. “Overton read the deeds very carefully. He remembered the date in particular.”

Naomi drew in her breath sharply.

“It was the same date as on the forged deeds,” Henry told them.

“That’s ridiculous!” Ephraim exploded. “Why in God’s name forge something and make it exactly the same?”

“Because it was obviously a forgery,” Henry answered. “And the original had been destroyed. Naturally, like you, everyone assumed that the original had been different.”

They looked stunned. He turned to each of them, one by one. It was Benjamin who realized the meaning first.

“You mean the original gave the dates that make it Ashton Gower’s?” he said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Oh, God! It …” he stopped.

Antonia was ashen. “Judah didn’t know!” she said hoarsely. “He would never lie! Never!”

“Of course he didn’t,” Henry agreed instantly. “But he was, as you say, an honest man, not just outwardly, but of heart and mind deep through. He went back over all he had done to prove to Ashton Gower that he was wrong. And he found what I did. He saw Overton as well, and knew that the land was Gower’s. That was the day he died.”

“You mean the day he was murdered!” Ephraim almost choked on the words.

“Yes.”

“What a hideous irony!” Ephraim was white-faced, his hands clenched into fists on the table. “Gower was right, and Judah could have told him, if Gower hadn’t murdered him first. He could have had his name cleared …”

“Are we sure it was Gower who killed him?” Henry asked.

Benjamin stared back.

Ephraim sat rigid.

It was Antonia who spoke. “We are supposing it was he because we also believed he forged the deeds. If he didn’t, then perhaps he didn’t kill Judah, either.”

“Revenge,” Ephraim said quickly. “If he was innocent, then he had a justified anger. Especially if he believed Judah forged the deeds so we could buy the estate.”

“That’s true,” Henry agreed. “But if Judah was going to tell him the truth, then whoever did forge them, and certainly someone did, then that person had a great deal to lose. The case would be opened up again and …” Now he had to say it, although it twisted like a knife inside him. “And the estate given back to Gower. And if it proved to be Colgrave who forged it, and since it was in fact he who benefited from the sale, the law would look very seriously at him.”

They all stared at him aghast. “We bought it legally, at a fair price,” Benjamin said quietly.

“I know that,” Henry answered. “But you bought it from Colgrave, and it was not his to sell.”

Ephraim looked around the table at each of them in turn. “That’s monstrous!” he burst out. “Are you saying that if all this is true, then legally the estate, our home, belongs to Ashton Gower after all?”

“Is it true?” Antonia whispered.

Benjamin looked at Henry, hope struggling with knowledge in his eyes.

“Yes,” Henry nodded.

Ephraim struggled to keep hope. “Unless Gower did kill Judah. If he did, then he can’t profit from his crime. Apart from morally, that’s the law. He’ll be hanged.”

“We didn’t consider Peter Colgrave regarding Judah’s death,” Benjamin pointed out. “We were so morally sure that it was Gower. But this makes it different. It also explains why Judah would meet him at the lower crossing. It’s only a few hundred yards from Colgrave’s house. He might even have been there, and Colgrave followed him out.” He turned to Henry. “Do you know what Judah was going to do about this?”

“Not from Overton,” Henry replied. “But I knew Judah, just as you did. He was a man of honor. There is only one thing he could have done.”

Again the silence was painful.

It was Naomi who spoke at last. “Give it back to Gower?”

“Isn’t that what he would do?” Henry asked. “You knew him. Would he have kept that secret, and stayed living here, with Gower branded a forger, and left penniless?”

It was Antonia who answered. “No. No, he would never have done that. He couldn’t.”

“And he would not have let Colgrave go either,” Benjamin added. “And Colgrave would have known that.”

Ephraim looked from one to the other of them. “Would he really have gone to Colgrave’s house alone, at that hour of night, to face him with it?”

“No,” Benjamin said with certainty.

“If he was going to give the estate back to Gower, with everything that means,” Henry said slowly, “his first concern, after doing the right thing, would be to have made some provision for Antonia and Joshua.”

“You can’t buy a house at that time of night!” Benjamin said, with something close to derision in his face.

Henry bit his lip. “Benjamin, with the estate gone, there would be no money with which to buy a house,” he pointed out. “And since it was a miscarriage of justice of very great proportions, there may have been an inquiry. Gower may not have let it rest in peace. He might have sued …”

Ephraim swore and buried his head in his hands.

“Then who?” Naomi asked. “Who could help?”

Henry turned to Antonia. “Whom did he trust? Who would be wise, discreet, and unfailingly kind?”

Her eyes were full of tears. “Apart from you? I don’t know.”

Henry found himself blushing at her trust, even after what he had been obliged to tell her. If she had hated him for it, at least for a while, he would not have blamed her. He wished he could offer something stronger or of more use than friendship.

“A friend?” Ephraim asked. “He would know we were all coming, but we don’t live here. Who else?”

Benjamin rubbed his hand across his brow. “Actually, Ephraim, if we lose the estate, we may very well all live here. There’ll be no income to support us anywhere else. In fact not even here, come to that. It’ll change all our lives.”

“Only if Gower is not guilty,” Ephraim said, but now there was no hope in his eyes. It was as if within himself he knew, he was simply finding the strength to face it. All his passion and dreams were crumbling, towers that had shone in the air only an hour before. If ever he needed courage it was now.

No one bothered to argue with him.

“The Reverend Findheart,” Antonia said, looking at Henry. “That must have been where he was going. It makes sense now.”

“Then I will go and see him in the morning,” Henry answered. “Unless you prefer to go?” he looked at Benjamin, then at Ephraim.

“No. Thank you.” Benjamin looked bruised, as if the emotional shock had hurt him physically. “I had better look at the estate papers, and see what can be saved of ours. If there is anything. Ephraim, will you help?”

Ephraim nodded and reached out his hand to rest it on Benjamin’s.

Henry rose to his feet and excused himself. They should be allowed time alone together. There was too much to face for it to be done easily, or quickly. He bade them good night, even though it could not possibly be so, and went upstairs to his room.

The morning was cold with flurries of snow. It was two days until Christmas. Henry had tea and toast alone in the dining room, then put on his greatcoat, hat, scarf and gloves, and set out to walk to the lower crossing of the stream, and the climb beyond.

He would have given anything he could think of not to be bound on this errand. The land was beautiful, great sweeping hills mantled in snow, black rocks making patterns through the white, steep sides plunging to the water. Wind-riven, the ragged skies were scattered with clouds and light, casting swift-moving shadows over the earth. Trees were stark, soft flakes blurring the edges even as he looked.

The estate itself had a wealth and a beauty it would tear the heart to leave behind. The Dreghorns had been good husbanders of its wealth. They would leave it far richer than Geoffrey Gower had. But Henry had no doubt for even a second, a passing instant, that this is what Judah had begun, and would have finished had not Colgrave killed him. He had a wrong to undo, whatever the cost. He would have made no excuse.

He reached the stream, swift-flowing under the flat stones that stretched across, like planks. He could never forget that this was where Judah had died.

He set out across the narrow way, taking small steps, balancing with his arms out a little. He did not care if he looked foolish.

The stone church with its squared tower was visible as soon as he rounded the corner of the hill, with the large vicarage beyond it, the orchard trees bare now, coated only with a dusting of snow. The lake water shimmered in gray and silver, always moving.

Henry trudged through the unbroken white, leaving his footprints to mark his way. At the gate he stopped, fumbling for the latch. It was indecently early to visit an elderly man. Perhaps he had been precipitate? He was still standing uncertainly when the front door opened and he saw the vicar regarding him with interest. He was thin and bent with white hair blowing in the gusts of wind.

“Good morning,” Henry said, a trifle embarrassed at being caught staring.

“Good morning, sir,” Findheart answered with a smile. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or even breakfast?”

Henry undid the gate latch and went in, closing it carefully behind him.

“Thank you,” he accepted.

He was inside with his wet shoes and coat taken by an ancient housekeeper, and sitting by the fire in the dining room in his stocking feet with hot tea, toast, and honey, before he approached the subject for which he had come.

“Reverend Findheart, I was a close friend of Judah Dreghorn’s …”

“I know,” Findheart said mildly. “The night he was here, he spoke of you, just before he died.”

Henry was grateful to be helped; it would be hard enough. “I went to Kendal and spoke to Mr. Overton. I know now what Judah learned. Is that what he said to you that evening?”

“Yes.” Findheart added nothing, but he kept smiling, his blue eyes infinitely gentle. It was a confidence he was still not going to break. Henry would have to spell it out.

Henry sighed. “He learned that Ashton Gower was innocent, and the estate really did belong to him. Judah was going to give it back, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. It was the only honorable thing to do,” Findheart agreed. “Do have some more tea. You must be cold.”

Henry accepted. “Did he ask you to care for Antonia, and her son, if he should be unable to?”

“He did. But of course that will only be necessary should they carry through Judah’s wishes.” He did not make it a question, but in effect, it was.

“Yes, they will,” Henry said softly. “They are Dreghorns, too. But it will leave them all without means. Benjamin will have to give up his archaeology in the Holy Land. Ephraim will not be able to go back to Africa, and Naomi too will have to remain here in England. I am not aware if Nathaniel left her with anything, but I imagine it would be only what income he had from the estate. And of course there are Antonia and Joshua. They will be without a home or means of any sort.”

“I know,” Findheart said. “I have given it much thought. The answer seems to me quite clear. I have served in this church for thirty years, and loved it dearly, but it is time for me to retire. I am getting old.” He smiled ruefully. He must have been long past eighty. His eyes were bright but his skin was withered and his hands were veined in blue. “I have not the strength for the pastoral work that I used to have,” he went on. “The people need and deserve a younger man, one better able to ride to the sick in the outlying farms and dales, one who can answer their call for the frightened, the sick and the lonely, the grieving and the troubled, at any hour. Benjamin Dreghorn is ordained to that office. He may take my place, and serve God here.”

He lifted his hand in a small gesture. “The vicarage is large and warm, well suited for a family. There would be room for Antonia and Joshua, and for Ephraim, too, if he wishes, and for Naomi. It would shelter them all. There are vegetables in the garden and fruit in the orchard, if anyone will labor to make it yield.” He smiled apologetically. “It is not the new and exciting botany of Africa, but it will feed the people, and to spare. And there is honey in the hives, and fish in the stream and in the lake.”

Henry was grateful, and amazed at the simplicity of it. In a bolt of memory like a physical shock he heard again Naomi’s words that the garden where Mary Magdalene recognized the risen Christ was not a physical place, but one of the mind, and of the spirit.

“Thank you,” he said aloud. “I will tell them.” He was unsure how to say to this gentle, generous-hearted man that they may find the loss too profound to be graceful about it for some time yet.

Findheart nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “Of course. But I shall make it all ready for them, at least for Antonia, if that is what she chooses. You are a good friend, Mr. Rathbone. Your presence will make it less difficult for them than it might have been. Judah Dreghorn was a man of the utmost integrity of heart. No other course is open to those who would be his heirs.”

Henry found his throat suddenly constricted and his eyes prickled with tears. Sitting in this quiet vicarage with the fire burning gently in the hearth and the snow drifting pale flurries outside, he was more truly aware of how much he missed Judah, not just his company, his laughter, but the certainty of honor in him, that truth inside which was never tainted.

He sat for another half hour, learning more about the church and the vicarage and what abundant room it offered for all of them. Then he thanked Findheart, put on his shoes, now nearly dry, and his coat, scarf, and gloves, and set out to retrace his steps, already vanished in the snow.

It was nearly eleven in the morning by the time he was back in the house. Benjamin met him in the hallway. He looked tired, as if he had slept little.

“Yes,” Henry said immediately. “Judah went to Findheart.”

“What can Findheart do? He’s the vicar of a village church, and must be closer to ninety than eighty.” There was despair in Benjamin’s voice, edging on bitterness.

Henry plunged in. He was aware of Antonia coming down the stairs with Joshua on her heels.

“Give you his living at the church,” Henry replied simply. “You are ordained to the priesthood. You can serve God better here than unearthing the stones of the past in Jerusalem. Here you are needed. And the vicarage is large enough to accommodate you all, and with room to spare.”

“All?” Benjamin was startled.

“There will be no means from the estate to provide anything else,” Henry pointed out. “There is no heritage for any of you, Benjamin, except the one nobody can spend or take from you, a name of honor above that of any other I know. Judah Dreghorn was a man of integrity like a star that cannot be dimmed. There was no shadow in him.”

Antonia caught her breath and buried her face in her hands. Very slowly she sat down on the stairs, and Joshua put his arms around her.

Ephraim came out of the study doorway where apparently he had been listening. Naomi came from the other direction, looking at Henry, then at Ephraim.

“Of course,” Benjamin said at last. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Yes, we will do very well there. Ephraim?”

It was too soon. Ephraim looked stunned, like a man who has seen darkness come at midday, and cannot believe it.

Naomi walked over to him, and slowly his eyes met hers.

He did not know what to do, he was so hurt.

Antonia lifted her face. “And I’m proud that he knew we would do the same thing,” she said quietly. “He did not doubt us either, not any of us. And he was right. We will do what he would have. The land and the house and everything in it will go back to Ashton Gower, because it is his by all the moral laws. What we lose if we do this will be nothing compared with what we would lose if we did not. We would lose ourselves, and we would lose the love Judah would have felt for us, and the right to belong to him.”

Ephraim looked at her with a sudden burning of pride, then at Naomi standing in front of him. “I can understand Gower,” he said with difficulty. “He has suffered appallingly, and unjustly. He’s a miserable swine, but perhaps in his place I’d have been no better.”

Naomi smiled at him with a total and glowing warmth. “Probably worse,” she agreed, but she said it so gently that he blushed with deep, almost painful joy.

The following day it was accomplished at law. They all took the train to Penrith, and with Ashton Gower present, swore to the events as they now knew them. Overton had been sent for from Kendal, and he also testified to his knowledge of Judah’s discovery, and his intentions.

The police were advised of what seemed now inevitably to have been Colgrave’s part in it. They instituted investigations that they had no doubt would lead to his arrest for both the forgery and the murder of Judah Dreghorn.

“A man of the utmost honor,” the magistrate said of Judah, speaking with intense feeling. He looked at Joshua, who had asked to be with them. “You have a proud heritage, young man. You can look anyone in England in the eye, and bow your knee to no one, except the Queen.”

“Yes, sir,” Joshua answered quietly. “I knew that before.”

“I imagine you did,” the magistrate said with a nod. “At least you believed it. But it takes a bitter test of all that he has to make a hero like your father. Sometimes we bring to a struggle or a cause the gifts we see most clearly, a courage, a strength, or a charm others have told us we have. But often we find more is asked of us than that, more than we intended or thought we possessed. We are asked to offer that which we thought dearest, to forgive what seemed unpardonable, to face what we feared the most and endure it. Sometimes we have to travel to the last step a path that was not of our choosing. But I promise you this, young man, it will lead to a greater joy in the end. The difficulty is that the end is beyond our sight, it is a matter of faith, not of knowledge.”

Joshua nodded, but he did not know what to say.

Antonia rested her hand on his shoulder. Her face was calm through her tears, but in her eyes was a fierce pride, and a certainty of understanding.

Ephraim put his arm around Naomi and she did not move away.

Benjamin offered his hand to Ashton Gower.

Slowly Gower reached across and clasped it. “He’s right,” he said with something like surprise, as if he were watching a light breaking across the horizon. “Judah Dreghorn was a man of the highest honor. I’ll say that to anyone. You all are. I don’t know that we’ll ever be friends, there’s too much hard history between us, and I’ve said and done ill by you. But by the Lord in Heaven, I admire you!” He turned and offered his hand to Ephraim.

Ephraim took it and held it hard, even with warmth. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I spoke badly of you, and it was untrue.”

Gower nodded. “Christmas tomorrow,” he said. “Chance to start over. Do it better this time.” And then he turned to Henry. “Thank you,” he added simply.