A Christmas Visitor (8 page)

“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 his toes.”

“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.