Anne Perry - A Christmas Visitor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colgrave raised his eyebrows.

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

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

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

“Who are they?” Benjamin asked.

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

“A fool?” Benjamin asked.

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

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

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

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

Benjamin hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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