An Anne Perry Christmas: Two Holiday Novels

by Anne Perry

  “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 a
s 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 ha
ve 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.