A Christmas Visitor

by Anne Perry

  “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.

  PART THREE

  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.”