'The burden of proof lies with the authorities.'
'They feel they have enough evidence to hold him.'
'What evidence?' said the Dean. 'Your letter was short in detail, Christopher.'
'At the time of writing, I was not in full possession of the facts.'
'And now?'
'There's still much to learn, Father.'
Christopher gave him the description of events that he had already rehearsed in his mind, omitting all mention of the fact that his brother was hopelessly drunk at the time when the crime was committed and saying nothing about Henry's impulse to commit suicide. His father was stern and attentive. He was also far too intelligent to be misled about his elder son.
'You say that Henry does not remember what happened?'
'No, Father.'
'Why is that?'
'It was late. He was confused. He believes that he was struck on the head.'
'How much wine had he consumed?' asked the Dean, sipping from his glass. 'I've had occasion to warn him about excessive drinking. It dulls the mind and leads to moral turpitude.' He tapped his glass. 'I only ever touch it myself in times of crisis such as now. Jacob's ointment and your wine have refreshed me after that ordeal.'
'I'm glad to hear it, Father.'
'Was your brother drunk?'
'It had been a convivial evening.'
'He was ever a slave to conviviality,' grumbled the old man. 'I threatened to cut off his allowance if he did not keep to the strait and narrow path of righteousness, and he swore that he would. But righteous men do not end up in prison.'
'What of John Bunyan and many like him?'
The Dean was scornful. 'Do not talk to me of Puritans. They are the bane of my life. Your garb reminds me uncomfortably of the wretches. The point I am making is that Henry should not have put himself in a position where this appalling error could be made.' He closed one eye and stared at Christopher through the other. 'You are certain that it is an error?'
'Yes, Father.'
'I would rather know the truth, Christopher. If your brother did commit a murder, tell me honestly. I need to prepare myself before I meet him.'
'Henry is a victim. Of that, I have no doubt. Someone took advantage of him in the most nefarious way. In short, the person who killed the fencing master made sure that suspicion fell on Henry.'
'Then why has his name not been cleared?'
'It takes time to gather evidence. We are working as hard as we can.' 'We?'
'My friend, Jonathan Bale, is helping me,' said Christopher, glancing down at his clothes. 'He loaned me this strange garb.'
'I did not think you had become a Puritan.'
'I'd spare you that disgrace, Father.'
'If only my other son showed me similar consideration,' said the Dean, wincing as he shifted his position. 'But why did you need to borrow those ill-fitting garments?'
'I was pushed into the river.'
Christopher told him what had happened without suppressing any of the facts. His father was alarmed at the news and in no way reassured by his son's claim that he was attacked because he was breathing down the neck of the real killer. All that the old man could think about was Christopher's safety.
'You must not stir abroad alone,' he warned.
'There's no danger if I keep my wits about me.'
'But there is, Christopher,' urged his father. 'This incident has proved it. You should not have walked home on your own this evening.'
'I did not, Father. Jonathan bore me company to my front door. I had the protection of a constable all the way here. And as you see,' he added, tugging at his coat, 'he's a much bigger man than me.'
'And this constable is helping you?'
'Well, yes. He's trying to gather evidence about the crime.'
'I sense a hesitation in your voice, my son. Why is that?'
Christopher licked his lips. 'There's a slight problem here.'
'Problem?'
'Jonathan Bale is not as persuaded of Henry's innocence as I am.'
The Dean was shaken. 'But you said that he was your friend.'
'My friend, yes,' said Christopher, 'but not my brother's.'
'This is very worrying. There's obviously room for genuine doubt here. Why does Mr Bale believe that Henry committed this wicked crime? Does he have access to proof that's been denied to you?'
'No, Father. He relies on instinct.'
'Then it's even more disturbing.'
'Not at all.'
'He mixes with criminals every day. He understands their character.'
'He does not understand Henry,' said Christopher, 'or he would know that his arrest is a gross mistake. I know it, his friends know it, and, in your heart, you must know it as well, Father. Surely, you never questioned your son's innocence?'
'Not until I came here.'
'At a time like this, he needs our support and not our suspicion.'
'I'll visit him first thing in the he morning.'
'Let me come with you.'
'No, Christopher,' affirmed the old man. 'I'll go alone. There's only room in a prison cell for the three of us - Henry, myself and God.'
They talked for the best part of an hour but the Dean of Gloucester was patently tired and in discomfort. After saying a prayer with his son, he retired to bed early with a supply of Jacob's ointment. When his father was safely out of the way, Christopher felt able to relax for the first time.
'It has been an eventful evening, Jacob,' he said ruefully. 'I was shoved into the river, dried off at Jonathan Bale's house and put into these clothes, then confronted by my father at a time when I was least ready for him. When I've had a glass of brandy, I do believe that I'm entitled to take to my bed as well.'
'I have to deliver the message first, sir.'
'Message?'
'I did not dare to tell you while your father was here,' said Jacob, 'because you had enough to contend with then. I fear that I've some bad tidings for you.'
'About Henry?'
'No, sir. They concern Lady Whitcombe. The message arrived earlier on.'
'Well?'
'Lady Whitcombe is in London and intends to call on you tomorrow.'
Christopher felt as if he had just been pushed into the River Thames again.
Chapter Twelve
In spite of her protestations of ill health, Mrs Cardinal arose early next morning, got herself downstairs alone, devoured a hearty breakfast and prepared for her departure unaided. She was noticeably less dependent on her son, leaving Jack Cardinal to pay more attention to Susan Cheever. As the two of them waited beside the coach for his mother to join them, he ventured a first compliment.
'May I say how resplendent you look today?'
'Thank you, Mr Cardinal,' she replied, 'but I do not feel it. Winter is the enemy of fashion. When we choose our clothing, we have to think about warmth rather than style.'
