Aunt Dimity's Christmas (11 page)

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. “What's this guy look like?”

“He's a long, tall drink of water,” Luke answered. “Wild hair, big old beard, dressed on the shabby side. Hasn't been in for a few days, but I expect he'll be back.”

The hospital lobby seemed to spin around me. “Does he have a name?”

“Kit,” Luke replied. “Kit Smith. But he says some folk call him Smitty. Why do you ask?”

I motioned toward the trolley. “Are you finished here, Luke? Are you heading back to the shop?”

“Soon as I fetch my coat,” he replied. “Why?”

“I'm coming with you,” I said. “I'll explain why on the way.”

We walked to Preacher's, fighting our way down Saint Giles Road through a swarming stream of shoppers caught
up in the holiday frenzy. Most looked haggard, some merely anxious; a rare few smiled contentedly. As I walked along, telling Luke about Kit, I was jostled by jutting elbows, bumped by bulging shopping bags, and assaulted by the tinny strains of competing carols that spilled into the street each time a shop door opened. By the time we reached Preacher's Lane, I was ready to strangle Father Christmas.

As we turned into the lane, I caught sight of two rheumy-eyed men crouched in a doorway, as though they'd been shunted to a side inlet by the rushing tide of shoppers on Saint Giles. They were unshaven, filthy, and sharing a bottle between them. I averted my eyes from the pathetic scene, but it was to no avail.

“Give us a kiss, lady!” roared one.

“Give us a tenner and I'll let you kiss my arse!” called the other.

The pair laughed uproariously.

Luke seized my arm and hustled me along, muttering, “They're not all like Kit.”

“They certainly aren't,” I agreed.

We said nothing more until we reached the bookstore.

“Kit told me they wouldn't let him into the college libraries on account of his appearance,” Luke said, hanging our coats behind the front counter. “Now there's high-class idiocy for you. Any fool could see that he's bright as a button. Said his daddy used to give lectures at the university.”

“Did you think he was telling the truth?” I asked.

Luke shrugged. “He might've thought I needed an excuse to let him read my books gratis, but I didn't. I don't care what folk look like. Hell, half the students comin' through here dress worse'n old Kit.”

I nodded. “Did he say anything else about his family?”

Luke shook his head. “Not much of a talker, truth to tell. Preferred reading. Come on, I'll show you what he read.”

Luke led me through the narrow aisles to an alcove labeled
MILITARY HISTORY
. I gazed at the floor-to-ceiling shelves in dismay.

“Did he read everything?” I asked.

“Nothing but the books on Bomber Command.” Luke began selecting volumes from the crowded shelves. “Let's see if he marked my books the same way he marked that prayer book of his.”

Luke and I spent the next two hours examining two dozen books, but we found no folded corners, no annotations, nothing to indicate a special interest in a particular page or passage. When we finished, I took up a general history of Bomber Command and asked Luke if I could borrow it.

As he wrapped the volume in brown paper, the string of bells on the front door jingled and a shambling figure wearing a green stocking cap sidled into the shop, wafting his distinctive body odor before him.

“Rupert?” I said, my nose wrinkling involuntarily.

“That's right, missus. Me mates told me you'd be here.” The little man was dressed in multiple layers of grubby vests and sweaters topped with an oversized raincoat. “Got something for you.”

“Really?” I seriously doubted that such a shabby character could have anything I'd want. “What's that?”

Rupert reached inside his raincoat and produced a thick scroll of paper. It was charred at one end, as though it had been thrust into a fire and hastily removed. “Smitty left it to be burnt with the rest of the rubbish at Saint B's, but I got it back for him. Didn't seem right to burn it, not after he took such trouble over it.”

I took the charred scroll from him hesitantly. “Why didn't you give it to Father Bright?”

“He's got a mortal load on his back, does Father Bright, what with keeping Saint B's ticking and all,” Rupert replied. “Didn't want to give him something else to worry about.” He motioned toward the scroll. “You'll give it back to Smitty when he's fit again, will you?”

“I will,” I promised, and reached into my shoulder bag. “Let me give you something for your troubles.”

“I done it for Smitty, missus,” he said. “I don't want no reward.”

“A cup of tea, at least,” offered Luke.

“Ta, but I got to get back to Saint B's. Father Bright'll try to do it all himself if I'm not there to get the crew cracking. Cheers, missus.” The little man pulled his stocking cap snugly over his ears and shuffled out of the shop.

“Looks like you're makin' all kinds of new friends,” Luke commented. “Let's see what old Rupert turned up.”

The scroll was made up of some two hundred sheets of onionskin, each thin sheet covered with hundreds of names written in the same minute script Willis, Sr., had discovered in the prayer book. An abbreviated military rank proceeded each name.

“Flyin' Officer A. R. Layton,” Luke read aloud, squinting at the tiny writing. “Leadin' Aircraftman L. J. Turek. Looks like they're all flyboys, Lori. A roll call of the dead.”

“The dead?” I said, fingering the thick scroll. “There must be thousands of names listed here. That's an awfully high casualty rate.”

“Bomber Command lost round about sixty thousand men, give or take a few,” Luke informed me. “They took a hard hit.”

As Luke wrapped the charred scroll in another sheet of brown paper, I felt as confused as Rupert. Why would Kit
attempt to destroy a list of names so painstakingly compiled? Why compile the list in the first place? If he was praying for the dead, wouldn't a general prayer suffice?

“You sure have taken an interest in old Kit,” Luke observed, handing the scroll to me.

“I guess I feel responsible for him,” I mumbled. “He collapsed in my driveway, after all.”

Luke looked at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “The Somervilles aren't offerin' him such a bad deal, Lori. I'm not sayin' Kit's dangerous-crazy, but from what you've told me, he does seem a mite peculiar.”

Luke must have seen a tack-spitting gleam in my eyes, because he immediately changed the subject. “Lookin' forward to the Christmas Eve party. Got my red suspenders starched special for the occasion.”

I smiled briefly, thanked him for the loan of the book, and left the shop.

As I made my way up Preacher's Lane, I heard a shout from the pair of winos I'd seen earlier. I pulled my coat collar up and prepared to hurry on, but something made me glance in their direction.

The two ragged men stood at attention, their hands raised to the brims of their cloth caps in a shaky salute. Rupert's mates, I thought, and wondered if they were ex-airmen as well. I acknowledged their gesture with an awkward bob of the head, then hurriedly retraced my steps to the Radcliffe.

I stood outside Kit's cubicle, my palms pressed to the glass, watching his chest rise and fall in the unnaturally regular rhythm induced by the ventilator. I couldn't approach his bedside—visitors had been barred ever since he'd had his setback—so I spoke to him silently, sending
my thoughts through the glass barrier, telling him that I would do everything in my power to keep him from being held captive by his well-intentioned friends.

“Miss Shepherd?”

The sound of Nurse Willoughby's voice made me jump.

“Sorry to startle you,” said the young red-haired nurse. “I was wondering if you'd do me a favor.”

“Of course,” I said.

“There was a woman here earlier today, a friend of Mr. Smith's—”

“Anne Somerville?” I put in.

“That's right. She brought something for Mr. Smith. She thought it might comfort him, but … well, it looks rather nasty to me. I was wondering if you'd take it away.”

Nurse Willoughby held out her hand and I took a quick step backward.

“Is it dead?” I said suspiciously, eyeing the object in her hand.

“It's a toy,” she corrected. She held the stuffed animal up at eye level. “A horse, I think.”

I took the battered plaything from her. The little brown horse with the black mane and tail had been loved nearly to pieces. The seam in his belly had been resewn with red thread, his hide was patched in three places, and the black yarn of his mane was hopelessly tangled. As he flopped in my hands, his legs splayed, his nose touching my palm, I felt my heart melt. It must have cost Anne Somerville dearly to leave such a cherished companion behind.

Nurse Willoughby patted his head apologetically. “We can't keep him here, I'm afraid. He's positively virulent.”

“I'll take care of him,” I assured her. I tucked the brown horse into my shoulder bag and turned once again to gaze at Kit. Did he know how many people cared about
him? I wondered. Did he know how many hearts he'd touched?

Slowly, reluctantly, I turned away and headed for home, hoping that a message from Miss Kingsley awaited me.

I stopped by Anscombe Manor on the way home, to have a word with Emma Harris. Emma knew everything there was to know about two subjects: gardening and computers. I was hoping her computer skills would help me dig up information on the names listed in the charred scroll.

I found her in the great hall, a half-timbered banquet room Derek had just finished restoring. She was hanging evergreen swags from the massive rafters when I entered the hall, but put down her hammer and descended the ladder when she saw me.

“No Peter again this Christmas,” she announced, pulling a wry face. “Derek had high hopes of seeing his peripatetic son this year, but it's the one gift I can't give him.”

“Is Peter still up the Amazon?” I asked.

“With a paddle, one hopes.” Emma beckoned to me to join her at the long trestle table in the center of the hall. The table was piled with ornaments and lights, packets of tinsel and boxes of candles. “All systems are go for the Christmas Eve party here. Let's make sure I've got it right: The festivities will kick off around noon at your place. Everyone will go from there to the schoolhouse to see the Nativity play, then come here for the rest of the evening. Is that the plan?”

“That's the plan,” I said. “And again, thanks hugely for putting up my out-of-town guests.”

“I'm glad to do it. It'll help take Derek's mind off of
Peter.” She offered her hammer to me. “Haven't come to lend a hand by any chance, have you?”

“Just the opposite,” I said sheepishly. “I've come to ask for your help yet again.” I took the scroll out of my shoulder bag, stripped away the brown paper, and carefully peeled off the outermost sheet of onionskin. “Would you check out some of the names listed here? I need to know if they belong to men who were killed while serving with Bomber Command in World War Two.”

Emma took the sheet from me and examined the tiny handwriting. “I'll get on to the Imperial War Museum,” she said. “Someone there should be able to check the records for me.” She shook her head, giving me a dubious look. “It's a strange subject to be researching at Christmastime. Where'd the list come from?”

“Come over for a cup of tea and I'll tell you all about it,” I offered. “Right now I have to get home and feed William. He's got a rehearsal tonight.”

“Give him my condolences,” Emma said, with a laugh. “Nice coat, by the way. And I covet those boots.”

I brushed aside the compliments, feeling vaguely guilty about the amount of money I'd spent on my winter wardrobe. “They're warm,” I allowed.

“They're gorgeous,” Emma retorted. She held up the scroll. “I can't guarantee speedy delivery. I've got an awful lot on my plate.”

“Most of which I piled there,” I acknowledged. “Just do the best you can and I'll be even deeper in your debt.”

It was dark by the time I reached the cottage, so it wasn't until I'd pulled into the graveled drive that I saw the parked Land Rover.

“Saint Christopher?” I said, bewildered. I shut off the engine and hurried inside, going straight to the living room without bothering to take off my coat.

Julian Bright sat in Bill's favorite armchair, with Will in the crook of his arm, chatting easily with Willis, Sr. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet.

“Hello.” His smile was tentative, as if he was unsure of his welcome.

“Hi,” I replied.

Julian shifted Will from one arm to the other. “May I speak with you?”

“Sure.” I glanced self-consciously at Willis, Sr., then jutted my chin toward the front door. “It's not too bad out. Let's take a walk.”

Julian handed Will to Willis, Sr., and followed me into the hall. He grabbed his black leather jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on as we stepped outside.

The air was crisp, the sky vibrant with stars, and the snow crunched underfoot as we walked down the flagstone path. Julian hunched his shoulders against the chilly breeze and tucked his hands deep into his jacket pockets, but when I slipped on an icy patch, he reached out quick as lightning and caught my arm. He kept hold of my arm as he stepped in front of me.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

His hand was warm and strong. My breath came raggedly, showing white against his jacket as I recalled, with alarming clarity, the compact muscles beneath the supple leather. My heart gave a disturbing flutter and I quickly averted my gaze, saying, “I'm the one who should apologize.”

“No.” Julian released my arm and stood back to survey the cottage. His brown eyes glittered in the light from
the bow windows as his gaze traveled up the mellow stone walls to the snow-covered slate roof. “It's enchanting … like something out of a fairy tale. How can you bear to leave? If it were mine, I'd close the doors behind me and never come out again.”