Aunt Dimity's Christmas (8 page)

Julian took the suede pouch from his pocket and spilled the glittering medals onto the walnut table. “Did he ever speak of these? He had them with him when he went to Lori's cottage.”

Anne's grip on the brandy glass tightened. “I've never seen them before. But I'm not surprised to hear that he had them with him. Another symptom of his illness.”

“His illness?” I said.

“Illness, mania, obsession …” Anne shrugged. “I'm not familiar with the technical term.”

“Can you describe the rest of his symptoms?” asked Julian.

“I can do better than that.” Anne looked at her husband, who rose from the settee and left the room. A moment later he returned, a small white card in his hand.

“We found this in his room the day after he left,” Charles said. “It must have fallen from his bag when he was packing. Something else he never mentioned.”

He placed the laminated card atop the scattered medals. Kit Smith's eyes, obscured by long hair, peered up at me from a photo ID issued by the Heathermoor Asylum for the Mentally Disturbed.

It was as if he'd thrown a snake into my lap. I recoiled and shook my head vehemently. “It's a fake,” I declared. “Or … or maybe he worked there.”

Anne Somerville's laugh held no trace of humor. “What reputable institution would hire someone like Kit?”

“You hired him, didn't you?” I snapped.

“Yes, but that was … different.” Anne turned toward her husband. “Charles,” she said brightly, “I believe we could all do with a cup of tea, and perhaps some sandwiches. Would you please see what Mrs. Monroe's left
us? The housekeeper,” she added, for our benefit. “She's spending the holidays with her grandchildren.”

When Charles had gone, Anne placed her empty glass on the sideboard and came to stand before me.

“You don't want to believe that Kit's insane,” she said. “I know just how you feel. I didn't want to believe it either.” She pointed to the laminated ID card. “But we must face facts.”

“What facts?” I scooped up the medals and slid them back into the suede pouch, aware that I was overreacting, but unable to stop myself. “You don't know why Kit carried that card. Haven't you ever heard of fake IDs? Maybe it's some sort of sick joke.”

Anne tilted her head to one side. “So he's gotten to you, too,” she murmured.

I looked away, disconcerted. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't you?” Anne's mouth curved upward in a strange, sad smile. “Then let me tell you about Kit. For your sake, as well as his.”

“Go ahead,” I said gruffly, but I knew even as I spoke that nothing she said would convince me that the man I'd seen in the Radcliffe was crazy.

“In order to tell you about Kit,” Anne began, “I must tell you a bit about myself.” She paced slowly toward the fire, then turned to face Julian and me. “My first husband died of a stroke five years ago. He was thirty-two, and I was six months pregnant with our first child. I went into premature labor and lost the baby.” She knelt on the hearth rug and put an arm around Branwell. “It was a terrible time.”

“I'm sorry,” said Julian, somehow managing to make the clichéd phrase sound sincere.

“Blackthorne Farm was my late husband's dream, not
mine,” Anne continued. “I'd no idea how to manage it, but I refused to give it up. It was all I had left of him.”

Julian nodded sympathetically.

“As you can imagine, the place soon began to go to pieces,” said Anne. “I was on the verge of selling out when I found Kit.”

“Found him?” I said.

“He was in the church at Great Gransden, standing before the memorial window.” Anne gave Branwell's chin a rub and sat back on her heels. “At first I thought he was an old airman—”

“Why would you think that?” I interrupted.

“The window's dedicated to the bomber crews who flew from the airbase at Gransden Lodge during the war.” She closed her eyes, spread her hands upon her thighs, and recited from memory, “‘The people of these villages cared for the airmen who flew from R.A.F. Gransden Lodge. They watched for them and prayed for them.”' Anne's eyes opened and she smiled briefly. “My father made me learn the inscription by heart. He flew as a navigator during the war.”

“What was Kit doing in the church?” I asked.

“He said he'd gone inside to escape the rain,” Anne replied. “His voice is … magical. I kept him talking just to hear it. When he said he was looking for work and a place to stay, I offered him my spare room and a job.” A faint blush stained Anne's creamy complexion, but she continued in a level voice. “He was terribly kind, you see, and I was vulnerable.”

“How long ago was this?” I asked, a merciless inquisitor.

“Kit moved into the farmhouse just over year ago,” Anne answered. “I paid him next to nothing, yet in one short year he turned the place around—and taught me
how to manage it. He said he'd learned about farming from his late father, who'd owned a vast estate.”

“Did you believe him?” Julian asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Anne. “It was clear to me from the start that Kit wasn't just another itinerant farm laborer. It worried me, in fact.”

“Why?” asked Julian.

Anne lifted her hands into the air, then let them fall. “Kit dressed in rags. He carried everything he owned in one small bag. He ate like a sparrow and worked like a dog, but it was all a charade. Any fool could tell he'd been born to money. You had only to hear him speak to know he was too well educated, too cultivated to settle for a life of ill-paid drudgery….

“But that's not the only thing that worried me.” She got to her feet and returned to the settee. “Kit had one day free every week. On his free days he rose at dawn and drove off in the farm lorry. He never said where he was going and never mentioned his trips once he returned.”

“It must have driven you crazy,” I put in, wincing slightly at my choice of words.

“It piqued my curiosity,” Anne admitted. “So much so that one day, I stowed away in the back of the lorry.” Anne blushed and looked down at the floor, as though embarrassed by the memory of her actions.

“Where did he go?” Julian asked.

Anne raised her eyes. “He drove to an abandoned bomber base, a remnant of the war. Cambridgeshire is littered with them, but until then I'd only seen them from a distance.” She ran her tongue over her lips, as though her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “I didn't much like the one we went to.”

I leaned toward her, fascinated. “What did Kit do when he got there?”

Anne favored me with a level gaze. “He stood at one end of the runway. In the pouring rain. Without moving. For eight hours.”

A chill touched my spine and I looked toward the fire, trying to envision the scene as Anne Somerville had described it. I could imagine Kit's long-legged stride as he wound his way between clusters of crumbling bunkers and long-abandoned huts. If I closed my eyes I could see him standing on a cracked and weed-choked runway, his great-coat billowing in the cold wind, his long hair streaming with rain.

“He did the same thing the following week, and the week after that,” Anne went on, hammering her point home. “When I finally told him that I'd followed him, and asked what he was doing, do you know what he said?” Tears trembled like ice crystals on the tips of her lashes. “He said, ‘I'm keeping watch for the airmen.”'

I looked past Anne Somerville, past the shining Christmas tree, to the farmyard beyond the mullioned windows. The dark clouds I'd seen on the horizon were moving over Blackthorne Farm, and the brilliant sunshine that had followed us all day was growing weaker. In a few more hours dusk would settle over the broad, flat fields, and perhaps another blizzard would close in, but I was no longer afraid for my own safety. I was too filled with fear for Kit.

A tear spilled down Anne's cheek. “Kit's mad,” she said. “He's obsessed with war or death or …” She paused. “It's probably what drew him to me. He must have sensed that death and I had become old friends.”

Julian crossed to Anne's side. “Mrs. Somerville, if this is
too difficult for you, you needn't go on. I think you've told us enough.”

“Let her finish.” Charles stood in the doorway, gazing at his wife. “Tell them the rest, Anne.”

Anne wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders, seeming to draw strength from her husband's presence. “When Kit told me about the airmen, I knew for certain that he was ill, but by then I didn't care. I'd have done anything to protect him.”

“Because you were in love with him?” Julian said gently.

“Me? In love with Kit?” Anne gave an astonished laugh. “I think not. It would've been like falling in love with a monk. Besides,” she added, gazing fondly at her husband, “I was too busy falling in love with the manager Kit had taken on.”

Charles returned his wife's fond gaze. “Anne thought her heart was dead and buried, but Kit brought it back to life. He made her care about someone other than herself, you see. By the time I showed up, she was ready to fall in love.”

Anne's smile dimmed. “Kit saved me as well as my farm. I've thought of him every day since he left. He's a good, kind man, but he simply can't be trusted to look after himself. He needs supervision.”

“I agree,” said Julian. “That's why Lori and I came to Blackthorne Farm. We were hoping …”

I listened with a growing sense of outrage as Julian, Anne, and Charles discussed plans for Kit Smith's future. They didn't talk about providing for his needs until his health was fully restored, but about taking him into a kind of protective custody. If they had their way, Kit would spend the rest of his days confined at Blackthorne Farm, under a comfortable, caring form of house arrest. The
idea made my skin crawl, but the worst part was that Kit had no voice in the proceedings. What if he didn't want to return to the farm? Would the invitation become an ultimatum?

The military medals bit into my palm as I clutched the soft suede pouch. Kit peered up at me from the Heathermoor Asylum ID, and I gazed back at him, bewildered by the intensity of my emotions. Kit had smiled at a knife-wielding lunatic; he'd starved himself; he'd stood on abandoned runways, keeping watch for long-dead airmen. There was no reason to believe that he was sane.

Yet I knew as surely as I knew my sons' names that the soul I'd glimpsed behind those violet eyes wasn't that of a madman.

When Charles brought in the sandwiches, Julian ate heartily, but I scarcely managed a crust. I could sense Anne's gaze on me throughout the meal, and when Julian and I were getting ready to leave, she took me aside.

“I do know what you're feeling,” she said, “but you mustn't let yourself be beguiled by Kit. He's a sick man. He needs special care.”

“Why don't you call the Heathermoor Asylum?” I muttered. “I'm sure they'll be happy to have him back.”

Anne's green eyes blazed. “If you think I could do such a thing, then you haven't heard a word I've said.” She turned to go, but I caught her by the arm.

“I—I'm sorry, Anne,” I faltered. “I shouldn't have spoken so harshly. You've been … more than kind.”

The anger drained from her face, to be replaced by something resembling pity. “He'll break your heart,” she said, too softly for the others to hear. “The same way he broke mine.”

S
nowflakes danced in the headlights as Saint Christopher carried us back to Oxford. It was scarcely three o'clock, but the sun was already low on the horizon. Pinpricks of light dotted the plains as lamps were lit in isolated farmsteads, then winked out, one by one, as a swirling cape of snow swept across the open plains.

I put the suede pouch in Kit's carryall and kept the battered bag on my lap. As dusk closed in around us, I thought of him lying in the Radcliffe, haloed by golden light, dreaming of a war that had been over for half a century.

“Charles and Anne are a lovely couple,” Julian said brightly.

I made no comment.

“The Somervilles are going to visit Kit tomorrow,” Julian continued. “I'll have to remember to tell Dr. Pritchard to expect them.”

“Good idea,” I said, gazing down at the canvas bag.

A few miles passed before Julian observed, “You're awfully quiet, Lori.”

“Am I?” I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I don't have much to say.”

Julian sighed. “It's not easy to accept, I know, but it explains a lot, don't you think?”

“No,” I said bluntly.

“Then tell me how he ended up at Saint Benedict's,” Julian challenged. “How did the son of a prosperous landowner come to live among drunks and drug addicts? Why did he smile when Bootface tried to kill him? Why did he choose to go hungry in the midst of plenty?”

I toyed with the tab on the carryall's zipper while I gave Julian's questions careful consideration. “As a priest,” I said finally, “you should know better than most people that there's another way to look at Kit's behavior.”