05 - Aunt Dimity's Christmas Read online

  “No, I…” I swallowed hard and cradled the phone with both hands. “I just wanted to touch base with you. Have you found anything out about Kit’s father?”

  “Nothing so far,” he replied. “Any luck with the names on the scroll?”

  I relayed the information Emma had gathered, along with some I’d gleaned from Luke Boswell. When I mentioned the number of fatalities Bomber Command had sustained, Julian gave a low whistle.

  “Sixty thousand dead out of one hundred twenty-five thousand,” he said. “I’d no idea that casualty rate was so high. You’re becoming quite an expert on the subject.” He paused. “I hope it’s not casting too great a pall over your holidays.”

  “I’m all right.” I wiped away a tear that had trickled, unaccountably, down my face.

  A long moment of silence passed before Julian said quietly, “What’s wrong, Lori?”

  “Nothing.” I sniffed. “My husband’s in Boston, my father-in-law’s sick, the Christmas tree’s still in the garden shed, I haven’t wrapped a single present, and Christmas is less than a week away.” I rested my elbow on the desk and leaned my forehead on my hand. “And none of it matters. All I can think about is Kit.”

  “I’ll be with you in less than an hour,” said Julian.

  “Julian, you don’t have to—” I began, but he’d already hung up. I returned the phone to the cradle and nearly jumped out of my skin when it rang. I snatched it up, saying, “Julian?”

  “No, Lori, it’s me,” said Miss Kingsley. “I have the information you requested. And I must say, it’s fascinating.”

  “Christopher Smith was an inmate at the Heathermoor Asylum for approximately six months,” Miss Kingsley began.

  I closed my eyes and whispered, “No…”

  “It doesn’t mean he belonged there,” Miss Kingsley said. “What I mean to say is, I don’t think Kit Smith was in the asylum because he was ill.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I’ll try to explain.” I heard a rustle of paper, as if Miss Kingsley were assembling her notes. “The Heathermoor Asylum was located in Skellingthorpe, just outside Lincoln.”

  “Was?” I said quickly.

  “If you’ll allow me to continue…” Miss Kingsley said, a faint note of reproof in her voice.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

  Miss Kingsley cleared her throat. “As I was saying, the Heathermoor Asylum was located in Lincolnshire. A privately run institution, it had been in existence for twenty-seven years when one Christopher Smith, aged thirty-eight, arrived on its doorstep and asked to be admitted.”

  “He volunteered to be shut up in a mental institution?” I said, incredulous.

  “He did,” said Miss Kingsley. “According to his file, he gave as his home address the Wayfarers’ Refuge in Lincoln. He claimed to be suffering from recurrent bouts of depression and requested immediate admission.”

  I tried to imagine Kit presenting himself on the doorstep of a privately run asylum. What would they have made of his ragged clothes and wild hair?

  “I can’t believe they let him in,” I said. “Didn’t they require some sort of fee?”

  “As a matter of fact, they required quite steep fees,” Miss Kingsley said grimly, “but the admitting physician, Dr. Rosalind Chalmers, took pity on Kit. Her notes are most revealing. She was, apparently, beguiled by him.”

  “Welcome to the club,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?” said Miss Kingsley.

  “Never mind,” I said hastily. “Please, continue.”

  “Kit was, according to Dr. Chalmers, a model patient,” said Miss Kingsley. “According to his records, he took his medication and stayed quietly in the background. He responded so well to his treatment that he was allowed to work as a file clerk in the main office.”

  “Is that all the treatment he received?” I asked. “Just pills?”

  “Heathermoor offered nothing but pills.” Miss Kingsley sniffed contemptuously. “Nothing but pills and bills. It was a disgrace. The final report of the investigatory commission—”

  “Whoa,” I interrupted. “Back up. What final report? What investigatory commission?”

  “One month after Kit admitted himself to Heathermoor, certain government departments began to receive telephone calls from inside the asylum,” said Miss Kingsley. “The caller reported unsanitary conditions, grossly inadequate diets, myriad cases of physical abuse, and an almost total absence of qualified staff.”

  “Any idea who made those reports?” I asked, gripping the telephone tightly.

  “An anonymous source,” said Miss Kingsley. “A male anonymous source. No one has been able to identify him.”

  He wouldn’t have left a name, I thought. It’s not his style.

  “Thanks to those reports, the Heathermoor Asylum was shut down just over a year ago,” said Miss Kingsley. “Some members of the staff were brought up on criminal charges; others were merely dismissed. The residents were relocated and the records dispersed. That’s why it took so long—”

  “Miss Kingsley,” I broke in urgently, “what happened to Kit?”

  “No one knows,” she replied. “Apparently, one of the patient-transport vans broke down on its way to an institution in Cambridgeshire. In the ensuing confusion, Kit Smith simply disappeared.”

  Only to turn up at the church at Great Gransden, I thought, where he focused his attention on the problem of saving Blackthorne Farm.

  “The authorities had their hands full, coping with the Heathermoor scandal,” Miss Kingsley continued. “Since Kit wasn’t considered dangerous to the population at large, he was never seriously pursued. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t been admitted to any other institution since he released himself from Heathermoor.”

  I felt my throat constrict. I was absolutely certain that Kit had blown the whistle on the Heathermoor Asylum.

  Miss Kingsley agreed. “The timing of Kit Smith’s arrival and departure, and the fact that he had access to a telephone while working in the office, leads me to suspect strongly that he was the anonymous caller.” She paused. “I should very much like to meet Mr. Smith. Have you any idea what became of him?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s kind of complicated.”

  “Perhaps you could fill me in on Friday,” Miss Kingsley suggested. “Now I have yet another reason to look forward to your party.”

  I moaned softly. The Christmas Eve bash had slipped my mind along with everything else. “Do you have the phone number of the Wayfarers’ Refuge in Lincoln?” I asked, and scribbled down the information as Miss Kingsley passed it along.

  “Will Bill be at the party?” asked Miss Kingsley.

  I stiffened. “He says he will. Why? What have you heard?”

  “Rumor has it that the Collier estate is a frightful tangle,” replied Miss Kingsley, “and I know how tenacious your husband can be when he’s dealing with complicated wills. That being said,” she concluded hastily, “I’m certain he’ll be home in time for the party. He wouldn’t dream of missing his sons’ first Christmas.”

  I thanked Miss Kingsley for her help and hung up the phone, perturbed. I hadn’t seriously considered the possibility of Bill spending Christmas in Boston, but if the Collier estate was a mess, he might very well feel compelled to stay on until he’d sorted it out. The Willis work ethic was as Puritan as Plymouth Rock.

  I should have exploded. The mere idea of Bill missing Christmas at the cottage should have infuriated me, but instead a smile came, unbidden, to my lips. Who was I to criticize my husband? He, at least, was helping a cherished friend’s widow, whereas I’d put Christmas on hold for the sake of a total stranger.

  Yet Kit was no longer a stranger. In the past week he’d become as dear to me as Willis, Sr., and the more I learned about him, the dearer he became. I would have defended and protected him no matter what Miss Kingsley had discovered.

  I thought of Kit’s face, haloed by golden light, as if he’d brought his own radiance to
the dimly lit cubicle, and knew that I was no longer content to find out why his path had intersected with mine. I wanted to know what had set him on his journey in the first place.

  I stared down at the phone number Miss Kingsley had given me. I would call the Wayfarers’ Refuge in Lincoln. I’d find someone who could tell me what Kit Smith had done before he’d set out for Skellingthorpe and the Heathermoor Asylum. If I went back far enough, I’d find Kit’s starting point. There, perhaps, I would discover what had inspired his strange pilgrimage.

  The phone was in my hand when I heard a knock at the study door and the sound of Willis, Sr.’s voice telling me that a visitor awaited me in the living room.

  14

  I flew down the hallway, hoping for a moment alone with Julian before Willis, Sr., joined us. I was embarrassed by the teary phone call that had summoned the priest to the cottage, and I didn’t want him to mention it in front of my father-in-law.

  As I came into the living room, Julian stepped toward me, his eyes clouded with anxiety.

  “Lori,” he said, “are you all right?”

  “Please,” I whispered urgently, “don’t—” I stopped short as Willis, Sr., entered the room.

  Julian’s furrowed brow smoothed instantly. “I didn’t want to run up the bill on your cell phone, Lori,” he improvised, “so I dropped by to find out if you’d heard from Miss Kingsley yet.”

  I thanked him silently, then gave him a radiant smile. “She just called.”

  “Judging by the expression on your face, she must have been the bearer of glad tidings,” Willis, Sr., observed.

  “The gladdest,” I said. “But it’s a long story, and Julian looks as though he could do with a cup of tea—”

  “Not burdock root, I trust,” interrupted Willis, Sr., his patrician nose wrinkling in distaste.

  “Earl Grey?” I offered.

  “Splendid.” Willis, Sr., cocked an ear toward the baby monitor. The twins were moving about in their cribs, which meant that naptime was over. “Father Bright,” said Willis, Sr., turning to the priest, “would you care to help me with my grandsons?”

  Julian’s eyes met mine, then turned toward Willis, Sr. “I’d be delighted.”

  While the men went up to the nursery, I set up the twins’ playpen in the kitchen and pulled out a pair of breadsticks for them to gum, then put the kettle on and piled angel cookies on a plate.

  The boys preferred playing to eating after naptime, and Willis, Sr., would be content to sip tea and nibble a cookie, but I suspected that Julian would welcome a change of pace from Saint Benedict’s “simple, nourishing meals.” With that thought in mind, I made up a selection of finger sandwiches, warmed the chicken soup, and put out a loaf of crusty homemade bread and a pot of sweet butter.

  Since the dining room was chockablock with unused Christmas decorations, I set the kitchen table, and when everything was ready, called the men into the kitchen. Rob accepted confinement in the playpen with his usual placidity, but Will, fascinated by Julian’s goatee, required an extra five minutes in the priest’s arms before he would consent to his imprisonment.

  A look of rapture came to Julian’s face when he caught the soup’s rich aroma, so I filled a bowl for him and pushed the finger sandwiches his way. I had the satisfaction of watching him go through three bowls of soup, two-thirds of the sandwiches, and half the loaf of bread while I told the tale of Kit Smith’s stay at the now defunct Heathermoor Asylum.

  “After he closed down Heathermoor,” I concluded, “he turned up in Great Gransden, where he saved Blackthorne Farm. Then it was on to Oxford—”

  “—where he saved my life.” Julian shook his head, bemused. “I’ve heard it said that angels walk among us. Perhaps one lies in the Radcliffe Infirmary.”

  “Skellingthorpe,” Willis, Sr., said thoughtfully. “Did you say that the Heathermoor Asylum was located at Skellingthorpe? In Lincolnshire?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “Skellingthorpe’s a sort of suburb of Lincoln now. Apparently, Kit stayed at the Wayfarers’ Refuge in Lincoln before he checked himself into the asylum. Why? Does Skellingthorpe mean something to you?”

  “Possibly. But I must first check my facts.” Willis, Sr., excused himself and left the kitchen.

  Julian reached for an angel cookie. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, “that these confections of yours are heavenly. You could make a fortune if you ever decided to sell them.”

  I blushed with pleasure, but gave credit where credit was due. “My father invented the recipe.”

  Julian finished the cookie in two bites, then brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “Will you be seeing your parents over Christmas?”

  “No.” I got up to clear the table, dreading the awkward pause that always followed my next words. “They’re both dead. My mom died a few years ago and my father died when I was very young.”

  “And you’re carrying on the family tradition.” Julian brought his soup bowl to me at the sink. “I must say that it’s a delicious one.”

  I glanced up at him gratefully. The subject of death was, more often than not, a guaranteed conversation-stopper, but Julian had defused the awkward moment with grace and a touch of humor. On top of that, he hadn’t scolded me for dragging him out to the cottage for no apparent reason. Perhaps, I thought, Kit wasn’t the only angel walking among us.

  I started to take the soup bowl from him, but Julian kept hold of it.

  “Lori,” he said, “what’s troubling you?”

  “Nothing,” I assured him. “I’m fine.”

  Julian eyed me doubtfully. “You didn’t sound fine when you rang me.”

  I ducked my head. “Sorry about that. I guess I was just anxious to hear from Miss Kingsley.”

  “Is that all?” Julian asked.

  “What else would it be?” I pulled the soup bowl from him and put it in the sink, then stood staring down at the soapy water. How could I tell Julian what was troubling me when I wasn’t sure myself?

  “Lori,” Julian began, but he fell silent at the sound of Willis, Sr.’s voice.

  “I thought so,” called Willis, Sr. “I knew Skellingthorpe sounded familiar.” He entered the kitchen brandishing the book I’d borrowed from Luke Boswell.

  “Is that what you’ve been reading?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel.

  “I found it on your bedside table,” Willis, Sr., informed me. “It is a general history of Bomber Command,” he explained to Julian. “I believe it contains information pertinent to our discussion of Mr. Smith.”

  Julian and I stood over Willis, Sr., as he opened the book to a map labeled Bomber Command: Group Headquarters and Main Airfields, February 1944. The black dots denoting bomber bases stretched all the way from Durham in the north to Hertfordshire in the south. There was even a base at Lossiemouth, on the northeast coast of Scotland.

  “You see?” said Willis, Sr., pointing to the map. “There was a bomber base at Skellingthorpe, one of a cluster of bases located in Lincolnshire.” He tapped the page with the tip of his index finger. “If Mr. Smith were planning to tour airfields in Lincolnshire, he would do well to select Lincoln as a jumping-off point.”

  Julian nodded. “Just as he chose Blackthorne Farm as a jumping-off point for the Cambridgeshire airfields. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Willis, Sr., leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers over his pin-striped waistcoat. “I am merely suggesting that the scope of your search may be too narrow. Thanks to Mrs. Somerville and Miss Kingsley, we can now trace Mr. Smith’s movements to two parts of the country that contain large numbers of abandoned airfields—Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire. If he was, as you posit, praying for the men listed on the scroll, I would suggest that he had as his goal the entire network of bomber bases.”

  “But the scroll contains thousands of names.” I gestured toward the map. “And there must be over a hundred bomber bases.”

  “Those are simply the main airfields,” Willis, Sr., reminded
me. “The map does not account for subsidiary fields.”

  “But if Kit traveled to each one of them…” I sat abruptly, feeling slightly dazed. “He must have been on the road for years.”

  “It would explain his physical deterioration,” said Willis, Sr.

  “I agree,” said Julian. “An itinerant life tends to age one prematurely.”

  “But why?” I demanded. “Why did he live an itinerant life? Anne Somerville said that he was well educated. Why didn’t he get a job and buy a car and drive from base to base? Why did he make it so hard on himself?”

  “One may as well ask why he risked his life to come to the cottage,” said Willis, Sr. “The answers, I fear, are not self-evident. Perhaps, when Mr. Smith emerges from his coma, he will provide them.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “I’m going to call the refuge in Lincoln right now. Or maybe we should just drive up there, Julian. It’s not that far, is it? And it’d be worth the trip if someone at the refuge knows—” I flinched as Willis, Sr., snapped the book shut with a bang.

  “Lori.” Willis, Sr., stood and faced me. “Your curiosity about Mr. Smith is understandable, but you cannot go to Lincoln.”

  I stared at him, puzzled. “Why not?”

  Willis, Sr., spoke patiently, as if to a small child. “Today is December twentieth. Four days from now, thirty guests will be descending on the cottage, expecting to find festive food as well as festive decor. Unless you are content to serve them rewarmed chicken soup and welcome them to a Christmas party without a Christmas tree, I do not think you will have time to travel to Lincoln.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Your father-in-law’s quite right, Lori,” Julian chimed in. “I’ll ring the Wayfarers’ Refuge. If need be, I’ll drive to Lincoln. But you must stay here, where you’re needed. Mr. Willis,” he added, taking up the book on Bomber Command, “would you mind if I borrowed this?”