Aunt Dimity's Christmas ad-5 Read online

  I, too, fixed my eyes on the road, disturbed by his sudden stillness. I’d evidently touched on a sensitive subject, and I wasn’t sure what to say next. “It must be fascinating,” I ventured, “to run a place like Saint Benedict’s.”

  “It’s a treat, compared to Mombasa.” Julian cleared his throat and gave me a shy smile, as if to apologize for his brief withdrawal. “For one thing, the water’s a good deal easier on my digestive system.”

  “Is it true, what Nurse Willoughby said, about you becoming a bishop?”

  “Nurse Willoughby was, as usual, overstating the case.” He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and settled back in the driver’s seat. “I was a bishop’s secretary until I began to question the dispersal of certain church funds. The bishop decided that since I was so fond of the poor, I should be sent to work among them. Hence, my posting to Saint Benedict’s.”

  “So Saint Benedict’s is a punishment,” I said.

  “A gift,” Julian countered. “I’m not cut out for administrative work.”

  Or hypocrisy, I thought. I closed the atlas and tucked it into the map pocket on the door, then wiped a hand across my damp forehead. The heat had become so oppressive that I was tempted to strip down to the silk camisole I wore beneath my velvet tunic, but settled for unbuttoning my cashmere coat.

  “Did Smitty really save your life?” I asked.

  “It’s how he introduced himself to me.” Julian flipped the visor down to reduce the glare and made a slight adjustment to the rearview mirror. “A month ago, a fight erupted in the dining room at Saint Benedict’s. When I tried to break it up, a chap called Bootface seized a knife and threatened to carve me up like an underdone steak.”

  “Jesus!” I exclaimed, and immediately regretted my choice of words.

  Julian’s eyes lit with amusement. “I, too, did some fast praying. As it happens, my prayers were answered.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Smitty walked in,” Julian told me. “He’d only just arrived. He dropped his gear on the floor, took a look round, and began straightening the chairs and tables that had been knocked over during the brawl, as if to draw Bootface’s attention away from me.”

  “What did Bootface do?”

  “He went mad,” said Julian. “He charged at Smitty like an enraged bear.” The priest looked over at me. “I’ll wager you can’t guess what Smitty did.”

  “Did he run for his life?” I said.

  “He smiled.” The priest shook his head bemusedly. “That’s all. Just smiled. Bootface was so taken aback that he dropped the knife. Two of the men got hold of him and kept him still until the police came to take him away. We don’t take death threats lightly at Saint Benedict’s.”

  “Let me get this straight.” I folded my leg beneath me and turned sideways on the seat. “A knife-wielding maniac came charging at Smitty, and all Smitty did was smile?”

  “I asked him about it after the police had gone,” Julian said. “He told me he’d simply done the first thing that came to mind. I found his response quite disturbing.”

  “I thought you were supposed to advocate turning the other cheek,” I said.

  “There’s a vast difference between turning one’s cheek and sticking one’s neck out.” Julian pursed his lips. “I’m grateful that he saved my life, but I’d rather he hadn’t risked his own in the process.” Julian fell silent as he negotiated a roundabout, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its customary carefree lilt. “I feel the same way about his needless abstinence, though I may be partially to blame for it.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked.

  “Smitty came into the office one night and found me worrying over our accounts,” said Julian. “He asked what was wrong and I’m afraid I told him more than I should have. It’s possible that he skimped on meals in order to save Saint Benedict’s money.”

  “Is Saint Benedict’s in financial trouble?” I asked.

  “No more than usual.” Julian straightened his shoulders and mustered a smile. “Did I mention how grateful I am to you for coming with me to Blackthorne Farm?”

  I recognized an evasion when I heard one, but by then I was too hot to care. I swung forward in my seat. “I think I’m melting, Julian. Could we have a little less heat, please?”

  “Ah, yes, about the heat…” Julian went on to explain, somewhat sheepishly, that since Saint Christopher’s heating system possessed no sense of subtlety, our choices were limited to freezing or broiling.

  I didn’t relish the thought of freezing, so I took off my coat and tossed it into the backseat, next to a beat-up khaki-colored canvas carryall.

  “What’s in the bag?” I asked. “Emergency rations?”

  “Your lack of faith in my trusty vehicle is beginning to distress me, Ms. Shepherd,” said Julian. “Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers. He won’t let us down.”

  “He’s been demoted, hasn’t he?” Julian gave me a withering glance and I added hastily, “Sorry. No more cracks about Saint Christopher, I promise. And please, call me Lori.”

  “Thank you, Lori.” Mollified, Julian returned his attention to the road ahead. “The bag is Smitty’s. I brought it along to prove our bona fides to Anne Preston.”

  I regarded the bag with fresh interest. It was creased and faded, as though it had traveled a long way. “Shouldn’t you turn it over to the police?”

  “The police are far too busy to take an interest in men like Smitty,” Julian stated firmly. “If I give it to them, they’ll tuck it away in an evidence room and it will never again see the light of day.”

  “Have you looked through it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Julian. “I thought it might contain a vital piece of information about Smitty—where he comes from, his proper name, that sort of thing—but I found nothing of the sort.” He glanced at me hopefully. “Would you care to have a look? You may see something I missed.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t like the thought of rifling through Smitty’s belongings without his permission.

  Julian seemed to read my mind. “As long as Smitty can’t speak for himself,” he said quietly, “his possessions must speak for him.”

  I reached for the bag. As I pulled the canvas carryall into my lap, I had the same sensation I’d had when Bill and I had carried Smitty into the cottage. The bag was far too light. It didn’t seem big enough to hold everything a man owned.

  The main compartment held practical items: spare socks and underclothing, a tin mug, a soup spoon, a pocketknife, and a white towel in a plastic bag. A side pocket held nothing but a dog-eared prayer book and a loop of braided straw. There was no address book, no scrawled name on a scrap of paper, not even a set of initials penciled on the prayer book’s flyleaf. The carryall’s contents seemed as anonymous as their owner.

  I took up the loop of braided straw. It was exquisite, pale gold and intricately woven in coils and curlicues, with the faint scent of autumn still clinging to its intertwining strands.

  “A corn dolly,” I said. “That’s what it’s called in the States, anyway. I think it has something to do with—” I fell silent as an interesting thought occurred to me.

  “In this country,” Julian informed me, “it’s regarded as a fertility symbol. Or a love token.”

  “It’s the same at home.” I held the loop up to catch the sunlight. What was a love token doing among Smitty’s scant possessions? Had Anne Preston presented her hired hand with a symbol of something more than simple friendship? “I wonder why Smitty left Blackthorne Farm,” I said. “Do you think he and Anne Preston were, uh—”

  “Involved?” Julian said, with exaggerated emphasis. “We’ll soon find out.” He flashed a grin and pressed down on the accelerator.

  The Cotswolds’ gently rolling hills gradually gave way to the Midlands’ broad, flat plains. Snow-covered fields stretched out to the horizon, sliced into vast, irregular tiles by windbreaks and hedges. The broad vistas were broken by an occasional cops
e of trees—survivors of the dense forests that had once blanketed the region—and thin trails of blue smoke rising from the chimneys of distant farmhouses. I noted a line of dark clouds building in the west but, remembering my promise to Julian, kept my fears about the weather to myself.

  We were traveling the side roads now, and Saint Christopher was performing admirably, churning through windblown drifts without a skid or a hint of hesitation. Julian paused briefly in a lay-by, to compare a scribbled set of directions to the road map in the atlas, then drove on.

  “We’re nearly there,” he said.

  Famous last words, I thought, but ten minutes later we were cruising up a snow-packed drive lined with majestic blackthorn hedges.

  Blackthorne Farm was a curious amalgam of the romantic and the utilitarian. The farmhouse was a charming Tudor jumble of tiled roofs, half-timbered walls, and mullioned windows, and the stables looked very much as they would have looked three hundred years before. The barn, on the other hand, was sheathed in corrugated iron and linked to two huge metal silos, and the machine shed was nothing more than an enormous fiberglass box.

  There was a pleasing air of prosperity about the place. The outbuildings were well tended, the fences in good repair, and the stable yard was immaculate. Anne Preston, it seemed, had a knack for farming.

  No sooner had Julian switched off the engine than the front door opened and a pair of frisky black-and-white border collies trotted out, followed by a fair-haired young man.

  “Branwell! Charlotte!” he called, and the dogs came to heel at his side.

  “Branwell?” I muttered. “Charlotte? I thought Bronte country was further north.”

  “Bronte country is a state of mind,” Julian said sternly. “Now behave yourself. We’re here on serious business.” He took the canvas carryall from me and we both got out of the car. The stable yard’s earthy scent wafted through the crisp, cold air and I heard a horse’s whinny as we approached the house.

  “Can I help you?” the young man inquired. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, tall and sturdily built, with a bull neck and broad shoulders beneath a bulky fisherman’s sweater.

  “We were hoping to speak with Anne Preston,” said Julian, stopping a few feet from the doorstep. “I understand she lives here.”

  The young man smiled. “She’s Anne Somerville now,” he informed us proudly. “I’m Charles Somerville. We were married three weeks ago.”

  “Congratulations,” Julian said heartily. “Is Mrs. Somerville in?”

  It was clear that the novelty of hearing the words Mrs. Somerville had not yet worn off. Charles flushed with pleasure as he turned to shout over his shoulder, “Anne! Anne, you have visitors!”

  A moment later, a petite, dark-haired woman came to the door. Her raven hair hung thick and straight to her jawline, framing a creamy complexion and a pair of arresting green eyes. She was stylishly dressed in well-cut twill trousers, square-toed leather boots, and a charcoal-gray cowl-neck sweater made of the softest angora.

  “Mrs. Somerville?” Julian asked.

  “Yes,” said the woman, in a pleasantly husky voice. “I’m Anne Somerville. Have you come about the rape?”

  Julian blanched. “P-pardon?”

  “The rapeseed,” said Anne Somerville. “I’m expecting a delivery of—” She broke off abruptly and gave a small gasp as she caught sight of the canvas carryall. “Kit…” she whispered, and without further warning fell, fainting, into her new husband’s strong arms.

  7

  Charles Somerville placed his wife gently on a low settee in the farmhouse’s front parlor. A wood fire crackled in the hearth, casting a flickering light on the oak-paneled walls and the jewel-hued Persian rugs layered over the carpeted floor.

  The sharp tang of pine mingled with the mellow scent of wood smoke. A cut-glass decanter rested on a bed of evergreen boughs atop a Jacobean sideboard, and a Christmas tree stood between the two mullioned windows, bright with glittering ornaments, a host of tiny white lights, and a quivering waterfall of tinsel.

  Branwell and Charlotte lay side by side on the hearth rug, their ears cocked forward, their eyes on their mistress’ face. Julian and I sat in a pair of velvet armchairs separated by a low walnut table, looking on helplessly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Julian murmured, wringing his hands. “I’d no idea she’d react so strongly.”

  “Why shouldn’t she?” Charles caressed his wife’s forehead. “Kit saved her life.”

  “I’m not even sure we’re speaking of the same man.” Julian motioned toward the canvas carryall at his feet. “The bag belongs to a man who calls himself Smitty.”

  “His name’s Kit Smith. He worked here for a time.” Charles looked over his shoulder at Julian. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” said Julian.

  “Do you hear, darling?” Charles turned back to his wife. “Kit’s all right.”

  Anne’s eyelids fluttered. “Kit?” she said weakly.

  “Kit’s fine,” said her husband.

  Anne inhaled deeply and raised a hand to her temple. With her husband’s help, she swung her legs over the side of the settee and pulled herself into a sitting position.

  “Brandy,” said Charles, and went to the sideboard to fill a glass from the gleaming decanter.

  Anne pushed her dark hair back from her pale face and looked directly at Julian Bright. “Kit’s not fine, is he,” she said flatly.

  Julian shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s extremely ill.”

  “I knew it,” said Anne. “When he didn’t come to the wedding—”

  “Here, darling, drink this.” Charles sat beside his wife and put the glass of brandy in her hands.

  She sipped the amber liquid, paused to catch her breath, then said, without preamble, “Tell me what happened to Kit.”

  A tumult of emotions played across her face as Julian and I told our separate stories. Her green eyes blazed with anger, widened in alarm, and finally filled with tears, which she dashed away impatiently with the back of her hand. When we’d finished, she sat quite still, staring into the fire. Then she turned to me.

  “Thank you for helping Kit,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know why he came to your cottage. He never mentioned Dimity Westwood while he was at Blackthorne Farm.”

  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—”