Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Why do you sound so relieved?” I asked.

“Because you know the drill,” Julian replied. “I won’t have to spend half the journey answering silly questions.”

“Such as?”

Julian raised a finger in the air. “Why do I worship statues? Is there a secret tunnel between the convent and the rectory? If the Pope ordered me to kill a child—”

“Do people really say things like that to you?” I broke in, incredulous.

“They do,” said Julian, nodding to emphasize his words. “And when it comes to the subject of celibacy—”

“I can imagine,” I said quickly. I was beginning to see what a Catholic priest in a Protestant country was up against. “Is that why you don’t wear your clerical collar? To avoid… unnecessary confrontations?”

A shadow crossed Julian’s face. His hand drifted briefly to the collar of his black turtleneck, then came to rest once more on the steering wheel. “Not exactly,” he said, his eyes never leaving the road.

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.