Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Miss Kingsley!” I gasped.

“Working in a hotel at Christmastime would be enough to drive a saint to cynicism,” Miss Kingsley stated firmly “Please tell me that your Christmas Eve party’s still on. It’s the only thing left to look forward to.”

“It’s on,” I assured her, “and I’ll expect you to be there, with bells on.”

“No,” she said, her voice shuddering. “No bells…”

When I finished speaking with Miss Kingsley, I picked up Kit Smith’s carryall and brought it with me to the living room. I wanted to give Kit’s meager belongings a second look while keeping an eye on the boys.

I should have known better. Before I got a chance to look at anything, Will grabbed the tin mug, Rob made off with the soup spoon, and Reginald, my pink flannel rabbit, fell across the prayer book’s open pages. Willis, Sr., rescued Reginald and the prayer book, then settled back in his chair to watch while I retrieved the spoon from Rob and wrested the mug from Will’s grasp.

After propitiating my angels with a pair of plush elephants, I replaced everything I’d removed from the canvas bag, zipped it shut, and left it on the coffee table, vowing to wait until naptime before I made another attempt to examine its contents.

“Hmmm,” said Willis, Sr. The prayer book lay open on his lap and Reg perched on the back of his chair, looking for all the world as if he were reading the book over Willis, Sr.’s shoulder. “Interesting.”

“What?” I got up from the floor and went to Willis, Sr.’s side. “What’s interesting?”

Willis, Sr., pointed to the top of the lefthand page. “The corner has been folded down. It may mean nothing, of course, but then again…”

I sat on the arm of his chair. “What’s on the page?”

“Prayers for the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels,” said Willis, Sr., scanning the text. After a moment, he began reading aloud. “‘There was a war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon…. And the great dragon was cast out…. Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them.’” He fell silent, then began leafing through the book. He stopped when he came to a section titled The Burial of the Dead.

The top corner of every page in the section had been folded down.

“‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,’” Willis, Sr., intoned, “‘and is full of misery…. In the midst of life we are in death….’” When he turned the page, I saw that a passage had been added in tiny handwriting between two of the prayers.

“What does it say?” I asked.

Willis, Sr., bent low over the book to read the handwritten passage. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’”

“‘I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.’” I’d learned Psalm 23 for a drama class in high school, and it had stayed with me ever since. “Are any other corners folded down?”

Willis, Sr., closed the prayer book, then began at the beginning, inspecting each page for folded corners or minuscule handwriting, but discovered nothing more.

I took the prayer book from him and returned to the coffee table, where I gazed down at the canvas bag.

“‘There was a war in heaven…’” I began.

“‘… and the great dragon was cast out,’” Willis, Sr., finished.

“Prayer book… praying,” I murmured. I had a sudden, vivid vision of Kit standing before the memorial window in the church where Anne Somerville had found him. The window’s words came back to me as easily as those of the Twenty-third Psalm: “‘The people of these villages cared for the airmen…. They watched for them;’”—I thumped the prayer book with my fist— “‘and prayed for them!’” I swung around to face Willis, Sr. “That’s what Kit was doing at the airfield. He was praying for the souls of the airmen who never returned from their war with the dragon.”

“Lori,” Willis, Sr., said patiently, “you are theorizing in advance of the facts. We do not know if Mr. Smith marked those pages or added Psalm Twenty-three to the burial service.”

I’d already picked up the telephone. “I have to call Julian,” I told Willis, Sr. “I have to tell him that Kit wasn’t watching for phantoms, he was praying for very real men.” I dialed directory assistance, requested Saint Benedict’s number, then hung up and stared at the phone, perplexed.

“Well?” said Willis, Sr. “Are you going to telephone Father Bright?”

“I can’t,” I said. “His phone’s been disconnected.” I gripped the prayer book in both hands and looked at Willis, Sr., imploringly.

“Go,” he said, with a wave of his flawlessly manicured hand. “But you must promise to return by four o’clock. The rehearsal for the Nativity play begins at five.”

“I won’t be late.” I kissed the boys, then ran to grab my shoulder bag and cashmere coat, and, as an afterthought, a tinful of angel cookies.

Saint Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men was located in a run-down redbrick building in a seedy neighborhood in East Oxford. The area was more than a bit rough. An empty lot littered with beer cans, broken glass, and discarded syringes stretched away from the side of the building, and graffiti covered the walls. It was hard to believe that such squalor could exist within hailing distance of one of the world’s finest universities.

I parked the Mini directly in front of the hostel and left it with no little trepidation. As I approached Saint Benedict’s front door I glanced across the empty lot, saw a small boy peering out of a broken window in a neighboring building, and thanked God that I’d brought my sons to Finch.

My timid knock was answered by a wizened little man with a green stocking cap and a distinctive body odor.

“I’m looking for Julian Bright,” I said, breathing shallowly.

The little man gave me the once-over, then motioned with a clawlike hand for me to follow him. Clutching my shoulder bag tightly, I stepped into the hostel.

I felt as though I’d descended into one of the lower circles of hell. The decay besetting Saint Benedict’s wasn’t merely skin deep. Everywhere I looked I saw cracked plaster, water-stained walls, and peeling linoleum. An attempt had been made to keep the place tidy—the floors were swept and the windows sparkled—but it would have taken more than a broom and a squeegee to correct Saint Benedict’s myriad defects.

The air was redolent of the rank aromas of boiled cabbage, damp wool, and unwashed flesh. The fug was so oppressive that it made me long for the Radcliffe’s antiseptic tang, and the residents made me long for blinders. The derelicts who observed our progress as we walked down the central corridor seemed to possess every facial deformity known to man. I was so alarmed by one fellow’s mashed nose and cauliflower ears that I missed my footing and nearly fell. My clumsiness won a round of guffaws from my audience and a sneer from my escort.

“You’re new here,” he observed in a gravelly voice.

“Brand-new,” I admitted.

He gave me a jaundiced glance. “You won’t last a week.”

I agreed with him wholeheartedly.

After what seemed like several centuries, we reached a steamy kitchen, and Julian Bright. The priest stood at a deep double sink, scrubbing a stockpot. He wore a bibbed white apron over a black T-shirt and black jeans, and his fringe of graying hair lay in damp curls along the back of his neck.

“Lady to see you, Father,” my guide announced.

Julian dried his hands on his apron as he turned to face me. “Why, Rupert, this isn’t just any lady. This is the lady who saved Smitty’s life.”