Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

I spent the rest of the day cremating gingerbread men and examining Kit’s scroll with a magnifying glass, searching for a Christopher Smith. An eyestrain headache and the smell of smoke in the kitchen forced me to abandon the search after the first twenty-five pages.

Julian’s call didn’t come until late evening.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said.

“Never mind about that,” I said, switching on the bedside lamp. “Did you speak with anyone in Lincoln?”

Julian laughed. “In Lincoln, York, Durham, Lossiemouth, and London, among other places. Your phone bill’s going to be astronomical, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll consider it a worthy investment….”

Julian had hit upon the brilliant notion of using the map Willis, Sr., had shown us as a guide to Kit’s travels. My suggestion about contacting the refuge network had come in handy, too.

“I went with the assumption that Kit would stay in towns or villages near former bomber bases,” Julian explained, “and that he’d use shelters like Saint Benedict’s when they were available.” By calling shelters located in the vicinity of bases, Julian had pieced together a profile of Kit’s movements over the past four years.

“I don’t know how many people I’ve spoken with today,” said Julian, “but those who met Kit, no matter how long ago, remember him.”

“He does make an impression,” I commented, glancing at the canvas carryall.

“When a shelter wasn’t available near a cluster of bases,” Julian continued, “Kit must have arranged some other form of inexpensive lodging.”

“Like finding a job that included room and board,” I put in, “as he did at Blackthorne Farm.”

“Precisely,” said Julian. “That’s why there are certain gaps in the story.”

I smiled. “You mean to say that you didn’t call every farm between Hertfordshire and Durham?”

“I didn’t have to,” Julian replied. “Not after I spoke with the chap who runs the soup kitchen in Lossiemouth. He told me that Kit had compared his soup kitchen to one run by a C of E church in London—Saint Joseph’s, in Stepney.” The priest’s voice began to vibrate with barely suppressed excitement. “When I called Saint Joseph’s, the woman who answered the phone told me that the vicar, a man named Phillip Raywood, knows Kit’s family.”

I bent over the phone, wishing Julian were in the room with me instead of somewhere in the ether. “Did you speak with Phillip Raywood?”

“Alas,” said Julian, “he was gone for the day. But I’ve made arrangements to meet with him at Saint Joseph’s tomorrow evening.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your coming with me.”

I thumped my pillow with a clenched fist. I hated being a bystander, watching Julian from the sidelines, but there was nothing else I could do.

“I can’t, Julian,” I said forlornly. “I keep burning the gingerbread men, and there’s still the wreath to hang on the front door, and presents to wrap…” My words trailed off in a disappointed mumble.

“Forgive me,” said Julian. “I shouldn’t have proposed the idea. What you’re doing is far more important than what I plan to do tomorrow. Family traditions must be nurtured, Lori, if they’re to…” His voice faded suddenly.

“Julian?” I said. “Are you still there?” I strained to catch his words, but his reply was garbled.

“Sorry… speak with you soon…” His voice grew fainter and fainter, then faded completely.

“Good luck,” I said softly, and hung up, wanting to kick myself. Why hadn’t I given Julian the recharger when I’d given him the phone? The myriad calls he’d made must have drained the battery dry.

Sighing, I crawled to the end of the bed and pulled the canvas carryall into my arms. I’d dreamt of Kit last night, as I had every night that week. He’d been on the bridle path, riding a high-stepping black stallion, his long hair streaming behind him, the reins taut in his beautiful hands.

When he reached the cottage, the horse reared and Kit tumbled to the ground. As he fell, the stallion twisted grotesquely and dissolved, shrinking from view, leaving Kit on his knees, gazing at me through the brightly lit bow window. While I beamed out at the falling snow, Kit crumpled beneath my lilac bushes, clutching Anne Somerville’s little brown horse in hands blackened by frostbite.

I’d awakened in tears, and now it seemed as if I’d fall asleep the same way. The knowledge that Julian might soon meet Kit’s family without me was very hard to bear. Anne Somerville had said that Kit’s father was dead, but his mother might still be alive, and if she was, she’d be frantic to know what had happened to her son. She’d welcome Julian with open arms.

Unless she felt uncomfortable talking to a man.

Or mistrusted Roman Catholic priests.

I laid my cheek briefly against the carryall, then returned it to the blanket chest and headed for the study. I needed to consult Aunt Dimity.

“…So Julian could go all the way to London and meet with Phillip Raywood and find Kit’s mom and still come back empty-handed,” I concluded.

Dimity responded without hesitation. Then you must go to London.

I gazed at the words doubtfully. “What about nurturing family traditions?”

Family traditions are an exercise in futility if one’s heart’s not in them. Your heart is transparently occupied elsewhere.

“My heart’s not the issue,” I insisted. “Kit is. The only thing holding me back is William. I don’t think he’ll approve of my trip.”

If this mission is as important to you as you say it is, I believe William will understand. There is something I’d like to know, however, for my own peace of mind.

“What’s that?” I said.

Why is it so important to you?

I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, to ward off the howling wind, and slowly closed the journal.

As it turned out, Dimity and I were both right. Willis, Sr., wasn’t happy about my plan to meet up with Julian in London, but he didn’t question my need to do so. He was so understanding, in fact, that I didn’t bridle at the one condition he placed upon my going.

“You will take the train to London,” he stated flatly. “My son would never forgive me if I allowed you to drive there.”

16

I knew that Julian would give me a lift home in Saint Christopher, so I hitched a ride to Oxford the next day with Derek Harris, who was headed there to consult on a construction project. He dropped me at the train station and I plunged into the fray.

With less than two shopping days left until Christmas, panic had set in. The train to London was packed, and Paddington Station was a frantic anthill of last-minute shoppers. I clutched Kit’s canvas carryall to me, kept a firm grip on my shoulder bag, and elbowed my way through the throng to the long line at the cab stand. Forty minutes later, I was on my way to Saint Joseph’s Church.

The driver, an East Indian, knew Saint Joseph’s well. “It’s round the corner from my sister’s flat,” he said. He eyed me in the rearview mirror, as if wondering why an American tourist would spend the day before Christmas Eve in the lower reaches of Stepney instead of Harrods’ hallowed halls. “You sure you want to go there?”

I told him that I was.

The journey seemed to take forever. The East End’s narrow lanes, choked with traffic at the best of times, had turned into a slowly shifting parking lot. People of every color and ethnicity crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the streets as we crawled past brightly lit shops whose signs were written in languages I couldn’t even identify, much less understand.