Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Please, call me Julian,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “And believe me when I tell you that my intentions are honorable. I don’t intend to make a pass at you—or any other woman, for that matter.”

I took in the goatee and the black leather jacket and felt myself blush. “Oh,” I said carefully. “I didn’t realize.” I motioned toward the cubicle, wondering how best to phrase my next question. “Are you… involved with the man in there?”

The reassuring smile became a broad grin. “I’m not a homosexual, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m a priest. A Roman Catholic priest. And I am deeply involved with the man in there. I owe him my life.”

Nurse Willoughby put her head between us. “I’m sorry, Julian, but you’ll have to take your conversation elsewhere.” She handed over my coat and shoulder bag. “You know what Matron will say if she finds you blocking the passageway again.”

“One moment, please, Nurse Willoughby,” said Julian. “I’m in need of a character reference. Would you be so kind as to inform Ms. Shepherd that I’m an honorable gentleman who means her no harm?”

“I’d be happy to.” The red-haired nurse tilted her head toward me and said, in a confidential murmur, “He’s mad as a March hare.”

“That’s not exactly—” Julian began, but Nurse Willoughby cut him off.

“He gave up a posh parish to run a doss-house,” she told me. “Makes the rounds here every morning, looking for his lost sheep. Matron says he was in line to become bishop, but he threw it all away for a lot of old soaks.”

“Pure self-interest,” Julian said quickly. “I fully expect to find a masquerading millionaire among Saint Benedict’s drug addicts and drunks.”

Nurse Willoughby laughed. “When you do, give him my name, will you? I could do with a few extra bob.” She waggled her fingers at us. “Now run along before Matron throws a fit.”

“If anyone wants us, we’ll be in the cafeteria,” said Julian, and before I could object, he took me by the elbow and steered me down the hospital corridor. “Dr. Pritchard told me that you called out the RAF rescue squad for Smitty. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. A lot of people would’ve looked the other way.”

“It wasn’t really my idea,” I confessed, embarrassed by the undeserved praise.

“But you’re here now,” Julian pointed out. “Not every woman would take time out of her busy holiday schedule to visit a man like Smitty.”

I shrugged weakly. “That wasn’t my idea, either.”

“But you’re glad you spent time with him,” Julian ventured. “I can see it in your face.”

Startled, I lifted a hand to my cheek. Did I look as starstruck as the knot of nurses I’d seen clustered around the tramp’s cubicle? “Is his name really Smitty or is it just a nickname?”

“It’s what we call him at Saint Benedict’s,” Julian replied.

We entered a brightly lit, cheerfully painted cafeteria that seemed to cater to patients, staff, and visitors alike. Almost everyone in the room called a greeting to Julian as he escorted me to a corner table.

“Cup of tea?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” I folded my coat over the chair next to mine and rested my arms on the table, feeling as though I’d been washed ashore by a minor tidal wave. Julian Bright might look like a placid basset hound, but he had the energy of a fox terrier. He paused at a dozen tables on his way to the tea urn, fielding questions, tossing off quips, and at one point kneeling on the floor to speak quietly with a young girl in a wheelchair. I needed no further proof that he was indeed the honorable gentleman he claimed to be.

As I waited for my tea, a flock of questions flitted through my mind. How well did Julian know Smitty? Had the tramp really saved his life? Above all, why would a Catholic priest invite me to go with him to Cambridgeshire?

Julian returned with three cups of tea on a blue plastic tray. He placed two of the cups in front of me, set aside the third for himself, hung his black leather jacket on the back of his chair, and sat opposite me.

I pointed to the pair of teacups. “Why two?”

“To help you recover from the shock of meeting me.” He added milk to his tea and stirred. “I’m afraid I got rather ahead of myself back there. It’s just that it’s my night to supervise dinner at Saint Benedict’s, which means that I have to leave for Cambridgeshire in less than an hour. I’d very much like you to come with me.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To help Smitty find the specialized care he’ll need once he leaves here.” Julian laid his spoon aside. “Unless you’re willing to take him in.”

“Er, I, uh…”I sipped my tea and fumbled for an answer. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

“I can’t do it, either,” said Julian. “Saint Benedict’s is no place for a man with his sort of illness.”

“What is Saint Benedict’s?” I asked.

“A hostel for transient men—a homeless shelter, if you will,” Julian replied. “It’s tucked in among the council estates in East Oxford. I don’t expect you get there much.”

“And you work there?” I said.

“I run the place,” said Julian.

I leaned forward. “Don’t you feed the men who come to you?”

“Of course we do,” Julian said.

“Then why is Smitty half-dead from starvation?” I demanded. Several heads turned in my direction, and I lowered my voice to an outraged murmur. “Did you see him? He’s like a scarecrow, hardly a scrap of flesh on him.”

Julian lowered his eyes for a moment, then regarded me steadily. “We provide food for the men,” he said, “but we can’t force them to eat it. Smitty had every opportunity to avail himself of simple, nourishing meals while he was at Saint Benedict’s, but he apparently chose instead to starve himself.” He bowed his head. “I’m ashamed to say that I was unaware of his condition until Dr. Pritchard told me of it this morning.”

I sat back, disarmed by the priest’s confession. I recalled the layers of ragged clothing and the oversized greatcoat Smitty had worn, and realized that Julian would have needed X-ray vision to see the gaunt form beneath the baggy costume. I hadn’t realized Smitty’s frailty until I’d helped Bill carry him into the cottage.

“I’m sorry,” I said stiffly. “I spoke without thinking, as usual. It’s just, seeing Smitty like that… his hands…”

“Frostbite,” said Julian. “The good news is that they probably won’t have to be amputated.”

I groaned softly and pushed my second cup of tea to one side.

“And please,” Julian continued, “don’t apologize for caring about someone as vulnerable as Smitty. As you so rightly point out, he’s terribly ill. I believe there may be some form of dementia involved.”

“You think he’s crazy?” I said, vaguely offended by the notion.

“I suspect so, but I can’t be completely certain. That’s why I’m going to Cambridgeshire. One of the men at Saint Benedict’s told me that Smitty lived there before coming to Oxford. He worked at a place called Blackthorne Farm for over a year. The farm’s owned by a widow named Anne Preston. She must have gotten to know Smitty fairly well while he worked for her.”

“And if Anne Preston thinks he’s crazy, it’ll be two against one,” I said sourly.

“I’m not inventing Smitty’s symptoms, Ms. Shepherd,” said Julian. “He elected to starve himself, and… Here, have a look at this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a water-stained suede pouch.

“What is it?” I said, eyeing the pouch curiously.

“Nurse Willoughby found it in Smitty’s coat pocket,” said Julian. “She didn’t want it to disappear into an orderly’s pocket, so she gave it to me for safekeeping. Nurse Willoughby thought the contents might be valuable.”