Aunt Dimity's Christmas (15 page)

“On this, the fourth Sunday in Advent,” he began, “I would like to speak to you of a certain visitor who recently passed through our community.”

Heads that had begun to droop rose instantly. Everyone knew what the vicar was talking about—news of Kit's passage had spread to the farthest reaches of the parish—but no one had expected to hear a sermon on the subject. Then, too, there was an odd note in the vicar's voice, a sharpness that would, in anyone else, have signified anger.

“He was a stranger to our village,” the vicar continued, “a poor man dressed in ragged clothes. He was hungry, yet he asked no one for food. He was ill, yet he asked for no one's help. Had he done so, I fear, he would have been hard-pressed to find so much as a crumb of kindness among us.”

Mr. Barlow gave an audible
harrumph
, and unhappy glances were exchanged among those who'd attended the previous night's rehearsal.

The vicar leaned forward, his mild gray eyes flashing like unsheathed swords as he surveyed his flock. “He was a poor man and a stranger, and therefore not worthy of our kindness. The poor, as we all know, are a filthy lot—diseased, dishonest, and deserving of their fate. And strangers, you'll agree, must be treated with suspicion.”

Peggy Kitchen's neck turned red and the Peacocks squirmed self-consciously. Old Mr. Farnham loosened his collar, as though the church had become uncomfortably warm, and Sally Pyne stared, shamefaced, at the hymn-book in her lap.

The vicar took a deep breath and straightened to his full and impressive height. His voice, usually so soothing, cracked like a whip above our heads. “God bestowed upon us the gift of his only begotten Son, yet there are those here present today who would not bestow so much as a kind word upon a sick and starving stranger.

“As we celebrate the birth of our Lord, let us remember that in the eyes of God no man is poor, and no man is a stranger.

“In this season of rejoicing, let us be thankful for blessings received and eager to share those blessings with others.

“Let us see in the poorest among us the face of the Christ Child.

“In the name of the Father …”

A wide-awake and sober congregation held its collective breath as its stern-faced pastor descended from the pulpit. When he motioned for us to rise, we leapt to our feet as though the pews had caught fire. The vicar's wrath, so seldom unleashed, had jolted everyone from complacent
Christmas daydreams. It was as if a lightning bolt had struck the church, searing consciences and illuminating souls.

It's Kit, I thought dazedly. The man made his way through the world as quietly as falling snow, yet everyone was stirred by his passage. Nurse Willoughby, Julian Bright, Anne Somerville, Luke Boswell, and now the vicar—each had been inspired by Kit Smith. It was as if he left a trail of goodness in his wake for the rest of us to follow.

Sunday passed in a blur of child minding, cookie baking, and caring for my father-in-law. By Monday morning, Willis, Sr., felt well enough to come downstairs, but I was, at best, a distracted companion. I thought vaguely, guiltily, that I should make an effort to brighten his day, but the lure of Kit Smith was stronger. I could concentrate on little else.

I couldn't understand why Miss Kingsley hadn't called. She'd never before taken so long to fulfill an assignment, and the delay was eating away at me. Finally, after putting the boys down for their naps, I went into the study, closed the door, and called Julian. The moment I said hello, he asked eagerly if I'd heard from Miss Kingsley.

“No, I …” I swallowed hard and cradled the phone with both hands. “I just wanted to touch base with you. Have you found anything out about Kit's father?”

“Nothing so far,” he replied. “Any luck with the names on the scroll?”

I relayed the information Emma had gathered, along with some I'd gleaned from Luke Boswell. When I mentioned the number of fatalities Bomber Command had sustained, Julian gave a low whistle.

“Sixty thousand dead out of one hundred twenty-five thousand,” he said. “I'd no idea that casualty rate was so high. You're becoming quite an expert on the subject.” He paused. “I hope it's not casting too great a pall over your holidays.”

“I'm all right.” I wiped away a tear that had trickled, unaccountably, down my face.

A long moment of silence passed before Julian said quietly, “What's wrong, Lori?”

“Nothing.” I sniffed. “My husband's in Boston, my father-in-law's sick, the Christmas tree's still in the garden shed, I haven't wrapped a single present, and Christmas is less than a week away.” I rested my elbow on the desk and leaned my forehead on my hand. “And none of it matters. All I can think about is Kit.”

“I'll be with you in less than an hour,” said Julian.

“Julian, you don't have to—” I began, but he'd already hung up. I returned the phone to the cradle and nearly jumped out of my skin when it rang. I snatched it up, saying, “Julian?”

“No, Lori, it's me,” said Miss Kingsley. “I have the information you requested. And I must say, it's fascinating.”

“Christopher Smith was an inmate at the Heathermoor Asylum for approximately six months,” Miss Kingsley began.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “No …”

“It doesn't mean he belonged there,” Miss Kingsley said. “What I mean to say is, I don't think Kit Smith was in the asylum because he was ill.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“I'll try to explain.” I heard a rustle of paper, as if Miss Kingsley were assembling her notes. “The Heathermoor
Asylum was located in Skellingthorpe, just outside Lincoln.”

“
Was
?” I said quickly.

“If you'll allow me to continue …” Miss Kingsley said, a faint note of reproof in her voice.

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

Miss Kingsley cleared her throat. “As I was saying, the Heathermoor Asylum was located in Lincolnshire. A privately run institution, it had been in existence for twenty-seven years when one Christopher Smith, aged thirty-eight, arrived on its doorstep and asked to be admitted.”

“He volunteered to be shut up in a mental institution?” I said, incredulous.

“He did,” said Miss Kingsley. “According to his file, he gave as his home address the Wayfarers' Refuge in Lincoln. He claimed to be suffering from recurrent bouts of depression and requested immediate admission.”

I tried to imagine Kit presenting himself on the doorstep of a privately run asylum. What would they have made of his ragged clothes and wild hair?

“I can't believe they let him in,” I said. “Didn't they require some sort of fee?”

“As a matter of fact, they required quite steep fees,” Miss Kingsley said grimly, “but the admitting physician, Dr. Rosalind Chalmers, took pity on Kit. Her notes are most revealing. She was, apparently, beguiled by him.”

“Welcome to the club,” I muttered.

“Pardon?” said Miss Kingsley.

“Never mind,” I said hastily. “Please, continue.”

“Kit was, according to Dr. Chalmers, a model patient,” said Miss Kingsley. “According to his records, he took his medication and stayed quietly in the background. He responded so well to his treatment that he was allowed to work as a file clerk in the main office.”

“Is that all the treatment he received?” I asked. “Just pills?”

“Heathermoor offered nothing but pills.” Miss Kingsley sniffed contemptuously. “Nothing but pills and bills. It was a disgrace. The final report of the investigatory commission—”

“Whoa,” I interrupted. “Back up. What final report? What investigatory commission?”

“One month after Kit admitted himself to Heathermoor, certain government departments began to receive telephone calls from inside the asylum,” said Miss Kingsley. “The caller reported unsanitary conditions, grossly inadequate diets, myriad cases of physical abuse, and an almost total absence of qualified staff.”

“Any idea who made those reports?” I asked, gripping the telephone tightly.

“An anonymous source,” said Miss Kingsley. “A
male
anonymous source. No one has been able to identify him.”

He wouldn't have left a name, I thought. It's not his style.

“Thanks to those reports, the Heathermoor Asylum was shut down just over a year ago,” said Miss Kingsley. “Some members of the staff were brought up on criminal charges; others were merely dismissed. The residents were relocated and the records dispersed. That's why it took so long—”

“Miss Kingsley,” I broke in urgently, “what happened to Kit?”

“No one knows,” she replied. “Apparently, one of the patient-transport vans broke down on its way to an institution in Cambridgeshire. In the ensuing confusion, Kit Smith simply disappeared.”

Only to turn up at the church at Great Gransden, I thought, where he focused his attention on the problem of saving Blackthorne Farm.

“The authorities had their hands full, coping with the Heathermoor scandal,” Miss Kingsley continued. “Since Kit wasn't considered dangerous to the population at large, he was never seriously pursued. As far as I can tell, he hasn't been admitted to any other institution since he released himself from Heathermoor.”

I felt my throat constrict. I was absolutely certain that Kit had blown the whistle on the Heathermoor Asylum.

Miss Kingsley agreed. “The timing of Kit Smith's arrival and departure, and the fact that he had access to a telephone while working in the office, leads me to suspect strongly that he was the anonymous caller.” She paused. “I should very much like to meet Mr. Smith. Have you any idea what became of him?”

“Yes,” I said, “but it's kind of complicated.”

“Perhaps you could fill me in on Friday,” Miss Kingsley suggested. “Now I have yet another reason to look forward to your party.”

I moaned softly. The Christmas Eve bash had slipped my mind along with everything else. “Do you have the phone number of the Wayfarers' Refuge in Lincoln?” I asked, and scribbled down the information as Miss Kingsley passed it along.

“Will Bill be at the party?” asked Miss Kingsley.

I stiffened. “He says he will. Why? What have you heard?”

“Rumor has it that the Collier estate is a frightful tangle,” replied Miss Kingsley, “and I know how tenacious your husband can be when he's dealing with complicated wills. That being said,” she concluded hastily, “I'm certain he'll be home in time for the party. He wouldn't dream of missing his sons' first Christmas.”

I thanked Miss Kingsley for her help and hung up the phone, perturbed. I hadn't seriously considered the
possibility of Bill spending Christmas in Boston, but if the Collier estate was a mess, he might very well feel compelled to stay on until he'd sorted it out. The Willis work ethic was as Puritan as Plymouth Rock.

I should have exploded. The mere idea of Bill missing Christmas at the cottage should have infuriated me, but instead a smile came, unbidden, to my lips. Who was I to criticize my husband? He, at least, was helping a cherished friend's widow, whereas I'd put Christmas on hold for the sake of a total stranger.

Yet Kit was no longer a stranger. In the past week he'd become as dear to me as Willis, Sr., and the more I learned about him, the dearer he became. I would have defended and protected him no matter what Miss Kingsley had discovered.

I thought of Kit's face, haloed by golden light, as if he'd brought his own radiance to the dimly lit cubicle, and knew that I was no longer content to find out why his path had intersected with mine. I wanted to know what had set him on his journey in the first place.

I stared down at the phone number Miss Kingsley had given me. I would call the Wayfarers' Refuge in Lincoln. I'd find someone who could tell me what Kit Smith had done before he'd set out for Skellingthorpe and the Heather-moor Asylum. If I went back far enough, I'd find Kit's starting point. There, perhaps, I would discover what had inspired his strange pilgrimage.

The phone was in my hand when I heard a knock at the study door and the sound of Willis, Sr.'s voice telling me that a visitor awaited me in the living room.

I
flew down the hallway, hoping for a moment alone with Julian before Willis, Sr., joined us. I was embarrassed by the teary phone call that had summoned the priest to the cottage, and I didn't want him to mention it in front of my father-in-law.

As I came into the living room, Julian stepped toward me, his eyes clouded with anxiety.

“Lori,” he said, “are you all right?”

“Please,” I whispered urgently, “don't—” I stopped short as Willis, Sr., entered the room.

Julian's furrowed brow smoothed instantly. “I didn't want to run up the bill on your cell phone, Lori,” he improvised, “so I dropped by to find out if you'd heard from Miss Kingsley yet.”

I thanked him silently, then gave him a radiant smile. “She just called.”