Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton

rise from his chair, I ordered him to stay put. “Relax,” I said. “You’ve done enough for one day.”
    I devoted the rest of the evening to hearth and home. I whipped up a meal for Willis, Sr., bathed Will and Rob and got them off to bed, then invited my father-in-law to join me in the kitchen while I baked a double batch of angel cookies, in a belated attempt to celebrate my mother’sbirthday. By the time Willis, Sr., turned in for the night, it was too late to telephone Miss Kingsley.
    It wasn’t too late, however, to speak with Aunt Dimity. Tired though I was, I went to the study, pulled the blue journal from its niche on the bookshelves, and curled up on the tall leather armchair before the hearth.
    I yipped in alarm when the journal sprang open in my hands.
    It’s about time.
The familiar copperplate raced across the page in a nearly illegible scrawl.
I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me. Did you go to the Radcliffe? Were you allowed in to see the tramp? Have you learned anything more about him
?
    â€œHis name’s Kit Smith,” I began, and for the second time that evening, recounted everything I’d learned about the man in the Radcliffe Infirmary. When I’d finished, Dimity’s handwriting resumed, this time at its normal pace.
    I do not remember anyone called Kit Smith. Tell me again about the medals in the suede pouch.
    â€œThere’s a DSO, a DFC, an Air Force Cross, and a Pathfinder badge, among others,” I told her. “Why? Did you know someone who flew bombers during the war?”
    In February 1943, I was given a temporary assignment with Bomber Command, at a base up in Lincolnshire. I came to know many aircrews, but none of the men with whom I worked were so highly decorated.
    I slumped in the chair, discouraged. “Then we still don’t know why he risked his life to come here. Julian’d say that it was just another example of Kit’s crazy behavior.”
    Then Father Bright would be jumping to conclusions. We may not know Kit’s reasons for coming to the cottage, but that doesn’t mean he had none. I do wish you’d been able to see Kit more clearly. Your description of him remains woefully inadequate. Around forty years of age, tall, slender—well, he would be slender, wouldn’t he, if he’s suffering from malnutrition
?
    I bit my lip. I hadn’t exactly lied to Dimity, but I hadn’t told her the whole truth, either. “The cubicle was dimly lit,” I said, “and Kit was wearing an oxygen mask.”
    And since Father Bright and the Somervilles saw Kit as you did, through a curtain of hair and heard, they wouldn’t he able to describe him either. You must return to the Radcliffe after they’ve removed Kit’s mask and take a good, long look at him. I will search my memory for anyone called Kit Smith, but I’m still counting on you to bring me an accurate description.
    â€œI will,” I promised, but as I watched Aunt Dimity’s handwriting fade from the page, I wasn’t sure I’d keep my promise.
    I closed the blue journal and looked across the study to the desk where I’d left Kit’s carryall when I’d returned from Oxford. I’d borrowed the bag from Julian, telling him, and myself, that I hadn’t had time to examine its contents thoroughly, and that a closer inspection might provide a further clue to Kit’s identity. I wondered now if my reasons for keeping the bag had less to do with discovering Kit’s identity than with experiencing his presence.
    I closed my eyes and saw Kit’s face so clearly I could almost count his lashes. I saw the creases at the corners of his eyes, the sculpted cheekbones, the curving lips, and the fine, straight nose, each feature bathed and softened by golden light. Once again, those violet eyes gazed up at me and that sweet smile pierced my heart.
    Why hadn’t I described Kit to Aunt