Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton Page B

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.
    â€œHmmm,” 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.”
    â€œWhat?” 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?”
    â€œPrayers 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.
    â€œâ€˜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 turnedthe page, I saw that a passage had been added in tiny handwriting between two of the prayers.
    â€œWhat 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—’ ”
    â€œâ€˜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.
    â€œâ€˜â€¦ and the great dragon was cast out,”’ Willis, Sr., finished.
    â€œPrayer 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.”
    â€œLori,” 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.
    â€œWell?” said Willis, Sr. “Are you going to telephone Father Bright?”
    â€œI can’t,” I said. “His phone’s been