Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton

managing a smile.
    â€œWell, now, he’s not a customer, exactly,” Luke temporized. “A customer spends money, and this fellow has none to spend. He’s what we used to call a
road
scholar, if you take my meanin’. Nice fellow, though. Good-hearted as the day is long. Strange, when you think that all he reads about is war.”
    The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. “What’s this guy look like?”
    â€œHe’s a long, tall drink of water,” Luke answered. “Wild hair, big old beard, dressed on the shabby side. Hasn’t been in for a few days, but I expect he’ll be back.”
    The hospital lobby seemed to spin around me. “Does he have a name?”
    â€œKit,” Luke replied. “Kit Smith. But he says some folk call him Smitty. Why do you ask?”
    I motioned toward the trolley. “Are you finished here, Luke? Are you heading back to the shop?”
    â€œSoon as I fetch my coat,” he replied. “Why?”
    â€œI’m coming with you,” I said. “I’ll explain why on the way.”
    We walked to Preacher’s, fighting our way down Saint Giles Road through a swarming stream of shoppers caughtup in the holiday frenzy. Most looked haggard, some merely anxious; a rare few smiled contentedly. As I walked along, telling Luke about Kit, I was jostled by jutting elbows, bumped by bulging shopping bags, and assaulted by the tinny strains of competing carols that spilled into the street each time a shop door opened. By the time we reached Preacher’s Lane, I was ready to strangle Father Christmas.
    As we turned into the lane, I caught sight of two rheumy-eyed men crouched in a doorway, as though they’d been shunted to a side inlet by the rushing tide of shoppers on Saint Giles. They were unshaven, filthy, and sharing a bottle between them. I averted my eyes from the pathetic scene, but it was to no avail.
    â€œGive us a kiss, lady!” roared one.
    â€œGive us a tenner and I’ll let you kiss my arse!” called the other.
    The pair laughed uproariously.
    Luke seized my arm and hustled me along, muttering, “They’re not all like Kit.”
    â€œThey certainly aren’t,” I agreed.
    We said nothing more until we reached the bookstore.
    â€œKit told me they wouldn’t let him into the college libraries on account of his appearance,” Luke said, hanging our coats behind the front counter. “Now there’s high-class idiocy for you. Any fool could see that he’s bright as a button. Said his daddy used to give lectures at the university.”
    â€œDid you think he was telling the truth?” I asked.
    Luke shrugged. “He might’ve thought I needed an excuse to let him read my books gratis, but I didn’t. I don’t care what folk look like. Hell, half the students comin’ through here dress worse’n old Kit.”
    I nodded. “Did he say anything else about his family?”
    Luke shook his head. “Not much of a talker, truth to tell. Preferred reading. Come on, I’ll show you what he read.”
    Luke led me through the narrow aisles to an alcove labeled MILITARY HISTORY . I gazed at the floor-to-ceiling shelves in dismay.
    â€œDid he read everything?” I asked.
    â€œNothing but the books on Bomber Command.” Luke began selecting volumes from the crowded shelves. “Let’s see if he marked my books the same way he marked that prayer book of his.”
    Luke and I spent the next two hours examining two dozen books, but we found no folded corners, no annotations, nothing to indicate a special interest in a particular page or passage. When we finished, I took up a general history of Bomber Command and asked Luke if I could borrow it.
    As he wrapped the volume in brown paper, the string of bells on the front door jingled and a shambling figure wearing a green stocking cap sidled into the shop, wafting his distinctive body