Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton Page A

odor before him.
    â€œRupert?” I said, my nose wrinkling involuntarily.
    â€œThat’s right, missus. Me mates told me you’d be here.” The little man was dressed in multiple layers of grubby vests and sweaters topped with an oversized raincoat. “Got something for you.”
    â€œReally?” I seriously doubted that such a shabby character could have anything I’d want. “What’s that?”
    Rupert reached inside his raincoat and produced a thick scroll of paper. It was charred at one end, as though it had been thrust into a fire and hastily removed. “Smitty left it to be burnt with the rest of the rubbish at Saint B’s, but I got it back for him. Didn’t seem right to burn it, not after he took such trouble over it.”
    I took the charred scroll from him hesitantly. “Why didn’t you give it to Father Bright?”
    â€œHe’s got a mortal load on his back, does Father Bright, what with keeping Saint B’s ticking and all,” Rupert replied. “Didn’t want to give him something else to worry about.” He motioned toward the scroll. “You’ll give it back to Smitty when he’s fit again, will you?”
    â€œI will,” I promised, and reached into my shoulder bag. “Let me give you something for your troubles.”
    â€œI done it for Smitty, missus,” he said. “I don’t want no reward.”
    â€œA cup of tea, at least,” offered Luke.
    â€œTa, but I got to get back to Saint B’s. Father Bright’ll try to do it all himself if I’m not there to get the crew cracking. Cheers, missus.” The little man pulled his stocking cap snugly over his ears and shuffled out of the shop.
    â€œLooks like you’re makin’ all kinds of new friends,” Luke commented. “Let’s see what old Rupert turned up.”
    The scroll was made up of some two hundred sheets of onionskin, each thin sheet covered with hundreds of names written in the same minute script Willis, Sr., had discovered in the prayer book. An abbreviated military rank proceeded each name.
    â€œFlyin’ Officer A. R. Layton,” Luke read aloud, squinting at the tiny writing. “Leadin’ Aircraftman L. J. Turek. Looks like they’re all flyboys, Lori. A roll call of the dead.”
    â€œThe dead?” I said, fingering the thick scroll. “There must be thousands of names listed here. That’s an awfully high casualty rate.”
    â€œBomber Command lost round about sixty thousand men, give or take a few,” Luke informed me. “They took a hard hit.”
    As Luke wrapped the charred scroll in another sheet of brown paper, I felt as confused as Rupert. Why would Kitattempt to destroy a list of names so painstakingly compiled? Why compile the list in the first place? If he was praying for the dead, wouldn’t a general prayer suffice?
    â€œYou sure have taken an interest in old Kit,” Luke observed, handing the scroll to me.
    â€œI guess I feel responsible for him,” I mumbled. “He collapsed in my driveway, after all.”
    Luke looked at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “The Somervilles aren’t offerin’ him such a bad deal, Lori. I’m not sayin’ Kit’s dangerous-crazy, but from what you’ve told me, he does seem a mite peculiar.”
    Luke must have seen a tack-spitting gleam in my eyes, because he immediately changed the subject. “Lookin’ forward to the Christmas Eve party. Got my red suspenders starched special for the occasion.”
    I smiled briefly, thanked him for the loan of the book, and left the shop.
    As I made my way up Preacher’s Lane, I heard a shout from the pair of winos I’d seen earlier. I pulled my coat collar up and prepared to hurry on, but something made me glance in their direction.
    The two ragged men stood at attention, their hands raised to the brims of their cloth caps in a shaky