Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton Page B

salute. Rupert’s mates, I thought, and wondered if they were ex-airmen as well. I acknowledged their gesture with an awkward bob of the head, then hurriedly retraced my steps to the Radcliffe.
    I stood outside Kit’s cubicle, my palms pressed to the glass, watching his chest rise and fall in the unnaturally regular rhythm induced by the ventilator. I couldn’t approach his bedside—visitors had been barred ever since he’d had his setback—so I spoke to him silently, sendingmy thoughts through the glass barrier, telling him that I would do everything in my power to keep him from being held captive by his well-intentioned friends.
    â€œMiss Shepherd?”
    The sound of Nurse Willoughby’s voice made me jump.
    â€œSorry to startle you,” said the young red-haired nurse. “I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”
    â€œOf course,” I said.
    â€œThere was a woman here earlier today, a friend of Mr. Smith’s—”
    â€œAnne Somerville?” I put in.
    â€œThat’s right. She brought something for Mr. Smith. She thought it might comfort him, but … well, it looks rather nasty to me. I was wondering if you’d take it away.”
    Nurse Willoughby held out her hand and I took a quick step backward.
    â€œIs it dead?” I said suspiciously, eyeing the object in her hand.
    â€œIt’s a toy,” she corrected. She held the stuffed animal up at eye level. “A horse, I think.”
    I took the battered plaything from her. The little brown horse with the black mane and tail had been loved nearly to pieces. The seam in his belly had been resewn with red thread, his hide was patched in three places, and the black yarn of his mane was hopelessly tangled. As he flopped in my hands, his legs splayed, his nose touching my palm, I felt my heart melt. It must have cost Anne Somerville dearly to leave such a cherished companion behind.
    Nurse Willoughby patted his head apologetically. “We can’t keep him here, I’m afraid. He’s positively virulent.”
    â€œI’ll take care of him,” I assured her. I tucked the brown horse into my shoulder bag and turned once again to gaze at Kit. Did he know how many people cared abouthim? I wondered. Did he know how many hearts he’d touched?
    Slowly, reluctantly, I turned away and headed for home, hoping that a message from Miss Kingsley awaited me.
    I stopped by Anscombe Manor on the way home, to have a word with Emma Harris. Emma knew everything there was to know about two subjects: gardening and computers. I was hoping her computer skills would help me dig up information on the names listed in the charred scroll.
    I found her in the great hall, a half-timbered banquet room Derek had just finished restoring. She was hanging evergreen swags from the massive rafters when I entered the hall, but put down her hammer and descended the ladder when she saw me.
    â€œNo Peter again this Christmas,” she announced, pulling a wry face. “Derek had high hopes of seeing his peripatetic son this year, but it’s the one gift I can’t give him.”
    â€œIs Peter still up the Amazon?” I asked.
    â€œWith a paddle, one hopes.” Emma beckoned to me to join her at the long trestle table in the center of the hall. The table was piled with ornaments and lights, packets of tinsel and boxes of candles. “All systems are go for the Christmas Eve party here. Let’s make sure I’ve got it right: The festivities will kick off around noon at your place. Everyone will go from there to the schoolhouse to see the Nativity play, then come here for the rest of the evening. Is that the plan?”
    â€œThat’s the plan,” I said. “And again, thanks hugely for putting up my out-of-town guests.”
    â€œI’m glad to do it. It’ll help take Derek’s mind off ofPeter.” She offered her hammer to me. “Haven’t come to lend a hand by