Read Online Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online Page A

you hear, darling?” Charles turned back to his wife. “Kit’s all right.”
    Anne’s eyelids fluttered. “Kit?” she said weakly.
    â€œKit’s fine,” said her husband.
    Anne inhaled deeply and raised a hand to her temple. With her husband’s help, she swung her legs over the side of the settee and pulled herself into a sitting position.
    â€œBrandy,” said Charles, and went to the sideboard to fill a glass from the gleaming decanter.
    Anne pushed her dark hair back from her pale face and looked directly at Julian Bright. “Kit’s not fine, is he,” she said flatly.
    Julian shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s extremely ill.”
    â€œI knew it,” said Anne. “When he didn’t come to the wedding—”
    â€œHere, darling, drink this.” Charles sat beside his wife and put the glass of brandy in her hands.
    She sipped the amber liquid, paused to catch her breath, then said, without preamble, “Tell me what happened to Kit.”
    A tumult of emotions played across her face as Julian and I told our separate stories. Her green eyes blazed with anger, widened in alarm, and finally filled with tears, which she dashed away impatiently with the back of her hand. When we’d finished, she sat quite still, staring into the fire. Then she turned to me.
    â€œThank you for helping Kit,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’tknow why he came to your cottage. He never mentioned Dimity Westwood while he was at Blackthorne Farm.”
    Julian took the suede pouch from his pocket and spilled the glittering medals onto the walnut table. “Did he ever speak of these? He had them with him when he went to Lori’s cottage.”
    Anne’s grip on the brandy glass tightened. “I’ve never seen them before. But I’m not surprised to hear that he had them with him. Another symptom of his illness.”
    â€œHis illness?” I said.
    â€œIllness, mania, obsession …” Anne shrugged. “I’m not familiar with the technical term.”
    â€œCan you describe the rest of his symptoms?” asked Julian.
    â€œI can do better than that.” Anne looked at her husband, who rose from the settee and left the room. A moment later he returned, a small white card in his hand.
    â€œWe found this in his room the day after he left,” Charles said. “It must have fallen from his bag when he was packing. Something else he never mentioned.”
    He placed the laminated card atop the scattered medals. Kit Smith’s eyes, obscured by long hair, peered up at me from a photo ID issued by the Heathermoor Asylum for the Mentally Disturbed.
    It was as if he’d thrown a snake into my lap. I recoiled and shook my head vehemently. “It’s a fake,” I declared. “Or … or maybe he worked there.”
    Anne Somerville’s laugh held no trace of humor. “What reputable institution would hire someone like Kit?”
    â€œYou hired him, didn’t you?” I snapped.
    â€œYes, but that was … different.” Anne turned toward her husband. “Charles,” she said brightly, “I believe we could all do with a cup of tea, and perhaps some sandwiches. Would you please see what Mrs. Monroe’s leftus? The housekeeper,” she added, for our benefit. “She’s spending the holidays with her grandchildren.”
    When Charles had gone, Anne placed her empty glass on the sideboard and came to stand before me.
    â€œYou don’t want to believe that Kit’s insane,” she said. “I know just how you feel. I didn’t want to believe it either.” She pointed to the laminated ID card. “But we must face facts.”
    â€œWhat facts?” I scooped up the medals and slid them back into the suede pouch, aware that I was overreacting, but unable to stop myself. “You don’t know why Kit carried that card. Haven’t you