Aunt Dimity's Christmas (21 page)

There was no mistaking her identity. She was a good deal older than Kit, but the family resemblance was still strong. Her pale, long-fingered hands were exactly like his. She had the same high cheekbones and curving lips, but her eyes were a faded powder-blue and her expression was curiously lifeless. She seemed more remote standing before us than Kit had lying unconscious in his hospital bed. If Kit's beauty drew people toward him, Lady Havorford's held them at bay.

I noted the similarities and differences, then murmured, “You have Kit's hands.”

“Kit?” Lady Havorford regarded me coolly. “A distasteful sobriquet. While you are in my home you will refer to my brother as Christopher. Unless, of course, there's been some mistake—”

“There's no mistake,” said Julian, stepping forward. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lady Havorford, but Ki—Christopher is gravely ill. He's at the Radcliffe Infirmary, in Oxford. He's been in a coma for more than a week.”

“I see.” Lady Havorford motioned for us to sit on the sofa, then glided over to sit gracefully in the chair nearest the fire. Her gaze drifted to Kit's carryall as I placed it on the floor at my feet, but if she recognized it she gave no indication. “Did Christopher ask you to come to me?”

“He wasn't able to,” Julian replied.

“Then how did you find me?” she asked.

I gave Julian a quick, puzzled glance. Lady Havorford's questions were beginning to seem somewhat odd. She hadn't asked about the nature of Kit's illness or his prognosis. She hadn't asked how or where Julian and I had come to know her brother or what our relationship was to him. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those powder-blue eyes, but so far she'd betrayed no sign whatsoever of sisterly concern.

“It's rather an involved story, Lady Havorford,” Julian told her. “Suffice it to say that Ms. Shepherd and I made certain inquiries on your brother's behalf which led us to Saint Joseph's Church in Stepney. The vicar there led us to you.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Lady Havorford's face, but she said nothing.

“Your brother will need someone to look after him while he convalesces,” Julian prodded gently.

“I don't think Christopher would care to be cosseted by me,” said Lady Havorford. “He renounced his family four years ago, when he handed over his inheritance to that perversely popish little priest in Stepney.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when Julian's foot nudged mine.

“There are those,” he said carefully, “who believe that your brother should be confined for his own protection, once he recovers from his present, physical ailment. Do you agree with them, Lady Havorford?”

I leaned forward, eager for her answer, and watched in fascination as her eyes began to glisten. A moment later, as if of their own accord, two perfect pear-shaped tears rolled down her motionless face.

“My brother may very well be insane,” she said evenly, “but then, so might you be, if you'd killed your own father.”

L
ady Havorford surveyed our shocked expressions with cool indifference. “You don't believe me. No one ever does. But my brother knows the truth and so do I.”

“Would you be so kind as to share the truth with us?” Julian asked.

“Are you certain you want to hear it?” she returned.

“We are,” said Julian.

Lady Havorford carefully blotted her tears with a lace-edged handkerchief drawn from the sleeve of her satin jacket, then rose to her feet. Her gown rustled as she glided to the mahogany desk, where she lifted the receiver of a white telephone. She spoke into it briefly before returning to her chair.

“We shan't be disturbed,” she said, adding vaguely, “It will be the first time in ten years that I've left it to my husband to welcome our guests.”

I look from her impassive face to the handkerchief twisted tightly in her clenched fists and wondered queasily
what she'd say next. I didn't believe for one minute that Kit had killed anyone, much less his own father. Perhaps, I thought, gazing at those white-knuckled hands, it wasn't Kit who was insane, but his sister.

“The curious thing,” Lady Havorford mused aloud, “the thing that throws everyone off the scent, is that Christopher grew up adoring Papa. Sir Miles was a hero, you see, a highly decorated member of the most elite corps in Bomber Command.”

“Your father was a Pathfinder,” I guessed, glancing at the canvas carryall.

Lady Havorford seemed unsurprised by my remark. “You've no doubt heard of the Pathfinder Force lectures Sir Miles gave at Oxford.”

“Y-yes,” I stammered, as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. Kit's father had indeed been a university lecturer, just as he'd told Luke Boswell. “We knew he'd given the lectures, but we didn't know what they were about.”

A slight frown creased Lady Havorford's smooth brow. “How, then, did you know that my father was a Pathfinder?”

“We didn't,” I said, “but … here, let me show you what Christopher had with him when he was admitted to the Radcliffe.”

I took the water-stained suede pouch from the carryall, teased open the drawstrings, and upended it over the gilded table beside Lady Havorford's chair. As the medals spilled onto the table, she caught her breath, then pursed her lips in a disapproving frown.

“Papa's medals,” she said, laying the handkerchief aside. “They were the only things Christopher would accept from the estate, and just look what a mess he's made of them.” Her hands hovered briefly over the tangled pile
of decorations. Then, with swift, precise movements, she began separating one from another, smoothing the wrinkled ribbons and laying them out in orderly lines. The exercise seemed to stir more memories, for she continued to speak of the distant past.

“We lived in the country when Christopher was small,” she said. “He had a horse, called Lancaster, after the first bomber Papa piloted. Christopher would gallop Lancaster along the bridle path, dropping his make-believe bombs neatly on make-believe submarine bases, then dash back to the manor house to tell Papa about his precision-bombing runs.”

She paused to examine her display with a critical eye before placing the golden eagle above the other medals, bars, and badges on the table.

“It sounds an idyllic childhood,” Julian prompted.

“It was,” Lady Havorford agreed. “Then Mother died, and when Papa remarried he sold our country house and we came to live in London.” Her voice softened. “It broke Christopher's heart to give up Lancaster, but he never complained. As I said, he adored Papa.”

A log fell on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and a clamor of voices sounded from the mirrored hallway, but Lady Havorford went on as if there'd been no interruption.

“At school, Christopher never tired of telling his chums of the medals Sir Miles had won,” she said. “One day, one of the boys, out of jealousy or spite, pointed out that no campaign medal was ever struck to honor the men of Bomber Command
and for good reasons
. It wasn't until Christopher read history at university that he discovered what those reasons were.”

“Area bombing,” Julian murmured.

Lady Havorford's eyebrows rose. “You
have
done your research, Father Bright,”

Julian turned to me. “It was in the book I borrowed from you, the one from Luke Boswell's shop. During the Second World War, the RAF intentionally bombed civilians, hoping to destroy German morale. No one outside Bomber Command knew much about it until after the war.”

“Christopher was horrified to think that Papa's bombs had fallen on schoolyards as well as submarine bases,” said Lady Havorford.

“Many people were horrified, once the truth was known,” Julian pointed out. “That's why the men of Bomber Command were never awarded a campaign medal.”

“But they were soldiers,” I said, “and it was war. They were only—” I nearly said, “They were only following orders,” but the implications of the phrase silenced me.

“They were doing what needed to be done,” Lady Havorford stated flatly. “Christopher, however, saw things differently. He called Papa a monster. He said that Papa was no better than the terrorists whose bombs kill innocent passersby. He moved here, to live with me, and a short time later he left university to work for a friend who owned a stable.”

“Did Sir Miles respond to the accusations?” Julian asked.

“He began writing a memoir,” said Lady Havorford, “to explain himself to his son.” She rose from her chair and returned to the mahogany desk. She stood over it for a moment, gazing down at the blotter, the inkwell, the green-shaded reading lamp, then sat behind it, facing us across a vast expanse of polished wood.

“He compiled most of it at this desk, after long days spent at the Imperial War Museum.” She opened a side
drawer and withdrew from it a thick sheaf of papers bound with a black ribbon. “Papa worked on his memoir for more than a decade,” she continued, placing the manuscript on the blotter, “but Christopher showed no interest in Papa's work. Neither he nor I saw the memoir until … after.”

“After what?” coaxed Julian.

Lady Havorford folded her hands atop the manuscript's black ribbon. “Four years ago,” she said, “Papa was asked to travel to Normandy, to participate in the ceremonies commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the D-day invasion.”

“Another honor for Sir Miles,” Julian commented.

“It would have been,” Lady Havorford acknowledged. “He was, alas, unable to attend. The D-day ceremonies took place in June, you see, three months after Papa had remembered quite another anniversary.” She looked from Julian's face to mine. “Does the thirteenth of February mean anything to you?”

Four years ago, in February, Kit had fled his sister's home to search for the patron saint of aviators. Had he quarreled with his father on the anniversary of a long-forgotten battle? Even as I shook my head, I wondered nervously if Kit had somehow injured his father, then gone to Saint Joseph's, hoping for some kind of absolution.

“On the thirteenth day of February, 1945, my father flew a mission deep into Germany,” said Lady Havorford. “As a Pathfinder, he carried a full load of incendiaries to mark the target and set it well ablaze. He fulfilled his mission brilliantly. By the end of the first night's bombing, the glare in the sky above the target could be seen from two hundred miles away.

“By the end of the second night,” she continued, “some twenty-five thousand people were dead—twenty-five
thousand men, women, and children, residents of the city as well as refugees fleeing from the Russian army, burnt or blasted or suffocated by the firestorm that sucked the oxygen from their lungs.” Her hand caressed the manuscript. “The target wasn't a munitions factory or a submarine base. It was a virtually defenseless medieval city renowned for its art and the beauty of its architecture. You may have heard of it. It was called Dresden.”

The fire's pleasant crackle seemed to rise to a menacing roar, and the wheezing sighs of sizzling sap sounded eerily like agonized screams. The room's decorative giltwork shimmered as though licked by tongues of flame, but Lady Havorford's eyes were as cold as ice as she raised her hand and pointed to the gilded balcony.

“On the thirteenth day of February,” she said, “fifty years after the raid on Dresden, my father hanged himself, just there, above his volumes on military history.”

Somewhere beyond the double doors a sweet tenor voice warbled “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” I thought of Kit, standing in the rain at the end of a weed-grown runway, murmuring prayers to the empty sky, bereft of all comfort and joy.

Lady Havorford's hand came back to rest on the manuscript. “Christopher was here that evening,” she said. “He found Papa's body. He also found the letter in which Papa confessed to crimes against humanity and sentenced himself to the proper death for a war criminal.”

Julian seemed to wilt beside me, as if the weight of Sir Miles's tragedy had fallen on his own shoulders. “The poor, tormented soul,” he murmured.

“My father requires no man's sympathy,” said Lady Havorford, her voice filled with disdain. “Sir Miles was a great man tormented by an ungrateful son. Christopher cherished the world my father fought to preserve even as
he condemned the way in which my father fought to preserve it. Papa was a hero. Christopher is a hypocrite as well as a murderer.”

“He's not a murderer,” I put in gently. “Your father committed suicide.”

“Christopher drove him to it,” snapped Lady Havorford. “Sir Miles never lost a moment's sleep over his part in the war until Christopher filled his mind with doubt.” Her hands turned to fists atop the memoir. “It was only after his son lost faith in him that he lost faith in himself.”

“Did you accuse your brother of murder?” Julian asked.