by Vered Ehsani
“That’s good to hear,” I said. The men stared at me, causing me to add, “That you have a suspect.”
I refrained from adding my relief that the prime suspect wasn’t me, for Hunt had resumed studying me with a disconcerting intensity.
“You realize we may have to close the shop,” he said. “It is after all a crime scene.”
Before I could protest, Dougal intervened. “That’s hardly necessary, lad. We’ve viewed the scene and taken careful notes. There’s no need to be disturbing business, now is there?”
“It’s proper procedure,” Hunt insisted.
I didn’t hear Dougal’s response, for the two constables had filed out of the shop, the door banging behind them with a tinkle of the bell.
Chapter Six
THE ENTIRE TRIP home, I mulled over Constable Hunt’s comment. Would he really close the shop as a crime scene? I could understand if he confiscated the tea set as evidence, which he hadn’t. But what if he carried through on his threat? The shop would remain closed until the constables resolved the matter, which was to say I would be out of business for an inordinate amount of time. If it came to that, we’d be without a steady income and entirely dependent on the goodwill of family. What would we do then?
By the time I reached home, I was in a disagreeable state despite Cilla’s efforts to lighten my mood. My thoughts chased each other like rabid hyenas. Not that I’d ever seen hyenas with rabies, but I could well imagine how one would behave if demented and deranged.
When I reached the outside kitchen door, I found Gideon floating there.
“You forgot to take Shelby,” he admonished before I could speak. “At this rate, she will be an emotional wreck. I had to ask Simon to hold her.” Pretending to lean against the door, he flapped one hand before his face as if to fan himself. “While Simon may look like an ape, he isn’t proficient at babysitting one.”
“The news of the dead body rather distracted me,” I said as I leaned against the stone wall of the cottage.
“Oh, yes,” Gideon said, rubbing his hands together. “Do tell.”
In a flurry of words, I apprised him of the situation.
“While I pity the girl, the entire matter is atrocious,” I complained as I stomped my boots on the rough flagstone outside the kitchen. Clumps of thick mud splatted around me. “If one had to murder the girl, and who are we to say it wasn’t necessary, why not somewhere else? Now there’s a risk the constables will close the shop. What are we to do then, Gideon?”
I glared at the ghost as if it was his fault someone had deposited a body in my premise and seated it at the nicest table in the place.
“Aren’t you in a state,” he said, his whisper almost inaudible as I continued to kick the stone in a vain effort to clean my boots. “I’m sure it was inconsiderate of her to be murdered.”
Ignoring the sarcastic tone of his voice, I continued to rant as I tugged off one mud-coated boot. “She was one of the new settlers the Crown insists on importing from its various colonies. As if there aren’t enough Europeans messing up the landscape. And then she has to come to Nairobi, of all the places in British East Africa.”
Pursing his lips, Gideon attempted to be the voice of reason by asking, “Precisely how many places are there?”
“That’s not the point.”
Hands over his heart, Gideon said, “It is truly unfair.”
Scowling, I flung the second boot against the outside wall and strode into the kitchen. Pausing to breathe deeply, I inhaled the scent of the assortment of herbs hanging from the rafters to dry. Mingled with the herbs were the smells of burning wood and damp grass. In a moment of silence, the bubbling of water on the round, metal stove informed me Jonas had had the foresight to fill the kettle. Thus reassured there was at least a cup of tea in my near future, I calmed myself.
“While it may not be her fault,” I admitted with only a little graciousness, “she could very well be the cause of our downfall.”
“I’m sure Lord Hardinge won’t turn you out of your cottage,” Gideon said. “If he did, I’d complain bitterly. A ghost without a house to haunt is a wretched creature. You wouldn’t want to see me wretched, would you?”
My anxiety over possibly losing the store was too great to pay attention to Gideon’s nattering. “Most people prefer to die in a bed at home or at the hospital. On rare occasions and under duress, they concede to die on a battlefield. But in a tea shop? Whoever heard of such nonsense? It’s preposterous.”
“You sound suspiciously like Mrs. Steward,” Gideon said, shuddered and stepped away from me. “In fact, you’d give your aunt a run for her money in the dramatic complaints category.”
“Now you’re just being rude,” I said. Flinging myself onto a chair, I lowered my head onto the kitchen table, enjoying the solidity of the wood against my skin. “Gideon, what are we to do?”
“Drink tea until we collapse?” he suggested.
“Brilliant idea,” I mumbled into the wood.
“Beatrice?” Simon shouted from somewhere inside the cottage.
“I’ll be there momentarily,” I replied while straightening up and staring at Gideon. “You’re not to say a word of this,” I warned him.
“Why ever not?” he asked, his light brown eyes wide in an innocent expression.
I knew better than to believe the sweetness of his countenance. “Because I don’t want Simon to fuss, that’s why. He has enough on his plate without worrying about the store being confiscated. Besides, if the constables haven’t closed it yet, then they most likely won’t bother to do so in future. I’ll tell him later, if need be.”
A sly grin brightened Gideon’s countenance. He placed his chin on steepled fingers. “So you’ll lie to your other husband, then?”
“I most certainly will not,” I said as I stood up and set about making a pot of tea. “I’m merely going to withhold certain bits of the truth.”
“Excellent!”
“And if you dare breathe a word of what the constable threatened to do,” I continued, “I shall track down Nameless and borrow his energy-trapping device.”
Gideon quivered, his form fading in and out. “You wouldn’t.”
I turned to face him, leaning against the stone countertop. “I would. Oh, and did I neglect to mention to you he’s back in Nairobi?”
Scowling, the ghost floated away. “You did.”
I smiled at his discomfort. “So it wouldn’t be too difficult for me to find him.”
“But you wouldn’t trap me in a bottle, would you?” Gideon implored. “I expect such devious and cruel behavior from that horrid dwarf, but surely not you.”
Rather than reply, I poured hot water from the large, blackened and dented kettle into my metal teapot. Tea leaves floated on top of the water, their fragrance rising with the steam.
“Wretched witch,” Gideon muttered before fading away completely.
Chapter Seven
WHEN I RETURNED later that day, the body was gone, the shop was open, and customers were mingling amongst the tea sets, oblivious to the drama. Cilla and Lilly arrived shortly thereafter, both of them eager for an excuse to gossip and shop. After promising to update them on the morning’s excitement that evening, I settled on a stool to enjoy a pot of tea.
My relief was short-lived. Before I could finish my cup, Dr. Cricket entered the shop, apologizing as he stepped on Mrs. Shah’s foot and then again when he bumped his elbow into Cilla’s side. Tall, pale and thin to the point of bony, the nervous inventor paused and glanced about as if amazed or confused at his surroundings. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his throat, and he scratched at his pale strawberry-colored hair. Having arrived at a conclusion, he weaved his way toward my end of the counter, nearly collapsing across its surface. Nodding once at Wanjiru, he blinked at me, his thin mustache twitching.
A man of science and invention, he was also the former husband of the notorious and wicked Mrs. Cricket whose spirit had wreaked havoc before being
consumed by my niece when Grace was still an unborn child. Dr. Cricket had also invented, among other contraptions, my metal hand.
“May I have a word, Mrs. Timmons?” he gasped and barely avoided knocking over the bone china wedding set I’d put on prominent display on a small round table nearby.
“Not now, Dr. Cricket,” I scolded, wondering if I might have to reposition the display table to a less precarious location.
“But—”
“Jonas,” I said, turning to the small kitchen. “Is the next pot of tea almost ready?”
“Me, I’m a warrior,” he grumbled, “not an old woman.”
“What your age, gender and the next pot of tea have to do with each other, I haven’t a clue,” I said. “I want that tea all the same, please. And do remember not to pour boiling water onto the tea leaves. Let it cool a couple of minutes before you add it to the black tea, and at least ten minutes for the green tea. And don’t let any leaf stay in the pot more than a couple of minutes or it will over-steep and taste bitter. Jonas, did you hear me?”
His face puckering up as if he was sucking a lemon, Jonas said, “Me, I just put them all in a pot together and boil them.”
I shuddered. “I believe you, and you’re to do no such thing here. It will destroy the flavor and aroma of the individual teas, and then what would we have?”
“Boiled tea,” he responded.
“Mrs. Timmons, it’s a matter of urgency that I meet with you,” Dr. Cricket persisted, leaning over the counter, his pale blue eyes intent. “I’ve made some rather startling discoveries that might interest you.”
Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that I only needed to rely on Jonas for the opening week during which we were providing samples to customers. After that, he could return to butchering our garden and destroying perfectly good tea leaves at home. I closed the door to the small kitchen and returned to the counter.
“Startling discoveries? I highly doubt that, Dr. Cricket,” I said, wondering how I could discourage him from his newest obsession with the paranormal.
“I’ve developed a device that blocks out phantasmic energy and another one that detects it,” he said as if confessing to a priest a troubling sin, and lowered his voice. “Truth be told, I believe there’s someone or perhaps something lurking around my premise, seeking to steal Liam again.”
I covered my disbelieving snort with a throat-clearing cough. Liam or Life Imitating Automaton Machine was Dr. Cricket’s pride and joy. Little did he know that the automaton had been fueled by the evil spirit of his deceased wife. The same spirit had attempted to possess Lilly. When I’d interfered with that plan, she’d taken over my body for a short stint. Only Simon’s timely intervention had saved me from being lost in Mrs. Cricket’s World of Shadows forever.
The result of all that was twofold: both Lilly and I had developed the ability to enter the World of Shadows and by extension the Underworld; and with the second demise of Mrs Cricket or rather her spirit, Liam had ceased to function.
Perhaps detecting my cynicism, Dr. Cricket sighed. “I know Liam isn’t worth much now, but I’m so close to reanimating him. And what else would anyone want from me? Why else is someone lurking near my house? At any rate, my detecting device has recorded unusual activity in the area, so I’ve set up the energy blocking device in one room, where I might safely work. Would you do me the honor of visiting my laboratory? You might find your perspective on reality will shift once you view my proof.”
It wasn’t my own perspective that concerned me. If Dr. Cricket had indeed found proof of the paranormal, how long before he publicized his findings on the supernatural elements? And what if he realized I was one of them?
“You seem to find it fascinating,” I said, returning to the conversation being thrust upon me. “However, I really don’t see what this has to do with me, particularly at this moment.”
“If there’s an evil spirit nearby,” Dr. Cricket said, persisting in the face of my discouraging words, “wouldn’t you want to know? With all these beautiful tea sets, you’re now at risk too.”
“Indeed,” I said as I nodded and smiled at a new customer. “Because tea sets and tea leaves are just what every ghostly thief longs to steal.”
Dr. Cricket’s pale eyes blinked rapidly as he attempted to process the tone of my words.
“Beatrice, I’ll be heading off now,” Lilly said as she interrupted Dr. Cricket and set Grace on the counter. “All this shopping is too much. It’s rather exhausting.”
I smiled, hoping it came across as sympathetic. “Is Grace tired?”
Lilly arched her eyebrows. “I was referring to myself, not her.”
Statements such as those reassured me that the old Lilly was still somewhere in there amidst the nappies and the milk bubbles. Wishing I too could leave, I closed my eyes and inhaled the aromas swirling around me: the rich tones of various teas, the baked goods, chocolates and other sweets, ladies’ perfumes, men’s cologne, the charcoal burning from within the kitchen, milk boiling.
“What a charming baby,” Mrs. Shah said, her sharp voice interrupting my reverie. I glanced toward her and admired the layers of colorful fabric billowing around her ample form. Before anyone could thank her for the compliment, she passed me a small cotton bag of Ceylon tea leaves she wished to purchase and added, “What’s wrong with her eyes?”
As I accepted the bag, I glanced at Grace. Her pale gray eyes had darkened, the whites almost non-existent.
“Lilly,” I said sharply, waving my hands by my ears, “the backroom, now.”
Cilla stared at me, confused, but Lilly was quick to pick up the clue. “She’s going to vomit,” she informed Mrs. Shah. This had the desired effect as the lady hastily retreated from the potential zone of disgusting baby substance.
With a word to Wanjiru, I followed Lilly to the small storage room. “She’s starting to shift,” I hissed, peering over Lilly’s shoulder.
There was no denying it. Grace’s eyes were now the solid black of a bat and two fangs had descended from her toothless gums.
“Where are her wings?” Lilly mused, not in the least perturbed that her baby was transforming into a bat.
Grace gurgled, her plump little arms waving at us as she gnashed her gums.
“How marvelous,” Cilla gushed as she squeezed in behind me. “She’s inherited the Popobawa element. Her daddy will be so proud.”
“Who’s a good bat baby?” Lilly cooed.
“Are you both mad?” I gasped, wondering if I was the only person who was at all concerned that Grace had begun transforming in public. “If anyone realizes she’s a Popobawa, an African shape-shifter, they’ll—”
“Do stop your fussing, Bee,” Lily huffed. “She’s fine. No one saw. Go out there and deal with your customers. Your absence will surely be noted.”
Grumbling, I left the two women swooning over the bat baby and focused on surviving the day. And I was doing just that until a bloodsucking firefly entered the shop.
Chapter Eight
THE VAMPIRE FIREFLY dodged customers and teapots as it flew to me. Buzzing about my head, it whispered in a silky voice, “Miss Knight, what a delightful party.”
I didn’t bother to remind the vampire that my name was now Mrs. Timmons. None of my African acquaintances understood the need to change names according to one’s marital status, and I’d abandoned all efforts at educating them on the oddities of European protocol.
My cheeks pained me due to the rigidity of my smile. Speaking without moving one’s lips was, I’d discovered, a remarkably useful skill to acquire. Sadly, I hadn’t had sufficient practice. Squatting behind the counter on the pretense of retrieving a bag of loose tea, I hissed, “Get out. Get. Out. Wanjiru is too busy to talk with you right now.”
The firefly alighted on my shoulder and sighed as only a lover could. “Ah, Wanjiru. The beautiful, the beloved, the heartbeat—”
“Enough,” I interrupted, not wishing to listen to any more vampire poetry, all of whic
h was terrible and inevitably ended with the mention of blood.
“Yes, enough about the radiant Wanjiru,” the firefly murmured. “Yao wants to play in your new home, Miss Knight.”
“It’s not my home,” I breathed through my fixed smile. “It’s my shop, and no bugs are allowed.”
“That’s very wise, Miss Knight,” Yao said as he resumed flying about me. “Although maybe chocolate-covered bugs are okay. Do you have those? They are yummy.”
Unlike European vampires, the African variety were not at all disturbed by sunlight. This had an unfortunate consequence: Yao could appear at any time of the day or night. Twirling to face the storage room, I gestured with a tilt of my head for the firefly to follow me.
“Is there something wrong with your neck, Miss Knight?” Yao asked while his backside brightened.
“Madam,” Mrs. Shah said. “Do you have this tea set in a gold pattern?”
“Just a moment,” I trilled as I gritted my teeth and waved the bug into the storage room where Lilly was changing a nappy and Cilla was distracting Grace from the procedure. I closed the door behind us and tried not to inhale too deeply as I eyed what was inside the baby’s soiled cloth.
The vampire firefly shifted into a young African man with a penchant for trouble and a disinterest in using sufficient clothes to cover himself appropriately. He began to drool at seeing Grace.
“It’s rather crowded in here,” Lilly complained as she attempted to pin the nappy without jabbing the baby in the process. “And who let the Adze in?”
Yao jostled me aside and squeezed in beside Cilla. “What a beautiful baby,” he said, eyes wide.
“And not to be eaten,” I warned him, recalling the Adze’s preference for the blood and organs of children.
“What about a nibble,” he suggested, lower lip quivering.
“Not a nibble, nip, sip, suck or anything else,” I warned.
“That’s no fun,” Yao said.
“And this shop is a no-fly zone,” I snapped. “No flies, no fireflies, no insects of any sort.”
