Murder for Tea

by Vered Ehsani

  “No, we can’t.”

  And then there was nothing more to say, for our words failed us before the strength of our emotions. All we could do was hold each other and pray the storm would pass us by.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “HE WON’T HANG,” Lord Hardinge reassured me as we stood on the train station platform.

  I gazed into the kind eyes of Sir Arthur Hardinge, Commissioner of the East Africa Protectorate and a loyal friend to a band of misfits and paranormal creatures. He was a trim fellow who carried about himself a gently dignified air without the usual pretension and snobbery I’d come to associate with the landed gentry. He had a well-proportioned face, and a straight and pointed nose. While his fair hair was receding gracefully, his mustache made up for it, a full and healthy specimen atop firm lips that seldom smiled yet were never harsh.

  Shifting under the intensity of my desperate gaze, he cleared his throat and glanced aslant at me. Seeing my doubt, he added, “We won’t let that happen.”

  Unable to respond, I merely nodded at the man whose generosity extended beyond the limits of his own family to embrace mine. A dear friend of Father’s, he’d helped raise Tiberius and had provided a whole wing of his house to Tiberius and Lilly after they were married. He’d also gifted the cottage to Simon and me, and was now constructing a cottage for Cilla and Drew in anticipation of their upcoming nuptials.

  Tiberius drifted to my other side and drew me into a one-armed hug, his expression grim even as he attempted to reassure me. “Lord Hardinge is correct, Beatrice. You should know we won’t stand by idly and allow Miss Baxter to have her way with us. We’ve telegraphed our contacts in London. The very best solicitors will be on the case.”

  Before I could respond to their kindness, if even I could, a soft wail distracted me. We all turned to the large entrance of the one-platform train station. Simon stood in the shadows, holding Cilla as she sobbed. If not for his embrace, she surely would have collapsed to the dirty ground. On the other side of the wide entrance stood Constable Hunt, standing by to ensure that Simon did in fact board the train. Beyond them was the open space in which rickshaws and wagons jostled for space as they waited for the train to arrive and discharge its passengers and cargo.

  “It’s not Miss Baxter who concerns me,” I murmured. “It’s Simon. I suspect that he’s resigned himself to his fate. He believes he’s a monster and deserves this. What if he doesn’t fight this charge?”

  To that concern they remained silent. Again we faced the tracks, empty save for a few goats nibbling the grass on either side. Further out, a herd of dik-dik bounced on spindly legs across the metal rails; once they were clear of the scent of man, the diminutive antelopes ceased jumping and were enveloped by the knee-high grass.

  I’d hoped that the storm of the night before had flooded the tracks, as happened from time to time. Or that the Nandi had ripped up a few feet of rail as revenge for the persecution they suffered under the British. Alas, both the weather and the ongoing skirmishes between the African tribes and the army had betrayed me. In the distance, a puff of gray-tinged steam indicated the approach of the train from Mombasa.

  Porters began to crowd the platform, jostling to be the first to unload the wares and earn a day’s wage. I breathed in their natural perfume: wood smoke, dried grass and leather mingled with a sweet herb and a touch of sweat. The ground trembled as the train chugged into the station, steam hissing and metal bits clacking.

  A large, warm hand engulfed my own. I leaned into Simon’s embrace, nibbling at my lower lip in a desperate effort to avoid making a scene. I couldn’t abide theatrics, and there was no point in carrying on about the situation. He was going. I was remaining. That was that.

  “Do stay out of trouble, won’t you?” he said.

  “I won’t make any promises,” I said, my attempt at a tarty retort failing utterly when I had to sniff back a tear.

  “I’d expect nothing else from the incorrigible Miss Knight,” Simon said, daring to snicker in the face of my distress.

  Glaring at him, I opened my mouth to rebuke him soundly for his insensitivity when he pulled me close and kissed me. Such was the state of my emotions that I didn’t have the sense to castigate him for his inappropriate and highly public display of affection. After all, I needlessly reminded myself, who knew if this was to be our last moment together? Ignoring the world bustling about us, we remained thus, a monument to star-crossed lovers everywhere.

  I clung to him as porters, traders, passengers and livestock surged around us, ebbing and flowing. How long we stood thus I couldn’t say, but not long enough. The train was unloaded and reloaded with shocking and inconsiderate efficiency. Too soon, it was time for him to depart on his lonely journey to face a world that knew nothing of our kind. After a flurry of handshakes, shoulder pats and hugs, Simon boarded his carriage at the last minute. We stood in a huddle, watching the train ease away.

  I allowed myself a moment to cry against Tiberius’ shoulder, determined not to be concerned what the public might think of it. Indeed, I experienced a perverse pleasure in the possibility of a scandal, for no one outside of our immediate circle of family and friends knew Tiberius and I were siblings. If the members of the newly formed East African Ladies League were to see us associating so intimately, they would assume we were involved in an impropriety even more damning than my husband’s misconduct. Instead of charging for every cup of tea I sold, I should charge for my numerous contributions to the gossip mill of the town. Why, I’d be wealthy in no time.

  As it was, only a few African porters loitered nearby, preparing to carry off whatever they’d come to collect. They had little interest in the sordid affairs of colonial life. Even the dead body found in my shop had excited them not at all. A husband traveling for months at a time was normal for the semi-nomadic tribes. Therefore, there was no one about who was offended by my flagrant abandonment of English rectitude of conduct.

  Sighing and wiping my tears, I said, much to Tiberius’ astonishment, “Well then, I shall have to content myself with my family being involved in only one scandal this week.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHILE I WANTED nothing more than to bury myself under a blanket and remain in bed for a week, business must continue. Therefore I forced myself to return to town in the afternoon, my concern over the possibility of losing my business dwarfed by the fear of losing my husband.

  As grateful as I was for the distraction provided by customers, I was relieved when it was time to close for the evening. I had just sent Wanjiru home when there was a tapping on the front door. Before I could scold the person for their lack of consideration (after all, the sign at the window clearly read ‘Closed’), I heard Cilla calling my name.

  “You poor dear,” Cilla gushed as I opened the door to let her and Lilly into the shop. “It’s dreadful for me, but must be overwhelmingly distressing for you. Who knows if we shall ever see him again? How will you manage?”

  “And I’m sure you’ve just lifted her spirits and made her feel so much better,” Lilly quipped. “Is there a monkey in your bag?”

  “Yes, there is, and we’ll manage,” I said, injecting as much confidence into my tone as I could muster. Shifting the leather pouch to hang from my other shoulder, I added in a moment of inspiration, “I was just about to sit down for a cup of tea. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Leading them to the corner table where the dead bride had sat, I invited them to sit while I retrieved my mother’s book. “Prof. Runal gave it to me, but it was my mother’s,” I explained as I placed the leather-bound book on the small round table. “It’s a journal of sorts but it includes spells.”

  “How marvelous. Can you turn people into toads?” Cilla asked, leaning toward me, her eyes glittering enthusiastically at the prospect.

  Lilly snorted as she patted Grace’s back. The baby blew milky bubbles over Lilly’s shoulder. “I can think of a few toad-like individuals who would do very well as amphibians.
”

  Frowning at the both of them, I settled a tea tray on the table.

  “Of course I can’t turn people into animals,” I huffed as I sat and waited for my tea blend to steep. “Besides, we have far too many undesirable animals lurking about as it is.” I paused as I sniffed at the tea-scented steam; the bits of dried mango I’d added to the blend produced a subtle sweetness. “Then again, I suppose the same could be said about undesirable humans.”

  Grace belched her approval of the sentiment.

  “Are all babies so uncouth?” I grumbled.

  Both Cilla and Lilly giggled at my disgust, and I was pleased I could be the source of amusement this once. I could only hope their buoyant mood might influence my own melancholy one.

  “So what can you do then?” Lilly demanded as she pried Grace’s little fingers out of her dark curls.

  I picked up the journal, placed it on my lap and tapped my fingers over the cover. “Well, I haven’t had the opportunity to study its contents,” I confessed. “What with everything…”

  My voice faded as I glanced at Cilla. She merely nodded once, her countenance one of determination.

  “He’ll return before you know it,” she said and patted my shoulder, although I suspected she was attempting to convince herself more than reassure me.

  “Without a doubt, he will,” Lilly said with a toss of her head. Her dark curls bounced around her face in agreement. “The scoundrel is far too impolite to go quietly to prison or the gallows. I pity the magistrate and anyone else who must interact with Mr. Timmons during the trial.”

  The matter settled, we returned to our impromptu tea party. Shelby’s tail tickled my neck as she crawled out of the pouch and settled herself around my shoulders.

  “Is that really necessary, Bee?” Lilly asked, her words coming out in a huff as she bounced Grace in her arms, the baby almost asleep now.

  I poured the tea, pausing to admire the caramel color. “Gideon insists baby monkeys need to be carried, otherwise their development is stunted. Where he came up with the idea is beyond me, but he does fuss on about it. Tell me what you think of my new blend.”

  We spent the next few minutes appreciating the delicate flavor of the tea, nibbling at chunks of dried coconut and commenting on the afternoon’s abysmal weather. After all, we were still English and felt a certain compulsion to mention the weather at least once in every conversation.

  “Then again, if this was London,” Cilla reminded us, “we’d have had the storm not for a matter of a few hours but a few days or weeks.”

  Thus agreeing that, for the most part, we were fortunate with respect to the weather, we returned to the subject of spells and potions.

  “Is there one for sleepless babies?” Lilly asked. “Or colic?”

  “Grace isn’t colicky,” Cilla protested.

  As I wouldn’t recognize a colicky baby from any other sort (they all seemed fussy and difficult to me), I declined to comment. Instead, I flipped through the pages, searching for solutions related to babies of any species. Toward the back of the journal, my eyes detected the phrase ‘unborn baby’.

  “Well, here’s something about babies,” I said, skimming to the top of the passage in which I’d found the words. “Perhaps it also includes something helpful for your situation.”

  ‘He knows.’

  “What a peculiar way to begin a spell,” I muttered as I lifted a cup of tea to my lips.

  “Tell us everything,” Cilla gushed, tugging at my sleeve while Lilly attempted to lean into my other side without waking Grace.

  My mother’s delicate script flowed across the page. ‘He knows about my unborn child.’

  The tea lost its flavor. There was only one ‘unborn child’ to whom my mother could be referring, and only one ‘he’.

  Cilla pouted. “You are being so terribly obstinate, Beatrice.”

  Lilly however leaned back in her chair, its plush arms seeming to embrace her as she held Grace closer to her chest. Her blue eyes pooled with compassion. “Oh, Bee, your poor mother.”

  While it was an inconvenient and (fortunately) little known fact I had been conceived out of wedlock, I’d always comforted myself with the belief that only my mother had known. Even my real father hadn’t discovered the truth of the matter until recently, much to our mutual shock and delight. He’d fled in self-imposed exile to the Far East, where scandal and the dark clutches of the Society for Paranormals couldn’t reach him. My mother had refused his invitation to join him as by then she had married another man to provide her baby legitimacy.

  Cilla stared first at Lilly, then at me. “What? Do tell, Beatrice.”

  Unable or unwilling to continue reading, I closed the journal with a heavy thud that was echoed in my heart. My gaze unfocused, I said, “Prof. Runal knew. He knew my unwed mother was pregnant.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  IF I COULD turn into an insect, what would it be?

  Such was the gloom which had settled about me like a water-drenched wool cloak. The morning after reading my mother’s book, I struggled to extract myself from bed and go to the shop. So depressed was my spirit that I had resorted to contemplating the merits of living out the remainder of my days as an insect. The vital question though was which insect?

  I’d ruled out spiders, having had enough experience with one elephant-sized spider already, and all forms of flies, especially fireflies. I had just turned my contemplation toward beetles when another customer rudely interrupted my musings.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” a man called out, rousing me from my torturous meditations.

  I jerked up, having been caught leaning, slouching actually, against the counter and found myself face to face with Dr. Cricket. Despite the various connections uniting us in close acquaintance, he was not someone with whom I cared to spend much time, if any. His unnatural pallor, his rapidly blinking eyelids and his inability to converse on anything other than his inventions dissuaded me from engaging too often, unless absolutely required.

  In addition, I was still recovering from the various shocks of the previous day. By now, Simon had reached the port of Mombasa; was he comfortable in his cabin on the steamer? Would he triumph against the charges facing him? How would Prof. Runal use the knowledge revealed in my mother’s journal, and why hadn’t he done so yet? What would he attempt to extract from me in exchange for keeping my secret? And what would the East African Ladies League say if they knew I was really the bastard child of a witch and a vampire?

  “Dr. Cricket,” I said, forcing a smile as the werewolf energy in my metal hand twitched the fingers so they clicked against the counter. “What a delight. Welcome again to The Cozy Tea Shoppe.”

  His Adam’s apple quivering up and down his scrawny neck, he glanced about as if he hadn’t realized he was surrounded by tea. “Oh. Oh, yes, Mrs. Timmons, quite outrageous.”

  As I couldn’t discern anything outrageous in the tea sets I’d meticulously selected for display, I frowned at him. He hastened to add, “I mean extraordinary. My hearty congratulations.”

  Somewhat mollified, I gestured to a wooden box. “Are you interested in our newest selection of blends? I’ve mixed a few myself.”

  Eyelids blinked over pale blue eyes, the eyelashes almost invisible. “Ah, yes?”

  “Yes, you would like to purchase a bag of tea leaves?” I asked, attempting to clarify his interest.

  Perhaps the question was too onerous for him. He shook his head, his hands clasping and unclasping as they hovered over the counter. Finally arriving at a decision, he straightened his slouching shoulders, thrust one hand into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a wooden picture frame.

  “What do you think of this?” he demanded and placed the frame flat on the counter.

  Glancing between the item and the inventor, I struggled to comprehend his intention in my shop. “Well, I think it’s a lovely picture frame,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he exclaimed.

  “And why is it on my counter?”r />
  Bewildered, he stared at me. “Well, it’s not really a frame, per se.”

  I peered closer and studied the dark grain of the wood. “It certainly appears to be one, sir.”

  “Yes, and that’s the point of it,” Dr. Cricket enthused, his hands twitching about as if at any moment they might fly away. “I did mention it to you on my previous visit here. You see, Mrs. Timmons, it’s actually a phantom detector.”

  In the awkward silence that ensued, I glanced about, grateful the only other customer was at the opposite side of the shop, conversing with Wanjiru near the window display. While I no longer considered myself a member of the Society for Paranormals, I did adhere to at least one of their guiding mandates: to ensure the normal people of the world remained blissfully ignorant of the beings who were not entirely human. That Dr. Cricket should display such an unbecoming interest in affairs which were not related to himself was entirely vexing and somewhat distressing.

  Leaning closer to the excitable inventor, I hissed, “Why is it in my shop?”

  Startled by my displeasure, he fumbled for words. “Well, I… I mean, you know…” Clearing his throat, he said, “You remember my reference to an incident with the ghost of my wife?”

  Indeed, I did. I had visited the man when he was having what appeared to be a breakdown of nerves. He’d claimed his sorry condition was due to visitations by his dead wife. It was the first time Dr. Cricket had displayed any openness to imagination and awareness of an alternative reality that couldn’t be easily measured and quantified.

  “I recall the occasion,” I said. “And it was clear your visions were induced by stress and perhaps indigestion, nothing more. Hadn’t we agreed it was nothing of consequence?”

  “Yes, and a praiseworthy use of logic on your part, Mrs. Timmons,” he agreed before lowering his voice further. “However, the incident, as alarming as it was, encouraged me to explore the issue using scientific methods and unimaginative logic. This is the result.” He tapped the frame with one long finger.