Murder for Tea

by Vered Ehsani

  “Is that a fact?” I asked, wishing he hadn’t discovered imagination and curiosity.

  “Yes, it is! I began a correspondence with a certain Alan Holmes, an inventor of sorts who lives in the Americas.” Dr. Cricket shuddered. “Appalling part of the world. Full of bears and wolves and snow. At any rate, Mr. Holmes was most helpful, sharing his design for a ghost sensor. I made a few modifications, and here we have it.”

  Wanjiru, who was becoming an accomplished saleslady, had completed her explanation to the customer. The two were drifting toward the counter in anticipation of purchasing one of the Royal Albert bone china tea sets.

  “Brilliant,” I muttered.

  “I know,” Dr. Cricket gushed, gazing upon the picture frame with the same adoring expression Lilly possessed when admiring her offspring. “In fact, Alan Holmes’ theories and calculations assisted me to create a phantom-proof room. It’s extraordinary but not as portable as the detector. Will you do me the honor of testing it for me? I have another copy which I’m using all the time. Oh, and it records its energy detections here.”

  He flipped over the frame to display a sliver of chalk hovering over a piece of blackboard. Pausing, he frowned. “Unfortunately, it’s quite a sensitive device and also detects non-phantasmal energy. I suppose that could be useful if you wish to discover if anyone enters a room without your permission.”

  “Very useful, indeed,” I agreed, snatching the frame from the man and shoving it onto the shelf under the counter. “Although I should think the new fingerprinting technique would be of greater use still.”

  Dr. Cricket’s eyes paused in their blinking. “I suppose trespasses involving non-phantasmic creatures would benefit from Sir Henry’s fingerprint classification system.”

  “So you’ve heard of it?” I said, noticing the swift approach of Mrs. Porterhouse, a stern mother to five boys; she had little tolerance for indulging the whims and fancies of anyone and was always in a hurry.

  “Yes, of course—” Dr. Cricket began.

  “Thank you, sir, for your interest in our fine tea selection,” I interrupted him as Mrs. Porterhouse arrived at the counter with a great harrumph and an impatient glance at the inventor. “I’ll be sure to deliver your purchases.”

  “But I—”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Porterhouse, how do you do?” I yet again interrupted Dr. Cricket before he could divulge any other information which would be inappropriate for civilized society.

  Speaking of inappropriate, at that moment a werewolf barged into my shop.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT’S MY FIRM belief that beasts of the canine persuasion should remain outside, preferably at a distance and downwind. Sadly, exceptions must be made when the canine in question is a close family member, and a sibling no less. To be accurate, my siblings were half-siblings, but I loved them all the same.

  While I’m not one to complain about my relatives, it was an inconvenient truth that both my brothers were animals. While Tiberius Elkhart could transform into a bat of frightening proportions, Drew Anderson was unfortunately a werewolf and therefore stunk like a wet dog.

  Drew stood in the doorway, panting as if he’d climbed a mountain rather than the three steps connecting the dirt road to my shop’s balcony. I could only be grateful that most humans weren’t in possession of such a highly sensitive nose as I had, and the rich aroma of fresh tea leaves more than masked the odor of my darling little brother.

  “Wanjiru,” I said while twitching my head to Mrs. Porterhouse.

  “Of course,” she murmured, her eyes downcast as she prepared the customer’s order.

  Hastening from behind the counter, I gestured to Drew to go outside.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” Dr. Cricket said, his expression flustered by my quick dismissal of his contraption, “about the—”

  “I’ll study it later and let you know by the by,” I said and preceded him through the door. “Good day, sir.”

  Perhaps the firm tone of my voice dissuaded him from arguing. Or perhaps it was the faint yellow glow in my glare. Gulping hard enough to send his Adam’s apple into a bobbing frenzy, he nodded once and clattered down the stair.

  “Drew,” I said, turning on my brother with barely restrained irritation.

  Before I could castigate him for disturbing me at my shop, he peered through his long bangs, his expression doleful, his entire energy crestfallen and contrite.

  “I’m sorry, Bee,” he whimpered in anticipation of my lecture. “But I need a few more lessons.”

  Restraining my impulse to scowl, I reminded myself that such was to be expected from a man who was raised by a pack of werewolves. Not for the first time, I cursed the creature who’d kidnapped my brother.

  “I still confuse the different forks,” he continued, dirty blond hair obscuring his downcast face. “And if there’s soup…” The last word quavered at the prospect, as did I.

  “There shall be no soup served at your wedding dinner,” I asserted, recalling all too vividly Drew’s last attempt to consume soup. He’d reminded me of Nelly snorting while guzzling her oats, a far cry from a gentleman on the eve of his wedding.

  With one possible problem now removed, Drew sighed and gazed at me. His shoulders relaxed, and he straightened. “That’s good, Bee. But still, those forks. Why so many?”

  I patted his arm just as Mrs. Porterhouse strolled out the door, followed by Wanjiru carrying a boxed tea set. Mrs. Porterhouse cast a disparaging glance at Drew’s disheveled appearance — his wrinkled shirt, the mud-splattered cuffs of his trousers, his unwashed and uncombed hair — before smiling at me.

  “Mrs. Timmons, you are to be applauded,” she said. “Your establishment is of the highest caliber, as are its customers.”

  She furnished Drew with another snooty look, clearly inferring he was amongst the riffraff who should be barred from entering into the same space as good society.

  Fortunately for Mrs. Porterhouse, Drew was too distracted by thoughts of his upcoming nuptials to take notice of the slander. Instead, he twisted the hem of his shirt between his hands, further wrinkling it.

  “Drew, you really must tuck in your shirt,” I admonished him when Mrs. Porterhouse was no longer near us. “And don’t fuss about the cutlery. Just follow what Cilla does and you’ll be just fine.”

  While I spoke with complete confidence, I wasn’t entirely convinced of this assurance. Only recently had Drew agreed to sleep in a house rather than the barn or out on the savannah. When at the dining table, he hunched over his food as if to defend it, and held a knife as if it were a spear. At the slightest provocation, his eyes glowed a fierce yellow, and his canines elongated. I could only hope he wouldn’t leap onto the banquet table or growl at any of the guests. I made a mental note to seat our aunt, Mrs. Steward, as far from him as space would allow. And had anyone thought to ensure the wedding date wasn’t also the date of the full moon?

  My reassuring smile withering under this barrage of doubts, I patted his arm and repeated, “You’ll be just fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I KNEW IT was only a matter of time before the next body appeared. Such was the nature of things, particularly in this part of the world. So I was pleasantly surprised when the next body that showed up in my shop was still alive. My happiness was complete when I realized my shop could remain open for yet another day, and I wouldn’t have to clean up after a corpse.

  Initially, however, my response wasn’t one of relief.

  After leading Nelly to the cover at the back of the shop, I unlocked the backdoor and entered the small kitchen. Wanjiru wouldn’t arrive for a couple of hours, and I expected little distraction from potential customers until morning tea.

  I relished the quiet of the shop in these first hours of the day. While I claimed I needed to arrive early to tidy up the shelves, this wasn’t the entire truth. Alone and surrounded by tea, I could meditate on my hopes and fears without disturbance.

  Sighing, I patted Shelby as sh
e stirred in the pouch hanging across my shoulder. As I contemplated which tea I would sample, a chair scraped against the wooden floorboards.

  My breath hitched, and I tightened my grip on my metal walking stick. As I leaned against the wall next to the doorway between the kitchen and the shop, I mentally ticked off the list of useful items in my walking stick: poisoned darts, energy-viewing spectacles, lock picks, a knife, a blade that slid out the bottom of the stick, and the metal oxide fist atop the stick. The fist was particularly useful at subduing wild animals and wilder men.

  And then there was the werewolf energy which inhabited the contraption that replaced my left hand. As my thoughts turned to it, the metal joints of my replacement fingers twitched, and I could envision the silver wolf curled up inside, waiting to lunge at any assailant.

  Reassured I could manage the intruder, I sidled closer to the doorway and peered around it. While the sun had just risen, the shop was still in the shadows of a neighboring building and a stand of trees behind it. I had yet to light the oil lamp which, upon reflection, worked in my favor; my eyes easily adjusted to the dim interior.

  A floorboard creaked.

  My gaze fixed on the point of origin of the noise. I could discern the shadowy outline of a man. His features were sharp and his own gaze was directed toward me.

  “Fear not,” he spoke. “My apologies for the disturbance.”

  “Good morning, Constable Hunt,” I acknowledged his presence as I placed the oil lamp on the counter, lit the wick and settled the glass chimney over the flame. Constable Hunt’s blue eyes sparkled brightly in the glow. “While it’s always a pleasure to meet an officer of the law, I must admit I wouldn’t expect you to be here before I’ve even unlocked the shop.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Indeed, madam, and I… Is there a monkey around your neck?”

  Shelby had pushed her head out of the pouch and was studying the constable.

  “Yes, it’s a Vervet,” I explained. “My… a friend informed me babies need close physical contact in order to develop properly. You were saying?”

  Shutting his gaping mouth, the constable shook his head, smirking at the monkey. “I wouldn’t have intruded on your schedule without any notice, but I thought I saw someone inside here.”

  “How can that be?” I cried, glancing about the space and tightening my grip on my walking stick. All I could see in the dim lighting were tea sets and containers of tea leaves, as well as tea strainers of various designs and materials, and doilies upon which cakes could be displayed. “It’s far too early in the day for decent thieves to be at work. Is the trespasser still here?”

  Chagrined, the young constable shook his head and cast his gaze to the wooden floor. “Alas, no. Either the shadows deceived me or he departed with haste before I managed to investigate.”

  Frowning, I glanced at the front door. It was ajar, but I had locked it the previous evening.

  “I found it open,” Constable Hunt said, as if divining the source of my consternation. “If someone had been here, he must have exited through the backdoor, but he’s long gone now.”

  “More’s the pity,” I murmured, setting my leather trench coat across the counter. “Although the backdoor was locked upon my arrival. So I doubt he could have performed the trick of exiting it without a key.”

  “Does anyone else have a copy?” Constable Hunt inquired, his gaze fixed on me with unnerving intensity.

  I was on the verge of saying Simon had one, but given he was lounging on a steamer on his way to face trial and possibly prison, I didn’t see the point. Instead, I shook my head.

  “That narrows our list of suspects, doesn’t it?” Constable Hunt mused, a smile quirking on his lips.

  “Unless you were mistaken,” I reminded him as I tested the lock on the front door. It seemed firm enough.

  “There’s that,” he admitted gracefully. “Then again, the Wedding Killer is a clever and sneaky individual.”

  “But the police caught him in London,” I said, remembering the outdated article Simon had been perusing.

  “So they say,” he replied, strolling about the shop and appearing unusually interested in the tea set the murderer had placed in front of the dead bride, Sally O’Hara.

  “Yet you doubt it,” I prodded as I wiped down the counter. Even though Wanjiru had cleaned it yesterday, there was already a light film of dust across it.

  “I do,” Constable Hunt declared as he spun on a heel to watch me as I fussed with the dusting cloth. “The details of Miss O’Hara’s murder are so similar to the manner in which the Wedding Killer would carry out his…” He paused, smiled and added, “Or her activities.”

  He paused again as if to emphasize the possibility the Wedding Killer could be a woman. Satisfied the suggestion hadn’t passed unnoticed by myself, he continued, “So I believe we should expect more bodies before we’re done here.”

  Although his words aligned closely with my own suspicions, I knew better than to admit my thoughts could ever veer down such a dark path. I therefore did what a normal Victorian woman would do: I fluttered my eyelashes and gasped, “Surely not.”

  “Surely, yes,” Constable Hunt replied, not in the least bit outraged by the notion. If anything, he seemed pleased with the prospect. “The Wedding Killer was infamous for his attention to detail and his relentless pursuit of excellence.”

  Pausing to admire a tea strainer with an elephant motif on the handle, he said, “Although in one aspect this case differs from those in London: the killer never allowed the groom to live long after the bride met her end.”

  “Then we should be protecting the groom,” I exclaimed, my dusting forgotten as I marveled how a small, rural town such as Nairobi could attract so much trouble.

  Shrugging, the constable said, “If we could find him, we would consider it. Or we would arrest him as our prime suspect, for the man has vanished. That’s rather suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps not,” I said. “It could be he fears for his life.”

  “All the more reason to come to the constabulary for assistance,” Constable Hunt reasoned.

  As I couldn’t argue with his logic, I remained silent on the matter. Soon thereafter, Constable Hunt promised to return later to purchase a ration of tea, bid me good day and departed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CONSTABLE HUNT’S CASUAL reference to the possibility of a woman killer naturally led me to evaluate the list of suspects. As the list was nonexistent, I was most gratified when a likely candidate strolled into the store later that day.

  Lilly was regaling me with the latest exploits of baby Grace as I tidied the shelves behind the counter. Oil of Bergamot vied with chamomile for my attention, but I wasn’t paying much heed to the assortment of teas or to Lilly. Instead, I was anticipating my upcoming tea break which I intended to enjoy outside at the back of the store where I’d arranged a small archery range. I glanced to the shelf under the counter, gratified I’d remembered to bring my bow and quiver, when the bell over the front door tinkled merrily, and Miss Baxter strolled in.

  “The nerve of the woman,” I fumed as my gaze followed my new nemesis around the shop. “She has my husband arrested and then feels perfectly at ease to visit me here.”

  Lilly clutched Grace closer to her and removed the baby’s chubby fist out of her hair. “To be fair, it is the best tea shop in town.”

  “You mean the only one,” I grumbled.

  “That, too,” she conceded.

  My eyes brightened. “Perhaps she’s the Wedding Killer.”

  Having successfully extracted her hair from Grace’s grasp, Lilly stared at me with pursed lips and arched eyebrows. “Lower your voice. How did you come by such an extraordinary thought?”

  Warming to the topic, I said, “She arrived here a couple months after the killing stopped in London. Shortly after her arrival, a murder occurs. Don’t you find it highly coincidental?”

  Lilly plunked Grace onto the counter and fixed a
firm gaze upon me. “Beatrice, that’s absurd. Why would Miss Baxter murder anyone, never mind a bride?”

  “Revenge,” I blurted out. “Jealousy. She’s envious of anyone who has a modicum of happiness which she was denied.”

  “Really, you are beyond reason,” she huffed, tugging Grace away from the edge of the counter.

  Realizing I wasn’t about to offer the least bit assistance to our new customer, Wanjiru abandoned her post by the cash box and was explaining the finer details of one of the tea sets. Miss Baxter appeared riveted by the options before her. I too was riveted by what I’d like to inflict upon the current source of my unhappiness.

  Glaring at Miss Baxter, I muttered, “I’ll be sure to offer her something poisonous.”

  “Please don’t poison her, or at least not here,” Lilly said. “I’m not sure your other customers would approve. And Constable Hunt would surely close your shop if another customer were to drop dead in it.”

  “This is a serious consideration,” I admitted. “What if I merely added a slightly toxic substance to her tea? Nothing lethal, mind you, but designed to cause gastrointestinal distress.” I smiled at the thought.

  Taking advantage of my distraction, Shelby crawled out of the pouch and clambered onto my shoulder. Squatting by my ear, she prepared to leap onto Grace who was gurgling at the monkey. I pulled Shelby down and scolded the both of them. Chattering her irritation at me, the baby monkey struggled to escape my grip and continue her climb. Grace whimpered and reached out to assist.

  “Children,” Lilly tutted as the monkey and baby yowled.

  Both Wanjiru and Miss Baxter looked at us. Upon seeing my expression, Wanjiru blanched and excused herself, hurrying into the small kitchen and closing the door firmly behind her.