Murder for Tea

by Vered Ehsani

  Reluctant to be the first to turn away, I finally did so and turned back to Dougal. “And why’s that?”

  “Well, madam, he was dead,” Dougal blustered. “And in much the same state as the bride, all dressed as if he was about to step up to the altar. And no hint of the cause. No bruising, no bludgeon to the head, no gun shot or stab wound.”

  The Chief Constable continued with an impressive list of all the possible means of murder. He did so in one breath and when he reached the end of the list, he gasped and finished with, “We’re thinking maybe it’s poison, like with the Wedding Killer. Still, it’s quite a mystery.”

  “I can appreciate that,” I said, determinedly ignoring Hunt’s stare. “But if I may ask, why am I here?”

  “Oh,” Dougal said and tugged at his collar in discomfort. “Well, you see, the thing is, we found a teapot.”

  “A teapot,” I repeated, wondering if they served tea in prison.

  Dougal cast his gaze about the room as if searching for his next word. “Yes.”

  Clearly, Dougal’s word search wasn’t successful, so Hunt continued. “Perhaps, Mrs. Timmons, you’re still wondering why a teapot would cause us to think of you.”

  I lifted my chin and met his ice-blue gaze with my yellow one. “No, I can imagine the sequence of thoughts which led to such a conclusion.”

  Hunt’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “And what would that sequence be?”

  “For a start, all my teapots and cups have labeled tags tied to their handles with ribbon,” I explained, cursing my foray into artistic expression. “The tags provide clear proof that each item originates from The Cozy Tea Shoppe. And as it so happens, Constable Hunt, a teapot was stolen from my shop recently.”

  “How convenient,” he replied, his eyes narrowing.

  “I can assure you it isn’t at all,” I retorted, resisting the need to wipe the dampness off my brow. “Apart from the cost to replace it, I now have a tea set which is missing its central piece. How am I to sell such a deficient set?”

  “Indeed, how?” he murmured, no doubt visualizing me at the guillotine block from which it would be impossible to sell anything at all.

  “Well, so you see,” Dougal interrupted the staring match, “it does look peculiar, to say the least. Two murder victims, both dispatched and arranged in a similar manner. One found in your shop, and the other…”

  At this, he leaned to the side of the desk, his stomach bulging over his belt, and pulled open a large drawer. As he straightened, he retrieved the stolen white bone china teapot and plunked it onto the desk. The delicate white material seemed incongruous against the beaten up, wooden surface.

  “Well, we found the other body with your teapot in his lap,” Dougal continued, his expression sincere in its bewilderment. “The very teapot that was on the dead bride’s table. Almost as if you were being framed, but who would want to do that, Mrs. Timmons?”

  At the prompt, one name came to mind: Miss Baxter. I refrained from blurting it out. As far as the townspeople of Nairobi were concerned, Miss Baxter was the innocent victim of a charlatan. My unfounded accusations would only reinforce the perception of Simon’s guilt.

  “I’ve nothing to say on the matter,” I answered, “for I can’t imagine who or why.”

  I stood up and nearly collapsed. Leaning forward, I pressed my palms onto the desk while my vision blurred and spun, and something unpleasant curdled in my stomach.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” Dougal’s voice echoed about me.

  Sinking back into the seat, I closed my eyes and focused on breathing.

  “Constable, fetch her some water,” Dougal ordered as he kneeled beside me and patted my hand.

  Squinting at the concerned man, I muttered, “Tea. I’d murder for tea.”

  At Constable Hunt’s sharp look, I hastily added, “Metaphorically speaking, of course. It’s my low blood pressure, the solution for which is a strong cup of tea.”

  While I doubted the medical veracity of my statement, it seemed to placate at least one of the police officers.

  A few minutes later, a lukewarm cup of some beverage with an oily surface was thrust into my hands. Trying not to grimace at the temperature and lackluster appearance, I gulped it down. I suspected Constable Hunt had previously used the cup for coffee as there was a taint to the tea which was foul beyond redemption.

  The men stood on either side of me, conducting a silent conversation with hand gestures and eye movements. Try as I might to ignore them, it became impossible once I’d consumed the tea.

  “Am I free to go, then?” I demanded as I set the cup onto the desk with a sharp clack.

  “Of course, Mrs. Timmons,” the Chief Constable said in a placating tone.

  “For now,” Constable Hunt added, ignoring the glare from his superior officer. “Let’s just say you shouldn’t depart from the environs of Nairobi.”

  Scowling, Dougal took a few steps back and fixed his attention on the filing cabinet as he waited for me to compose myself. Hunt remained where he was, his energy looming over me. As I pushed myself off the chair, the young constable leaned even closer, his smile hard, his eyes glittering with ice.

  “I’ve heard distance makes the heart grow fonder,” Hunt whispered, his breath brushing my cheek. “If that's true, you and Mr. Timmons could soon have the opportunity to become excessively fond of each other.” His smile widened. “Who knows? Residing in separate prisons might be the secret ingredient for a happy marriage.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I SHOULD GIVE up and close shop,” I groaned.

  “Either you jest,” Lilly said, “or a wizard has taken over your brain.”

  “Neither, I assure you,” I said, closing my eyes and enjoying the flicker of firelight against my eyelids.

  I had come to the Hardinge mansion to unburden my woes upon Lilly and found her enjoying a quiet moment in Father’s library. Father was preparing to depart on an errand once the sun set. He was too civilized to describe the nature of his task but I knew he was going to meet a Maasai herdsman to collect blood. The Maasai drank a mixture of cow blood and milk, and of course my father being a vampire required the first ingredient to survive.

  “I’ve never known you to abandon hope and wallow in self-pity,” Lilly said, her knitting needles clicking against the background of the flames snapping in the stone fireplace before us. “It’s unbecoming, I must tell you.”

  “Must you?” I whined even as I realized she was correct. Yet I didn’t have the energy to protest.

  “Do stop slouching, Beatrice,” she snapped.

  For a startling moment, she sounded very much like her mother. So convincing was the similarity I straightened up and glanced about, expecting to see Mrs. Steward waving her lavender-scented handkerchief, her round jowls quivering as she launched into a lecture about the inappropriateness of slouching and self-pity while quoting Mrs. Beeton.

  All I saw was the Persian carpet and the zebra-skin rug covering much of the wooden floorboards, and the wall across from me which was covered by bookshelves ladened with a delightful diversity of literature. I lowered my gaze to the sofa set upon which we sat; its paisley print was soothing, although I couldn’t help but note the three-seater still bore the claw marks of the giant, one-eyed crocodile. It, along with an army of skeletons led by a revenge-seeking warrior-poet, had attacked the house on the night Grace was born.

  Shaking my head to clear the memories of that tumultuous experience, I turned to Lilly. She was absorbed in the miniature sweater she was creating, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she finished a particularly difficult section.

  “There,” she announced and held up the article of clothing. “It might just fit her before she has another growth spurt.”

  “At least you’ll have it ready for the next one,” I teased, smiling as she grimaced.

  “One is enough for now,” she muttered.

  As if to remind her how true that was, a thin wail called out from down the corr
idor.

  Seeing the exhaustion on my cousin’s features, I stood and took hold of a silver candelabra. “I’ll get her.”

  “I won’t say no to such an offer,” Lilly replied, smiling up at me.

  “Don’t blame me if I make her cry harder,” I added. “I’m not sure she likes me.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, of course she does,” Lilly said, her words hinting at suppressed laughter.

  Unconvinced, I hastened out of the library, the three thin candles in the multi-branched candlestick guttering in the breeze of my passage. Holding a hand in front of the candles, I approached the partially opened door of the next room. Lady Hardinge had taken advantage of the damage inflicted on the house by the crocodile and skeletons to perform a few renovations. One such project resulted in Lord Hardinge’s small study being converted into a nursery. As I approached the door, the crying ceased.

  “How odd,” I said.

  I peaked inside the nursery, hoping my little niece had fallen back to sleep. Instead, I saw a large shadow standing over her crib. Outraged at the sight, and mortified I’d left my walking stick in the library, I pushed the door fully open, preparing to hurl the candelabra at the intruder’s head.

  “Calm yourself, Miss Knight,” Koki said as she stepped into the circle of light created by my candles, baby Grace curled into her arms.

  “Most visitors have the decency to knock before entering a house,” I chided her as I set the candlestick on a side table by the door.

  “Are you accusing me of decency?” Koki said and chortled. “I am offended.”

  Grace gurgled and waved her pudgy little arms, the caramel coloring pale compared to Koki’s dark skin. Two little fangs sprouted out of her top gum.

  “What will we do if others see that,” I muttered and stepped close enough for Grace to snatch at my one of my shirt sleeves.

  Koki shrugged as if this wasn’t a concern. “People will interpret reality according to their limitations,” she said as she brushed Grace’s head with a hand.

  “And if it happens to be Prof. Runal,” I argued, “he’ll interpret it correctly.”

  Dejected by the sheer weight of all the conundrums facing me, I sunk into the rocking chair in one corner of the room. The squeaking of the rocker, Grace’s gurgling and the candles’ spluttering were the only sounds. As I resumed my morose state, Koki spoke.

  “Have you ever noticed how dramatically the night changes into day on the savannah?” She lifted Grace to her shoulder and patted the baby’s back. “It’s not like the protracted and watery sunrises of England. One minute, it’s the darkest of night. The next, the sun is out, and all is well again.”

  I peered up at Koki to find her watching me, the characteristic ferocity of her gaze mellowed with some softer emotion. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  Smirking, she shifted Grace to her other shoulder. “Don’t be so shocked, Miss Knight. Have you been practicing your meditation?”

  Frowning, I nodded, grateful for the change in subject but not sure if this was the best choice. “I keep witnessing the night my parents — or rather my mother and her husband — were murdered. It’s as if I was there, although I have no memory of being there.”

  “Trauma can cause lapses in memory,” Koki said with no particular sympathy.

  While I was loath to admit my memory could be anything but faultless, I acknowledged the point and continued, “Prof. Runal was there. If this is a memory, then he was trying to kill me as well as my mother. But that doesn’t make sense.”

  Koki snorted and placed Grace back in the crib. The baby had resumed her slumber. “He’s a werewolf, a European and a man. Why should anything he does make sense?”

  Unconvinced, I watched Grace through the wooden slates of her crib. Her cherub lips were set in a delightful pout, as if they were copied from a painting, so perfect were they. Her long, dark eyelashes rested against her light brown skin, and one little fist lay against her round cheek. In that moment, she was the epitome of peaceful slumber and sweet innocence.

  “It’s been so long since I slept such a sleep,” I said, my words coming out as a sigh.

  “You worry too much,” Koki said.

  “There’s a lot about which to worry,” I reminded her as I continued to watch Grace.

  “Yes,” she said. She strolled to the glass doors which led to the veranda. Before she slipped away into the night, she turned to me and said, “But there’s also a lot to hope for.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “BEING HUMAN IS so paining,” Yao complained.

  “You mean painful,” I corrected him without looking up from my correspondence. “And yes, it is.”

  Yao continued to sulk as he slouched in the other chair on the veranda. It was Simon’s chair, and I felt consternation at seeing another man in it.

  To distract myself from thoughts of my husband’s well-being, I said, “Fortunately, you’re not human.”

  Straightening up and staring at me with an expression which was both offended and wounded, Yao said, “Yao is a human.” He thumped a fist against his bare chest.

  Averting my eyes, I refrained from informing him humans didn’t have the ability to transform into fireflies; nor did they hunger after blood. Instead I asked, “What is so terribly painful about your current state that you are encouraged to disturb my solitude?”

  “Solitude,” he repeated and shuddered as if I’d pronounced a great evil upon him. “This means being alone and lonely.”

  “Alone, yes,” I said as I dipped my quill in the ink jar. “But not necessarily lonely.”

  “It is the same for Yao,” the Adze moaned and flung his head back as if to howl his torment at the darkening sky. “Alone and lonely.”

  I didn’t dare admit I too experienced the combined force of those states of being. Leaning toward the small side table, I sniffed at the whiff of burning fuel emanating from the oil lamp.

  “Exactly,” Yao wailed and sniffed back a tear.

  “I am all astonishment,” I declared as I smoothed a piece of paper against the board which rested on my lap. “Really, you are complaining excessively. You have Wanjiru’s attention, and she isn’t trapped on a steamer heading for another continent. What could possibly cause you such distress?”

  Yao leaned across his wooden armrest, the canvas and wood chair creaking under his weight. Narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice, he hissed, “Jonas.”

  “Ah,” I said, forcing my mouth into a straight line although it desired to curve upward. “The father doesn’t approve of your attention to his daughter?”

  Yao flung himself back into his chair with a scowl. Even then, with his features distorted with disgust and anxiety, he was still a handsome specimen of a paranormal humanoid. The Charm oozing from his pores didn’t hurt his attractiveness.

  “He denies Yao,” he replied. “He even won’t talk about the number of cows he would want.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, wondering what cows and courtship had to do with one another.

  “Dowry, Miss Knight, dowry,” Yao explained, staring at me as if I’d sprouted wings. “Didn’t Mr. Timmons provide cows to your family?”

  “I see,” I said, recalling the African concept of dowry which required one family to provide a certain amount of wealth in the form of livestock to the other. In some cases, it was a bride price, while other tribes delivered the tribute to the groom’s family. “No, Mr. Timmons didn’t provide any cows in exchange for my hand.”

  Yao glanced at my metal left hand. “Dowry isn’t for the hand, Miss Knight,” he explained, his eyes widening. “We don’t cut off the hand of our brides. That would be horrible.”

  Smiling, I said, “Of course, and neither do we. What I mean is Mr. Timmons didn’t offer cows to the Steward family in order to marry me.”

  Yao’s delicate eyebrows scrunched together. “What about goats?”

  “No goats, either.”

  “Chickens, then?” he pressed on, leaning forwar
d, his dark gaze fixed on me. “Did he give chickens? Although Yao believes Miss Knight to be worth far more than a flock of chickens.”

  “Charming,” I said. “And thank you for the sentiment, but Englishmen don’t give any animals in exchange for… in order to marry a woman.”

  Aghast, Yao swiveled out of his chair and kneeled before me. Placing a hand upon my own, he said, “Mr. Timmons is a naughty man who doesn’t appreciate how much you are worth, Miss Knight. I would have paid twenty cattle. No, forty cattle!”

  “That’s thoughtful of you,” I said. “But you needn’t worry on my behalf.”

  Yao leaped to his feet and began to pace. “Yao wishes to provide many cows and goats to have Wanjiru as his bride,” he proclaimed. “She is worth everything. But Jonas…”

  Yao spat upon the ground.

  Shaking my head, I attempted to compose a letter to Simon. Perhaps, I mused, I should demand he pay a proper dowry.

  “You, Miss Knight,” Yao gushed as he returned to my side and squatted there. “You can help Yao.”

  “Oh?” I asked, reluctant to be incorporated into a scheme which was doomed to failure. Jonas was many things, stubborn being one of them.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Yao thumped his hands together with each ‘yes’. “Negotiate with Jonas for Yao.”

  “Negotiate?” Now it was my turn to be horrified. “I will not negotiate as if Wanjiru was a slab of meat to be purchased at the market.”

  “Wanjiru isn’t meat,” Yao bellowed, leaping to his feet and glaring at me. “Yao would never eat her. She is the beloved, the stars that brighten the night, the flower—”

  “And all of that, I’m sure,” I interrupted him before he deluged me with dreadful poetry. “It’s not part of my culture to negotiate for the purchase of a person.”

  “No, Miss Knight,” Yao said and grabbed my hands in his. “You are not purchasing Wanjiru for Yao. You are purchasing the right to marry Wanjiru.” He bent at the waist until his eyes were at the level of my own, his breath caressing my cheek. “Of course, you won’t marry her, nor will Mr. Timmons. You will give the right to Yao who will. Understand?”