by Vered Ehsani
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Character List
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Fact & Fiction
Read More
About the Author
Copyright
Death in a Teacup
a Cozy Tea Shoppe Mystery: Case 2
By Vered Ehsani
from Africa… with a Bite
Get 4 Books for Free
Ghosts of Tsavo ~ Beatrice Knight arrives in colonial Kenya desperate for a pot of tea. What she gets is a lot of adventure. This is the first book in the Society for Paranormals series, the prequel to this series.
Victorian Nairobi: A photo album ~ Enjoy this collection of century-old photos taken during the early days of Nairobi’s history.
That Night in Lagos ~ Learn how Miss Knight met the Mantis, her arch-nemesis, during her first adventure on the African continent.
From Africa, with a Bite ~ Enjoy a beginner’s guide to African supernatural beings and things that go bump in the night.
Three of these books aren’t available in any store. For more information, go to http://veredehsani.co.za/free-books/
Character List
Anansi ~ the Trickster God who appears as a giant spider
Beatrice Timmons ~ more commonly referred to as Miss Knight; a paranormal investigator, and part witch, part werewolf
Drew Anderson ~ Miss Knight’s half brother, and a werewolf
Dr. Ribeiro ~ the zebra-riding doctor of Nairobi
Gideon Knight ~ Miss Knight’s deceased first husband, and a ghost
James Elkhart ~ Miss Knight’s and Tiberius’ biological father, and a Mediterranean vampire
Jonas ~ the gardener, cook and driver for the Timmons household
Kam ~ the African God of Lightning
Koki ~ the Praying Mantis, and a West African she-demon
Le-Eyo ~ God of Death, otherwise known as Death
Lilly Elkhart ~ Miss Knight’s cousin with whom she grew up in the Steward household
Nelly ~ Miss Knight’s flying horse
Pricilla (Cilla) White ~ Mr. Timmons’ niece and goddaughter, and Miss Knight’s best friend
Prof. Runal ~ Director of the Society for Paranormals, and a werewolf
Simon Timmons ~ Miss Knight’s husband, and an energy / identity thief
Mr. and Mrs. Steward ~ Lilly’s parents and Miss Knight’s uncle and aunt
Tiberius Elkhart ~ Miss Knight’s half brother, Lilly’s husband, and a Popobawa
Wanjiru ~ Jonas’ daughter and Yao’s fiancee
Yao ~ an Adze (an African vampire that shape-shifts into a firefly)
Chapter One
WHILE BEING GORED to death by an enraged elephant is hardly a fitting end for a gentleman, it was a suitable conclusion for a hunter with no morals. Or so I reassured myself. As my opinion on the matter was clearly at variance with the majority of the funeral attendees, I maintained a cordial silence.
“How distressing it is,” Cilla whispered to me as we followed the line of mourners toward the patch of land reserved for the disposal of human bodies.
“Indeed it is,” I replied, inspecting the ends of my long, dark braid. “It is now past afternoon tea, and there’s no sign of this business finishing soon.”
My dearest friend merely sighed and shook her head, a strand of her dark blond hair swishing against her round, rosy cheeks. “Surely you can’t be so disinterested,” she said, her blue eyes bright with tears.
Smirking slightly, I said, “Surely I can.”
Ignoring the glare bestowed upon me by a mourner, I stared past the small graveyard and out to the savannah. The return of the rains had transformed the dusty, dry land into a herbivore’s paradise.
Tall grass blanketed the land in green, and flowers of red, yellow and orange covered the trees. The scent of the flowers mingled with that of fresh grass and rich earth. The number of birds and insects had exploded, filling the air with a variety of calls, chirps and songs. Giraffe strolled amongst herds of fattened zebra and dark-skinned wildebeest. Of the elephants there was no sign.
Cilla clucked and said, “Do try to behave, Beatrice.”
“That might prove difficult,” I muttered, my eyes narrowing. If anyone had dared stare at me, they would have noticed a peculiar yellow glint to my light hazel eyes. The yellow was the only obvious indication of the werewolf bite bestowed upon me while I was a child; when I was irritated, the color tended to be more noticeable.
The other symptom of that bite, a wolf energy which was connected to my own, twitched within the delicate clockwork mechanism of my metal left hand. I had only to think the command, and the wolf would leap out and cause havoc. Admittedly, I was tempted.
Glancing at me, her blue eyes wide with concern, Cilla said, “Please control your wolf.”
Impressed she’d divined the direction of my thoughts, I clenched my left hand, the various cogs and metal bones glinting in the sunlight. “But of course.”
The lack of tea and other sustenance had plunged me into a foul mood. Relishing the heft of my walking stick, I slashed it against unoffending underbrush. I wasn’t infirm or crippled by any means. Nor was I too old, having only recently survived my twenty-sixth birthday—much to my surprise and my family’s delight. However, the oxide green metal walking stick was a most useful tool for a paranormal investigator, filled as it was with tools tucked inside hidden compartments. At that moment, I was considering using the sleeping darts on the minister if he dawdled overly with his graveside speech.
“All this fuss for what?” I asked.
“Beatrice Knight Timmons, you don’t mean that,” Cilla scolded me, attempting to appear firm and aggrieved but she was too gentle to be anything but kind. “Mr. Turner is dead. He was such a young man, tragically removed from life before he could truly begin it, trampled by a rampaging elephant.”
The mention of the murderous animal called to mind the elephant herd which had not so long ago assisted us in a battle with an army of skeletons. I recalled with a soft smile the matriarch and her sweet, tiny baby, both of whom—according to Koki the she-demon—were my friends forever. This inevitably turned my thoughts to my own as-yet unborn baby, a secret I had revealed to no one. Resisting the urge to place a hand over my abdomen, I returned to the conversation.
“And what of the elephant?” I asked, glancing at the front of the crowd of mourners where a coffin was being lowered to the ground by several of the young man’s fellow hunters. “No one has spared even a moment to consider the feelings of that poor beast, shot down in the prime of life. How many little Loxodonta africana orphans are created by the cruelty of these visiting hunters?”
“Then why did you come?”
“You insisted,” I said, not bothering to add that I fervently wished I had de
clined the invitation. The only possible excuse available to me—bouts of nausea and an unnatural debilitation which had plagued me for the first few weeks of my pregnancy—had passed as rapidly as it had appeared. The unfortunate timing of my improved health allowed me no excuse as I was more than capable of attending the funeral.
“Beatrice, I know you miss Simon,” Cilla said. “I do too. But if anyone can defeat trumped-up charges, it’s my uncle. Don’t worry.”
At the mention of my husband, my throat constricted. I’d lost track of the days since he’d left for London. Under arrest for attacking his former fiancée, Simon Timmons had decided to face the court rather than escape with our friends into the wilderness of Africa. Not a day passed when I didn’t think of him and worry about our future while cursing his obstinance.
No further conversation was possible for at that moment, a hush descended on the crowd as the minister launched into a long-winded speech in a droning voice. “We can only find comfort in the divine promise of eternal life,” he pronounced as he scratched the side of his bony nose. “And in the fact that Mr. Turner, in his last moment of life, killed the elephant with one shot through the eye and into the brain.”
“Lucky shot,” I muttered. Cilla jabbed me in the side with her elbow.
Standing at the edge of the open grave, the minister gazed out at the crowd, raised a hand to the sky and concluded, “We can all rest easy knowing the savage beast is dead.”
“By savage beast, is he referring to the elephant or Mr. Turner?” I whispered to Cilla.
“Hush,” she said as the coffin was lowered into the hole.
Sighing, I glanced around the newly delineated cemetery. There was no reason why that plot had been selected over the neighboring plot; indeed, there was no distinguishing markers at all apart from a hastily erected fence. At least the dead would have a decent view of the forested slopes to one side and the savannah stretching out to the distant horizon on the other.
Turning away from the hole in the ground, I studied the small town of Nairobi. It wasn’t much to look at really: a huddle of shops and offices lined a dirt road named after our monarch Queen Victoria; the ramshackle Bazaar sprawled around one end of town; and to one side squatted the tented camp which housed the Indians who were in British East Africa to construct Her Majesty’s railway across the colonies. Even from this distance, I could see the stains of red clay soil and dust on the canvas tents and the growing pile of camp-related debris.
“Beatrice,” Cilla hissed and elbowed me sharply.
Obediently I turned to face the minister who predictably had much to say about a man he had never known. I’d hoped that perhaps Gideon, my dead first husband, would attend, thus entertaining me with graveside antics that would certainly have been inappropriate but highly amusing. Alas, he refrained as did my other paranormal acquaintances and family members.
It was therefore with great relief that I observed the lowering of the coffin into the hole. Members of the East African Ladies League, led by their chairwoman Mrs. Mayence Bent, clustered around the bereaved, ostensibly to provide consolation but in reality to mine them for any gems of gossip. After all, Nairobi had been quiet as of late. Even the heavy April rains, prolonged by a perverse fit of nature into June, had petered out, leaving in its wake the perpetually overcast sky of the cool, dry season that some referred to as winter.
As there was no reason to remain, I started along the path leading to town, the chatter of the gossips fading behind me. Fervently I hoped that Jonas, my gardener and driver, hadn’t taken it upon himself to depart for home.
Leaning close to me and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, Cilla said, “I heard from Mrs. Bent that our new mayor has formed a committee to better organize the town and more closely monitor hunting activities. And he’s single.”
“And you’re engaged to my brother,” I said. “Really, you should leave such commentaries to the unattached girls.”
Cilla giggled. “I have no interest in the new mayor,” she reassured me. “While he is pleasing in his form and manner, he’s rather dull compared to our family, wouldn’t you agree?”
I smiled and said, “If there’s one thing we are not, it’s dull.”
As if the mere thought summoned him, a bloodsucking firefly zipped before my eyes.
“Miss Knight,” he said, his silky voice filling my mind. “Hurry home.”
“Stop with the charm, Yao,” I grumbled and shook my head to clear the unseemly thoughts that the shape-shifting vampire always engendered in me.
“Yao is sorry,” he said and landed on my shoulder. “But have you arranged for the negotiation with Jonas?”
“How terribly romantic,” Cilla said, placing her hands over her heart.
“Hardly,” I said, glancing around to ensure we couldn’t be overheard chatting with an insect. “I have to persuade my gardener to give up his only daughter to a firefly in exchange for a few cows.”
“Adze,” Yao corrected, shaking his little wings. “Yao is an Adze, and Jonas will receive more than a few cows. My beloved Wanjiru is worth more than that.”
“At any rate, I’ve arranged for the negotiation,” I said, relieved to see our two-wheeled wagon up ahead near the outskirts of Nairobi. Jonas was leaning against the ox, pretending indifference at the approaching crowd of mourners. Nelly, my flying horse, was deflowering an angel’s trumpet bush, oblivious to the poisonous nature of the plant. “We’ll formally meet in three days, so there’s no need for me to hurry home at all.”
Yao buzzed closer to my ear, the beating of his little wings tickling me. “Yes, there is,” he argued, but I heard the mischief in his voice even before he added, “Miss Knight, you need to hurry home because you have a special guest waiting.”
“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” I said.
Yao chuckled. “No one ever expects Death to visit them until he does. Now he is here and he’s waiting for you.”
Chapter Two
IT IS ALWAYS disconcerting to find a god sitting at one’s kitchen table, more so when that god is Death himself.
While I am accustomed to all manner of paranormal beasties and supernatural goings-on, even my nerves have their limits. Upon hearing Yao’s announcement, I lifted my skirt and hastened to reach Nelly, leaving Cilla and Yao to chat about weddings and happily-ever-afters.
“Nelly, stop eating those flowers,” I scolded as I arrived at last before my horse. Yanking at the reins, I added, “They’re poisonous, you silly nag. Jonas, why do you let her eat them?”
Jonas peered over, his face reminiscent of a wrinkled apple. One gnarled hand stroked a bullet scar on the horse’s neck. Scratching at the black-and-white curls cut close to his dark scalp, he shrugged. “Me, I don’t worry,” he said. “Nelly, she can eat anything.”
It was true. Early on in our acquaintance, the small, reddish-brown horse consumed a serpent spirit which had tried to possess her. Since then, she’d acquired the abilities to fly and to digest anything remotely edible within her reach. I’d seen her devour lampshades and suffer no ill effect apart from an increase in bodily eruptions from either end. As far as I knew, she was the only horse who could belch, and this was hardly a source of pride.
“Jonas, if other people observe her eating poison,” I explained, “they’ll marvel why she hasn’t dropped dead by now. And we can’t have that, now can we?”
Frowning, Jonas scratched his head again, a sign that he was pondering my words. “Yes?” he said.
“No, we can’t,” I said as I swung into the saddle and settled my skirt about me. “It’s most imprudent to allow the normal amongst us to learn of the existence of the paranormal. It would addle their minds and, worse, stimulate their imagination. This could lead them to discover even more inconvenient truths, thus endangering our world, and all because you allowed Nelly to eat those flowers.”
While I might have exaggerated a tad, I retained the belief of my previous employer, the Society for Paranormals, that a little b
it of ignorance goes a long way to protect everyone. Jonas however was unimpressed by my argument.
“Those People of the Fog,” he said, referring to Europeans, and spat upon the ground. “Them, they see what they want to see, not what is.”
“Be that as it may,” I acknowledged, “it is preferable to use some wisdom, particularly in such a public spot.”
Not wishing to delay my departure any further, I urged Nelly into a canter, impatient to be out of sight of the funeral attendees. Once we were obscured by some distance and a clump of trees at the edge of a river, I urged Nelly upward. With a snort and a toss of her head, she leaped toward the sky, nearly unseating me in the process. The world blurred into streaks of blue, gray and green, the wind so fierce against my face that I struggled to breathe. Yet I dared not open my mouth for fear of swallowing one of the insects that splattered against me.
As the Hardinge Estate came into view, Nelly shifted direction and plummeted to the ground, only straightening up a hairbreadth before we collided with our ramshackle barn. Trotting into the structure, Nelly neighed at the other horses and promptly fell asleep.
I allowed myself a moment to fix my hair which was all askew and to wipe off a few insects from my face and clothes. As there was little more I could do to tidy myself, I strode out of the barn and to our cottage, wondering what new misadventure awaited me.
The misadventure in question slouched in a chair, his elbows on the small wooden table, his chin in hands, a sulk on his otherwise pleasant face. Le-Eyo, God of Death, glanced at me as I entered the back door to the kitchen but made no move to stand or greet me. Then again, Death and I weren’t exactly on the best of terms. When he kidnaped Jonas’ daughter Wanjiru, I had assisted in rescuing her from the Underworld, depriving Death of his bride and, more importantly, bruising his pride.
“I’m going to need a pot of tea for this,” I said. So saying, I added wood into the round belly of the black, metal stove. A full kettle, its surface battered and darkened over the years, squatted on the stone counter. I hefted it onto the stove’s top and faced my unwelcome guest.
