Society for Paranormals

by Vered Ehsani

  “Indeed, your recovery from your wife’s passing was nothing short of miraculous,” I noted, thinking it was also short of decency.

  “Yes, which brings me to the point of my visit,” he said.

  I frowned, wondering how the point of the story could be related to the point of his visit. “I thought it was to collect a dead body,” I said, tapping my fingers impatiently together.

  “Oh yes, that it was as well,” he said, nodding his head in time with his blinking eyes. “But that was merely a happy coincidence, for even had that bit of good fortune not transpired, I still would’ve been emboldened to make this visit. For I have an important proposition.”

  I didn’t appreciate the sound of that at all. I jumped to my feet. “To do with business, perhaps? Then you should really converse with Mr. Steward.”

  With that, I hurried out of the barn and toward the kitchen door. Jonas had finished preparing the tea in my absence. I could see the tray set out on the counter, my teapot surrounded by Mrs. Steward’s delicate china cups, all ready to be taken to the dining table.

  Dr. Cricket followed me into the kitchen where he found me hastily pouring a cup of liquid resuscitation. “Well, to be perfectly honest…” he started.

  “Please don’t,” I interrupted, adding more sugar than was normal for me. “That’s completely unnecessary and would in all likelihood ruin my digestion when I finally do take my breakfast. Honesty is greatly overrated.”

  The man stared at me, blinking his eyes in confusion, clearly torn between protecting my digestion and telling me the truth. Sadly, truth won out this time.

  “The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Knight,” he started up again, accepting a teacup from me with a nod, “I was rather hoping to converse with the Stewards…”

  I tensed up, for such a pronouncement could only be for one reason.

  “…regarding a matter of a rather delicate nature,” he finished.

  I sighed with relief. Clearly, he wasn’t referring to me, as there was nothing delicate about my nature. Perhaps he wanted to propose to Lilly, then? I pondered that option for a moment as I sat on a stool and gestured for him to sit on the other.

  They hadn’t really spent any time together, but what did that matter? Most married couples I knew, including Gideon and I, barely knew each other before the wedding. Come to think of it, many of those same couples (apart from Gideon and I, of course) hardly spent any time together even after they were married, so perhaps this was the best possible arrangement. And given the rather limited marriageable options currently available for Lilly, it might be the only possibility.

  “And what have I to do with that?” I asked as I slurped at my tea.

  Not a bad pot indeed, I reflected on the beverage. Jonas might know nothing about maintaining his nails, but he’d finally learned to produce a decent cup of tea, and after all, that was much more important than fingernail hygiene.

  Dr. Cricket resumed his baffled expression. “Well, it has everything to do with you,” he spluttered. “I wish to formally receive their blessing.”

  I gulped at the tea and felt the back of my throat scald. “What?” I gasped, wondering if the liquid would burn a hole right through me. “Or rather, for what purpose?”

  “To marry, of course,” he explained, his eyes bugging out, presumably in amazement at my inability to simultaneously drink tea and follow a simple conversation. “I wish to marry you. It’s the most rational outcome really. We have so much in common, after all.”

  He began ticking off the points on his fingers. “We’re both widowed. We both appreciate archery and scientific endeavors. I’ve noticed you enjoy walks through the forest. While I’m not sure this is the wisest course of action when done alone, I too enjoy a stroll now and then. You see, it’s perfectly logical, given…”

  I ceased listening, being unclear how marriage could be anything close to logical. Granted, my experience on the matter was relatively limited, but on one point I was clear: if I ever did re-marry, it certainly wouldn’t be to a man who approached the matter as a logical conclusion, no matter his qualifications.

  Desperate to extract myself from this inconvenient situation, I interrupted his monologue. “Dr. Cricket, please, this conversation is causing me indigestion.”

  Of a sudden, he lurched forward and grabbed my hand. Stunned into immobility, I contemplated smacking the man with the kettle but restrained myself. It wouldn’t do to add another dent to the old thing.

  In that frozen moment, I reaffirmed my belief in the strength of the African sun to addle the brains of decent English people. For it was my observation that a number of them had developed this nasty habit of snatching up other people’s hands without warning or permission of any sort. I feared in fact that the sun’s effects subjugated a wide range of social niceties, even in the upright household of the Stewards.

  And while this was all very liberating, excessive freedom does come with a cost. One such cost was the very predicament I now found myself in, that of having my hand firmly clenched in the grip of a man I had no intention of marrying, logic be damned.

  “Please, call me Gregory,” he said, his eyes blinking as rapidly as my heart. “Or Greg, if you prefer. My mum called me Greggie.”

  “Oh my,” I said, at a complete loss.

  “I like you, Miss Knight,” Dr. Cricket gushed as he plucked up my other hand. “Excessively so, if I might be so bold as to declare.”

  “I… It’s Mrs. Knight, actually,” I said, finally gaining back some control of my vocal cords and wits.

  He blinked several times. If Gideon were there, he would’ve nodded approvingly. Not that I needed an audience on top of everything else and I was quite glad he wasn’t around just then.

  “I’m a widow,” I reminded him and extracted one of my hands from his, hoping that this explanation would terminate the conversation. Perhaps I could suggest Lilly to him, while his brain was still sun-addled?

  “I know, that’s one of those points we have in common,” he said. “For so am I. I mean, I’m not actually a widow. I’m a widower, of course. And, well, there’s no sin in being that, Miss, ah, Mrs. Knight. And there’s no law against remarrying after such an inconvenience. In fact, it’s most logical and praiseworthy to do so.”

  My chest clenched and I wondered if now might be an appropriate time to faint. I briefly considered this, and decided against such a drastic course of action. Dr. Cricket might be inspired to pick me up and hold me in his arms, and I didn’t think I could’ve remained still and quiet if he intruded on me in such a way.

  “But what of the inferiority of my connections?” I persisted in denying him.

  “What of them?” he demanded, his confidence disappearing in a deluge of rapid eye blinking.

  “Well, I have none,” I said.

  Frowning, he asked, “What? Inferiorities?”

  “No. Connections. I have no connections to speak of,” I said. “My parents died under socially unfortunate circumstances, leaving me with nothing to my name apart from my name, a teapot and a position as a dependent in the Steward household.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Cricket said with an eager nod. “That’s most unfortunate, and some might say not easily overlooked. But this is one of the great benefits of being here rather than there, in gossipy London. We need not concern ourselves with such trifles as connections, inferior or otherwise. We can be free to choose our own station in life, to remake social norms. It’s very invigorating actually.” By this point, his breathing was as rapid as his blinking, and his pale skin was flushed.

  “That’s far too forward thinking of you, Dr. Cricket,” I said, amazed that we had a similar notion on the freedoms inherent in our distance from England but such different responses to the practical applications of it.

  Determined not to panic, I wondered where on earth Jonas had disappeared to. Trust him not to intrude just when I needed him to.

  I extracted my other hand from his grip. “Truly, I must insist on a more s
ocially traditional view of our current conditions, and our conditions are not a suitable match, not at all.”

  “But…” he said.

  “No, Dr. Cricket,” I said, rising up and setting my empty cup firmly onto the counter. “I refuse to impose my inferior position onto yours. And so I say, thank you for the honor you have bestowed upon me, as unworthy as I am, and I must again and again refuse your offer.”

  Before he could say or do anything that would further my discomfort, I hurried out of the kitchen, across the living area and into the corridor of bedrooms where I promptly hid myself in my room until the Steward family stirred out of theirs.

  Chapter 4

  Some may wonder at my refusal of such a generous proposal, for Dr. Cricket was a man of some wealth and prestige, even in this backwater of a place. He could’ve been the means to afford me my escape from dependency, and perhaps even to acquire a new profession as an assistant inventor, if I so wished.

  That of course would’ve been exchanging one form of dependency for another. And marriage is no small task. Having been within one previously, I was in no haste to confine myself again in another, particularly when it included a man I had so little desire to be with.

  Speaking of marriage, there was still the vexing matter of the renegade ghost of my dearly deceased husband Gideon. In fact, I hoped to discuss that very subject with the visitors I was expecting after breakfast. By that time, the rejected Dr. Cricket and the zebra corpse had both been removed from the premise, for which I was very grateful. For how could I have a pleasant conversation while my unhappy suitor was moping about, all sullen and sour?

  Sadly, he wasn’t the only person to be sullen and sour that day. For no sooner had he departed the property, then Mrs. Steward burst forth from her room, shouted at me to join her in the living area and stood waiting for me with a large smile. The fact that she was smiling so soon upon arising, and that she had awoken so early, immediately set me on edge.

  “So, what of it?” she demanded with no preamble. “Mr. Steward, get up, get up this moment to hear the news.”

  Before I could recover sufficient wit to respond, Mr. Steward emerged from the bedroom area with some degree of caution, smartly dressed for a day at the camp’s office.

  “Well, out with it then, girl,” Mrs. Steward said with great impatience.

  “Good morning…?” I offered.

  “Yes, yes, to you too, but what of Dr. Cricket?” she urged.

  There are moments — rare as snow in Africa, to be fair, but still occurring — when I envy those ladies who’ve mastered the art and science of fainting. A good fainting session would’ve assisted me greatly at that juncture.

  “Mr. Steward informed me that Dr. Cricket visited upon him yesterday,” Mrs. Steward continued to gush. “Informal-like, just to see what our response might be. Well, we are thrilled. No, more than. Delighted, actually.”

  “Of course,” and she coughed delicately, “it would’ve been our preference that it had been Lilly to receive the honor of a proposal. It is after all my life’s dream to find her a suitable match, but at least she isn’t a hopeless case, being so young still. But you! For you to find a marriage prospect and here, of all places. Well,” and here she paused, a hand on her heaving bosom. “We couldn’t be happier. Isn’t that right, Mr. Steward?”

  During this outburst of enthusiasm, Mr. Steward had been quietly studying me. He had recently lost his confidence and authority, along with his fortune, but not his intellect. Despite his more reserved nature, or because of it, he knew me well enough.

  Having closely viewed my face, he surmised the nature of my response to Dr. Cricket and hastily made his apologies — “I really must be off, my dear. So much work at the office, you see.” — and departed for the camp without his breakfast.

  I restrained myself from naming him a coward, for how could I blame the man? If I had a choice, I too would have departed the scene rather than face the wrath that was sure to descend.

  Unperturbed by her husband’s absence and possibly even encouraged by it, Mrs. Steward launched into a litany of items that needed to be purchased.

  In between a new jacket for Bobby and a veil for me, she paused long enough for me to interject: “I said no.”

  “And perhaps we can… What?” Mrs. Steward stared at me, her smile still firmly in place, clearly waiting for me to correct myself.

  “I said no to Dr. Cricket’s proposal,” I clarified.

  Mrs. Steward’s mouth struggled to maintain its smile but once the truth of my words had snuck past the barrage of wedding plans, her plump lips admitted defeat and surrendered to a less than appealing scowl.

  “You what?” Mrs. Steward breathed out, her fleshy jowls quivering. “You said no?”

  “Indeed I did,” I confirmed.

  Mrs. Steward gasped. “But… You…” She gulped and her face flushed with emotion. “You foolish, willful creature. You ungrateful miscreant. You wretched leach. You ridiculous deviant of social respectability. Why would you reject such a perfectly… perfectly…”

  “Logical?” I offered.

  “Yes!” she said. “Yes, a perfectly logical offer, not to mention gracious, generous, unexpected and, in your case, most certainly undeserved.”

  She gasped again. “This is just too, too much. Had you no thought for our needs and conditions? Do you not realize what a great burden you’ve been? And how magnanimous Dr. Cricket was in his willingness to take that burden upon himself? Have you no compassion on my nerves? Have you no shame?”

  “I’m writhing in regret, madam,” I said, as contritely as my suppressed and aberrant humor would allow.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Steward said, both hands clutching the wobbly flesh of her exposed neck. “Oh, if that were true, you would this instant ride over to Dr. Cricket’s abode and beg him to accept your apologies.”

  She gulped in a large breath and eyed me sternly. “And he would, you know. He would, because men believe women to be that fickle, particularly in the face of such a monumental proposal as marriage must be. It’s not too late. Will you not reconsider and admit to a womanly, emotional outburst that forbade you to see the man in a more kindly light?”

  I sighed deeply, eyeing the space about me. If I fainted, there was on one side of me the coffee table with the marks of zebra hooves beaten into it. That I could avoid, but the hard stone floor was not inviting.

  “No, I can’t in truth commit such a felony,” I said, “for I would doom myself through my lie, and condemn that decent man to a life with a woman who can barely tolerate him.”

  “Is that what the fuss is?” Mrs. Steward persisted. “Why, I can barely tolerate Mr. Steward, and we’ve managed quite well indeed. Lack of toleration is no excuse to reject an offer of marriage.”

  Lilly chose that moment to waltz into the room, attracted by a commotion that was certainly bound to entertain any onlooker.

  “What’s happened, Mama?” she asked, all innocence, when I suspected she’d been lurking by her bedroom door, marking every word.

  “Well you know, missy,” Mrs. Steward snapped, surprising both Lilly and myself, for she had in fact been cognizant of her daughter’s presence. “And don’t you dare commit such a mistake yourself. When a decent man provides a respectful offer of engagement, you’ll take it upon yourself to immediately accept it. Is that clear?”

  Lilly’s eyes, wide and bluer than the morning sky outside, narrowed slightly. “No matter the man’s background, Mama?”

  There was a sly note in the question, but Mrs. Steward had utilized her daily allotment of observational prowess, and she waved a dismissing hand. “If there’s a decent dowry provided and a sufficient yearly allowance to maintain you in the lifestyle to which we aspire for you, then all other considerations are inconsequential.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Lilly said, a little too demurely for my liking.

  “I’m retiring to my room,” Mrs. Steward said with a sniff. “My poor, defeated nerves.”

&n
bsp; I removed myself to the front garden, such as it was. Long gone were the cool rains and the lush growth they engendered. What the herd of zebras and multitude of insects hadn’t destroyed, the dry heat had pulverized. The only plants that refused to submit to this punishing assault were the two flame trees, a baobab with its odd branches that looked more like roots, a few glorious, purple-petal bougainvillea and the brownish, scrubby grass.

  I persisted in distracting myself from Mrs. Steward’s unrelenting lamentations by observing the parched and neglected garden. Most fortuitously, I was further diverted with the arrival of Priscilla White and her uncle (who was also her godfather) Mr. Timmons, who soon after trotted up to the house. Or rather their horses did, neither one of which were possessed.

  Yes, I did indeed check.

  While I’m reluctant to intrude on the privacy of normal humans by studying their energy fields, I’ve no such qualms when it comes to animals and paranormals. In my several years of working for the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals, this ability has saved my life on more occasions than I care to remember.

  “Oh Bee, you must be in such a tither,” Cilla gushed even before her boots touched the ground, her dark blue eyes bright, her cheeks rosy as an apple and just as round. “All these comings and goings, and now with that machine on the loose. What will Gideon do next?”

  “In truth, I don’t know,” I said, grasping her gloved hands in mine, grateful for her friendly and uplifting presence.

  “Such a burden, to be the wife of an automaton,” she stated with a tisk-tisk and a shake of her head.

  “I’m hardly the automaton’s wife,” I protested.

  “Hm. And with Mr. Adams murdered, there’s a vacancy for camp superintendent,” she continued, absorbed in a recitation of all the issues facing us. “I wonder who can possibly wish to fill it. The railway workers are saying the post is cursed.”