by Vered Ehsani
“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 cognisant 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 utilised 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.”
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 pulverised. 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.”
I glanced over at Mr. Timmons who had likewise dismounted and was staring at me with that uncivilly penetrating way of his. His sideburns and hair remained in their unfashionable disarray and length, but at least he wasn’t trying to manipulate or steal anyone’s energy, something he was very capable of doing.
“Mr. Timmons,” I said, nodding briefly in his direction and performing a shallow curtsey.
“Mrs. Knight,” and he reached over, grasped my hand and lowered his face over it, his intense, grey eyes still on mine.
After the socially acceptable time, I withdrew my hand from his grasp. I preferred not to invite them into the house, for in her present condition, I doubted Mrs. Steward would be very obliging with anyone requiring some hospitality. I considered the kitchen (an area Mrs. Steward avoided entirely), but it was too cramped already, so I waved them toward the wooden chairs on the veranda instead.
“We saw Dr. Cricket on our way in,” Cilla said as she pulled off her gloves. “He seemed in a right huff about something. Perhaps it was the dead zebra in the back of his wagon.”
“No, no, that was the highlight of his morning,” I said, wondering if there was any tea left from breakfast that I could offer my friends. “His proposal of marriage was rejected.”
“Really?” Cilla gasped while Mr. Timmons half smiled.
For a brief moment, I wished I had used more restraint in my speech, for really it was no one’s business but mine and Dr. Cricket’s. While I had no intention of accepting the man, likewise I had no inclination to humiliate him either.
And then Mr. Timmons said, “So I gather from his dismal looks that Miss Steward rejected the proposal?”
I straightened my back, my previous thought of restraint tossed to the side and I nearly challenged his logical but erroneous assumption that the proposal had been directed to my young cousin. Fortunately, discretion caught up with me and sealed my lips. I simply shook my head, went inside and found the teapot with some tea left. I brought this out with cups and by the time the tea was poured, I was more composed.
“I trust Kam and his two nieces are in good health?” Mr. Timmons asked, as well he should.
I was certain he still retained hopes of accessing the twin girls’ lion energy. If ever he did, he’d absorb some of their shape-shifting powers, if not their very identities. Mr. Timmons was one of the reasons my Society-appointed guide, Kam, had taken them away to their village.
I paused before answering, trying to discern his true intention. Although Mr. Timmons had extended his assistance in the rescue of the lion girls from a group of rather ambitious but not too talented hunters, I retained my doubts as to his motivations for doing so.
“I too trust the same,” I said, maintaining a cool tone. “But I’m fully confident that Kam will ensure their safety.”
“As we must do for you, it seems,” he said.
While his words stirred in me a defensive response – for I’m quite capable of looking after myself, particularly when armed with my walking stick and a few tricks of my own – his sincere tone soothed my ruffled nerves.
“Have you seen him since?” Cilla asked, lowering her voice as if anyone was near enough to listen in.
The Steward women had returned to their rooms to prepare themselves for the day. In Mrs. Steward’s case, she was in all likelihood fuming as she paced her room, cursing my illogical rejection of my one and only suitor. Jonas was washing clothes out back and the nearest neighbours were several minutes’ hard gallop away.
“If by him you mean Gideon, then no,” I said. “Neither as ghost or machine.”
“Sadly, I cannot admit to the same,” Mr. Timmons said, his tone bored but his eyes marking my reaction, as he tended to do.
“Oh do tell her,” Cilla said, grabbing his arm as if to pull the words out of him.
“Yes, do,” I said, my tone as disinterested as Mr. Timmons’, but it was a lie he readily saw through, I’m sure, for his eyes twinkled knowingly.
“Yesterday evening, before the lion hunt, I returned to Dr. Cricket’s place to check up on his condition,” Mr. Timmons explained.
At those words, I felt a momentary twinge of shame, for my almost-fiancé had been attacked and tied up in his home yesterday afternoon. When I’d found him trussed up, my only response had been to demand two bottles of chloroform from him. Even this morning, I hadn’t inquired as to his health, nor had he alluded to his hardship. I marvelled that he’d persisted in his proposal to me. Or had he enjoyed being tied up?
“Upon approaching,” Mr. Timmons continued, “I saw a form stalking about the house and I decided to investigate. It was in fact the automaton. But before I could approach further, it left the scene and I didn’t dare follow.”
“What could it want?” I asked.
Mr. Timmons smiled. “You should rather ask: What could Gideon want?”
I shook my head. “He has Liam. Unless there’s a fault in the automaton’s gears that only the doctor can fix.”
“Revenge?�
�� Cilla asked with a good deal of enthusiasm at the prospect.
I regarded her with some admiration, for at times she displayed a keen interest in bloodthirsty pursuits, despite her overall sweet and endearing nature.
“Dr. Cricket is quite benign and has done no evil against Gideon or anyone for that matter, as far as I can discern,” I answered her. “In fact, he’s only furnished Gideon with a vessel in which to carry out a new life.”
“Hmm,” was Mr. Timmons’ non-committal response.
The whole topic left me befuddled, even as my investigative training caused me to formulate a list of questions. But the key suspect in the case wasn’t available to answer them.
A pox on Gideon Knight, I thought. Why can’t he behave like every other deceased husband: dead and departed? This matter of haunting the surviving spouse complicated matters terribly.
“The question that intrigues me,” Mr. Timmons said, interrupting my agitated thoughts, “is why he didn’t come here? Or more to the point, when will he come to claim his wife?”
“I can well imagine how that would interest you,” I said caustically but only to disguise my revulsion at the very notion of being the automaton’s wife. How could I caress that human-like pigskin stretched over a metal frame? The form may be animated by my husband’s ghost, but that wasn’t enough to win my affections a second time.
“Bee?” a perfunctory shout broke through our morbid conversation. “Lilly, go find her if you want…” The rest of the sentence was lost as a door closed.
“It seems I must be off,” I said in way of explanation. I could imagine that Lilly wanted accompaniment to the new shop that was opening that day. There weren’t many shops to begin with, so a new one fairly doubled the options.
With something akin to sympathy, Mr. Timmons said, “You really shouldn’t have to live with these people.”
“I heartily concur,” Cilla said. “We need to find a more suitable position for you that doesn’t involve chaperoning that horridly spoiled girl around.”
I smiled even as I heard Mrs. Steward’s shrill voice again. I could safely ignore her first two calls. On the third, I would have to go. “I was in fact offered such a position this very morning,” I said. “By Dr. Cricket.”
“What, as his lab assistant?” Cill asked. “I hardly think that’s a suitable position for one such as yourself, regardless of your limited means and widow status.”
Mr. Timmons, considerably more astute in the ways of the world than his beloved goddaughter, said, “The proposal wasn’t for Miss Steward, was it?”
I shook my head.
“Well, to whom then?” Cilla asked before realising the truth. She gasped.
“To our accomplished Mrs. Knight, it would seem,” Mr. Timmons noted.
“Indeed it was,” I said, smiling at catching them off guard.
I took a perverse delight in how quickly Mr. Timmons’ smile vanished and his smugness transformed to surprise. “Well, well, Mrs. Knight, I shall withhold my congratulations until the formal announcement.”
I stared at him as one would at any imbecile who thought himself terribly clever in his remarks. “Mr. Timmons, were you not listening? I rejected his offer and most firmly at that.”
Mr. Timmons chuckled but it sounded forced, and he seemed fascinated by my metal teapot. “Yes, I heard. Although I know little of trends, I’ve heard it’s perfectly fashionable for women to reject the first offer. But once Dr. Cricket persists in his affections and lowers himself on one knee to beg, you’ll relent. And why not? He’s a decent catch, particularly here where the options are so few.”
I decided against offering more tea and instead offered a firm rebuttal: “I assure you, Mr. Timmons, I’m not the sort to play such games, nor am I concerned about the fewness of options; rather, my interest lies in the calibre of them.”
As was typical with conversations between Mr. Timmons and myself, Cilla had been entirely forgotten amidst the volley of words. Now she spoke up in the pause. “Whatever you decide, we will of course be delighted for you, Bee. As long as you’re satisfied with your decision.”
She leaned closer to me, grasped my hand and squeezed it, breathless with anticipation as she asked, “What did you say to him exactly?”
“Bee-a-trice!”
“Third call,” I said. “I must be off now. I shall have to update you on the details on another occasion.”
“Bee, you’re truly dreadful,” Cilla said as I took my leave of them. She pouted playfully while Mr. Timmons seemed uncharacteristically reserved as he escorted her away.
I stifled a laugh, particularly as I took in the sight of Mrs. Steward’s agitated state.
“Bee, where have you been?” she demanded and not waiting for my response she continued with arms flailing, “It’s too much for my tender sensibilities to bear.”
“Do sit down and tell me what’s troubling your sensibilities now?” I asked, as demur as my passionate heart would allow. I longed to take leave of the house and search for Gideon and the stolen automaton.
“It’s Lilly, that’s what it is,” Mrs. Steward said, almost weeping. “She’s terribly unwell.”
Bobby, the youngest Steward offspring, had been sitting quietly at the table with his mother. He leaped up, unable to contain his energetic nature. “May I go outside to play now?”
“Yes, go, take your leave. At least let one person in this unhappy house find a bit of joy…” Mrs. Steward sobbed, but Bobby wasn’t paying any attention. At the first syllable, he’d darted away and I was certain his intention was to hunt down a hapless chicken and chase it about.
While I was as equally certain Lilly’s illness was nothing more than a case of overindulgence at dessert the previous evening, I maintained a polite and interested pose and asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, of course not, foolish girl,” Mrs. Steward snapped, her tender sensibilities apparently improving remarkably well, if only momentarily. “But you can send Jonas for the doctor.”
My eyebrows rose. “I was unaware there’s a doctor here.”
“There’s much of which you are unaware, to be sure,” Mrs. Steward said with a sniff. “And this is but one of many.”
“To be sure,” I said with a curtsey.
“I heard from Mr. Adams, before his untimely demise – God rest his soul,” and she crossed herself, “that there is in fact one doctor who has reasonable qualifications and serves the employees of the British crown and railway.”
“I shall send Jonas at once,” I assured her, grateful that Mrs. Steward had forgotten about my rejected suitor, at least for now. For that, I could thank Lilly.
I hurried to the kitchen where I found Jonas squatted on the floor, enjoying his morning tea, unperturbed by the carrying-on in the ‘unhappy house’.
“The madam wishes a doctor to be sent for,” I said, staring down at the curly stubble covering his dark head.
Jonas peered up at me and shrugged.
“More to the point,” I said with a huff, “she wants you to go fetch him.”
Jonas chuckled into his tin mug.
“Why is that funny?” I asked, eyeing the kettle longingly.
Without looking at me, he said, “The madam, she wants the docta?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering if there was something wrong with his hearing, “that’s what I said. Lilly needs a doctor.”
The chuckle sunk into his belly. “Oh! Oh, the madam, she wants a docta.”
“Not a witch doctor, Jonas,” I said to clarify the matter. “We want a medical doctor.”
Don’t misunderstand me, dear reader: I was certain some of the cures of the traditional healers were perfectly successful in their results. I was equally certain that Mrs. Steward wouldn’t appreciate the appearance at her doorstep of such a doctor and his various trappings of live chickens, rattling bones and painted limbs.
“Oh, no. Me, I will not fetch our real docta healers,” Jonas said with a mischievous grin that fuel
led my suspicions. “Me, I fetch the white man docta, just for Mrs. Steward.” He plunked down his mug and, giggling heartily, exited the house through the back kitchen door.
Chapter 5
I spent a miserable time that morning, my thoughts fixed on the quandary regarding Gideon and his plans for me, my concern for Nelly my possessed horse, and the dark memories stirred up by the images disturbing my sleep. All this while I had to perform my duties as the obliging cousin and comforter of the sick.
All that was tolerable, barely. However the wretchedness of it all was further compounded by Mrs. Steward’s lamentations as to the imminent demise of her beloved child.
“I wish the child would demise a little faster,” I muttered as I endured yet another bout of wailing and weeping from Mrs. Steward, echoed faintly by the bed-ridden Lilly.
It was with great relief that I noted the sound of approaching hoofs. I hurried to the front door, swung it open and nearly shouted an obscenity as I came face to face with a zebra. The beast snorted at me in response.
A quick view of its energy reassured me that this zebra was not possessed of a malevolent spirit, but rather it possessed a rider. While this was very much an improvement on the last zebra who had entered our property, I still felt unsettled by the sight.
I pulled myself upright, as there was no purpose in slouching and gaping. The rider, a young, stout Indian fellow with a wide brimmed hat and a dusty overcoat, swung himself off the zebra, bowed in my direction, tipped his hat and said in a thick Indian accent, “Dr. Rosendo Ribeiro, at your service, madam.”
“Mrs. Knight, at yours,” I responded with a slight curtsey as I eyed the saddled zebra. “Forgive me, Doctor, but your name sounds Portuguese while your accent suggests India.”
“Yes, madam, yes indeed,” he agreed amiably. “Goa is being part of the Portuguese empire. They are calling it Portuguese India.”
“I see,” I replied, although my sight was very much focused on his mount rather than the geography lesson. “I thought zebras can’t be trained.”
