by Vered Ehsani
Mr. Timmons glanced my way casually and caught me staring at him. He smirked as if delighted to be the object of my attention. I resolutely turned to face Mr. Adams, my cheeks hot enough to cook my own breakfast. Insufferable man.
Mr. Adams was still grappling with the puzzle presented to him: he had the only key in his possession, so who opened the lock on the trunk? Many suspicious glances fell his way, but I knew he was innocent. I did a brief, squinty peek and could see his whole energy beaming embarrassed confusion. At that point, I noted Kam by his absence. Hadn’t he mentioned he wanted to stop the hunt? If this was his doing, then he had indeed been very successful.
As we packed up to return home—for without food, there was no going forward with the hunt—I couldn’t shake a sense that Mr. Timmons might also have had something to do with the failed hunt. But why?
I mulled over this question the whole dreary way back. By the time I climbed off Nelly, I was famished. The herd of zebras had moved farther down the hill, having devoured most of what had been our front lawn and Mrs. Steward’s attempt at a flower patch. Only the possessed zebra remained behind, presumably to keep an eye on me, for that’s what it was doing. I glared back at it and noticed the zebra’s own energy had faded while the serpent spirit glowed brightly.
Too tired to dwell on the poor beast, I gratefully left Nelly, who was already snoring on her hooves, to Jonas’s care and stumbled into the house.
“You’re just in time,” Mrs. Steward said upon seeing me. She was slouched on a chair in the living room, fanning herself.
I perked up. “Is it dinner time yet?” wondering what creation Jonas had cooked up.
Mrs. Steward scowled. “I highly doubt it. And…” She peered at me in amazement. “Good heavens, you look positively wild, Bee. Your hair is in such a disarray. And your petticoat. Have you seen the state of your petticoat? It’s coated with mud. You’re quite an exhibition. Go clean up at once. No, wait.”
I stood there with my muddy petticoat and wild hair, wondering what she could possibly expect from me after I’d just arrived straight from a lion hunt.
“First, go direct to Dr. Cricket with this invitation.” She handed me a small envelope. “Await there for his reply. He won’t mind your current appearance. Men are normally blind to these finer details, especially when it comes to a woman they have no interest in.”
She paused and picked up another envelope. “Then request him to send his houseboy to Mr. Timmons with this invite. It’s for afternoon tea. They should both be back by now from that silly hunt. Oh, and I suppose you’ll have to invite that horrid girl, Prissy or some such name.”
I maintained an unruffled countenance and a civil tone, barely. “Why invite them at all?” was all I could think to say.
Throwing up her hands, Mrs. Steward said, “Well, who else will I invite so that Lilly has a chance to meet men? That rude porter of yours?”
“Of course,” I said through gritted teeth, although I’d much prefer Kam to Mr. Timmons. “Can’t you send Jonas?”
“Bah,” she said. “He’ll just go off for the day.”
I marched into the kitchen, letting the door thump heavily behind me. “Good morning, Bee,” I said, imitating Mrs. Steward’s higher voice. “You must be so tired and hungry, dear. Did you sleep well, Bee? How did the hunt go, apart from the deadly insects and lion attack and possessed automaton eating all the food? Would you like…?”
I broke off my rant as I realised I wasn’t alone. Jonas was squatting beside the wood stove in the middle of stoking the fire in the black, cast-iron belly. He had swivelled around to gaze up at me, the empty smile he displayed for the Steward family replaced by a knowing smirk.
“Miss Knight,” he said in greeting. He giggled at my expression and continued with the fire.
“Jonas,” I muttered. “And what happened to Nelly? I need her.”
Jonas smiled widely. “She’s out back, waiting for you to go deliver the invitation to the doctor. You have to wake her up first though.”
“Great,” I said as I grabbed a banana from a basket and stomped toward the back door.
I felt fully justified in my irritation. It was, after all, a servant’s job to deliver letters and invitations. And while we were all expected to do more household tasks here than in London, I was no one’s servant.
Jonas giggled again as I slammed the outside door and stepped into the courtyard to the back of the house. Dr. Cricket’s place was not far, but I took my time, selecting a longer route through the edge of the forest. I was in no rush to get back to whatever other tasks Mrs. Steward had in mind.
When I reached the doctor’s house, I found him sitting outside his door, staring glumly at his boots. I wasn’t in the mood for idle chit-chat and, fortunately, neither was he. He did perk up a bit when I handed him the invite. With profuse assurances, he accepted the invitation and promised to send Mr. Timmons and Cilla the other immediately.
“Oh, Mrs. Knight,” he called after me.
I glanced over my shoulder at him, too fatigued, hungry, and mud-splattered to bother turning the half-asleep horse around. “Yes?”
He stood up and brushed off his clothes. “That blood sample of yours. What made you think it was a lion?”
I shifted my shoulders in a tired imitation of a shrug. What could I say: it glowed funny in the night? “It was near a place where lions had been spotted. Why?”
“I see,” Dr. Cricket said. And then he told me something that left me quite disappointed, but he said it all the same. “In any case, it wasn’t from a lion. No, from what I could gather, that blood sample was most definitely human.”
Chapter 19
It goes without saying that a formal, afternoon tea, particularly when held so soon after a failed hunt and missing meal, was a tiresome affair. Gossip was mentally debilitating at the best of times. But it degenerates into an embarrassing farce when there weren’t enough people to gossip about. In London, one was spoiled for choice, but not so in the railroad station and camp of Nairobi.
I wasn’t complaining in the least, but others at Lilly’s tea were agitated by the lack of conversational targets, apart from Mr. Timmons, who seemed self-satisfied and aloof. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he’d bothered to come. From what little I knew of him, Lilly wasn’t his type, not to mention she was too young and civilised for him, not to mention too set upon capturing a young Englishman come to hunt lions or something of the sort.
Mrs. Steward apparently thought differently, particularly once she discovered that Mr. Timmons was in charge of importing most of the supplies required by the railway company. I could see her eyes light up as he casually mentioned his business empire. Here indeed was an eligible man.
But back to the gossip. I was tempted to mention the possessed zebra decimating Mrs. Steward’s marigolds, if only to provide some fodder. However, as a matter of principle, I don’t engage in gossip, if for no other reason than to protect my intellectual and moral capacities. Not to mention that raising the topic of the serpent spirit would break a Society’s cardinal mandate #2: Maintain the secrecy of the Paranormal Realm.
Eventually, Lilly realised the social pleasantries were flagging terribly. She was twisting her fan in her lacy-gloved hands, her face puckered up in thought, which is always a dangerous situation. When she sat up with a smile, I knew we were in trouble.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “Let’s go for a stroll in the nearby forest. It should be much cooler in there than out here.”
“What a splendid idea,” Mrs. Steward said into the ensuing silence.
“What an astonishingly dim-witted idea,” I said but only Mr. Timmons was near enough to hear me. He glanced at me, smirking.
“Yes,” Mrs. Steward continued as no one else spoke, “that’s just the thing to alleviate the stupor brought on by this horrendous heat.”
It wasn’t the heat that had put everyone in a stupor, and I wondered if I should point out that a meander through li
on-infested forests was nothing like a stroll through an English garden. But before I could comment along those lines, Lilly hit upon another of her ideas as if a forced march through hostile terrain while gossiping about nothing wasn’t mentally and physically draining enough.
“And while we’re at it, let’s have a picnic e,” she said, clapping her gloved hands.
“Splendid,” Mrs. Steward said again. “Jonas.”
Jonas appeared rather too quickly, and I suspected he’d been lurking behind a door, listening to our jabber. While his tone was the usual respectful one he used with the Stewards, his eyes twinkled, and I wondered what else was in the forest apart from flea-bitten monkeys.
“There’s a trail entrance not far from here,” Lilly said as Mrs. Steward gave Jonas orders. “A hike through nature’s wonders would do us all a world of good.”
I suspected a lobotomy might produce similar miracles for some of us.
“I think I shall have to pass on the delights awaiting you,” Mr. Steward said and stood a little too rapidly. “You see, the British have ended the war in Sudan. Marvellous victory.”
Mrs. Steward huffed. “And thank goodness for that, but what’s it to do with you?”
I suspected very little, but Mr. Steward continued as if he were personally in charge with the sorting out of whatever has to be sorted out after a war ends. “Yes, you see,” he said, “I have quite a lot of… um, paperwork to sort through.”
Before Mrs. Steward could interfere with his decision, Mr. Steward dashed away to his small home office he sometimes used in the evenings and weekends. The door’s firm and decisive slam echoed through the house.
Mrs. Steward, for her part, seemed not the least perturbed by the lack of interest on the part of her husband; indeed, if anything, she was more enlivened by it. For a brief moment, I contemplated warning them of the Shongololo, but I would only be consigning myself to a lobotomy (for seeing imaginary beasties) or, worse yet, to a lecture by Mrs. Steward, who didn’t tolerate fantastical stories, unless they were about a neighbour.
We set off, most of us rather reluctantly. Lilly’s lacy dress draped to the ground, its bottom edge trailing in the weedy grass bordering the trail, picking up mud and ticks along the way. At least, I rather hoped they were ticks; a bout of tick fever should cure her of any ideas for future forest walks.
At one point on the forest path, we reached a small stream, across which sat a plank. Cilla crossed it while placing a hand on Jonas’s shoulder. For a moment, I envied Jonas with his bare feet splashing through the cool stream alongside the plank. It was such a horridly hot day and while the trees provided shade, the sun eagerly poked its way through to penetrate our sunhats in an effort to burn our fair skin into oblivion, or at least into a blistering red mess.
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to yank off the tightening boots and splash along behind the gardener. Instead, I pretended to slip off the plank and landed, boots and all, into the water.
“Beatrice!” Mrs. Steward shrieked as if I’d just jumped ship in the middle of the ocean. “Help her, Mr. Timmons, help her at once.”
Without hesitation, Mr. Timmons scooped me up in his arms and before I had time to protest, deposited me on the other side of the stream with a wide smile and a wink. Provoked by the lost opportunity to cool my feet, I cursed him to a slow, painful death. But despite the existence of lions and Shongololo, the impertinent man made it out of the forest alive, despite the dark look I gave him. A most disappointing turn of events.
Mrs. Steward shrieked even louder and I wondered if a lion had caught up to us. Once I realised it was not a lion but Mrs. Steward’s concern for her own safety while crossing the plank, I smiled back at Mr. Timmons. “Perhaps, sir, you would be kind enough to assist my aunt as well?”
With a smirk at his less-than-enthusiastic expression, I continued strolling along, until I heard him say, “Jonas, please assist Mrs. Steward,” and he reached my side a breath later.
“You truly are the most vexing creature,” I said, although my mouth twitched as if attempting to smile.
I couldn’t unfortunately ignore Mrs. Steward castigating poor Jonas as he attempted to emulate Mr. Timmons’s approach at rescuing damsels.
I glanced back. Jonas seemed little concerned with the verbal abuse as he deposited the protesting lady on the other side of the stream; he simply shrugged his shoulders and displayed that blank look on his face, as if he hadn’t understood a word. But I know he comprehends very well for when he thought no one was watching, he smiled.
Lilly said in her shrillest voice, “Dr. Cricket, I’m in great need of your assistance.”
“Oh?” he said, his attention fixed on whatever he was viewing through his binoculars.
“Lilly, perhaps ask Mr. Timmons,” her mother suggested, and I gathered Mrs. Steward had decided that a wealthy business man was a far more worthy catch than an inventor and scientist, even if that inventor was a doctor.
I didn’t wait to hear what Lilly or the dear doctor did. Nor did I pay any attention to Mr. Timmons, who was determined to walk by my side. I maintained an unwavering silence apart from the wet squelching of my boots and the gentle thump of my walking stick on the ground.
I nursed a reassuring thought that perhaps if the Shongololo did happen to poison one or two of our less observant and considerably slower members of the party, I could return to my room. Yes, an afternoon nap would be a wonderful way to spend the remainder of the day.
Sadly though, the Shongololo were not so disposed and stayed well enough away. I could hear them though, crunching through the leaves.
“The Shongololo are certainly busy,” I said and then covered my mouth with one hand as I realised I’d voiced my thought out loud.
Fortunately, no one apart from Mr. Timmons was close enough to hear me. Cilla and Lilly were several paces behind, chatting about the latest London fashion. Mrs. Steward was farther back, exhausting Dr. Cricket with her diatribe against all the inconveniences she had experienced in her new home. I couldn’t see Jonas.
“Those aren’t Shongololo,” Mr. Timmons said, lowering his voice. “I believe that’s a pair of Tokolosh. They make the Shongololo look like a house pet. Fortunately for us, they don’t attack groups of people.”
“Delightful,” I said, desperate to know what sort of creature a Tokolosh was, but unwilling to ask him of all people. Curiosity won over pride. “What’s a Tokolosh?”
Before he had the chance to answer, Mrs. Steward shouted, “I think this is a perfect place for a picnic, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Mr. Timmons said.
Mrs. Steward gave him a sharp look he ignored, but I agreed with him. The soil was mushy with decaying leaves, the foliage oppressively thick and I had the distinct impression we were being watched. I glanced back and saw Mrs. Steward leaning against a tree, her pale face red and sticky, her chest heaving with effort.
Dr. Cricket must have noticed the same for he said, “Absolutely. Let me spread a blanket for you, Mrs. Steward.”
“Most kind, most kind indeed,” she said, fanning her face in a vain effort to cool down.
“And may I suggest that after this delightful stroll, we retire to my home?” Dr. Cricket said as he flicked out the blanket. “My cook is preparing some refreshments.”
Mrs. Steward beamed. “How very thoughtful, Doctor. Isn’t he very thoughtful, Lilly?”
Lilly smiled vaguely and sat as far away from the thoughtful doctor as she could.
In short order, we had a few snacks laid out on a large, red picnic blanket, upon which we all collapsed. I ignored the dampness creeping through the material and focused on a piece of cold chicken creeping down my throat.
There was a flicker of movement off to the side. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at some dark form creeping through the foliage toward us.
Cilla peered in the direction I had gestured, frowned, and glanced back at me with a confused look. Mr. Timmons smiled in that ghastly way of his,
his thick and highly unfashionable sideburns bushing up around his ears. Jonas sighed and lowered his dark head, while Dr. Cricket spun around, his binoculars crammed up against his eyes.
“Where, Mrs. Knight?” he nearly shrieked, startling the creature and sending it bounding away. “Where? And what?”
By then, I realised my mistake. It may have been a Tokolosh. I opened my mouth to make some excuse, when Mr. Timmons stepped in. “I believe the young madam is referring to a bird that alighted briefly on that branch over there.” He gestured toward a tree, his energy field shimmering with the lie.
Dr. Cricket, not having seen either the energy or the odd little creature scuttling away from us, spun about again, his binoculars jutting out of his face, anxiously searching for the mysterious bird.
I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Timmons, who, being the rogue he was, waggled his eyebrows at me. Insufferable man, even when he was playing at being a gentleman. It was nothing short of miraculous that Cilla was able to engage with polite society. But her godfather, I decided, was best left at home, preferably locked up in the cellar.
At that moment, my dark deliberations were interrupted by a piercing scream.
Chapter 20
We looked amongst ourselves as the first scream rent the air into shards of piercing noise. It was quickly apparent who amongst our party had wandered off unaccompanied. Mrs. Steward slumped onto the blanket and wailed about the imminent loss of her only daughter. I leapt up, followed immediately by Mr. Timmons, who gestured to Cilla to remain where she was. I hefted my walking stick, lifted up my skirt to free my ankles and trotted into the foliage and toward the screams.
“Mrs. Knight,” Dr. Cricket called out, “is it really advisable for you to be gallivanting about the forest unattended?”
