by Vered Ehsani
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Steward snapped. “Make haste, Bee, oh do make haste. My poor, delicate Lilly.”
Glancing at Dr. Cricket, I answered him, “Not really. But you’re welcome to assist if you so desire.”
He made no offer to, whether because of his own trepidation or because Mr. Timmons made it clear with his expression that he alone would accompany me. Of all the members of our party, the one person who might be of some use in responding to Lilly’s screams was, I had to admit, Mr. Timmons, so I said nothing to discourage his company.
“Oh Mr. Timmons, I would be most obliged if you could save my dear child from certain death,” Mrs. Steward called out after us.
“Death comes unbidden to us all,” he said as way of encouragement, while he pushed a branch out of my path. “But we shall endeavour to rescue her from it this time.”
“Philosophical, aren’t we?” I quipped. “Jonas, what are you doing here?” I was grateful he had followed us though, for surely he knew enough about the forest to ensure we didn’t lose ourselves in it.
Jonas scurried up to us, the branches untouched by his passing, the thick skin of his bare feet unaffected by the twigs and branches littering the ground. “Me? I prefer facing that”—and he waved ahead of us—“than that,” and he gestured back to the picnic. Mrs. Steward’s moans almost drowned out Lilly’s screams.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Mr. Timmons said as he pushed ahead. “What do you suppose is harassing our dear Lilly?”
“It sounds to me as if it’s eating her more than harassing,” I said with some exasperation.
Lilly’s screaming cut off abruptly.
“And it just ate her,” I added.
Jonas smiled as if relishing the thought and then sighed. “No, sadly she is still alive, Miss Knight.”
“I agree,” Mr. Timmons said.
“And what makes you so certain?” I asked, more curious than aggravated.
“Because I can see her.” Mr. Timmons glanced back at me, stepped aside, and watched my reaction.
At first, I couldn’t understand his interest in my response. As I looked around, a motion on the forest floor caught my attention. I looked down at the back of Lilly’s head.
“Where’s the rest of her?” I demanded, imagining how Mrs. Steward would admonish me if all I brought back of her daughter was the head. The head twisted about on the ground and glared up at me.
“Bee, I’m all here. Help me,” Lilly shrieked. A pair of arms popped out of the ground and waved around the head.
“The girl, she’s in a snake nest,” Jonas explained with the wounded air of a man forced to deal with simpletons.
With some trepidation (snakes are alarmed neither by cinnamon nor by my walking stick), I joined Mr. Timmons at the edge of a hole and stared down at Lilly, whose arms and dress were streaked with mud and cluttered with leaves.
“Lift me up,” she ordered.
“What’s all the fuss about?” I said, for I could see no snakes or eggs in the nest. “There’s nothing eating you in there.”
“It’s not what’s in here I’m worried about,” Lilly said. “It’s what’s not. Something big created this.”
I was suitably impressed by her line of reasoning, as were Jonas and Mr. Timmons, who both kneeled by the edge of the large hole and prepared to assist Lilly. It turned out not to be a straightforward exercise, for one of her boots was caught amongst some tree roots.
“The angle’s awkward,” Mr. Timmons said. “It’s best I help her from down there.” With that, he lowered himself in and manipulated her foot free of the entrapping roots. Between his pushing and Jonas’s pulling, Lilly found herself returned above ground.
“Such gallantry,” Lilly said, her eyelashes fluttering at Mr. Timmons, who wasn’t paying her any attention, so she persevered: “I’m so terribly unnerved.”
“As you should be,” Mr. Timmons said while pulling at something on the ground. A dry, scratching sound accompanied his movements.
“What is…?” Lilly said before her hands fluttered to her mouth, hopefully to block out another scream.
“Snake skin,” Mr. Timmons said as he pulled up a husk sculptured in the shape of a serpent large enough to swallow me whole.
“Boa,” Jonas said, and I marvelled that he didn’t remind us how he’d just told us this was a snake nest. Then again, his countenance communicated as much to anyone who cared to study it. “A giant boa. It can speak, this kind of snake.”
“Talking snakes?” I asked, sceptical about the likelihood that a giant snake could actually have vocal chords. Then again, I knew men could turn into wolves, so was it really so unbelievable that a giant talking snake inhabited the forest?
Jonas nodded his head with great care, oblivious to my doubt. “Yes. The large snake, it uses the voice of the mother to call the children out, and then eats them up.”
“Fascinating,” Lilly said in a faint voice, and I wondered if she might empty the contents of her stomach into the nest. Instead, she turned on a heel and hurried away.
I gestured to Jonas to follow her. “She may otherwise lose herself,” I told him.
“Yes, she might,” he said and didn’t look at all concerned about that possibility. Sighing again, he followed Lilly toward the picnic site.
“Can you manage?” I asked Mr. Timmons as he began to extract himself from the hole.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m touched by your concern.”
“Don’t be,” I said, staring out into the trees. “I prefer not to be delayed by any questions regarding your whereabouts if you do get stuck in there.”
He chuckled, glanced up, and gasped at something behind me. Before I could turn about, he grabbed at my knees and yanked my legs out from under me. I slid into the hole where he wrapped his arms around my waist and dragged me to the ground. Dry snake skin crackled underneath.
“Mr. Timmons,” I vented, beyond irate, “this behaviour is abominable, even for you.” I took a breath to continue my tirade and paused as I saw past his shoulder to a large form looming over us.
“Forgive the impertinence, Mrs Knight,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear, “but I feel it best if you don’t kick around so much or make too much commotion.”
I ceased my struggles, and he swivelled to lie by my side, his one arm still trapped under my waist. While I was vaguely aware of his proximity, it couldn’t capture my attention fully. That privilege was reserved for the monstrosity before us.
The discarded skin had clearly misrepresented the enormity of the golden-brown snake. The beast could quite probably swallow Mr. Timmons whole without too much trouble, assuming he didn’t have the rather long and wickedly sharp knife he was currently removing from the inside of his boot.
“How admirably prepared of you,” I whispered.
“Miracles never cease. A compliment from Mrs. Knight,” he said. “I shall treasure the moment.” With the knife now out of its hidden sheath, he removed his arm from behind me. “Be ready.”
“For what?” I asked as I pressed two brass fingers on the top of the walking stick to allow the blade to slide out. “To be swallowed?”
“If need be, yes,” he said, his eyes on the snake. “And if you’re swallowed, fear not for I shall endeavour to cut you out.”
“My hero.”
The snake’s head, easily as large as my torso, swivelled back and forth over the nest, a forked tongue snapping at the air above us. Mr. Timmons and I remained immobile, our breathing as shallow and quiet as we could make it.
“And what should I do if the beast decides that you’re a better morsel?” I whispered.
Despite the presence of the oversized serpent hovering over us, Mr. Timmons smiled. “Then I trust you shall take the opportunity to escape to safety and leave me to find my own way out of the creature’s gullet.”
The snake’s head rose up as it inspected the nearby trees.
“Surely you would wish me to rescue you,” I t
eased.
His eyes slid sideways toward me, and said with an intense seriousness, “No, Mrs. Knight, I wouldn’t, for that would put me in double danger: one of losing my own life, and the second of losing yours. I could never forgive myself.”
I started to smile, but my mouth became stuck halfway along when I realised he wasn’t being sarcastic, nor was he mocking me. And I found that almost as disturbing as the snake.
Before I could think of a suitable response, the serpent tired of sampling the air; silently, it withdrew and slithered into the underbrush, leaves and small trees rustling in its wake. How we didn’t hear its approach was beyond me. I can only blame Lilly’s whimpers and complaints that kept our attention captured. That and the fact the snake hadn’t been talking to itself.
When we were reasonably confident the beast had left the vicinity, we stood and Mr. Timmons offered me his clasped hands as a step up to the surface. We didn’t linger but retreated hastily to the picnic site.
“What took you so long?” Mrs. Steward asked in a provoking tone as we entered the clearing. Not bothering to wait for our response, she continued, “My dear Lilly has suffered such an ordeal as will take a toll on her delicate constitution.”
“Yes, we can all see she’s suffering greatly,” Mr. Timmons said in an unsympathetic tone. “Perhaps next time, she won’t go gallivanting”—and he glanced at Dr. Cricket—“off into the forest alone.”
“Mr. Timmons,” Mrs. Steward said, not bothering to disguise her displeasure at his indifference. “We’re both in a pitiable state, Lilly and I. I insist we retire from this place at once.”
To herself, she muttered, louder than she may have intended, “Such a rude, vulgar, and gruff creature as ever there was. How can anyone be so unmoved by my poor daughter’s trauma?”
Mr. Timmons and I exchanged a look, and in that visual contact, we agreed to say nothing of our own ordeal, so as to avoid a panic, but instead to follow the party out to relative safety.
After surviving the stroll in the woods (which left us in more of a stupor than the tea had), we retreated to Dr. Cricket’s house where, in short order, a marvellous set of refreshments was spread out on a wobbly wooden table set in a patchy-looking garden. Even though we had only been walking for an hour or so, I was famished, so I eyed the treacle as a vulture does a zebra carcass. It seemed like an age since I’d had some (treacle that is, not carcass).
Lilly and Mrs. Steward had collapsed on chairs and were daintily sipping tea while Dr. Cricket offered them juice. Cilla was encouraging them to eat, but they both refused. I couldn’t imagine being so restrained with such a feast before me and gladly received a plate from Dr. Cricket.
Encouraged by my hunger, I quickly loaded my plate with a scone, two creampuffs, a slice of chocolate cake, and a couple of biscuits.
Dr. Cricket eyed my plate with an amazed expression, while Mr. Timmons chuckled and said, “It’s good to see a young lady with such healthy appetites.” His demure smile didn’t match with the wicked gleam in his eyes.
Disgusting man, I thought, although with less vehemence than usual. Our adventure in the snake nest had softened my harsh sentiments toward him. That, and I was too fatigued and hungry to muster up the energy required for indignation. I stuffed a whole creampuff into my gaping mouth before I could say anything to further aggravate the situation.
No sooner had the creampuff settled on my taste buds, then I wanted to retch. The pastry was stale and there was something in it that should never have been there in the first place. What, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care to dwell on the possibilities. Yet I didn’t dare spit the offensive pastry out. My eyes began to water as my bulging cheeks paled from my dilemma.
Mr. Timmons caught my eye. He discretely handed me a handkerchief and stood up to grasp Dr. Cricket by the shoulder. He steered him to the side, so that neither man was looking at me, and asked him what he’d recommend.
“The creampuffs look delightful,” Dr. Cricket exclaimed. “It’s the first time my cook is trying them.”
“You don’t say?” Mr. Timmons said while selecting a sandwich instead.
I spat the mushy goop into the handkerchief. I should’ve been grateful to Mr. Timmons for so adroitly rescuing me from an unfortunate choice between choking on an inedible substance or spitting food out in public, but instead I was perturbed. For now, I felt myself in debt to a man with dangerous paranormal qualities and a fondness for simultaneously vexing me while gallantly and repeatedly coming to my aid.
Chapter 21
A day later, Cilla sent an invite for me to join her for mid-morning tea, as if we hadn’t just endured two that week. But as she was my friend, and my only one at that, I couldn’t refuse.
What she failed to mention was that her godfather would be joining us. Then again, to be fair, I failed to mention that Gideon would be too, as he had decided to follow me there despite my protestations. I ignored him, but I couldn’t do the same to Mr. Timmons.
The moment I entered, he stood and ushered me to a seat with a grand motion of his arms. “I forgot to congratulate you the last time we met, at your cousin’s delightful tea.”
Warily, I sat. “Yes?”
“It seems your prediction regarding the results of the lion hunt were quite correct.” He clapped slowly, every motion brimming with humour.
“Thank you,” I said in a tight voice.
“Although,” he continued, “you didn’t predict the rampaging automaton.”
I smiled at that. “Nor its temporary theft.”
If he knew anything about the theft, it didn’t show at all. Instead, he said, “Shocking, wasn’t it? This calls for a cup of tea, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Knight? Or should I call you Miss Knight? Mrs. Knight really doesn’t suite you at all. It makes you sound old.”
I glared at his back as he casually strolled out of the room. “Why oh why does that man irk me so? Apart from the fact he’s so… so… irksome. Evilly irritating.”
“Aren’t you in a mood?” Cilla interrupted my rant. “He has his flaws but he’s hardly evil.”
I made some non-committal noise.
Cilla stared at me with serious eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I was tempted to ask her age, for she didn’t seem so young. “My uncle is the truest friend to those fortunate enough to have earned his trust,” she finally said.
I snorted—a reaction I’d been having quite a lot lately. Perhaps it was aggravated by the dust. “And for the rest of us?”
Cilla tilted her head and smiled knowingly. “What makes you think you aren’t already part of that privileged group?”
I shook my head even as my heart betrayed me with an unsteady beat. “He doesn’t care for my opinion nor, indeed, for me.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Cilla said.
Flustered, I committed a mistake fatal to any Society operative: I didn’t pay attention to my words. “Anyway, it’s of no use, as I still have my husband’s ghost to contend with.”
As soon as I said that, I groaned and could barely restrain slapping my forehead. Gideon floated behind Cilla and shook a finger at me, more amused than angry.
“How perfectly thrilling,” Cilla trilled. She turned as Mr. Timmons walked into the room carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. “Uncle, you’ll never guess but Bee is being haunted by her dead husband!”
Mr. Timmons gave me an indecipherable look as he poured out the tea. “Thrilling indeed.” His tone was unusually flat.
“What does your husband want?” Cilla asked.
“Why do you ask?” I demanded, put out by her lack of concern that my dead husband’s ghost was stalking me.
“There must be a reason,” she persisted.
“There’s nothing reasonable about haunting one’s spouse,” I said. “It’s inconvenient enough to do so when you’re both alive, but after that, it’s just simply bad manners.”
“Here, here,” Mr. Timmons murmured.
I glared at him, for I really didn’t appre
ciate his support or false sympathy. Gideon chuckled at my discomposure and I shifted my dark look to him; he smiled his radiant smile back at me, unconcerned about the slight of character I had directed at him.
Curse him. Even in death, he was breathtakingly beautiful and cheerful with absolutely no just cause to be so.
Cilla leaned toward me, her face blocking my view of the husband in question. She whispered, “Did you murder him?”
“What an indecent question,” I said as I slammed down my teacup, then stood and paced the room. I glanced about, but Gideon was no longer with us.
“It’s a fair question,” Mr. Timmons said softly.
“You keep out of this,” I said, wagging a warning finger at him.
“Well?” she persisted. “Did you? Maybe that’s why he’s still around.”
I sat upon the sofa next to Cilla, wondering how to respond. “If I did, I’d think he should look angry about it.”
Cilla tapped her lips with one finger. “Perhaps not. Perhaps he enjoys haunting you as his revenge. Some ghosts are like that, you know.”
I restrained another snort—curse the dust—and said, “Not Gideon Knight.”
“Oh, do spit it out, Bee,” Cilla ordered. “I really don’t have the constitution for such suspense.”
I frowned and toyed with a fan I’d left on a small table. “It’s all because of our wedding vows,” I explained, flapping the fan before me. It did nothing to soothe my heated face. “He suggested we change it from, ‘Until death do us part’ to ‘And nothing shall part us.’ I thought nothing of it, that it was no more than his romantic inclination, so I humoured him.” I flung the fan down and covered my face with my hands.
Mr. Timmons had remained uncharacteristically silent through all this, listening with an unnerving intensity. Now he spoke, startling me. “Tell me, Mrs KnightB, what did you see in him?”
I stared at him, put out by both the question and his use of my less formal name. “I beg your pardon? It’s one thing for me to slight my deceased husband, but quite another…”
He waved a hand to stop me. “That’s not my intention. Did you see something?” And he stared at me meaningfully.
