by Vered Ehsani
“Oh.” I paused to dwell on the implications. “Are you suggesting he was a… a paranormal? And that I would marry such a being as that? How outrageous.”
Cilla clucked her tongue at me. “That’s a rather extreme stance, Bee. I’d have no issue with marrying a paranormal.”
“Then you can’t have had much experience with them,” I said caustically and stopped myself before I could continue. I was being rude with two of the few people in this world I could be free and open with about my work.
Mr. Timmons, however, seemed unconcerned with my slip in manners and smiled his superior, knowing smile. “Madam, to cause a wedding vow to have such power requires a certain capability not normally found in the average members of society. In fact, it would require both parties to have certain capabilities.”
I dwelt on that notion for a moment. I didn’t like the possibilities it engendered. “I did find him unnaturally attractive,” I admitted, my face heating up further. I waved the fan energetically. “Not in the regular way. But he was so charismatic.” I smiled, lost in memories. “His eyes were quite hypnotic. I always said he could convince the Devil to dance.”
I gasped, wondering why I had never suspected anything before, why I had never studied Gideon’s energy. At the time, I’d thought it would’ve been rude and an indication of a lack of trust on my part. But since when had concerns over propriety stopped me before?
Was it true then, that Gideon had had supernatural charisma that had allowed him to manipulate others into his bidding? And if so, had he used that power on me? To what end?
Mr. Timmons nodded his head, as if he’d already figured out this whole situation and was just waiting for me to catch up. “And you never thought to view his energy?” he asked, eerily reflecting my own inner question.
“No, I prefer not to intrude on people’s privacy, unless I need to,” I explained, still debating with myself on the wisdom of this policy. Perhaps Gideon had swayed my thinking in this regard.
Mr. Timmons shrugged as if to say that manners were wholly unnecessary in such matters.
Then another question struck me. “And how did you know I could…?”
He smiled in that condescending way of his. “I may not have the depth of your perception, but I too can detect certain qualities, and yours are very clear.” He paused to scratch a sideburn. “I worry for you, Mrs. Knight. While your husband’s powers have declined in death, he still has an unnatural sway over you.”
“That’s quite enough,” a voice whispered around us. I watched Gideon materialise by the fireplace.
“Mr. Gideon Knight, I presume?” Mr. Timmons asked.
“You presume too much,” my dead and now much disenchanted husband said.
“You can see him?” I asked, slightly impressed but not overly so. It’s not a completely uncommon skill to be able to discern the presence of ghosts. Reading energy fields, on the other hand, is a far more subtle and considerably less common ability, one that Mr. Timmons seemed to have a bit of.
“I don’t,” Cilla muttered but Mr. Timmons nodded his head.
“Indeed I do, Miss Knight. Indeed I do,” Mr. Timmons said.
Well, this was quite the pickle, if I do say so. Gideon and Mr. Timmons, facing off like two stray dogs, and I shuddered to think what I was supposed to be in this scenario. I slid closer to Cilla, hoping to look just as innocent and confused as she did.
“You will refer to her by her proper title: Mrs. Knight. Only her close lady friends are so informal with her,” Gideon said in his soft voice.
“I wish you’d tell Jonas that,” I interjected.
Gideon continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “And stop questioning her.”
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t engage her in pleasant conversation,” Mr. Timmons said in an unusually calm tone but his eyes were storm clouds.
“She’s my wife,” Gideon whispered and it sounded all the more deadly for the low volume.
“You’re dead,” Mr. Timmons said, quite unnecessarily, I might add.
“Gentlemen, I’m still here…” I said.
“And I’ll be damned if I let another man…” Gideon continued as if no one else had spoken.
“… still here, in the room,” I said.
“What’s he saying?” Cilla asked, poking my arm.
“Yes, you will be damned,” Mr. Timmons interrupted and his calm dissolved into a growl. “And what won’t you let another man do? Talk with her? Maybe marry her? Can you stop her?”
“Exactly,” Gideon hissed.
“Enough,” I near shouted and slammed my fan against the coffee table—Oops, I think I snapped the fan in half—as I stood up. “I am widowed, Gideon,” I told my dead husband, “and therefore free to converse with other men or even marry again as I please.”
Gideon sulked and Mr. Timmons grinned triumphantly.
“And,” I said as I turned a sharp gaze to Cilla’s godfather, “I don’t wish to marry, nor will I in the foreseeable future, and certainly not to another paranormal. Pardon my prejudice.”
“I find your prejudice rather odd, considering what you are,” Mr. Timmons said. He shrugged his broad shoulders as if my words were of no importance to the ultimate outcome of the conversation which, he clearly seemed to feel, he had won. The insufferable man.
Gideon glared at me, an outright glare that froze me deep down in a place only he could reach.
I softened my tone as I told him, “I’m sorry, Gids, but you’re dead and you really do need to move on.”
Gideon smiled and it was a rather unpleasant, icy smile. “Our vows transcend such minor inconveniences,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the issue of being dead as one might dismiss a fly.
“Well, it may be minor to you,” I said, heat flushing my face and my words again, “but I assure you, I’ve been highly inconvenienced by your untimely demise.”
“I do apologise for that, my dear,” Gideon said, his cold glare fixed on Mr. Timmons, “and it’s a situation I hope to remedy at the soonest opportunity.”
“Oh?” was all I could think to say. My eyebrows, slim little things, disappeared into my hairline, for this was all news to me, and I didn’t count it as good news. I had just accustomed myself to being a widow and now Gideon seemed to believe that could change again.
“So now the truth comes out,” Mr. Timmons sneered.
“What truth?” Cilla demanded.
“Yes, indeed,” I added. “Pray tell, what?”
Mr. Timmons turned to me, his eyes flinty in the dim light. “Either Mr. Knight knows of a way to return to the land of the living, perhaps by invading a convenient body, or he plans to have you join him in the next world.”
He studied my reaction, and I diligently avoided reacting, simply by not dwelling on the implications of this statement. Instead, I sniffed while pulling on my gloves. “Be that as it may, gentlemen, but I have quite overstayed this visit. Cilla?”
“Oh yes, Bee. Let me escort you out,” she said, hastily tugging on her own gloves. “According to Mrs. Beeton, a social visit should never extend beyond twenty minutes or so, else risk being viewed as impolite.”
“Exactly,” I said, impressed that she remembered the bit of text Mrs. Steward had quoted on the ship. I stood, ignoring the puzzled countenances of the two man-like creatures. “And as we’re in danger of exceeding that socially prescribed limit, we must be off.”
“We’ll see about that,” Gideon whispered and vanished into the floorboard, and that was the last I saw of him for quite some time.
Yes we will, Gideon, I thought. And we shall be discussing your plans at the next possible opportunity.
I led the way, relieved to have extracted myself from an awkward conversation, but I was now left wondering what it had all meant.
“Dear Bee,” Cilla whispered as she grabbed my elbow, “whatever do you make of all that?”
I patted her hand but, in fact, I didn’t have a single answer to give her.
Chapter 22
An entire week passed following Cilla’s tea: no ghost lions raided the pantry, no Shongololo hung over my bed, Mr. Timmons didn’t stop by to instigate more inappropriate conversations, and the possessed zebra was content to glare and hiss at me from a distance.
All in all, a most acceptable situation, and therefore one I knew wouldn’t last.
I wasn’t surprised then when Mr. Steward burst into the house at midday, flustered and his jacket on awry. I glanced behind him, assured that there was a man-eating lion on his trail, but saw only Jonas where I’d left him on the veranda.
Jonas and I had just been discussing the merits of planting English Rose bushes in East Africa. Neither of us were convinced they’d survive. Thus far, the only stems that had managed to fully bloom were those made of silk that were tucked into a small vase placed on the middle of the coffee table. Mrs. Steward however insisted we persevere.
The moment Mr. Steward arrived in such a noisy fashion, the Steward women were in the sitting area of the room, busily sewing delicate patterns on white handkerchiefs, a pastime I had little sympathy for, as one hardly needed pretty material to clear one’s nose. I was behind them in the portion of the room that had been reserved for the dining room, writing in my diary. Bobby was out back, chasing the chickens. We were therefore as assembled for the midday meal as we could be.
“Mrs. Steward, you won’t guess what has occurred,” Mr. Steward said, barely able to converse from lack of breath. I wondered what condition his horse was in.
“You know how poorly I abide guessing games, Mr. Steward,” his wife said, not so much as glancing up from her needle work.
“I have the most marvellous news,” he said as he pulled a telegram from his pocket and waved it about like a flag. There was a glimmer of his old spark and confidence in his eyes.
“A dress shop is to be set up here?” Lilly asked, placing her needle and fabric down as she gazed wistfully at the yellow piece of paper in her father’s grasp.
“You’ve chased away that awful zebra who keeps eating my roses?” Mrs. Steward asked.
“Well, uh, no, not…” Mr. Steward stuttered.
“You’ll let me go on the next lion hunt?” Bobby shouted as he ran through the room, preceded by an agitated chicken.
“Bobby, stop chasing the wildlife and go wash up for dinner,” Mrs. Steward said as her needle dipped and ducked assuredly.
The chicken flew up onto the dish cabinet and squawked with great vigour and volume, while Bobby jumped up and down, shouting at it to come face its fate.
Mr. Steward raised his voice and triumphantly declared, “Aunt Phyllis is dead.”
We all turned to him, needle work, chickens, and roses forgotten. Indeed, we were utterly stupefied. For my part, I wondered if I would have another phantom to contend with or would the old lady move along politely.
Mrs. Steward was the first to recover. “Bee, fetch Mr. Steward a stiff drink at once. According to Mrs. Beeton, it’s the best remedy for such strange and uncivil fits. For how could any sane creature celebrate the death of a beloved relative?”
Mr. Steward straightened up sharply. “My dear wife, she was not a beloved relative, only a mere relative, and I most certainly am not celebrating her death, per say. But hers was a thoughtful death, for she has left to me and mine a tidy inheritance.”
With his news delivered, he took the proffered drink and swallowed it in one gulp.
Mrs. Steward’s eyes enlarged with the implications of this revelation and her husband’s newly discovered skill of consuming hard liquor in a single swallow. Lilly lost interest, since in her mind, all the inheritance would be useless, given the lack of shops in which to spend it. Bobby returned his attention to the chicken.
“Oh, my dear man,” Mrs. Steward said, her voice all breathy with excitement. “How truly marvellous indeed.”
I eyed the telegraph suspiciously, half expecting the old lady’s apparition to float out of it.
Puffed up with the result of his announcement, Mr. Steward strode across the room, sat on the sofa by his wife’s side, and took up her hand. “Yes, it is, indeed. And now I feel I must give you the opportunity to return home, if you so wish, while I continue my labours here, for we can well afford it. Indeed, she has left us a house and a tidy sum to keep it all. I shall join you after my contract here is complete.”
The children both looked over, for their fates were held within this interaction. In Lilly’s face, there was a great expectation of returning to the land where she had abandoned a sizeable portion of her wardrobe and furniture. Bobby appeared less certain of the benefits, for here he was quite at liberty to run amuck like a wild thing and there was still the matter of a lion hunt to attend to.
“Is it true?” Mrs. Steward asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Is this truly happening to us? There is inheritance enough?”
Mr. Steward nodded but remained silent, so caught up in his moment of glory that he was rendered speechless.
Mrs. Steward sighed with the relief of a condemned man set free. “It is grand news indeed.” She sighed again. “But I cannot in good conscious leave my husband’s side.”
“Yes, you can,” Lilly said with a look of outrage.
But her parents weren’t paying her the least bit attention, so absorbed were they in each other. It was such a tender transaction that I was mesmerised and stood with my diary and pen clutched to my chest.
The trance was only broken when the possessed zebra galloped into the room and attacked the coffee table.
Chapter 23
Lilly shrieked, Mr. Steward shouted for Jonas to fetch the garden rake (I wasn’t clear on what he thought Jonas should do with said rake), and Mrs. Steward, with great presence of mind, began tossing pillows from the sofa at the zebra. I almost threw the dinner plates at the possessed beast but settled for the salt shaker, while Bobby ran toward it in great excitement. The chicken, seeing its opportunity, made a quick escape.
“It’s eating my roses,” Mrs. Steward said in such a wail, as if the beast were eating a child of hers, that it pierced the heart. That is, until the hearer realised that the zebra was devouring not a child but a small collection of silk roses.
Despite the shouts and pillows flying through the air, the zebra refused to move until the coffee table was littered with bits of silk, shards of pottery and hoof marks. With a final snort and a glare at me, it spun about and trotted out the room, through the kitchen and outside.
Having expended all her reserves on throwing pillows, Mrs. Steward collapsed back onto the bare sofa and sniffled a bit. Mr. Steward, still clutching his telegraph, patted her shoulder and said, “Be at ease, Mrs. Steward. With my dear aunt’s endowment, we can see about ordering some more.”
Remarkably, Mr. Steward had floundered upon the exact words to console his wife, for upon being reminded of their good fortune, she perked up considerable. “Yes, exactly. God bless dear Aunt Phyllis. Jonas,” she shouted, her energy returned with the prospects of a healthy inheritance, “is dinner set?”
Dinner was a happy affair. Mrs. Steward gushed on about how thoughtful Aunt Phyllis had been to remember us so exclusively, and what we would do with our newfound wealth. Once the contract was done, she detailed how we would return in triumph to England and live in the style to which we should be accustomed.
After the meal was finished, I wandered outside, leaned on the handrail of the veranda and noticed the offending zebra some ways away. The serpentine spirit was twisting and hissing, while the zebra spirit was all but gone; only a pale outline of it remained. I was still studying the strange creature when Cilla galloped up to the rail on a rather fat pony.
“Bee, you’ll never guess.” Cilla panted as she slid off the pony, which looked as if it too was having trouble catching its breath.
“Unless a wealthy relative just died, I won’t even try,” I retorted, still pondering the likelihood of a rosebush outliving the combined onslaught of a demented zebra, Shongol
olos and the heat.
Jonas jogged up to my side, holding the garden rake that Mr. Steward had requested. I didn’t ask where he had gone to find the rake and why it had taken so long.
“Mr. Adams has disappeared!” Cilla announced, her eyes shining with the drama of it all.
“Those pale people, always comin’ and goin’ too fast,” Jonas mumbled to himself, looking more disgusted than concerned with the man’s disappearance.
I glanced at him sharply to let him know I’d heard the comment. He shrugged his shoulders and studied the rake.
“Bee, you simply must come,” Cilla insisted, completely ignoring Jonas’ snarky remark. “Of anyone here, you’re the most likely to find him. After all, you are an investigator of sorts.”
Jonas’s face crinkled up in its dehydrated apple way and he peered at me a bit too intently.
“Thank you, Jonas, that will be all,” I interrupted Cilla before she could reveal more. “Please wake Nelly and saddle her.”
Jonas snorted, unimpressed with my use of a higher social status to get rid of him, but he slouched away, slowly.
“Why does he have a garden rake?” Cilla asked, most astutely given that there was really nothing to rake as the zebras had eaten anything on the ground that could be raked or eaten.
“It’s for the zebra,” I said as if this was the obvious solution to the problem of a renegade quadruped.
Cilla frowned and must have decided not to pursue that odd line of logic, for she gushed, “So you’re coming? I knew you would.”
“That makes one of us,” I muttered, following Jonas to the barn and hoping I’d be back for afternoon tea.
When we reached Mr. Adam’s cabin, there was already several people there, including the Chief (and only) Constable. He was chest to chest with Dr. Cricket.
“I insist on being allowed to search that cabin,” the doctor was shouting just as we rode up. “Mr. Adams unlawfully confiscated my invention and…”
“Suspect number one,” I murmured, eyeing Dr. Cricket’s dishevelled lab coat.
