by Vered Ehsani
“Of course,” Gideon drawled as he lay across a shelf of accessories. “Yet somehow, I can’t imagine anyone willing to die because he didn’t particularly like tea.”
“Oh, Yao can imagine,” Yao said, bouncing on his bare feet. “White people do strange things all the time.”
Ignoring their banter, I shifted the body and peered at the face, the sallow skin and thin features. Glazed blue eyes stared back. Judging by the attire, I surmised the man was a recent arrival from abroad, most likely England. Only such people would insist on wearing a starched and collared dress shirt under a wool jacket in the near-tropical weather.
“No sign of violence or trauma,” I noted. “Apart from an outdated taste in fashion which is hardly a cause for dying.”
“Shouldn’t you send for the constables?” Gideon asked, sinking through the shelves until he was on the floor.
“Yao will go,” Yao said, waving one hand above his head. “Pick me.”
“Put your arm down,” I ordered as I peered at the dead man’s neck. No pulse and no bite marks. “If you recall, our new constable is in jail for murder. And as it’s now past sunset, Chief Constable Dougal is most likely too inebriated to be of much use.”
“So you’re just going to leave it here?” Gideon asked, waving vaguely at the body.
“I don’t see why not,” I said, frowning. “Does he look familiar to you?”
Gideon floated over and peered down at the man. “Doesn’t he work at the new Customs office?”
“Of course,” I said. “Mr. Bilco, I believe. I heard one of the shop owners complaining about his zero tolerance for anything that hints of corruption.”
“Such a waste,” Yao said, his words breathed out on a sigh, his longing gaze returning to the man.
“Be that as it may,” I said, standing up and brushing tea leaves off my skirt, “we’re leaving it here until the morning when Dougal will be reasonably sober. And Yao, you are not to shift into your firefly form and sneak back inside for a snack. Is that clear?”
So saying, I returned to the counter at the back of the store and collected my leather trench coat and my fully loaded walking stick. While I wasn’t infirm or elderly—being in my mid-twenties and of sound body and reasonably sound mind—I never left home without that stick. It was an oxide green, metal contraption containing a saber, blowgun, lock picks, blades and a few other items hidden inside. Such tools were handy when confronted with an inconveniently locked door or unsavory beasts of various forms and species.
“Nasty, wasteful woman,” Yao muttered, his beautiful lips pushed out in a sulk.
“Today is Wanjiru’s day off. Will you be seeing her this evening?” I continued, knowing the name of his beloved would distract the vampire.
His face immediately brightened with a wide smile. “Yes, yes, Wanjiru. The moon in Yao’s night, the perfume of—”
“And more, I’m sure,” I interrupted the beginning of what was sure to be a horrid poem. Vampires have many talents; creating original poetry isn’t one of them. “Please let her know about the body, and to keep the shop closed until I arrive.”
“Wanjiru,” Yao mused, his eyes fixed on some point above my head. “Delightful, beautiful…”
Scoffing, Gideon grimaced at his friend. “No worries, Bee. I’ll make sure the dolt remembers to tell her.”
With that reassurance, I kicked the two scoundrels out of the shop and headed home.
Chapter Six
“ANOTHER BODY? AND you only thought to tell me now?” Simon shook his head, crossed his arms over his wide chest and half smiled, half frowned.
“May I remind you that I was rather distracted last night,” I said, pretending to glare at him while giggling.
Tossing his feet onto the coffee table in our sitting room, he grinned. “You’re welcome.” He scratched his chin. “Shockingly, I must agree with Gideon. You are a magnet for corpses.”
“And trouble,” I said as I prepared to depart. “Don’t forget that.”
Smirking, Simon pulled me onto his lap. “Of that, there is no doubt.” He buried his face into my neck, scratching me with his whiskers.
“You haven’t shaved, and it’s far too early in the morning for such shenanigans,” I protested, giggling.
“Hardly, my dear,” he murmured just as someone rapped upon our front door.
Groaning, I debated ignoring the visitor, until Lilly called out, “Beatrice, I know you’re there. You must come out at once.”
“Has someone died or been killed?” I demanded.
“Goodness, Beatrice,” my cousin retorted. “It’s far too early for murder, surely.”
Ignoring her illogical assumption, I continued, “Is someone suffering from a zombie parasite infection or about to be eaten by a paranormal beastie?”
Sighing loudly enough to be audible through the door, Lilly said, “No. No zombies or anything of the sort.”
Simon started nibbling on my earlobe. Doing my utmost to ignore the distraction, I asked, “Is someone in dire need of tea?”
“Yes,” she blurted out. “In a manner of speaking. Oh, do open this door at once, Bee. It is urgent, I swear.”
Heaving my own dramatic sigh, I extracted myself from Simon’s arms.
“If this involves running after demonic creatures, negotiating with gods, climbing the silk of a giant spider, battling dragons, visiting the Underworld,” Simon warned, using the index finger of one hand to tick a finger for each item, “or any other possible adventure that would put you, our baby or any of your body parts in danger, mortal or otherwise, I forbid you to go.”
“Mmm hmmm,” I said as I strolled to the door. “I’ll be sure to take that into consideration.”
“I’m serious, Mrs. Timmons,” Simon growled, standing up and glaring. “We have even more reason to keep you alive and in one piece now.”
Shaking my head, I yanked open the door. “I’m being lectured about looking after myself,” I informed Lilly.
Lilly rolled her eyes, smirked and said, “He’s wasting his time.” As she tugged me outside, she leaned around me and shouted, “Not to worry, Mr. Timmons. The most fearful creature she’ll have to face is Cilla’s Great Aunt Sybil White.”
On that ominous note, she closed the door and stared at me, her sky-blue eyes wide and imploring, her small mouth quivering. While someone might generously describe me as pretty, Lilly was lovely with little effort. She had beautiful dark curls that were draped artistically around her shoulders. Most importantly, she was always fashionably attired. It was a marvel that we had grown up together yet her stylish ways hadn’t exerted too much of an influence over my own wardrobe.
“What’s this about a great aunt?” I demanded, refusing to follow Lilly to the main Hardinge house until she explained herself. “I’ve never heard of her before.”
“Indeed, none of us had until the woman arrived last night, unannounced,” Lilly explained, tossing a perfectly coiffed curl over her shoulder. “Now that I’ve met her, I comprehend why poor Cilla made no mention of her. She’s a horror, Beatrice, a terror of a woman. She claims to be here for the wedding, but I believe she harbors more sinister plans. Why else would she be here so soon? Goodness, family can be so inconsiderate.”
Glancing over Lilly’s shoulder, I stared at the Hardinge house, a two-story stone structure that was by Nairobi standards a grand affair. To one side was a private croquet court in a corner of the garden, its grass as smooth as a carpet, metal hoops already stuck into the ground. A family of small antelope was nibbling at the longer grass on the edges of the small court.
A flicker of yellow movement caught my eye. I shifted my attention to the nearby thorn tree from which hung countless nests of a weaver bird colony. Their raucous calls filled in the silence.
“Are you listening, Bee?” Lilly asked, waving a slim hand in front of my face.
“Terrifying relative, blah blah blah,” I muttered.
Lilly reached out and slapped my arm. “Bea
trice, you have no idea what she’s doing in that house. Lady Hardinge has retreated to her room and locked the door while Lord Hardinge and Tiberius have exited the building on the pretense of hunting lions.” Pausing, she grinned. “They’ve convinced Lady Sybil that man-eating lions have infested the area, and she must stay in the house for her own safety.”
“That’s all very well for my brother and Lord Hardinge,” I said, “but certainly it must leave the women in a vulnerable position of having to entertain this unwanted guest.”
“Precisely,” Lilly said and tugged at my arm. “And that’s why you must join us at once, to share the burden.”
“If there isn’t a pot of tea involved, I have little interest and even less motivation to attend,” I informed my cousin.
Snorting, Lilly said, “I’m sure there will be tea available. She is insisting to meet with all the women of the household.”
As I allowed Lilly to escort me to the main house, I realized something was missing. “Where’s Grace?”
Scowling, Lilly said, “Lady Sybil insisted Grace be left in the nursery during our meeting. She said it’s not appropriate for a baby to attend a tea party.”
“She truly does sound horrid,” I said, gawking at Lilly. “With whom does she think she’s visiting? Normal people?”
“Exactly my point,” Lilly enthused. “The woman’s a monster.”
On that defamatory note, we hastened to meet Lady Sybil White.
Chapter Seven
MY FIRST IMPRESSION of Lady Sybil White certainly didn’t scream monster. Then again, that is the way of a true monster: to make itself appear as meek as an edible herbivore until it is close enough to devour you.
Her hair was solidly gray and suffering from a heavy application of a curler, after which she'd pulled the tresses back and pinned them into submission. A network of fine lines covered her skin, none of which were deep enough to suggest she had ever allowed a display of excessive emotion. Her chin sagged into her neck yet her jaw retained a firmness that allowed no argument. A long nose ended in wide, flaring nostrils, and her eyes, although a watery blue-gray, nonetheless retained a sharp intelligence and alertness. Back straight, she peered at us as we approached the outside patio table.
“You didn’t tell me this was a formal occasion,” I hissed at Lilly. Indeed, Lady Sybil was attired as if for a ballroom party, not a quick chat over tea. Her long-sleeved, white dress swept the floor. The high, lacy collar emphasized the stiffness of her neck. A small hat with a big feather perched on top of her head.
“It’s ghastly, isn’t it?” Lilly replied, unperturbed by my distress. “It’s at least a decade out of style. I mean, who wears such clothes for morning tea?”
“Apparently, she does,” I said, brushing the creases out of my rather plain skirt.
Scoffing, Lilly waved a hand dismissively at me. “She’ll soon realize we aren’t in London anymore.” Then abruptly, she smiled demurely as we reached the covered patio. Our shoes clicked against the stone slabs as we approached a round, white, metal table upon which was displayed a delightful assortment of treats surrounding a tea set. My stomach gurgled, and I blushed as Lady Sybil raised one eyebrow.
Curtseying, Lilly said, “Good morning, Lady Sybil.”
I followed my cousin’s example, mumbling a polite welcome. Lady Sybil remained seated and stared at us, taking her time to study our appearance. The scent of tea and chocolate cake wafted around me, and my stomach churned at the prospect of indulging.
“Well,” Lady Sybil spoke at last and clasped her hands before her, “you might as well sit if you’re going to join me for tea. And as that’s the point of the matter, sit.”
Glancing at each other, Lilly and I obeyed.
“Parson,” Lady Sybil said, raising her voice and her chin.
A man of medium height, thin hair and sallow complexion appeared from inside the house and hastened to his employer’s side. I would best describe the man as stodgy and dour. Just as Lady Sybil had done, Parson studied us with judgmental eyes and a slight sneer on his thin, pale lips.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked, bowing to her.
“Call Lady Hardinge and Miss White at once,” she said as she straightened the cutlery around her plate. “Our tea is getting cold, and you know how I cannot abide cold tea. It is an appalling waste of a good beverage. Some colonials might take delight in consuming iced tea, but such uncivilized behavior will not be tolerated at my table.”
My heart lifted at these words. If the lady held tea in such high estimation, perhaps she wasn’t so terrible after all.
“And there is my other guest,” she continued, staring over my shoulder as Parson hastened into the house. “She too is late. Is no one in this wretched town capable of arriving to tea on time?”
“To be fair,” I said, clutching my hands on my lap, “I only just received the invitation.”
Lady Sybil’s eyes widened a fraction, enough to indicate she was unimpressed by my impertinence. Fortunately, I was saved by the most unlikely heroine: my aunt and Lilly’s mother, Mrs. Steward.
“Oh, Lady Sybil,” she huffed, waving a lavender-scented handkerchief before her as she lumbered away from her wagon and entered the shade of the patio. Her plump cheeks were flushed. “I am most gratified by your invitation.”
“As you should be,” Lady Sybil said, studying my frumpy aunt.
Mrs. Steward’s double chins wobbled as she collapsed into a chair. She seemed exhausted from the exertion it had taken to move from house to wagon and from wagon to this spot. Unlike Lilly and me, she had understood the need to dress up for the occasion, and had on a yellow, frilly summer dress.
Before Mrs. Steward could say or do anything to embarrass us, Cilla rushed outside. Despite the strain of planning her upcoming wedding, Cilla’s round, pretty face was wreathed in a wide smile, her dark blue eyes bright and content at the prospect of marrying a werewolf. If the werewolf hadn’t been my own brother, I’d have cautioned her against it. But Drew was a decent wolf, despite smelling like a wet dog. And as I only had two brothers and one was already married to my cousin, I was delighted that my best friend had agreed to marry the other one.
Cilla glanced at her great aunt, and her smile wavered. Curtseying, she sat across the table from me and tugged at her long, dark blond braid. Only when she caught my gaze did her smile brighten.
Lady Hardinge was the last to join us. Murmuring an apology, she sat down, her lovely face unusually tired. She and her husband were an unusual couple. Despite being of nobility, they had none of the snobbish and elitist attitude I’d come to expect from those of higher society.
“Well,” Lady Sybil said, “we can finally commence. I can see I have my work cut out in training this household.”
Lilly’s jaw dropped while Cilla blushed, her rosy cheeks darkening. Only Mrs. Steward seemed satisfied with the pronouncement.
“For a start,” Lady Sybil continued, ignoring the discomfiture she was eliciting from her comments, “seats should be preassigned with names clearly written upon labels. These labels should be placed prominently on the plates so there is no confusion as to whom should sit where.”
“Lady Sybil,” Lady Hardinge began but ceased speaking when Lady Sybil raised both her thin eyebrows.
Determined not to be so easily silenced, I complained, “I prefer to sit where I wish to sit.”
“And with whom would you prefer to sit?” Lady Sybil demanded, her high-pitched voice grating on my nerves as much as the condescending lift to her eyebrows.
“Yes, whom?” Mrs. Steward repeated, staring at me in disapprobation.
Cilla shook her head ever so slightly but I ignored the warning and replied, “I’d sit next to my husband, if he were here.”
Lady Sybil clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “I’d think you see enough of him at home.”
“I married him because I’d like to see more of him,” I said, wondering when she would serve the tea.
“H
ow very liberal of you, my dear.” Her nostrils flared. “We would never permit such tendencies in our day. Would we, Parson?”
“Certainly not, m’lady,” Parson huffed, his eyebrows as elevated as those of his mistress.
It was at that point I remembered why I detested the aristocracy, the Hardinge family aside. Mrs. Steward on the other hand was delighting in the exchange.
“Here, here,” she said and applauded the old lady’s pronouncement against women who married for love. “They have a thing or two to learn in these parts, Lady Sybil. As you can see, the less informed among us have degenerated since moving to these savage shores.”
Lady Sybil clicked her tongue again and lifted her chin so that she peered down her long nose. “It certainly is clear to me, Mrs. Steward. It certainly is.”
Chapter Eight
I WAS CONVINCED that lives were saved that day due to the resuscitating powers and delectable taste of tea. There is no other explanation.
Once Lady Sybil had pronounced the entire Hardinge household in dire need of proper training, she then provided a thorough lecture on the art of hosting a tea party. Fortunately, she did so while pouring the beverage into dainty, gold-rimmed teacups. Sadly, we were not provided much time to enjoy before she engaged us yet again in conversation.
“Do you partake in bird watching, Mrs. Timmons?” she asked me as she held up a small pair of gold binoculars.
I thought of Koki’s promise to teach me to use birds as spies. “Yes. In fact, my interest in the sport is growing.”
Her eyebrows rising, Lady Sybil nodded. “I do approve. It is a wonderful sport, well suited for those of good breeding and those who aspire to emulate that breeding. This land provides excellent opportunities, being a stopping point for migratory birds of all sorts. I am hoping to spot the clarke’s weaver. It’s a rare thing to find.”
As I had no notion what a clarke’s weaver looked like, I smiled and continued eating.
Turning to Lady Hardinge, Lady Sybil said, “Returning to our original topic, I have much advice that would benefit you. In addition to quality of staff, there is the matter of quantity.”