Murder for Tea

by Vered Ehsani

  “Can I assist you?” I snapped, my eyes narrowing as I marched across the store and halted a few paces away from Miss Baxter.

  Lilly scurried after me. Standing by my side, she leaned closer and tugged at my sleeve. “Oh, Miss Baxter,” she exclaimed, “your dress is utterly delightful. How reassuring to know there is still some fashion in the world.”

  I half spun to face my cousin who at times slipped into her childhood obsession with fashion and other frivolous pursuits. Bestowing on her a scowl to deter the dress-oriented conversation from proceeding, I shifted my glare to my newest and least desirable customer.

  “Is that a live monkey?” Miss Baxter asked, staring at the chittering bundle of fur in my arms.

  “Yes,” I replied. “And I suppose you prefer it dead, like everything else?”

  “Oh dear,” Lilly groaned softly.

  “I beg your pardon,” Miss Baxter huffed, drawing herself upright.

  “As you should,” I said. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Is this about the beast you called a husband?” she replied, her voice cool, unfazed by my accusatory stare.

  “And still do, thank you all the same,” I said, except it sounded rather like a snarl. “You disposed of him rather efficiently. Now are you back here to do the same to me?”

  “Why would I do anything about you?” Miss Baxter asked, her doll face a perfect impression of confusion.

  “For revenge,” I stated although with less certainty. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Not against you,” she retorted, eyeing my attire from head to foot, and clearly finding me not worthy of her attention. Sniffing with all the disdain a person can inject into such an innocuous sound, she gazed out of the shop and added, “You should be thanking me.”

  Gawking at the audacity of the woman, I demanded, “How did you arrive at such a fanciful notion?”

  Glancing aside at me, her perfectly painted lips pursed in a manner designed to melt hearts. Fortunately my heart wasn’t the melting sort. “Well, I’ve saved you from a monster. Given the circumstances, you can have the marriage annulled and continue on with your drab and unremarkable life. Neglect not to profit from my advice. You have no idea what sort of creature he is.”

  Gritting my teeth, I said with some warmth, “And you have no idea—”

  “How delighted we are you dropped by,” Lilly interjected while stepping on my toes. “Thank you and are you interested in a tea set? Or perhaps you’d like a sample of our newest tea blend.” Raising her voice, she called, “Wanjiru, could you please bring us a sample?”

  “Never mind, I’ll do it,” I said. I went the kitchen and returned a moment later with the sample.

  “It’s delightful,” Miss Baxter said upon taking a sip. “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons.”

  “Hm,” I replied.

  After retrieving the empty cup and unable to tolerate one more moment in Miss Baxter’s presence, I returned to the counter and occupied myself with counting the coins in the cash box. I soon lost track of numbers as I mulled over the fate owed to a woman who was in all likelihood a murderer, even if she was fashionably dressed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IT WAS FORTUNATE Wanjiru stepped out of the kitchen to attend to Miss Baxter, or I might have been tempted to use my bow within the confines of the shop. Without a doubt, I could have easily lodged an arrow into Miss Baxter’s heartless breast, thus ruining her pretty dress and messing up the newly polished wooden floor. As I couldn’t bear the thought of the untidiness that would have ensued, I snatched up my bow and quiver, and exited out the backdoor.

  The satisfying thunk of arrows striking the target calmed my nerves, and by the third round I felt I might be in a mood to tolerate demanding customers; at the very least, I could overcome the urge to strike them dead in front of the cash box. Gideon appeared beside me but remained silent as he watched arrow after arrow fly from my bow and hit the mark, their points nestled in the tarp-covered hay amongst several other arrows. My love of archery had fascinated him when he courted me, and he continued to enjoy the spectacle.

  When the door opened behind me, I didn’t bother to see who it was but called out, “I’ll be in shortly.”

  “A woman of multiple talents,” Constable Hunt murmured as he joined me. “And some of them lethal, I see.”

  Adopting the shocked demeanor of a proper Englishwoman, I said, “Only if I hit someone.” At his raised eyebrows, I hastily added, “Which I would never even dream of doing.”

  Constable Hunt merely smiled, and I suspected he wasn’t convinced by my ladylike facade. Personally, I prefer men to be easily swayed by batting eyes, swaying hips and a demure smile. This youthful officer resisted such feminine charms, and it was worrying. Before I could dwell on the matter, Miss Baxter appeared around the corner of the building.

  “Good day, Mrs. Timmons,” she said and smiled. “I shall be leaving Nairobi shortly, to attend the trial. If you have any message you wish me to convey to friends or family, such as you might have there, I would be willing to carry it.”

  An arrow snapped in my metal left hand, and if not for Constable Hunt’s presence, I might have contemplated using my archery skills to good effect. Instead, I dropped the broken arrow and selected another from my quiver as I said, “Let’s hope your ship doesn’t run aground in a storm, shall we?”

  With a small huff, Miss Baxter twirled about in such a way as to show off the elegant cut of her dress and strolled away.

  “Women are a fickle breed,” Constable Hunt said, his gaze fixed on the retreating icon of fashion.

  Grateful that Koki wasn’t present, I paused long enough to imagine how she would have reacted to the slight against the feminine ‘breed’. Of one thing I was certain: if she was here, the constable might not have a head attached to his shoulders. The thought caused me to smile which in turn made me wonder if perhaps I was spending too much time with the she-demon.

  “You agree then?” he asked, his tone solicitous as if inquiring after my health.

  Realizing I was smiling at the vision of Koki’s gory defense of womanly pride, I forced a frown and cleared my throat. “I do not. I have to wonder what has inspired in you such a dim view of the gentler sex? Have you been so dreadfully slighted by one as to assume we are all alike?”

  “That may be.” He didn’t look at me but rather at my target which was peppered with arrows.

  Tapping the remaining arrow against my boot, I said, “Let me hasten to assure you we are not all so ghastly as Miss Baxter.”

  Startled out of his own reverie, Constable Hunt pivoted to me. “Miss Baxter? Ah, the fine specimen of ladylike qualities who graced us with her presence just now.”

  I suppressed my derisive snort but the man must have observed some of my sentiments on my features.

  “I take it then you and she are not on agreeable terms?” he asked.

  “Hardly,” I said and settled the arrow into place. “She is the sole reason I am currently without a husband.”

  “I’m right here,” Gideon hissed by my other side.

  I didn’t bother amending my statement but instead I released the taut string. Silently the arrow slid through the air and plunged into the target.

  “A good shot,” the constable said, reluctant admiration evident in his tone. “I know of the situation between Mr. Timmons and Miss Baxter. He did well not to marry her. She seems one of those types who might leave a man at the altar.”

  “Is that what happened to you?” I asked as I swiveled to face him. Bright blue eyes filled my vision.

  “It is,” he murmured. “Sarah…” He hesitated and shook his head. “It’s all in the past now. And as men in similar situations have realized, time removes the sting of the humiliation, and provides him wisdom regarding the ways of women.”

  “The ways of some women,” I corrected him, wondering if Sarah knew how terrible a blow she had dealt her lover when she’d jilted him at the wedding altar.

  �
��Perhaps,” he said, shifting his gaze to face the target but not fast enough. The pain of abandonment was evident even in that brief glimpse.

  “I’m sorry you’ve suffered at the hands of another,” I said, my heart softening despite the irksomeness of his beliefs. “But have faith not all are so inclined to wickedness. I’m sure you’ll find happiness again.”

  A smile lifted his features. “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. I’m sure that’s true.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  WHILE I’D ANTICIPATED a leisurely morning of reading and archery, it was not to be. Just as I’d settled into the sofa with a book in one hand and tea in the other, someone had the temerity to knock on the front door.

  Annoyed at the interruption, I dropped my book onto the coffee table. When I opened the door, I found a young African man standing before me, eyes downcast. He was wearing the uniform of the constabulary but had on the shorts of a boy rather than long pants; the British empire used all means at its disposal to assert its superiority over the vanquished and oppressed.

  While I noted the uniform, it didn’t soften my ire for I was in no mood to entertain an uninvited visitor. “Yes?” I asked, my eyebrows rising.

  “A message, madam,” he murmured. He glanced up as he handed a note and then resumed his study of the ground.

  I unfolded the letter, read it in disbelief and then again.

  “Wait a moment,” I ordered and closed the door before the messenger could respond.

  In a daze, I went into the kitchen where Jonas was stoking the fire in the stove, and Gideon was explaining to Shelby the finer points of how to irritate the gardener.

  “I’ve been summoned to the constabulary,” I announced. “So I’ll have my tea when I return, Jonas.”

  “Bah,” Jonas grumbled.

  “On what grounds?” Gideon asked as he encouraged Shelby to toss a banana peel at Jonas’ head.

  “On the grounds I don’t have time to drink it now,” I said. At Gideon’s frown, I smiled and added, “Perhaps they have further questions for me regarding the murdered bride.”

  Snatching the peel off his wrinkled head, Jonas peered around and scowled at the monkey. He wasn’t able to see or hear Gideon but he knew well enough who was behind Shelby’s naughty behavior.

  “How thrilling,” Gideon trilled and clapped his hands. Shelby bounced up and down, shrieking. “Was another body discovered in your shop?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” I said. “It would be most inconvenient. At any rate, Dougal wishes to discuss some matter with me in person.”

  Jonas stood and rubbed his back. Although he couldn’t hear Gideon’s half of the conversation, he’d understood enough. His gaze sharp and alert, he asked, “Then why do they ask you to go to the jailhouse?”

  It was a valid point, and I had no response which could adequately explain the summons without suggesting an imminent arrest. “Perhaps they want an official statement.”

  I reached for my walking stick and instead slumped against the kitchen table. The room wavered before me, and in horror I realized I might be at the risk of swooning. My stomach convulsed.

  “Beatrice,” Gideon shouted as he and Jonas both rushed to my side.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, waving them away. “I’m fatigued, that’s all.”

  Not entirely convinced, Gideon hovered before me. “Tell the messenger you’re unwell.”

  “Nonsense,” I tutted and stood, brushing at my skirt. My normally strong constitution seemed to be failing, but I was determined not to give into its caprices. Already the nausea and vertigo had dissipated as rapidly as they’d arrived. “I’m fine now. After all, there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable. They want to meet with me and meet with me they will.”

  Despite Gideon’s unhappy countenance and Jonas’ disapproval, I set out for town with my escort. While Nelly could have completed the journey in a few blinks of an eye, I restrained her to the plodding pace of the messenger’s mule-drawn wagon.

  As we entered town, I wondered how many people knew my destination. I trotted ahead of the constabulary wagon, distancing myself from any suggestion I might be heading into trouble. It was bad enough the blemish of a trial still loomed over my husband. Now if people knew I too was under a cloud of suspicion, would we ever be able to mingle with the upstanding residents of Nairobi?

  Just then, the smallness of the town dawned on me.

  Mrs. Patel was sweeping the small veranda fronting her store, the fabric of her sari shimmering in the bright light of day. She nodded at me, her smile not indicating a trace of knowing superiority or gloating. Mr. Rossenrode was directing a steady stream of workers carrying crates into Rossenrode MacJohn & Co, the general store which supplied basic household goods. Eyeing Nelly covetously, he waved.

  “Remember, any time,” he shouted, jabbing a finger in our direction. “I’ll buy that horse in a heartbeat.”

  Smiling, I nodded in return. While Nelly could be as obstinate a beast as any, I’d never sell her. Having survived the various diseases which killed off most horses here within a couple years, she was referred to as a ‘salted horse’ and was worth several times more because of it. But Mr. Rossenrode didn’t and could never know how special she truly was.

  Other residents nodded, called a greeting or waved. There wasn’t the least indication they had caught the whiff of scandal. Thus reassured, I sighed until a sour countenance caught my attention.

  Miss Baxter was exiting the Colonial Stores, her well-polished boots clicking on the short set of wooden stairs which connected the store to the muddy street. Her perfect features called to my mind the artistically arranged dead bride. Yet despite her carefully arranged looks, Miss Baxter’s hostile expression deprived her of the radiance of a youthful beauty. She smirked and glanced toward the end of Victoria Road where the constabulary stood, then back to me. Facing straight ahead, I did my best to ignore her presence, but the angry flush in my cheeks drained as I realized she knew to where I was proceeding.

  As I mulled over Miss Baxter’s undesirable existence in my life, I idly counted backward. Miss Baxter had been lurking about Nairobi for three weeks. It took about three weeks by steamer to travel from London to Mombasa. The Wedding Killer had ceased his or her activities two months previously. At the time I’d mentioned this coincidence to Lilly, I hadn’t seriously contemplated the possibility, but what if I’d been correct?

  “Wouldn’t it be ironic?” I muttered to Nelly as I dismounted before the constabulary. “She accuses her former lover of nefarious activities while she engages in her own.”

  Nelly snorted, shook her head and fell asleep before the metal bits of the bridle had ceased tinkling.

  “How I envy your ability to sleep on demand,” I murmured.

  Patting her nose and hoping I’d be back in the saddle in time for afternoon tea, I marched up the three wooden stairs of the constabulary and through the doorway. As I entered the small reception area, both the heat and humidity increased. It wasn’t unbearable but only served to remind me I was leaving behind the open space and refreshing breeze of freedom.

  Firmly instructing the morose thought to depart, I focused on the man sitting behind the desk facing the door. The only other objects in the room were a sorry-looking, wooden filing cabinet and two bare wooden chairs. As with the man, all the furniture had seen better days. On one side of the reception area was a door leading to a small room; the officers alternated nights in which one of them slept in that room on a camping bed, prepared to awaken should a resident require their assistance.

  Chief Constable Dougal partially rose from his seat and gestured to one of the two chairs arranged before him. “Mrs. Timmons, please,” he said, his attempt at manners obscured by the small, alcohol-tinted burp which followed his invite.

  Forcing a smile, I sat as indicated and waited. A moment later, a door to the back of the room opened, and Constable Hunt slipped through the gap. Behind him, a man shouted slurred obscenities, no doubt locked
up in the jail cell and left there to recover from overindulgence.

  “My apologies,” Hunt said as he closed the door to the ruckus. “The vocabulary of some of the game hunters leaves much to be desired.”

  Given my line of work had exposed me to all strata of society, both normal and paranormal, I wasn’t overly discomfited by a few cuss words uttered by a drunken stranger. Still, I pretended a certain degree of ladylike shock and dismay for the benefit of the men watching me.

  Satisfied I’d been suitably disgusted by the verbal assault on my sensibilities, Hunt sat on the other chair and angled it so that he faced my profile. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he studied me while Dougal launched into an apology for disturbing me.

  “Unfortunately,” Dougal concluded, “we have reason to request your presence here today.”

  I glanced to my side and met Hunt’s intense, bright gaze. While I wasn’t easily disconcerted, his stare was unsettling, given the circumstances. He appeared to be measuring my neckline, perhaps to ensure a proper fit for a noose.

  “To be honest, I’m unclear why I’m here,” I said, my gaze lingering on Constable Hunt’s unfashionable overcoat which was hanging from a peg on the wall in front of me. The sight of it reminded me of Lilly’s disgust at the article of clothing. Thinking of Lilly caused me to wish myself back home, sharing a pot of tea and a few laughs with my cousin in Father’s cozy, fire-lit library.

  “We found the groom,” Hunt explained, leaning back into his chair and draping one arm over the backrest.

  I waited for him to continue but he allowed silence to wrap itself around the room. His startling blue eyes bore into me as if reading the breadth and depth of my soul. I wondered what he would think if he truly could see the memories and secrets lurking in there.

  Unlike most people, I was comfortable dwelling in silence and so I waited. Hunt’s slight smile indicated he too could remain thus, engaging in a staring contest with me. Dougal however was not so inclined.

  “You see, Mrs. Timmons,” he interrupted whatever was happening between myself and the young constable, “we found the groom but he wasn’t so inclined to provide us answers.”