by Vered Ehsani
“I’m grateful you clarified the last part,” I said, my sarcasm wasted on Yao who merely nodded his head enthusiastically.
I pondered the wisdom of interceding on Yao’s behalf and calculated the risks of Jonas abandoning his employment in an outraged huff.
“Very well,” I agreed, my syllables drawn out in reluctance.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Yao said, bouncing up and down.
“But then, I need some assistance from you,” I continued, a plan beginning to form. Even as it did, a voice which sounded suspiciously like Simon’s began to lecture me against it. Ignoring the unsolicited advice, I waited for Yao to cease bouncing.
“Yes, anything,” he gushed.
“If we’re caught, we’ll be arrested,” I warned.
He shrugged, unconcerned about the laws governing my world. “Yao can always fly away and bite anyone who dares to arrest you.”
Thus reassured that bloody mayhem would result should our mission fail, I sighed and set down my quill and paper onto the side table.
“So what naughty business is it?” he asked. “Can Gideon come too?”
“Just what I need,” I groaned. “Two masters of mischief.”
Yao grinned. “Yes, Yao and Gideon are masters. What shall the masters do, Miss Knight?”
Rubbing my forehead to release the nagging voice of doom, I said, “We need to break into the constabulary and steal some evidence.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“MASTERS OF MISCHIEF,” Yao hummed under his breath as he waited in the shadows. “Masters of—”
“I don’t believe Beatrice intended that to be a point of pride, although it does have a certain ring to it,” Gideon said, his translucent form barely visible in the dim light of the star-spangled night. He hovered in the branches of a thickly branched Angel Trumpet bush which was conveniently positioned next to the squat building of the constabulary.
“Yes, she did,” the Adze argued, his grin unshakeable, his confidence absolute. “It’s the best praise for Yao.”
Indeed, I could believe it. The two had provided sufficient proof on numerous occasions that they had mastered the nuances of mischief making. I could only hope they would limit themselves to the task at hand. After all, neither of my accomplices need be concerned regarding the outcome of the night’s foray. If the constable caught us, Gideon would fade away and Yao would transform into a firefly. I would be left holding the teapot, so to speak.
“Enough chitter chatter,” I admonished them as I peered around the large, bell-shaped flowers of the Angel Trumpet, breathing in their heady perfume and wondering not for the first time if it was prudent to allow Gideon to join us. Then again, Yao had blurted out our plans as soon as he’d seen Gideon lurking in the kitchen, and there was no dissuading the ghost from joining.
“Besides,” Gideon reasoned, “I need to ensure you don’t use this excursion as an excuse to abandon Shelby.”
“You can’t seriously expect me to carry a monkey while on a mission such as this?” I exclaimed. “I’ve been lugging her around all day. She can manage a few hours without me.”
Gideon merely hovered wraith-like above me, implacable in his conviction that Shelby would perish without constant maternal contact.
And so I had not two but three masters of mischief to manage. At least Shelby maintained silence. Only the top half of her head was visible. Her little ears twitched and her dark, round eyes stared out from above the pouch slung across my chest.
I returned my attention to the constabulary. From my position, I could see the three steps which led up to the veranda and the doorway into the building. Light glowed out of a window and onto the veranda from an oil lamp which was hanging inside the reception room. The Chief Constable had departed for his home earlier in the evening. Constable Hunt had entered the sleeping quarters located to the side of the reception area close to an hour ago and drunk a cup of tea. He blew out his candle and closed the shutters about half an hour later. I knew this because the Angel Trumpet was on the same side as those shutters.
During this entire time, I’d been plagued by mosquitos, a ghost and a vampire. At least Yao had been useful; in firefly form, he’d flown into the small side room and dropped a tablet I’d prepared into the tea. Constable Hunt would sleep very well that night.
Eager to finish the business, I glanced up and down the street and verified there would be no witnesses to our crime apart from a few bats flitting overhead. Gesturing to my co-conspirators, I scurried around the corner and up the stairs, grimacing as cracked wood creaked treacherously underfoot.
“Is the door locked?” Gideon asked, rubbing his hands together. “If it is, I’ve been teaching Shelby to open doors. She could find a way inside and…”
He ceased his chatter when he saw me remove two slim bits of metal from a small drawer in my walking stick and pick the lock.
“Don’t you know how to spoil all the fun,” he grumbled and flung up his arms as I eased the door open.
“Yao is still having fun,” the Adze exclaimed as he bounded into the reception area.
“Keep quiet,” I admonished as I closed the door and leaned against it. The kerosene lamp glowed from above Dougal’s desk, left burning to signal an officer was available to assist any Nairobi resident in need.
“What are we looking for?” Gideon asked.
“A white bone china teapot,” I answered.
“Is it made of bone?” Yao asked, his whole form quivering in joyful anticipation at the notion.
“A teapot?” Gideon repeated. “Can’t we steal something a tad more intriguing than a teapot?”
Ignoring both of them, I tiptoed around the desk and opened the drawer. It was empty. I glanced at the closed door leading to the small sleeping quarters. Yao and Gideon both turned to stare at the door with expectant expressions.
“Is the door going to turn into a teapot?” Yao asked, his dark eyes wide at the thought.
“It might,” I said, “if someone were to open the door, sneak into the room, rummage through Constable Hunt’s items, find the teapot and carry it out here.”
Yao frowned. “This sounds like a lot of work to make magic. Yao prefers an incantation.”
“And I prefer you to fly into the room and see if the constable has the teapot,” I said while flinging an arm out and pointing at the door.
“If he doesn’t?”
“He has to have it,” I said. “Otherwise…” I paused. “Otherwise, we’ll have to break into his room at the officers’ quarters.”
Yao grinned. “This is funny.”
“You mean fun,” I corrected him. “And no, it’s neither fun nor funny. Go find the teapot.”
Giggling softly, Yao shifted into his firefly form and zipped under the door into the next room. Gideon floated through the door, leaving me alone with my agitated thoughts. A moment later, Gideon poked his head through the wood.
“It’s here,” he confirmed. “It’s in a box under the bed.”
Frowning at the sight of a disembodied head, I asked, “So what’s Yao doing?”
Gideon smiled widely. “Causing mischief, of course.”
With this pronouncement, he vanished. Gritting my teeth, I eased open the door to the sleeping room. It was more of a closet, with room for a narrow cot, a small side table and a chair upon which clothes were placed. Yao was in his human form, stooping over Constable Hunt.
“Yao,” I whispered, my urgency adding more volume than I’d intended. “Get away from him. You’re not allowed to do that in my town.”
“Just a little sip,” Yao pleaded, his gaze fixed upon the constable’s throat. “A nibble, and then we perform magic and take the teapot away.”
Tiptoeing in the room, I said, “Forget the magic and get out of here.”
I lowered myself to the ground and peered under the bed. The box was where Gideon had indicated; I dragged it out, removed the teapot and slid the box back under the bed.
Pouti
ng, Yao complained, “You’re no funny.”
“And I’m no fun either,” I said as I stood. “Especially when breaking into a police officer’s room and stealing evidence.”
Shrugging at my inability to make merry while engaging in larceny, Yao transformed into a firefly and zipped past me. Constable Hunt groaned and rolled over to face the door. His eyes twitched under the light from the kerosene lantern.
Unsure how strong the sleeping potion was, I backed out of the room and closed the door with a sharp click. I flinched and hastened to the front door.
“Hello?” Constable Hunt called out, his voice groggy.
“You make a terrible thief,” Gideon said as he appeared in front of me.
“I’m not sure to be flattered or insulted,” I said as I slipped outside.
“Insulted,” Gideon reassured me. “Definitely insulted.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“ARE YOU OR are you not capable of studying fingerprints?” I demanded while a bloodsucking firefly buzzed about my right ear and a ghost hovered by my left.
Dr. Cricket peered out into the night, perhaps wondering what else might stalk out of the forest and into the clearing of his house. “Mrs. Timmons, you are up and about rather late, are you not?”
I must have appeared frighteningly stern, for the man hastened to add, “But I have spent a bit of time studying the techniques of Sir Edward Richard Henry and his fingerprint classification system. It isn’t too complicated, really, and only requires a keen, discerning eye and a steady hand.”
“Brilliant,” I said and pushed past the inventor.
Gawking at me, Dr. Cricket asked, “Is your presence here at this time of night wholly appropriate, Mrs. Timmons?”
“Of course not,” I said and smiled, hoping it was beguiling and not menacing. “And I’m sure my horse won’t tell a soul, so your virtue and reputation are protected. Now, where do you wish to work?”
So saying, I withdrew from a bag the white teapot and the teacup I had provided to Miss Baxter to taste my newest blend.
“How thrilling,” Dr. Cricket trilled, his concern over maintaining the appearance of appropriate behavior evaporating as he shut the door and hastened to set out his tools. “Do you know Sir Henry had assistance from two Indian fellows, Azizul Haque and Hem Chandra Bose? Of course, the system is named after Sir Henry.”
“Of course,” I repeated, pacing about the stuffy and crowded room. Two oil lamps, their glass chimneys smeared with soot, and a candelabra cast light over the assortment of experiments and inventions, most of which were incomplete. Metal body parts were scattered about the various tables, indicating Dr. Cricket had not yet abandoned his dream of constructing another functional automaton.
“I’ll just brush this item with a magnesium powder,” Dr. Cricket explained as he worked, although it was to a disinterested audience. My thoughts were bent in a different direction.
“Once you’ve finished with the teapot,” I said, “please do the same with the cup and see what prints might match.”
As I waited for him to complete the process, I stared at the photo of Mrs. Cricket hanging in a frame on the wall nearby. She wasn’t lacking in beauty, but even through the photo I could glimpse a madness stirring in her eyes.
“Yes, she really was lovely,” Dr. Cricket said as he joined me.
Gideon snorted as he floated around the room. “Lovely, for a soul-devouring ogre.”
Oblivious to his other guests, Dr. Cricket continued, “Without my automaton Liam, I notice her absence all the more keenly.”
Given the inventor’s nature, I was impressed he had ever noticed her at all. “How did you two ever meet?” I asked, which was a kinder way of saying they were as incompatible as any two people I’d ever known.
“That’s an entertaining story,” he enthused as he returned to his work table. “I had received an invitation to the officers’ yearly ball. Normally I’m not one for trivial engagements.”
“I should hope not,” I mused, turning my back to Mrs. Steward’s frozen glare. “I can’t imagine too many people would be interested in discussing the latest in automaton technology there.”
Blinking over at me, surprised perhaps at the agreeable nature of my statement, he said, “Precisely, Mrs. Timmons. You and I are very much of the same mind regarding such matters. At any rate, I was persuaded to attend by an associate. It was there I met my darling wife.”
“And what happened next?” I asked, curious despite my usual disinterest in gossip.
“She was fascinated by my profession and the wide range of my interests,” he said, head bent low over the table, his eyes a few inches from whatever had entranced him. “Although she was engaged to a police officer at the time, she later broke it off and eventually indicated her true feelings to me.”
While I doubted Mrs. Steward had any inclinations toward tender emotions, it seemed she had some influence over gullible men. To have inspired two marriage proposals was impressive, to say the least.
“There are a few sets of fingerprints on both items,” Dr. Cricket said. “Let me get a sample of yours, Mrs. Timmons.”
I did as he asked, and a few minutes later, he declared, “There are two sets of fingerprints on the teacup. Both are small and slim, so I assume they both belong to ladies. One set is yours.”
Delighted at his pronouncement, I urged him to continue with a wave of my human hand and a sincere smile.
“On the teapot, there are three sets,” he said. “Yours, and two that I suppose belong to men, based on the size.”
“Two men. Isn’t that delicious?” Gideon murmured in my ear. “You naughty thing, you.”
“Two men?” I repeated, ignoring Gideon’s deplorable insinuations. “Those must belong to Constables Dougal and Hunt. They handled the teapot as did I. But surely there must be another set of prints? And the other set should match the unknown woman’s prints on the teacup. Look closely.”
Dr. Cricket obliged, pulling a lantern closer. After a minute of further study, he shook his head and straightened his back. “No, Mrs. Timmons, it is as I said. The teapot has only your fingerprints, and those belonging to the two men.”
“But if the teapot was at the location of the second murder,” I murmured, “then either the murderer was wearing gloves, or…”
I hesitated, as I juggled possible theories. Before I could pose my next question, Dr. Cricket lifted up a familiar frame and gasped. “Mrs. Timmons, this is amazing! I mean it’s shocking and horrid. The phantom detector has detected a phantom.” He flipped the frame around and pointed to the slim piece of chalk.
Glancing at Gideon, I gestured with a roll of my eyes for him to disappear. Chuckling, he obliged me, and the firefly followed his example.
“This is the first time it’s ever worked,” Dr. Cricket gushed, bringing the detector so close to his eyes his eyelashes almost grazed the chalk.
“What a triumph for modern science,” I said.
Dr. Cricket sighed and clutched the frame to his chest. He shifted his adoring gaze to Mrs. Cricket’s framed photo. “Sarah would have been so proud.”
“Sarah?”
Dr. Cricket lowered the detector. “It’s stopped now.” He glanced around, frowning at his phantom-free lab.
“Dr. Cricket,” I said, my voice insistent, “what was Mrs. Cricket’s first name?”
Replacing the detector on his worktable, the inventor said, “Sarah. Her name was Sarah.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
IT IS THOROUGHLY disappointing when your enemy proves to be innocent of the crime. Miss Baxter, it appeared from the evidence, was no more guilty of murder than the baby monkey asleep next to me.
“I still despise the woman,” I informed Shelby who continued to snooze. “But Constable Hunt? Could it be?”
The question remained: how to prove such an allegation? After all, the murderer could have worn gloves at the time. And Sarah was not an uncommon name; perhaps both Dr. Cricket and Constable
Hunt had happened to love two women with the same name. Yet the story of the jilted lover seemed too strong a case to ignore, and Dr. Cricket had met Sarah at an officers’ ball.
Abandoning any notion I might have to remain in bed, I decided to leave early for the shop and on the way pay a visit to the constabulary. I ignored the voice in my head which condemned the idea thoroughly; while the voice resembled Mr. Timmons’, fortunately the man himself was absent, and there was no one else at home to remind me to refrain from trouble. Thus, my plan was undisturbed by such trivialities as considerations of personal safety.
Upon entering the constabulary’s front room, I was greeted by Constable Hunt himself.
“Why, Mrs. Timmons,” Constable Hunt crooned. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, I thought I’d pay you a visit and see how you’re faring,” I replied, forcing my tone to remain nonchalant even as my werewolf energy buzzed through my metal hand.
“Splendidly, thank you for asking,” he replied. “Life here is most invigorating.”
I resisted the urge to thwack him over the head with the hefty fist atop my walking stick. Then again, his contented and smug countenance reassured me he hadn’t discovered that the teapot was no longer under his bed. “Invigorating?” I repeated. “Is that what you call it?”
“Indeed. Have you heard any news regarding Mr. Timmons’ court case?” he asked, his smile sharp.
Rather than allow him to bait me into a reaction that, I was ashamed to admit, would likely result in tears, I smiled as if we were chatting about something as inconsequential as the weather. “I’d much rather discuss the Wedding Killer.”
“What a topic of conversation,” he smirked. “I’ve never known a lady with such a morbid fascination with indelicate matters.”