by Vered Ehsani
Dr. Ribeiro sat upon the top rung of the wooden ladder and waggled his head. “Oh, yes, of course,” he enthused. “I am having so much experience delivering babies. So many, in fact. Mostly in India, but same, same process.”
“I am most relieved and heartened to hear that,” I gushed at this favorable intelligence.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “And even one here in Nairobi.”
I pondered that bit of news, for I hadn’t been aware of any woman giving birth to a baby in Nairobi while I’d been there. Lilly was the first pregnancy amongst the colonialists. The Africans tended to go back to their villages for such momentous occasions. “When was this, doctor?”
“It was being most recently.” His enthusiasm undimmed by my doubt, he added, “And very successful. Almost ninety percent success.”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the one delivery in Nairobi being ninety percent successful or if he was providing his overall rate of success. Either way, my perturbation increased until I thought to ask, “What species were these babies?”
“Cows!” Dr. Ribeiro exclaimed, his face beaming with his achievement. “So many baby cows. And a zebra.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and confided in me. “My dad, he was training me to be a farmer, and we had many cows in our village. Then I had to leave to pursue my medical dreams. It was a very great disappointment to my father. But now I am being here and owning my own land and my clinic. And maybe, I’ll be owning a few cows as well.”
“Oh, my,” I whispered, my voice fading as I contemplated how I would inform Lilly that her doctor had more experience in veterinary deliveries than human ones. Admitting this deficiency to Mrs. Steward was entirely out of the question.
As if divining my thoughts, Dr. Ribeiro continued, “Delivery of baby cows, baby humans. Same, same.”
“I’m happy to assist,” Yawa purred as she slunk beside her brother. “I have much experience with human babies.”
Remembering Jonas’ description of the Adze’s preference for the blood and organs of children, I glared at the siblings and said, “We need the baby delivered alive, not devoured.”
“Yao is very offended,” Yao said, his pout almost enticing me to throw myself off the saddle and hurtle to his side to beg forgiveness for the offense. “We won’t eat Lilly’s baby. Will we, Yawa?”
Yawa merely smiled, her leer reminiscent of Koki’s. And that reminded me of the World of Shadows, Mrs. Cricket’s world. This naturally led me to thoughts of my former suitor, Dr. Cricket, for who better than the husband to provide insights into the creator and previous owner of that strange space?
“I’d best be off,” I said as I turned Nelly around, “before I run a blade through a certain child-devouring vampire.”
Yao turned to his sister with a confused and somewhat wounded expression. “Is she referring to us as vampires?”
Before I could hear Yawa’s response, Nelly galloped away.
Chapter 20
WHILE I HELD out little hope that I would discover anything new or useful from the inventor, my restlessness had not been dissipated and I had nothing better to do. Dr. Cricket lived farther up the hill from the Steward family and deeper into the woods where bits of swamp lingered. The heavy rains had merely exacerbated the dampness, and the number of mosquitos that clung to me increased with each tree I passed.
As Nelly entered a small clearing and approached the mud-brick house, I noted that the windows weren’t sealed shut. In my previous visits, I’d always been impressed by the inventor’s preference for protecting his experiments from dust and flies at the expense of fresh air. After all, a man who would limit the level of oxygen in his own home for the sake of science was if nothing else committed to his work. Yet now, the windows were open to the elements and the insects. This was a startling indication of the state of the man’s mind, as was the condition of the lab coat when Dr. Cricket eventually answered my insistent knocking.
Normally, the lab coat was blindingly white, spotless and well pressed. I was dismayed to note the distinct lack of white. Instead, the coat had a grimy gray tinge to it, with splotches of mysterious substances. It appeared he’d slept in the garment and hadn’t bothered to comb his pale strawberry hair upon waking. His tall, bony frame slouched against the doorframe. His skin was pale from the lack of sunlight.
“Yes?” he asked, his eyes blinking rapidly at some point on the ground between us.
So amazed by the transformation was I that I could only stare for a moment. “Are you quite all right, Dr. Cricket?”
With a sigh that communicated a tragic history, he peered at me. “Miss Knight, or rather Mrs. Knight, or Mrs. Timmons, is there something with which I can assist you? Is your hand functioning properly?”
My metal hand twitched. “It’s perfectly fine, thanks to your expert design and construction.”
The compliment produced its intended result, for the man straightened up and smiled. “I am most gratified to hear it.”
I glanced into the room behind him and shuddered for Liam stood there, silent and empty of energy. The Life Imitating Automaton Machine or Liam had been the vessel in which the demented spirit of Mrs. Cricket had dwelled while she attempted to secure a young woman to possess. Both Lilly and I had suffered from her efforts.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Gideon hissed in my ear.
Both my hands involuntarily clenched while Dr. Cricket’s shoulders sagged under the weight of some misery. “Yes, you see it too, don’t you?”
Unsure to what he was referring, I did what any clever lady investigator would do and pretended ignorance bordering on stupidity. “Not at all.”
Dr. Cricket waved a thin, limp hand over his shoulder. “That. Liam. A constant reminder of my failure. I can’t reanimate him.”
I refrained from informing the depressed man that he would require a spirit with poltergeist power to fix Liam. For my part, I was more than delighted to leave the automaton as nothing more than a pile of expensive metal bits covered in pigskin.
“Then again, it’s yet one in a long line of failures,” the man continued his lament. “I couldn’t cure my wife either. And then I didn’t even provide her a decent burial.” Again, he waved a hand to indicate some vague location to the side of the house.
Following his gesture, I observed a small vegetable garden between the house and the forest. The most conspicuous plants were the numerous tomato vines that were secured by a small army of bamboo poles; the fruits were overripe and some had popped, their red juice dripping onto lower leaves. What looked like weeds had overtaken much of the smaller plants. Then again, I had never closely observed the garden on previous visits as I have little interest and even less talent in matters of horticulture. For all I knew, those weedy bits were in fact edible and part of the design. Gideon floated amongst the untidy arrangement of tomato plants, spinach, squash and bean runners, his features unusually reflective.
“There’s a wooden cross in here,” he announced as he reached the most overgrown bit.
Turning to the inventor, I asked, “She’s buried in your vegetable patch?”
He blinked rapidly at me, his pale eyes blurring under the movement. “Yes. Well, no. She was… That is, I decided…” Thus he continued, stuttering out parts of sentences that provided little more than an insight into the chaotic structure of his scattered thoughts.
“Dr. Cricket,” I interrupted him. “Is she buried there amongst the tomatoes or not?”
Wringing his thin hands, he moaned and nodded. “I thought it the most practical and efficient arrangement,” he admitted. “If I’d buried her in the colonial cemetery, I’d have to admit to negligence and I couldn’t bear the resulting gossip. So I told anyone who asked after her that she’d returned to her parents’ home in England and had died there.” He paused and added, “Not that too many bothered to inquire.”
Grateful that I’d never consumed salad at the inventor’s home, I asked, “Why did you come to Nairobi? It hardly strikes me as
a suitable location for an inventor.”
“Oh, Miss Knight, or rather Mrs. Timmons,” he fumbled with his words. “I’d rather not say. Or rather, I’m sure this isn’t the conversation for the delicate constitution of a lady.”
Suppressing a snort, I said, “You need not concern yourself over my constitution which is anything but delicate. Given that we’ve just discussed the burial of your wife amongst the vegetables, I’m sure I can tolerate anything else you wish to add.”
His hesitation wilted before my determination. Glancing about as if to reassure himself that there was nothing more than birds spying on us, he leaned toward me and replied in a conspiratorial whisper, his expression pained, “My wife was on intimate terms with a certain Mr. Knight.”
“She most certainly was not,” Gideon snorted, floating back to us.
“Are you very sure?” I asked.
“Of course! It was purely business,” Gideon replied, the epitome of offended, while Dr. Cricket hastened to add, “Oh, but I didn’t mean to imply any indiscretion on the part of Mr. Knight with regard to yourself. This was before you were married and, truth be told, my marriage was disintegrating. I mean no insult to your departed first husband.”
“Insult is certainly accepted,” Gideon grumbled, his eyebrows lowered and scrunched together. “That woman was a fiend, even before she died.”
“Indeed,” I replied, bestowing as charming a smile as I could muster given the difficulty of tracking who was saying what. I wondered how the inventor would respond if he knew that the very same Mr. Knight was glowering at him from a few feet away.
“I thought it best to create some distance, so I arranged for our relocation,” Dr. Cricket said. “As it turned out, our marriage was doomed either way.”
“You are referring to her untimely passing,” I said, attempting to inject a touch of compassion into my words while pondering if I’d ever be able to consume a tomato again.
“That? No. I mean, yes,” Dr. Cricket said, his face pale and drawn with indecision and confusion.
While I could appreciate how the dramatic death of a spouse could unhinge one slightly, I knew better in this case. Sometime ago, during the case of the rampaging automaton Liam, I’d unlawfully entered this very house while its owner was absent. His journal entries following the date of his wife’s demise made no mention of her death at all. In fact, he was more concerned about the falling flowers of the Bombax tree outside his home than the passing of his wife.
I thought it prudent to remain silent on the matter. In interrogation, sometimes saying nothing provides its own form of questioning. As the seconds ticked by in time to the buzzing of insects amongst the vegetables surrounding the hidden grave, Dr. Cricket’s eyelids blinked faster. When he could tolerate it no more, he burst out, “Do you believe in ghosts, madam?”
This was an unexpected question from the highly logical inventor whose imagination was limited to what he could see before him. “Well, I believe in a fair number of things, doctor,” I answered without committing myself. “And even more so after a cup of tea.”
Not taking the hint, he said, “I once thought as you. I believed ghosts were the stuff of fairytales or stories designed to fool the unwary.”
That wasn’t what I’d said at all but I refrained from interrupting the man.
“Ever since the demise of Liam,” he whispered as he glanced toward the empty automaton, “I’ve been seeing her in my nightmares, the ghost of my wife. But they’re so real, these dreams. It’s as if she’s really still here. Am I crazy?”
“Most likely,” I responded promptly. After all, Mr. Timmons had himself drained me of her energy. Surely she couldn’t have survived. The grief induced from Liam’s loss of movement and the guilt at his inability to cure his wife’s illness must have caused the vivid night visions.
Startled by the certainty of my tone, Dr. Cricket stared at me, all forlorn, his eyes and shoulders drooping. “It is as I thought, then,” he said, his gaze shifting to the ground. “My imagination has run away with my mind. I am fit for the mad house.”
In an attempt to soften the blow, I said, “There’s no need for such a drastic course of action, sir. I can safely inform you that there’s a good many mad people running amok in the town. A visit to the government offices will confirm the truth of this statement. One more madman won’t at all disturb the general population. In fact, they wouldn’t notice you at all.”
Patting his arm, I added, “Besides, I have every confidence that the matter will resolve itself over time, and you’ll return to your normal self without these flights of fancy to disturb your unimaginative equilibrium.”
With a shy smile, Dr. Cricket raised his gaze to meet mine. “That’s terribly kind of you to say, Mrs. Timmons. I am most relieved if this could pass sooner than later for she disturbs my sleep excessively. She says such terrible things.”
“I’m sure she does,” I said, glancing about as I sought a way to swiftly finish the conversation and depart the scene.
“About a baby and…”
“What?” I demanded, fixing my stare on the befuddled man. “What baby?”
Dr. Cricket retreated from me a step, his eyes widening. “What does it matter? It’s all just a figment of my failing mind, as you say. Surely it means nothing.”
Forcing a smile, I conceded his point. “I’m sure not. But as a way of passing the time and amusing ourselves, what does your figment of imagination tell you?”
“That there’s a baby born of a bat,” he said, eyeing me with trepidation, perhaps concerned I might react poorly to this obvious display of excessive imagination.
“And?” I pressed, tapping my walking stick against my riding boot.
Somewhat reassured by my calm demeanor, Dr. Cricket inhaled deeply and blurted out, “And she intends to possess it.”
Chapter 21
AFTER REASSURING DR. Cricket that the vision of his dead wife’s ghost was no more than a case of unseemly imagination caused by the combination of cold rains, damp air and an overworked mind, I set out for home with no regard for any spectators that might witness the blur of our passing. Nelly, bless her fat bottom, was as eager to return as I was, although her motivation had more to do with eating hay than saving an unborn baby.
I flung myself through the outer kitchen door, desperate for advice and tea, and not necessarily in that order. It was all I could do not to cheer at the sight of Jonas setting the blackened kettle on the stovetop. I nodded at the man approvingly. His response was an unimpressed grunt.
Detecting Mr. Timmons’ presence from the whiff of his musky cologne, I called out, “We have a problem, my dear.”
“Indeed, we do,” he replied as he entered the kitchen, bringing with him a scent that was not his.
Occupied as I was with preparing my teapot, I didn’t at first pay any mind. “Well, apart from Anansi and his psychotic wife.”
“My dear,” Mr. Timmons said in a soft voice.
“How charming,” another purred. “She thinks I’m psychotic. I didn’t expect her to notice.”
Spinning about, I stared at Mr. Timmons’ strained smile but my attention was snatched by another figure. Behind him, leaning against the doorway as if she owned the place, Koki graced me with a gloating smile. “And she’s preparing us tea. Such hospitality. I’d never have mistaken Miss Knight for the domestic sort. Live and learn.”
“I’d prefer you not,” I muttered, my metal hand scraping against the oxide green metal of my walking stick.
“Bravo,” Koki said as she sauntered toward the kitchen table and clapped her hands a couple of times in slow motion. “I’m delighted your husband hasn’t completely trained the wildness out of you. Men have that tendency, you know.”
Mr. Timmons’ lips were pursed so tightly I marveled they didn’t disappear altogether. Meanwhile, Jonas snorted and muttered, “We could only hope.”
Glaring at my gardener / cook / driver, I inputted as much disapproval as I could into my v
oice and said, “Surely you have some other work to attend to, Jonas.”
Shrugging his thin shoulders, Jonas slouched through the outer door. Just before he slipped from sight, he glanced at me, raised his thin eyebrows and crouched to retrieve the machete that had been leaning against the wall outside. The machete was impressively sharp for a gardening instrument, and Jonas communicated with his arching eyebrows and a few eyeball rolls that he would be nearby, fully prepared to rush to our rescue.
My ire dissipated at this demonstration of fidelity. I nodded once and faced the Mantis.
“And to what do we owe this pleasure?” I asked, determined not to forfeit manners for the sake of expediency.
“How quickly you mortals forget,” Koki murmured. “I’m here to begin your training, of course. Anansi has waited long enough, and Liongo even longer.”
As curiosity is one of the vital tools of my trade, I inquired, “Why does Anansi want him returned from the dead?”
Before Koki could respond, Mr. Timmons uttered his own question in a deceptively soft voice: “What training?”
“Oh, my,” Koki murmured, smirking at Mr. Timmons’ ominously stormy expression and my contrite one.
“About that,” I said, coughing to clear a constriction in my throat. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
Without waiting for Koki’s response (her snicker was more than enough), I grabbed Mr. Timmons’ unyielding hand and pulled him out the kitchen, down the hallway and into our bedroom. After closing the door behind us, I turned to face a thoroughly disgruntled husband.
“I was intending to discuss this with you when I returned from my trip with Kam but you weren’t around,” I began.
Mr. Timmons held up a hand and closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tense. “Please tell me you’re not really being trained by a murderous, vengeful, hand-devouring, shape-shifting she-demon.”