Ghosts of Tsavo (Society for Paranormals Book 1)

by Vered Ehsani

  “You have a rather unusual and marvellous gift in this modern and overly enlightened age, truly marvellous,” he said, rubbing his hands in time with his words. “Sadly, others don’t share this knowledge; they only see what they’re brainwashed to see, which is very little, very little indeed. And so they become terribly upset when confronted with their ignorance. Therefore, you mustn’t share your insights with polite society, not at all. Do you understand?”

  I thought about that for a moment and wondered if this meant he was part of an impolite society. Instead, I asked, “Does that include my family?”

  “Most certainly it does,” he said, his face grim.

  So I promptly agreed with the sage gentleman.

  He leaned back into his large armchair, satisfied with this verbal agreement. “Have you heard of the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals?” he asked me, nodding toward the framed paper.

  He paused, rubbed the side of his landmark of a nose, and then, as if to clarify, he said, “It was originally the Society for the Study of Paranormals & Curious Animals, but we felt that a five letter acronym was one letter too long.”

  I shook my head to indicate I hadn’t heard of this Society. The shaking head also signified that I wasn’t impressed they’d eliminated such an important word as “Study.” And I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to hear more.

  It is a marvel how much can be communicated in one small body movement.

  He smiled and winked. “Not to worry. You’ll be hearing from us again. Yes, I think you will.”

  It sounded rather ominous to my tender ears. But I was in no position to protest, having just been saved by the strange man from certain incarceration in one institution or another. So from that day forth, I exerted much effort in pretending I didn’t see anything at all, a task that is far more burdensome and complicated than it sounds.

  The good professor called in my father and pronounced me cured. Father was overjoyed that he’d avoided the embarrassment the alternatives would’ve caused. He even took me out for tea and cake to celebrate.

  When we arrived home, Father announced to a pale wife that their child needn’t be locked away from the light of day and all was well with the world. She said nothing but pulled me into an unusually intense embrace, one I assumed at the time was as a result of her relief.

  And that was the last truly blissful memory I have of childhood.

  More pressing issues overtook us, not least of which was the demise of my younger brother. Whatever wealth we had was lost by the time I was fourteen because of my father’s rather unfortunate, grief-induced interest in horseracing and the placing of bets on said horses. My parents soon after removed themselves from my story (or were removed, depending on who you talk to).

  It was at this juncture that the Steward family intervened, or to be exact, were forced to. Upon internment of my parents’ remains (what little was left of them), I was summoned to the office of Advocate Horace Jones, Esquire, a rather impressive name for a most intimidating man.

  “Sit there, child,” he said, pointing to a chair in the corner while sifting through a stack of papers, “and keep quiet while I sort out your future.”

  I didn’t much appreciate being referred to as a child. And I wasn’t sure what the chair had to do with my future, but it seemed this haughty man was in charge of both. So I sat, clutching to my chest a small bag containing my entire earthly possessions: a few items of clothing and an intricately embossed, metal teapot my mother had treasured. I focused on breathing as quietly as I could manage, all the time ignoring the ghost of a shrivelled-up woman who kept shaking her fist at the lawyer.

  Some days passed, or so it seemed to an energetic and imaginative young person such as myself, before a plump couple entered the office.

  Before Advocate Jones could glance up from his impressive stack of papers, the woman said, “See here, you, I don’t very much appreciate the tone of this letter.” With a flourish, she tossed the offending letter onto the desk.

  I didn’t understand how a letter could have a tone and I eyed it with some trepidation.

  Advocate Jones leaned back in his seat and fixed a frigid stare on the woman, who flinched somewhat under the intensity of that gaze. After a cold silence, he said, “I presume you are Mr. and Mrs. Robert Steward?” He held up a hand to ward off another tirade. “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Steward promptly said, to cut off any further comments by his wife.

  “Good,” Advocate Jones said, although there was nothing good in his voice, only ice and vinegar. “I am Advocate Jones, appointed by a certain Mr. and Mrs. T.J. Anderson, with whom you are acquainted and related, or so I’ve been led to believe.”

  Mrs. Steward began to protest but ceased as the advocate turned his gaze on her. She nodded, her chin wobbling above a frilly pink lace collar.

  “We can therefore presume you are equally familiar with the last will of Mr. Anderson, appointing you the legal guardian of their offspring, one Beatrice Anderson.” He gestured in my direction and I momentarily stopped breathing as all three adults stared at me.

  The Stewards appeared considerably less than impressed with whatever they saw sitting on the chair in the corner, or perhaps it was still the poorly toned letter that had upset them so.

  “I believe Mr. Steward had consented to the arrangement, given that you, Mrs. Steward, are somehow closely related to the Anderson family,” Advocate Jones said, “and therefore there’s little more to be said. Sign here and take the child.”

  “What about their estate?” Mrs. Steward said.

  “What about it?” Advocate Jones asked.

  Mr. Steward placed a hand on his wife’s arm, as if to hold her back, and said, “Surely there’s some estate that comes with the child, so we can cover the costs associated with housing and feeding her.”

  Advocate Jones was busily working away on the papers in front of him and didn’t bother looking up when he said, “There’s no estate remaining, nothing at all, only that small pile of skin and bones over there.”

  The paper was reluctantly signed, the Stewards reluctantly took me home, and I even more reluctantly followed them to it.

  I was, of course, grateful to avoid the life of a street urchin or other equally nasty fates destined for the average orphan. It was only thanks to my parents’ persistent lawyer that I now had a roof over my head, food on the table, and legal guardians.

  On the carriage ride home, Mrs. Steward berated her husband for ever agreeing to be guardian for a couple they barely knew and seldom socialised with.

  “How was I to know they would…” Mr. Steward hesitated and glanced at me. “Pass away so inconveniently?”

  “Because that’s the type of people they were,” Mrs. Steward said with little regard to my presence. “The inconvenient type, the type who would abruptly die and leave behind an orphan for someone else to take care of. A poorly planned time to die. How dreadfully irresponsible.”

  “They were related to you, my dear,” Mr. Steward said but very softly, and the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestones combined with Mrs. Steward’s angry mumbling covered up his words quite neatly.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Steward’s reluctance was quickly overcome when her acquaintances praised her charity. She paraded me in front of her tea guests as proof of her graciousness in fulfilling her social obligation to an inconveniently deceased brother.

  Shortly after I entered the Steward residence, a chubby-faced Lilly pointed at me and declared at the dinner table, “She hums like a bee.”

  Mrs. Steward, to her credit, scolded her and said, “Lilly, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

  Despite my efforts to encourage Lilly to use my full name, ‘Beatrice’, the nickname stuck and I was thereafter referred to as Bee.

  Apart from the name change and the loss of my parents, life was going reasonably well until I met (and soon after wed) Gideon Knight. Or rather, life continued to go well even then, until the
day he was murdered. Rather than just die and go away, he developed the inconvenient habit of haunting me.

  And that is a brief summary of the tragedy that is my life.

  Chapter 6

  The days following Prof. Runal’s visit witnessed a flurry of activity the Steward residence had not experienced since the time Bobby released a sack filled with frogs into the kitchen. At least this time, we weren’t chasing amphibians around the chinaware. We were, however, having a challenge in selecting what to pack.

  “But surely I can’t be expected to abandon my lovely furniture,” Lilly wailed one morning.

  “My dear, we will be provided furnished accommodations,” Mr. Steward reassured us all. “A very generous position, indeed.”

  Lilly sobbed. Mrs. Steward slurped her tea angrily and I marvelled that she hadn’t yet bit through the cup. I slid the newspaper away from Mr. Steward’s limp hands and distracted gaze. Despite being dead, Gideon had a fascination with the gossip pages that bordered on the vulgar; he floated behind me while I flipped through the pages absently.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said to myself as a photo caught my eye. Under the image of a tall, pale-haired, spectacled man and a similarly proportioned and lifelike automaton was the caption:

  Mr. Gregory Cricket and his marvellous invention have been touring Europe for two months and will shortly be returning to their home in British East Africa.

  “If that isn’t the queen’s knees,” I murmured. “Who would’ve guessed that such a thing can be found in Africa?”

  Bobby, who had been avidly watching his parents arguing over furniture and the sheer stupidity required to lose all one’s investments, leaned toward me and glanced at the page. “Bah, who cares? It’s just a stupid old statue. Lions. I’m going to hunt lions.”

  “You are disgusting,” Lilly said.

  “He’s just being a boy,” I said.

  The boy in question jumped off his chair armed with a wooden rifle and ran around the house, practising his aim on anything that moved.

  Mr. Steward leaped up just as fast, with a final, “We’ll be furnished with a very generous position, you’ll see.” He retreated into his study and closed the door firmly.

  It was left to the ladies of the household to make the packing arrangements since all the servants had been let go. Rather than complain, Mrs. Steward justified it by telling us, “It’s our duty. We are, after all, Household Generals. Which reminds me, where is that book? Ah, here it is.”

  There was only one book to which she could be referring, a rather obnoxious little volume in which a good housewife is anointed with the lofty sounding title of Household General. I had rather hoped to conveniently forget to pack Mrs. Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Management.

  The other text Mrs. Steward quoted profusely from was Mrs. Lydia Child’s American Frugal Housewife. Mrs. Child provided numerous recommendations, one of my personal favourites being the use of earwax as a remedy for cracked lips. Fortunately, that book had been loaned out and lost a while ago.

  “We would be amiss if we failed to pack this most informative masterpiece in domestic literature,” Mrs. Steward said in a dramatic tone.

  I rather reluctantly accepted the proffered book and tossed it into the trunk.

  Perhaps, I mused, an accident could be arranged on the ship, a tragic slip of the fingers and away it tumbles into the oceanic waves.

  With my luck, it would float all the way to Nairobi.

  Gideon chose that precise moment to float through a wall and into the room. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve requested him to use the doorway like any civilised person. But it appears that death not only deprives one of a body, but also of a sense of decorum. Appalling, really. What is a widow to do?

  He tilted his head to one side, a brown lock of hair obscuring one twinkling, light-brown eye as he gestured to the trunk.

  “Why not pack her in there as well?” he whispered. “That way, you can enjoy the trip.”

  I didn’t dare respond and did my best to ignore him, but I couldn’t prevent my betraying lips from smiling.

  “It’s nothing to smile about, Bee,” Mrs. Steward said, her voice rising into a shrill whistle. “Nothing at all. It’s a disaster. This whole affair is a complete and utter disaster of a magnitude that I… I just can’t handle this.”

  She tossed a piece of silverware into the trunk and stomped out of the room as best as one can stomp in an ankle-length dress and high-heeled slippers. With a sniff, Lilly followed suit.

  “So are you packing yourself in here as well, Gideon?” I asked.

  “Personally, I’d prefer to stay here,” he said in his whispery voice.

  “Alone? You’d be miserable,” I said.

  He snickered. “Better miserably dead in England rather than happily haunting in Africa.”

  “Come now, it won’t be so bad,” I said, more to reassure myself than him.

  What would I do if he chose not to come? Who would make me smile when there was nothing to smile about? Who would sing me to sleep each night and keep away the nightmares?

  He floated up behind me and whispered into my ear, “Don’t worry, love. I won’t leave you alone to battle the lions.”

  “Yes, however would I manage without you?” I retorted.

  “Good thing you don’t have to,” he said and grinned.

  Such a handsome, beguiling smile. I believe I married him for that smile. Not exactly a sound basis for marriage though, even if it seemed like a marvellous idea at the time.

  Gideon sunk into the trunk, his head sticking out of a hatbox. He stared up at me, making a funny face. “Be a dear and pack my journal, will you?” he asked in his whispery voice, the sound barely louder than a rustle of air through my hair.

  “Pack it yourself,” I said but he was already gone.

  It really is inconvenient being married to a ghost.

  Chapter 7

  After finishing the packing and telling all our acquaintances some farfetched story about untold wealth awaiting us in British East Africa, we waved a last good-bye to the family home and set off for the ship, Gideon floating alongside the carriage.

  As we left behind our home, the sensation of being watched passed over me; upon perusing my surroundings, I could find no one (and certainly not a giant Mantis) so much as glancing in our direction, despite Mrs. Steward’s assertions that all of London was witnessing our disgraceful departure.

  After a moment, the feeling passed, and I reminded myself that whatever had been watching me as of late would soon be an ocean away.

  Once we boarded the ship, I was free for the voyage: no investigations to conduct, no tea parties to attend. As delightful as that was, the novelty wore off after a few days. Fortunately, my boredom was soon relieved.

  One morning, as I promenaded along the deck, I paused at the railing to watch the ocean, hoping something might leap out and entertain me.

  As I waited, I fingered the medallion I always wore on a silver chain. Forged in blackened metal, the medallion had a raised dragon in the shape of an S, the symbol of the Society.

  At one point in history, the symbol used to include a sword thrust through the dragon, in keeping with the original activities of the Society. But as the Society’s mandate changed over time, it was felt that the sword might give the wrong impression to the growing number of paranormal members.

  As I played with the weight of the metal, a high, faint voice whispered behind me, “Are you the undead investigator?”

  I was so startled that rather than ignore the person (the socially appropriate response to such an intrusive and offensive question), I turned to face a young woman with a pleasant, rosy countenance, a charmingly plump figure and dark-blue eyes. We hadn’t been formally introduced, which only added to my dim view of her.

  As soon as I breathed in, my overly acute olfactory senses detected a hint of wet dog. Yet her energy field was human. She must’ve spent some time in the companion of a werewolf, I
concluded.

  But back to her question.

  I did the only sensible thing, and feigned indignant ignorance. “I beg your pardon, miss. But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, nor do I wish to at this junction.”

  I put on my most haughty expression, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds since it wasn’t an expression I used too often, and glared over her head with an intensity I hoped would knock a mortal to her knees or to her death.

  Unfortunately, she had neither the good manners to drop dead nor the delicacy to swoon away. No, in fact, she remained perfectly healthy and conscious, and on top of that, she giggled.

  I spun away in a righteous huff. Rough waves, heavy winds, slightly salty shower water, unbathed sailors and a repetitive menu: all these inconveniences I could tolerate. But this! A woman who clearly spent far too much time in the companionship of werewolves, on the same ship as myself, destined, I imagined, for East Africa… Really, this was too much for even my stout constitution to handle.

  “Wait, please don’t go,” the woman almost pleaded. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  What could she possibly have heard about me, and from whom?

  She smiled brightly and extracted an envelope from her small purse. She forced it upon me. “And I have a message from Prof. Runal.”

  Prof. Runal. How did she know him? Not that it mattered. My heart thudded as I reluctantly accepted the envelope sent by the Director of the Society. I scowled in a rather uncivilised manner and then blushed. What next? Would I growl? An image of a wolf’s energy came to mind, an image I instantly banished.

  I wouldn’t let myself lose control again. The wolf energy that hid within me would stay put.

  I took a deep breath and brought myself into line. “Yes?” I asked.

  She smiled again as if her mouth was incapable of any other expression and extended a hand. “Pricilla White. What a pleasure to make the acquaintance of one of such capacity.”

  I didn’t acknowledge the second part of her introduction. My capacities were my own business and not to be broadcasted about so freely.