Death in a Teacup Read online

  Through the gap in the kitchen door, Jonas caught my gaze. Grinning, he held up a tomato, sliced it and tossed the pieces into whatever stew was bubbling on the stove. For good measure, he added a chunk of mango.

  Setting the book down again, Mrs. Steward dabbed the handkerchief under her eyes. “Is it wrong for me to wish the best for my family?”

  “No, indeed, it is not being wrong at all,” the doctor readily agreed while rubbing his beard. His eyebrows pressed together in consternation over the evils of consuming tomatoes, or perhaps with the effort of restraining his laugh. “Yet I am thinking—”

  “And do not raise the issue of cheese with me. Are you aware, Doctor, that cheese has mold in it?”

  “Yes, however—”

  Waving a hand before her, she said, “Mrs. Beeton has a few words on the use of mold in our cuisine.” Clearing her throat with a delicate cough, my aunt lifted the book above her as a preacher might when commencing a particularly potent sermon, and quoted, “‘Generally speaking, decomposing bodies are not wholesome eating, and the line must be drawn somewhere.’”

  “Speaking of decomposing bodies,” I interrupted her, “I need to inform Mr. Elkhart of a certain unwholesome issue.”

  As I excused myself from the conversation, Mrs. Steward continued, “Now, Doctor, what is your opinion on potatoes? Are they not, as Mrs. Beeton herself observes, suspicious, narcotic and deleterious?”

  I never heard Dr. Ribeiro’s opinion on the subject of potatoes. Selfish though it was, I was grateful not to be the focus of Mrs. Steward’s educational attempts.

  “Tiberius,” I hissed, before thinking to glance about for Mr. Steward. He wasn’t present and had most likely used the opportunity to hide in his office.

  “Is the conversation not scintillating, my dear sister?” Tiberius asked from a corner of the veranda as he stepped into the light coming through the window. With his dark jacket and pants, his brown skin and black hair, he appeared to solidify from the shadows. If not for his gentle smile and his warm eyes, he would have seemed a sinister creature indeed.

  “Very much so,” I replied. “We moved rapidly from mangoes to tomatoes to decomposing bodies. It is of that subject I wish to apprise you.”

  His bemused expression shifted to thoughtful concern as I described my conversations with Death and my encounter with the dead elephant. “But unlike a zombie,” I concluded, “the elephant seemed perfectly itself, apart from the unfortunate matter of being dead. I wasn’t able to observe Mr. Turner closely, but he seemed in a similar state. At least, neither demonstrated a desire to devour living flesh.”

  “How fortunate for you,” Tiberius said as he exhaled a circle of smoke. “On that note, what were you doing outside at such an odd hour of night?”

  “It’s hardly relevant,” I retorted, glad for the dim lighting, for my face once again betrayed me with a heated flush. “The question which requires an answer is what to do?”

  Before Tiberius could challenge my disinterest in his question or suggest a response, Mrs. Steward announced dinner, and we rejoined the party.

  “It isn’t much,” Mrs. Steward said and sighed as she gestured to the various dishes adorning the dining table. “It certainly isn’t to the standards set forth by Lady Clutterbuck. Truly, Doctor, what can we do but our best in such primitive circumstances?”

  Lilly smirked, Tiberius concentrated on unfolding his napkin, and Dr. Ribeiro dared to ask, “Who is being Lady Clatterback?”

  “Clutterbuck,” Mrs. Steward corrected as she began to serve out portions of the stew. “Lady Maria Clutterbuck wrote another book I highly recommend to anyone interested in managing a household with any grace. Her book offers valuable suggestions on the ideal menu. One meal outlined by her included carrot soup, turbot with shrimp sauce, lobster patties, stewed kidneys, roast saddle of lamb, boiled turkey, knuckle of ham, mashed and brown potatoes and stewed onions, followed by cabinet pudding, blancmange and cream, and macaroni.”

  With each word, Dr. Ribeiro’s eyes widened until there was more white than brown in those two orbs. After Mrs. Steward completed her recitation of the perfect meal, he enquired with a certain trepidation, “And is she also offering a suggested cure for indigestion?”

  “The stew’s delicious,” Tiberius said.

  Frowning at the doctor, Mrs. Steward said, “Indeed it is, Mr. Elkhart. And without the poisoning influence of tomatoes.”

  Chapter Ten

  I’M STILL UNCLEAR how we all survived the meal. Tiberius, Mr. Steward and Dr. Ribeiro wisely maintained silence apart from the socially appropriate praise of the various dishes set before them. Lilly and her mother continued to snipe at each other. On several occasions, baby Grace turned to me, grinned and lowered her fangs. How my aunt and uncle failed to notice was a mystery to me.

  It was during dessert that I truly feared for our lives. Mrs. Steward complained first about John Ainsworth, the Chief Native Commissioner, by announcing in strident tone, “He’s far too lenient on the natives, you know. He seems to consider them our equals.”

  The door to the kitchen opened, and Death peered through the crack.

  Oblivious to her audience, Mrs. Steward continued, “And our mayor, Tommy Wood, is hardly any better. At least we can be proud of our British troops. They’ve taken back Pretoria and have invaded Peking. The natives should learn a thing or two from these events.”

  Before Death could launch a spear at my aunt’s head, Jonas yanked shut the kitchen door, and Lilly leaped up with Grace clutched to her, announcing, “We really must be off now. Grace needs to be changed, and I forgot to carry extras with me.”

  Thus we were saved by my temperamental gardener and a leaky nappy.

  When we arrived home, I didn’t feel inclined to retreat to my empty cottage, and so followed Lilly and Tiberius into the Hardinge house. Cilla was still awake and joined Lilly and I in the nursery.

  “How was dinner?” she asked, her round, rosy cheeks lifting as she smiled at Grace.

  “We almost died,” I muttered.

  Lilly rolled her eyes as she finished changing Grace’s nappy. Reaching for a frilly dress, she said, “Beatrice might be exaggerating just a tad. It was fine.”

  I snorted. “You and your mother were hardly fine.”

  “We were civil,” Lilly argued as she coaxed Grace into the dress.

  “Barely,” I countered, leaning against the chest of drawers. One drawer was open, revealing an explosion of baby dresses, all in the latest fashion. “And why do you bother changing her so often? She’s just going to spit up on it in no time, or smear half her next meal into every crease.”

  Tapping on the top of the chest of drawers, I wondered if I would obsess over the clothes my baby wore. Perhaps that was a symptom of motherhood. Shuddering at the thought, I vowed my baby wouldn’t have more clothes than the entire household combined.

  Ignoring me, Lilly held up the squirming baby, admiring the outfit. Satisfied, she gushed, “Look at this dress. Isn’t it exquisite? And isn’t she lovely?”

  “She’d look lovely in a potato sack,” I said.

  “Of course she would,” Lilly retorted. “Can there be any doubt? After all, she is my daughter. And her father being so handsome, she had no choice but to be gorgeous.” She began cooing and gushing in baby language, at which point I considered pretending I was about to be violently ill.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Lilly half swiveled about to pin me with a stern look. “But that doesn’t mean we need to dress her in a sack. You could learn a thing or two from her, Beatrice. Honestly, no one would believe you grew up in the same household as I did.”

  “Indeed not,” I agreed, marveling how Lilly could be the adoring, maternal mother one moment, and then revert to her pre-baby fashion-obsessed ways the next. Or perhaps we never truly abandon what we once were; we simply build on top of it.

  Cilla sidled close to my side and hugged me with one arm. I was accustomed to her propensity for such physical displ
ays of affection, but that evening I found the contact stifling.

  “Are you all right, Bee?” she asked. “Is your tummy improved, or should we call for Dr. Ribeiro?”

  I couldn’t answer, for my attention had turned to where my hands rested over my stomach. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Ignoring the inquiring looks from the other two, I slumped into the rocking chair. The motion disturbed me further, causing a swooning sensation and an urge to rush outside.

  “Cilla, call for Nurse Manson to bring cold water,” Lilly ordered, her frivolity of a moment ago replaced by an urgent concern.

  “No,” I whispered, latching onto Cilla’s arm before she could leave the room.

  “What is it, Bee?” Cilla asked as she kneeled before me. A wrinkle appeared between her dark blue eyes. “Please do tell us.”

  Lilly glared at me and gestured with her head toward Cilla. Ignoring Grace’s tired whimpers, she ordered, “Tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” Cilla glanced up to Lilly and then to me.

  “Cilla,” I said, my throat constricted. “I think… I know…”

  “What is it, Beatrice?” she asked. “You look so pale. Are you ill?”

  “No.” I shook my head and frowned at the sensation of vertigo it created. “Or at least, not permanently. I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter Eleven

  CILLA SQUEALED WHILE Lilly smirked, pleased with herself.

  “How marvelous,” Cilla gasped as she leaped up and embraced me. “Congratulations! And I’m going to be an aunt. Or… Oh, bother. Drew will be an uncle but I’ll just be an older cousin.” Frowning, she lifted her chin and said, “But regardless, your baby must call me Aunt Cilla. Promise me, Bee. I want to be referred to as an aunt, not cousin. Aunt Cilla. I like the sound of that.”

  Smiling weakly, I nodded. “Of course. But—”

  “Have you thought of names yet?” Cilla said, her voice rising over mine as she kneeled again and clutched my human hand in both of hers. Shaking my hand, she pleaded, “Oh, do tell us. Secrets are so terribly unfair.”

  Bouncing Grace in her arms, Lilly rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Oh, please. Secrets are the currency of this family.”

  I laughed at Cilla’s imploring expression. “If it’s a boy, I was thinking of Arthur.”

  “And if it’s a girl?” Cilla asked, squeezing my hand.

  Glancing at Grace, I said, “I’ve always liked the name Emma.”

  “I love both of those names,” Cilla gushed. “Oh, wait until Uncle Simon learns he’s going to be a father. He’ll be thrilled to bits. And Tiberius is going to be an uncle. And—”

  “Cilla,” I interrupted, my voice firm. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not yet.”

  “Except for Dr. Ribeiro,” Lilly said, her tone uncompromising.

  “Oh, yes, Beatrice,” Cilla said. She stood and joined Lilly in studying me for any sign of pregnancy-induced frailty. “You must go to him at once.”

  “Surely it can wait,” I said, wondering how the doctor could possibly contribute to my wellbeing at such an early stage. Would he tell me I should stay in bed for the next several months? Then again, I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to use with Death; I was certain he wouldn’t insist on my assistance if the doctor prohibited me from leaving my chamber.

  “Not one more day,” Cilla said, shaking her head. Long, dark blond tresses whipped across her shoulders. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll accompany you. Won’t we, Lilly?”

  “Absolutely,” Lilly said. “Mr. Timmons isn’t here, so we will have the honor. Oh dear, Grace just spat up on her dress. I suppose we’ll have to change her again.”

  Unable to tolerate another fashion show, I departed after promising they could accompany me for my first doctor’s visit.

  Immediately after breakfast and before I could consume my obligatory pot of tea, Cilla and Lilly arrived and bundled me into the wagon. Jonas tied Nelly to the back of the wagon as I would go to the Cozy Tea Shoppe after my visit.

  “Isn’t this exciting,” Cilla whispered on one side of me.

  From the other side, Grace smacked my face and tugged at my hair. “Yes, very,” Lilly agreed as she tried to wrestle her baby into submission or into a sweater, I wasn’t sure which.

  “Terribly,” I said, my hands tightening around the pouch holding Shelby. The monkey squawked, her tiny face wrinkling up in irritation.

  I forced a deep breath and loosened my grip. Disinterested in the conversation—Lilly was providing an in-depth analysis of appropriate attire for newborns—I gazed out at the sprawling grasslands. The open plains stretched to the curving horizon with only clusters of trees and herds of wildebeest and zebra to interrupt the view. Baby zebras cavorted around their mothers.

  “What if I’m a terrible mother?” I asked.

  Lilly and Cilla paused in their chatter to stare at me. Cilla said, “What an appalling notion, Beatrice.”

  Waving a hand at me, Lilly snorted and said, “Everyone thinks that about themselves.”

  “And then what happens?” I asked.

  Shrugging, she said, “Then you learn it’s true.”

  “Lilly,” Cilla gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

  Snickering, Lilly bounced Grace on her lap; the baby cooed and blew bubbles. “One does the best one can, and as it turns out, that is usually sufficient.”

  Not entirely convinced, I returned my attention to the savannah and wondered where all the elephants had gone.

  Our ox-drawn cart rumbled through town and past the outskirts of the Bazaar. Dr. Ribeiro resided at the very edge of the town limits. Compared to his original office, his current situation seemed considerably more stable. The first clinic had been no more than a ramshackle collection of boards and metal sheeting held together with a few nails and a considerable amount of luck.

  The new clinic had a structure of metal walls and roof connected by wooden beams and half-decent craftsmanship. It even had the luxury of four rooms, providing patients with privacy that was normally denied to all but the wealthiest. A few thorn trees shaded the area; a small herd of goats tore at the grass, their bleats a form of welcome to us and warning to the doctor. Enjoying the shade was the doctor’s zebra. Dr. Ribeiro was the only person I knew who could ride a zebra.

  “This is the land he was provided as gratitude for his services to the Crown,” Lilly commented, gazing about the plot.

  I snorted. “He was given a much smaller portion compared to British settlers who did far less for the colony.”

  “But at least he was given something,” Lilly said, and she had a point.

  Dr. Ribeiro flung open the door, grinning at us. “This is being such a joy,” he cried out, waggling his head. His brown eyes twinkled as his smile created creases around his face. “Miss Knight, Mrs. Elkhart, Miss White, do be coming in. You are very welcome. Oh, and baby Grace.” Lowering his voice and trembling with anticipation, he asked, “Has she shifted fully yet?”

  “No,” Lilly said as she heaved her baby over her shoulder. “Only the wings and fangs have shown.”

  Sighing, Dr. Ribeiro shook his head. “How disappointing.” Perking up, he said, “But I’m sure it is only being a matter of time before she does. Won’t her daddy be proud? Two Popobawa in the family.”

  Leaving Jonas outside, we followed the doctor into his office and sat upon the bench, the only furniture available to visitors. Groans from one of the other rooms echoed through the small building. The sound reminded me of the zombie that had once been a patient in the other clinic.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Dr. Ribeiro chuckled and waved a hand in dismissal as he sat in a chair. “That is being a man whose hand was bitten off by a crocodile, Miss Knight. At least it’s not a zombie, so that’s good news.”

  I wasn’t certain the patient would agree but didn’t pursue the topic nor did I mention the dead hunter and dead elephant roaming the forest above Nairobi.

  “So, what can I be doing for you fine ladies this
morning?” he continued. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he searched for any sign of illness or injury. Some people collected books or trinkets or tea sets; Dr. Ribeiro collected case studies of diseases, the nastier, the better.

  “Well,” I said and cleared my throat. The room was silent apart from the groaning of the patient in the other room. My nose twitched at the scent of antiseptic solution.

  “Yes?” the doctor said, rubbing his goatee and nodding at me to continue.

  Coughing, I clutched my hands together, my human fingers stroking the metal ones as I admired the precision of the clockwork hand. “I… um… that is…”

  “Good gracious,” Lilly huffed. “She’s pregnant.”

  “Who?” the doctor asked. “Nelly? Oh, I hope she has a flying baby.”

  “Not the horse,” Lilly said, her lips twisting in disgust as Cilla giggled. “Beatrice. Beatrice is expecting.”

  Gasping, Dr. Ribeiro leaped up and clapped his hands. “Many felicitations, Miss Knight. How marvelous. Is Mr. Timmons knowing? Of course not. But he will be thrilled.”

  At the mention of my incarcerated husband, my energy sank and my shoulders slouched. How would I manage a baby without its father?

  Lilly reached over and rubbed my back, her eyes soft. “We’re here for you, Bee. And Mr. Timmons will return soon enough.”

  “Yes, he will,” Dr. Ribeiro declared as he paced before us. “Like mold, you can’t be getting rid of him.”

  Frowning, I said, “Thank you, I think.”

  “Well, let’s make sure you’re healthy,” the doctor continued, oblivious to the eyebrows his comment had raised. After checking my pulse and my breathing, and asking general questions regarding my appetite and digestion, he stood back, leaned against his desk and proclaimed, “You are being most healthy.”

  “And the baby?” I asked.

  “Perfectly so,” he reassured me.

  “She should still be careful though,” Cilla said. “I mean, in the heat and working at the shop. She shouldn’t work so hard.”