Ghosts of Tsavo (Society for Paranormals Book 1) Page 6

  Kam shrugged. “They didn’t eat as many men as that lieutenant claims,” he said as if he needed to defend the killer lions. “Not a hundred and thirty. Maybe only thirty or so.”

  “Only thirty?” I asked, my mouth twitching into a half smile. “Is that all?”

  He nodded his head once.

  It sounded dodgy: ghosts of lions, from lions who were initially thought to be ghosts themselves, but then turned out to only be lions. And now their ghosts were haunting us in Nairobi?

  Then again, I thought, if we can have a werewolf in London heading up an international society, surely we could have paranormal lions in East Africa. “Well then,” I said aloud to finish the thought, “we shall have to investigate this.”

  “Are you sure?” Kam asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked, wondering what sort of a guide Prof. Runal had found for me if he was so reluctant to seek out the most obvious case. “That is, after all, my job, when I’m not teaching cooks how to make tea.”

  Kam hesitated. That caught my attention.

  “Is something wrong?” I enquired, quite certain there was something wrong, but bound by civility to ask.

  “No.”

  I focused on his energy field to see if I could catch a lie, but his skin markings’ constant swirling distracted me.

  “Hm,” was all I said to that, for I was loathe to insist on the truth from a man who, in all likelihood, wouldn’t admit to the lie. “Then we meet after breakfast.”

  Kam shook his great head. “No. At dusk. Lions come out at dusk.”

  I smiled grimly. “Of course they do.”

  Wonderful. I should’ve suspected something of the sort. Most paranormals have an uncivilised preference for the night. Inconveniently so, I might add. It seems lions were no better, so what could I have hoped from a pair of supposed ghost lions?

  With a sniff, I said, “It seems then we shall meet this evening and go traipsing about the wilds in the dark.”

  Kam either didn’t notice or wasn’t bothered by my slightly irritated tone, for he merely nodded his head once and slipped away with the fading night.

  “Bee, where’s my tea?” Mrs. Steward called out, her voice suggesting she was near death without a pot of the substance and it was all my fault it hadn’t yet crystallised out of the air by now.

  Weary already from the day, as young as it was, I set about preparing the tea, wondering where Jonas had disappeared to. Truth be told, it really wasn’t my job to boil water, and I was sure my warm bed missed me.

  I didn’t have long to wonder for I heard him entering through the front door just as Mrs. Steward, unable to sleep, returned to the living room. He must’ve said something to her, for Mrs. Steward responded vociferously.

  I’d never been one to listen in on other people’s conversations, but I couldn’t be expected to be deaf to Mrs. Steward’s clamorous voice. “John… Joe… that’s a lot of nonsense, lions and all. Those lions were shot dead by a very brave and capable British officer of Her Majesty’s army. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, mama,” Jonas agreed in a simpering tone that struck me as anything but agreeable. “I heard of the British army man. He killed the lions.”

  “So you see how brave our hunters are then,” Mrs. Steward continued with the finality of a declaration of Parliament, determined to educate her staff.

  “And so handsome,” Lilly trilled from her room as if that was of any relevance. “And they’re coming here. Papa said so. A group of them, to hunt lions and tigers and…”

  “There aren’t any tigers in Africa, Lilly,” Bobby called out.

  How were they carrying on this conversation if they were all supposed to be back in bed was beyond me.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, now, does it?” Lilly retorted.

  I smirked, for I knew what mattered to my dear cousin: Mr. Steward had told us only the evening before that Nairobi was rapidly becoming a centre for big game hunters. For him, that signified more employment opportunities in infrastructure development; for Mrs. Steward, more shops and services; for Lilly, it meant Englishmen, more and more of them coming to this backwater post, and surely at least some of them would be young, handsome, and eligible.

  Jonas stomped into the kitchen. I was sure Mrs. Steward had only seen from him a fawning smile and vacant eyes as he’d collected the plates left the night before off the table. That smile was long gone as he entered the kitchen and allowed the plates to clatter in the metal basin, unconcerned of the possibilities of chipping the delicate porcelain edges. He dragged the basin outside to the washing area, the plates rattling together, reminding me of the bag of bones I’d once recovered from a griffin’s den.

  Jonas kicked the basin and spun about, a condescending smirk creasing his features. “A child can kill a lion if he has a gun. This is not bravery.” He turned his head and spat; the glob landed on the top plate. “Brave hunters don’t need a gun to kill a sick lion.”

  He nodded his shaved head several times, his entire body shaking with his emotions. “The boys who herd our cattle face lions with only a small spear. In some tribes, a boy becomes a man when he kills a lion, not with a gun. This is one step on the path to manhood.”

  I was delighted with his speech and asked, “What’s another step on the path to manhood?”

  Jonas became uncommunicative and preoccupied with washing the plates.

  “Jack! Where is that boy?” Mrs. Steward said. “My tea! Bee, is the tea ready yet?”

  “It’s just coming,” I said in a neutral tone while gritting my teeth.

  “And toast! Get Joel to make some toast.”

  On second thought, hunting ghost lions at night wasn’t such a bad job after all.

  Chapter 12

  While I set about unpacking my few possessions and making my room as homey as I could, Mrs. Steward discovered her worst fears of her new home had, in fact, been well-founded: the shopping options were scant and included only a few kiosks and the newly built general store on the edge of the camp.

  Lilly, not yet willing to accept defeat, resolutely questioned Jonas on the social options. That required even less time than unpacking, given the limited options and Jonas’s general disinterest in the subject. She flounced into my room, where I was unpacking my clothes, and threw herself across the bed.

  “Oh, Bee, I’m truly doomed,” she wailed.

  I shoved a few dresses into the chest of drawers, trying to squeeze out any air pockets that would take up the space where another dress could be stuffed into. Although I hadn’t brought too many outfits, the chest of drawers, likewise, didn’t have much space.

  “Come now, it’s not that bad,” I chided as I pushed the drawer closed with my hip; I felt bone connect with wood and lamented my lack of padding in the appropriate places. “I’ve heard from a reputable source that there is a number of dashing young men in the neighbourhood.”

  “Really?” Lilly sat up, breathless with anticipation.

  “Absolutely,” I said as I began stuffing clothes in the next drawer. “Already, you’ve attracted a few eligible suitors. Warriors from miles around will soon be beating on the door or on their drums, demanding your father marry you off in exchange for a herd of goats.”

  “Bee, you’re truly dreadful,” Lilly snapped but her small mouth twitched with a supressed smile.

  “Yes, I am,” I said, wondering how many goats I’d be worth.

  After lunch, Jonas took it upon himself to give me a grand tour of the estate. It didn’t require much time at all. In addition to the main house, there was a hut, where Jonas stayed, and a small, run-down barn. Inside, there was the wagon we had arrived on, the ox, and a horse.

  “This horse, she is Nelly,” Jonas said as though announcing the Queen of England. He limped farther into the barn, his left foot dragging slightly. “The bwana, he is very, very lucky to be having both an ox and a horse.”

  I assumed that by “bwana” he meant Mr. Steward and I wasn’t sure how lucky the bwa
na was at all. That morning, he’d stomped back into the house after attempting to ride the nag. Flustered, he’d announced that he was purchasing two new horses forthwith, and that I could have the existing one. At the time, I’d been thrilled to receive a mount of my own. Now, I wasn’t as impressed by what had seemed a generous gesture.

  The horse in question, clearly a source of pride for Jonas, was a small, reddish-brown animal that was chewing a clump of hay slowly and methodically, eyeing me through half-lowered lids, unimpressed by her visitors. She swallowed the masticated dry grass and belched heartily.

  Aghast, I stepped back. The horse seemed unabashed by her lack of social etiquette. I could see why Mr. Steward had refused to ride such a creature.

  Jonas chuckled and slapped the nag on her dusty neck. “Good one, Nelly.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “She makes a lot of noise on both ends, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said, pulling my sunhat farther over my right ear while straightening up. I can’t afford to slouch with my height. “It’s really not polite to be referring to such bodily functions in public, and certainly not to be encouraging them.”

  Jonas eyed me with an expression remarkably like that of Nelly’s and I feared he might follow her uncouth example. Instead, he shrugged his slouched shoulders and shuffled out of the small barn. “Yes, Miss Knight.”

  As we approached the house, Cilla came galloping up, or rather her horse did; she sat there bouncing about in the saddle, all flustered with news. “Oh, what a to-do, isn’t it, Bee?” she said when we met on the veranda.

  The leather of my boots squeaked and I could smell whatever oil Jonas had used that morning on them. Behind me, I could hear Mrs. Steward’s shrill voice commanding, “Have you oiled my boots yet, Jonas?” (She’d finally managed to remember his name.)

  “Yes, mama,” Jonas’s soft voice floated out of the house.

  “And don’t call me mama. It’s Mrs. Steward, do you understand?”

  “Yes, mama.”

  I smiled, for I was certain Jonas understood very well how easy it was to aggravate that lady’s nerves. Still, I wish he hadn’t oiled my boots quite so vigorously. They were so shiny I could actually view a blurry reflection in them, and sunlight sparkled off them in a most distracting manner.

  At least, I consoled myself, he didn’t have a chance to oil my riding gloves. I held them in one hand as if I were about to charge off across the landscape on a fine stallion. Never mind that the closest we had to a steed was Nelly, and she certainly wasn’t about to charge off anywhere, except to the feeding trough.

  “Isn’t it so thrilling?” Cilla gushed, distracting my attention from boots, gloves, and racing stallions.

  “I’m not sure the men the lions eat find it so thrilling,” I said. Down the hill, I could see the camp was as busy as a disturbed anthill.

  Cilla glanced about and leaned close. “For a start, they haven’t eaten any men here, only the goats. And for that, the locals complain bitterly about it to the camp superintendent, Mr. Adams.” She sucked in a deep breath and lowered her voice. “And isn’t this just the very sort of mystery that Professor Runal would want you to investigate?”

  As if I needed a reminder. “Yes, I’m planning to go with Kam later on.”

  My fatigue-induced lack of enthusiasm penetrated even my friend’s over-exuberance, for she said, “Well, I should hope so, for I’m sure the Society will be delighted to receive a full report of your findings.”

  I stifled a groan. I had rather hoped to forget about the good professor’s request for regular reports. Report writing is tedious.

  Even so, Cilla’s energy prodded me and I said with a little more enthusiasm, “I wonder why ghost lions need to eat at all?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Cilla patted my hand that was resting on the railing. “We need to find out.”

  “We?” I queried.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the horseman approaching our section of the hill, hoping to distract her. The last thing I needed was to babysit an inexperienced investigator. It was bad enough looking after Lilly, Bobby, and Mrs. Steward in the house.

  “Oh, he came,” Cilla trilled.

  “He?” The morning was rapidly deteriorating.

  “My uncle, who’s also my godfather,” she said, her smile widening. “Didn’t I tell you I stay with him? My parents are posted in West Africa.”

  I shuddered. West Africa. That name covered a large region, but in my mind, it meant only terror and death. Cilla didn’t notice, and we watched her godfather / uncle approach.

  Even from a distance, I could see he was a strongly built man. Not particularly tall, although not small by any means. His hair was unfashionably shaggy—there’s no other word I can use to describe it. Just wavy locks of dark hair bouncing on his broad shoulders. And the sideburns… I never could tolerate an abundance of facial hair on a man.

  To top it all off, the man was barely dressed for visiting civilised folk. Surely, it wasn’t so hot that an Englishman would forgo a cravat? Tsk, tsk, I thought to myself but avoided voicing my first and rather negative impression of my friend’s godfather in her presence.

  When he was as close as he could come with a horse, I studied his eyes. They were grey and fierce, almost angry, although I couldn’t imagine what he had any cause to be angry about. After all, a lion hadn’t mauled him the night before as far as I could tell.

  As he dismounted, Cilla ran to the man and hugged him. His face softened until he saw me, at which point his eyes hardened and shut me out.

  “Uncle, this is Beatrice Knight,” Cilla gushed. “Bee, this is Mr. Simon Timmons, my godfather and my uncle.”

  Mr. Timmons. Perhaps if I had the gift of clairvoyance, I might have, upon glimpsing the future this man brought, spun on my newly oiled boots and left that instant, refusing to be introduced to that strangest of men. Perhaps.

  Or not.

  For so much of what transpired in my life from that moment on was entangled with that man and his machinations. I can’t imagine how events would have transpired without his involvement, nor am I decided if it would’ve been best without him.

  At any rate, my level of clairvoyance being limited to whatever is immediately in front of me, all I felt was a rather mysterious tingle as Mr. Timmons clasped my hand in his calloused fingers, raised it to his lips and said, “My pleasure.”

  “Oh, and guess what, Uncle?” Cilla gushed. “Bee is going to chase after those ghost lions. Thrilling, isn’t it?”

  At that moment, I firmly believed there was something mentally wrong with the girl, as dear as she was to me. How tramping across the wild lands in the dark could be anything but a nightmare to avoid is beyond me. But everything was “thrilling” to her.

  And hadn’t I told her not to raise such subjects in public?

  Mr. Timmons cleared his throat. “I believe Mr. Adams is organising a hunting party over the weekend. Perhaps it’s best you wait for that.”

  I bristled at the implied reasoning. “I assure you, Mr. Timmons, I’m quite capable of handling myself, and a rifle if need be.”

  The man smiled—smirked more like it. I didn’t like the look of it at all and it strengthened my initial and unfavourable assessment of him. “I meant no slight against your abilities,” he said in a tone that indicated he had. “Although I’m not sure what use a rifle is against ghosts.”

  “Ghosts don’t eat men or goats,” I said, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped was a haughty manner, “so whatever is attacking the camp will be very much affected by a bullet or two. As for ghosts, I don’t fear them at all.”

  “Indeed.” Now Mr. Timmons really was grinning.

  I reddened. He didn’t seem to be taking me seriously at all, and instead of removing myself from his presence, I carried on. “All a hunting party would achieve is to trample all the evidence into oblivion and shoot a few gazelles. If they’re really lucky, they may just avoid
shooting each other in the confusion.”

  Mr. Timmons flung back his head, dark locks flying around him, and laughed. I had to admit it was a rather engaging laugh, the sort that invited you to join in the party. I declined.

  “All the same, Miss Knight,” he said once he had recovered from his irrational laughing fit.

  “It’s Mrs. Knight,” I interrupted, too irate to maintain civility.

  “Well done. I don’t very much like this unfashionable fellow,” Gideon hissed as he materialised beside me.

  I clenched at the railing of the veranda to avoid jumping, for that would only add to Mr. Timmons’s dim view of my abilities.

  The “unfashionable fellow” paused and dipped his head slightly. “Very well, Mrs. Knight. I just thought it might amuse you to have a few days out in the countryside. Although”—and his black eyebrows rose slightly as he took in my overly polished boots and my gloves—“I would understand if you didn’t join. The insects out there can be overwhelming for an Englishwoman.”

  The man was too much. He had no business talking down to me as if I were a typical female with delicate sensibilities. He clearly was uninformed, and I was determined to educate him.

  “I’m sure I can handle a few insects,” I said, my hands twitching at the absence of my stout walking stick, which I would’ve been happy to introduce him to.

  He winked at me—yes, winked, how outrageous!—and said, “Oh, I’m sure you can around here. But out there”—he gestured to the savannah stretching away from us to the horizon—“there are all manners of strange beasties. The giant Shongololo, for example. Nasty thing.”

  “He’s the only nasty thing around here,” Gideon whispered into my ear.

  I rubbed at my uncovered left ear. “Shonga-what?” I asked before I could decipher if he was being serious or not. His eyes didn’t reveal much more than a sharp sense of humour, and they had darkened to a blue-grey. I was so intrigued by this colour change that I almost didn’t hear his explanation.

  “Shongololo,” he repeated. “Imagine a giant millipede at least as long as your arm, with poisonous fangs.”