Ghosts of Tsavo (Society for Paranormals Book 1) Page 8

  “Surely you’re not seriously intending to walk back with those lions out there?” Mr. Timmons asked, oozing sincere concern while still seeking my energetic attention.

  The leach.

  “Your concern for my well-being is truly touching, Mr. Timmons,” I said as I stepped off his veranda. “But I think I’ll be quite safe if I stick to the dirt road. Especially with Kam accompanying me.”

  If Kam was surprised by this indirect invitation to join me, he concealed it well. With one of his enigmatic nods, he shifted to one side to let me pass. I didn’t turn or in any way acknowledge him until we were lost amongst the hubbub of the construction camp and I could no longer hear Mr. Timmons’s protests or feel his energy tug.

  My attention remained on the uneven ground as I said, “I hope you don’t mind if I keep my bow ready? Just in case.”

  “It won’t be needed,” Kam said.

  “Be that as it may, I find its weight rather soothing for my agitated nerves,” I said dryly.

  The main road (a rather generous term for the wide dirt path I stumbled upon) looped around the camp, past the train station, and up the hill past the new settlement being established, including the Steward’s residence. Dotted along both sides of the road were ramshackle kiosks lit with storm lanterns and selling produce, cooked food, and slabs of mystery meat hanging from rusted hooks and covered in flies. Small piles of neatly stacked vegetables were set up on pieces of plastic or woven mats where women sat and waved me over to inspect their wares in the light of little stubs of candle stuck in the ground.

  While the road was rough and dusty, at least it was busy with people and therefore an unlikely place for a lion to attack. Presumably, I was safe, at least for now.

  Only after we’d walked a ways on the main road did I glance at Kam. His stoic expression, his straight back, his confident stride, and his non-existent energy field gave away not a clue as to his real thoughts, feelings, and purpose. Neither did his markings. It was a peculiar sensation, being blind to the inner workings of another person. I don’t know how the rest of humanity tolerates it.

  I cleared my throat. “You may be wondering why I didn’t hand you over to Mr. Timmons or some suitable authority who runs the camp for that nasty trick you pulled.”

  Kam remained silent and impassive, which caused me to scowl, which in turn reminded me of Mrs. Steward. The woman was always warning Lilly and me about scowling, frowning, or any other facial expression that caused us to scrunch up our skin.

  “You’ll look old before your time,” she would say with a wag of her finger, “and then who will marry you? Well, not you, Bee, you’re already finished. But you, Lilly, you must always maintain a pleasant expression regardless of the circumstance. No man wants an angry-looking woman around.”

  I smoothed out my face—not that I cared what kind of woman Kam preferred to have around—and continued. “Maybe I should have, if that’s your response.”

  Kam looked down at me and maintained his silence.

  “I’m not here to hunt your lions, you know,” I said firmly, trying to maintain eye contact without tripping over the rough surface. “My job is to learn about them, document, and report.”

  I stumbled over a rock and shifted my gaze forward since I wasn’t seeing much response from my companion and I’d prefer not to break an ankle. That would prove a terrible inconvenience in a place like this.

  “I need your assistance to find them,” I persisted. “Are they only regular lions? Ghosts? I think not. I’ve never met a ghost that actually bleeds.”

  “Have you met a ghost here, Miss Knight?” Kam finally spoke in his rumbling voice.

  “Well, no,” I said, wondering why that should matter. He should be impressed that I’d met ghosts at all. “But I’ve come across plenty of them in England.”

  Kam smiled enigmatically. “They’re not quite the same.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t think the situation too much different from that in other countries,” I said. “People die. Sometimes, their spirits linger, hence the ghosts.”

  Kam shook his head. “It’s different. For in addition to all those from there, we have our own.”

  “What do you mean?” But his words raised the image of Bloody Mary twirling around in the ship’s dining hall, so out of place. Not to mention Koki, the shape-shifting she-demon who’d somehow escaped from West Africa and tracked me to London (or so I believed).

  “All the strangers who come here, they bring their own myths and legends with them,” Kam said, uncharacteristically verbose.

  “You mean paranormals from the countries of the settlers are here as well?” I asked, wondering how that could be true but knowing it to be.

  “Yes, some of them,” he said, unconcerned that his country was being colonised not only with Europeans but with their ghosts and ghouls.

  Into the silence, images of creatures I thought I’d left behind flittered through my mind. The English didn’t bother me too much; I knew how to handle them. But what if Koki dragged her giant, Praying Mantis corpse here? And what about all that existed in India…

  I shuddered, reflecting on the numerous Indians brought to East Africa to work on the railway. If Kam was right—and I saw no reason to doubt him—there was a chance I’d meet up with some rather displeased legends from a few countries. And here I’d been thinking I’d left them all behind.

  Silly me.

  After a moment of unhappy contemplation, the silence was interrupted by Kam. “Is Mr. Timmons your friend?”

  I snorted. “Hardly. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything, and ghosts are ghosts, regardless of their nationality.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “Things are not the same here. Neither are people.”

  “Clearly,” I said, irritated by the man’s incomplete answers, which only pointed to more questions.

  I stared at him but he gazed ahead, far ahead as if watching an altogether different scene. “You’ve never met a being like Mr. Timmons,” he said finally and the timbre of his voice indicated a warning.

  “I’ve never met one like you either,” I retorted, “and yet here we are.” I wondered why I responded in this manner for it sounded as if I were defending Mr. Timmons and that simply wouldn’t do. “What do you mean by that?” I added in a more conciliatory tone.

  Kam cocked his head to the side, perhaps debating how much to tell me. “He wants the lions for his own reasons.”

  “What reasons?” I asked, amazed and confused by the strange turn in the conversation.

  Kam peered up at the sky. “Reasons that aren’t good.”

  How exasperating, I thought as I barely avoided a pile of elephant dung. Even though the road was relatively busy, the elephant herds had no hesitation in crossing it at their pleasure, knocking over kiosks and squashing people’s produce.

  As I dodged a donkey loaded with a stack of wood bigger than the beast carrying it, I broke the silence between us. “Regardless of Mr. Timmons’ motivations, I assure you I’m not trying to do any harm. Do you believe me?”

  Kam glanced at me. “Yes.”

  “Well, so you should,” I said, relieved. “And if you’re not intending to assist me, then at the very least do restrain yourself and don’t feed me to your pets.”

  He nodded his head a couple times, but I wasn’t sure if that meant he wouldn’t or he would. We reached my new home shortly thereafter.

  “Well then, I suppose this is good-bye,” I said with a sniff that, I hoped, indicated I was little impressed with the whole scenario and his part in it.

  Kam tilted his great bald head to the side slightly and studied me. Really, I hadn’t been here a week and already I missed the manners of London. Who stares at another person with such intensity without blushing when caught? And yet it seemed quite acceptable here, at least with two men in my acquaintances. Then again, they were paranormals, which covers a multitude of sins.

  “No,” Kam said after a moment.

  “No?
” My voice rose. Blast it, the man was impossible to understand. “No, you won’t promise to not feed me to the lions, or no, you won’t serve me up as dinner?”

  Kam’s face relaxed into a brief but radiant smile. “I will see you at the hunt.”

  I scowled at his lack of a proper answer. “You?” I said. “How absurd. You’re going on the hunt? Why?”

  He turned and blended into the night, but his voice lingered on the flower-scented air. “To make sure it fails.”

  Chapter 14

  Given that Jonas was the Steward’s only house help and he seldom came in farther than the kitchen, it was a jolly good thing we lived in a considerably more modest abode than the one in London. Given the constant influx of dust (who would’ve guessed that a swamp could be so dusty?), we’d have needed several people just to keep up with it.

  While the dust bothered Mrs. Steward to no end, Lilly was concerned with other matters, being a young and eligible woman of eighteen, eligible in all ways but financial backing and a proposal. As for a proposal, she’d pinned her hopes on catching the eye of one of the dashing young men who passed through the camp on the way to hunt big game. Thus far, that plan had failed miserably, but she was determined and desperate, a lethal combination.

  Bobby was another matter altogether, with the energy of three Lillys. When Mrs. Steward wasn’t paying attention, I’d chased the boy outside with instructions to see what Jonas was doing; the two of them would distract each other from any meaningful activity for hours on end.

  One morning, Bobby couldn’t be convinced to go outside or play dead. He followed me around the house as I finished unpacking the remaining few odds and ends and waved a page from a newspaper in front of me.

  “Can we go? Can we? Please?” he nagged until out of sheer desperation to be rid of him, I ceased my unpacking to see what the fuss was.

  With two fingers, I plucked the article from him and suspended the page before me. A young man and his automaton stared back. It was from a London newspaper, the one I had read just before we’d left England. In fact, I recognised a blotch of cherry jam I had let fall on the paper while reading the article. Most curious, not to mention tasty. The jam, that is.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked. Perhaps I had used it while packing the chinaware.

  He shrugged his shoulders while bouncing up and down. “Found it. Let’s go.”

  “Well, if the unpacking isn’t done, we know who’s to blame,” I warned him.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. “You, of course. It’s your and Mama’s job, not mine. Now hurry up. Maybe we can pick Cilla up on the way. She’s nice.”

  He stuck his tongue out at me, but despite the implication that she was nice while I wasn’t, he had a jolly good idea.

  Conveniently, Jonas knew where the inventor lived—there was only one in the whole region—and was as eager for an excuse to abandon work as I was. He hitched the ox to the wagon, and on the way, we swung down to the camp to find Cilla, who was keen for a distraction from reading, sewing, and other womanly pursuits.

  The inventor lived farther up the hill from us and deeper into the woods, where you realised that Nairobi was indeed in a swamp. Damp air and mosquitos clung to us, but the shade was a relief from the heat.

  The man who opened the door to the mud-brick house wore a blindingly white lab coat, spotless and well pressed. He was tall, thin to the point of bony, and pale strawberry in colouring.

  That isn’t just in reference to his straight hair but even his skin, which might have been the result of too much time outdoors while living so near the equator. I was certain the African sun isn’t kind on the delicate complexion normally associated with one of his hair type.

  “Yes?” he asked, his eyes blinking rapidly at us, so rapidly I couldn’t discern their colouring, but they were pale, most likely a pale blue or grey. All in all, a dreadfully pale person.

  “We want to see the tin man,” Bobby demanded as he pushed in between Cilla and myself and held up the newspaper article.

  “What my charge means,” I said, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders, only barely avoiding his neck, and digging my nails in slightly, “is we would be most grateful if you would allow us to see your automaton. If it’s not too much bother.”

  “Oh,” the man said, his eye blinking increasing in speed. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course, of course, do come in.” He backed away from the door and waved us in. “I’m Dr. Gregory Cricket. So pleased to meet you.”

  After introductions were made, we all stared at each other. Dr Cricket frowned slightly at me. “Knight. That name is somewhat familiar but I can’t quite place where I know it from.”

  I gave him a bland smile. “It’s not an uncommon name.”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  In the ensuing silence, we gazed about the room in which we found ourselves. On every surface was a clutter and assortment of bits and pieces that bewildered the senses.

  “My, you have so many interesting items here, sir,” Cilla said, waving a paper fan before her face as she peered around, wide eyed.

  “Well, I like to think of it as my modest contribution to science,” Dr Cricket said but not in a boastful way, simply as a statement of fact. “A mini-museum of sorts, you could say.”

  It certainly was, down to the lack of air and life. I glanced longingly at the sealed windows.

  “Ah yes,” Dr Cricket said as he noticed the direction of my gaze. “I must keep the windows closed at all times. So much dust and flies here. They would cause havoc with my work.”

  I smiled. “Mm. I suppose the absence of air is preferable to the alternative of a bit of dust in the ointment, so to speak. Breathing is so terribly overrated.”

  Cilla choked down a laugh while Dr Cricket returned my smile uncertainly. “Ah, yes. You see the point. Now, perhaps I could interest you ladies in my latest invention.” He gestured to a contraption squatting in the corner of the room. He paid absolutely no attention to Bobby, who was pulling on the sleeve of his lab coat. “It’s cutting edge, really, the first of its kind, a significant advance in the science of haematology.”

  “Hemming what?” Cilla asked.

  “The study of blood,” I said, not overly impressed.

  “Yes, yes, precisely, Mrs. Knight,” Dr Cricket said, beaming at me. “My instrument allows me to determine all sorts of information about a blood sample and the person who gave it.”

  As I wiped a bead of perspiration off my brow, I caught a glimmer of motion to one side. I huffed as Gideon floated toward me.

  “What’s he doing here?” he murmured, watching Dr. Cricket remove a delicate-looking instrument from Bobby’s grasping hands.

  “You know him?” I asked, assuming he meant the doctor and not the boy. It didn’t surprise me that he might have known Dr. Cricket. When alive, Gideon knew everyone in London, or so it had seemed.

  Gideon shrugged his near invisible shoulders.

  “More to the point, what’re you doing here?” I whispered through a rigid smile as Dr. Cricket turned and waved me over.

  “Same as you, I imagine,” he answered in his whispery voice. “Amusing myself for a few hours, escaping the boredom that reigns in our house…”

  “Mrs. Knight?” Dr Cricket called out. I didn’t correct him, despite Gideon’s hiss of displeasure. Or maybe because of Gideon’s presence, I didn’t inform the doctor I was still Mrs. Knight. “Is there some question? I’d be happy to answer.”

  “Oh, yes. Is that your wife?” I asked, pointing to a portrait of a lovely woman standing in front of a flower bed and holding a carnation. It was in a frame hanging on the same wall Gideon had walked through.

  “Nice recovery,” Gideon snickered while I pretended he didn’t exist.

  “Yes, this was her favourite photo, taken in front of her beloved garden. She loved red carnations,” he said and then sighed. “But sadly, she passed on a few years ago.”

  While I’d never been in the habit of expressing pity for
another’s plight, I did feel slightly moved by his sorrowful, blinking eyes. “I know it’s hard. I too am a widow.”

  He gasped. “Oh, and how brave of you to come here without a husband.”

  I suppressed a snort as I watched Gideon study various contraptions around the room. “Truth be told, I feel he’s still very much with me.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, nodding his reddish-blond head energetically.

  I smiled. Something else caught my eye.

  “A lovely bow,” I said, pointing to the only other item on the wall closest to us.

  Dr Cricket beamed. “A fine eye you have, Mrs. Knight. That is indeed my best and favourite. Do you engage in archery then?”

  “Well, I fancy myself a bit of a toxophilite,” I admitted. “I adore archery.”

  “How marvellous,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I do too. Something else we have in common. Fancy that.”

  “Oh,” I said, not wishing to commit myself to having too much in common with the man. He had a pleasant enough disposition, but it wouldn’t do to encourage too much connection between us. Not to mention his eyes were constantly twitching and blinking in the most unnerving manner.

  “Speaking of a fine eye,” he said, his own dipping shyly down, “I’ve never seen such a light hazel as yours. They’re almost golden. A most extraordinary eye colour, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  I smiled. “All the better to see you with.”

  If he only knew how true that could be.

  His confusion shifted into alarm as Bobby picked up some delicate and expensive-looking item and the doctor hurried away with a mumbled apology.

  I was flattered he had commented on my eyes; most people don’t, usually because they find the colour disturbing, bordering on unnatural. But with no vanity intended, I believe they’re my most distinguishing features. Mrs. Steward says they’re uncivilised, but she says that about anything slightly outside her tightly defined sphere of normalcy.

  Gideon thought them stunning once upon a time.

  “Would you like to see my masterpiece?” Dr Cricket asked in a low voice, glancing around as if asking if we wanted to join a conspiracy to overthrow the queen.