Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (6 page)

“We need to isolate the victims, in other words,” I surmised.

“Yes, exactly correct, Miss Knight.”

“And Dr. Spurrier isn’t convinced on the matter?” Mr. Timmons asked.

“He is not so familiar with these exotic diseases. Maybe if you, Mr. Timmons, are explaining the issue, he might appreciate the situation,” Dr. Ribeiro suggested, his brown eyes lighting up with hope.

“Why would that change anything?” I demanded, starting on my umpteenth cup, my mood improving despite the nature of the conversation. I wondered what life would be like without tea, and shuddered at the horrendous notion.

“It’s…” Dr. Ribeiro glanced to his hat, which he was scrunching up in his hands. “I am not English,” he finished in an uncharacteristically subdued voice.

“So?” I asked even as Mr. Timmons said, “I see.”

I glanced between the two men and the inconvenient truth dawned on me: despite his tanned skin, Mr. Timmons seemed pale sitting next to the Goan doctor, whose skin glowed with the warm depth of well-oiled mahogany. Still, a part of me refused to believe the mistreatment he indirectly claimed to have received.

“Surely, facts are facts, regardless of the messenger,” I insisted.

“Oh yes, Miss Knight, and the fact is I’m not English,” Dr. Ribeiro said with a head waggle and solemn countenance. “People are seeing the messenger first, hearing the message second. Or sometimes, they are not hearing anything. The eyes are bigger than the ears.”

Mr. Timmons cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can pay a visit to Dr. Spurrier tomorrow,” he offered, an eyebrow raised inquisitively at me.

I nodded, still frowning at the poor reception meted out to the doctor and fuming at what I’d like to say to the ignoramus who was posing as our Crown-appointed Medical Officer. “Absolutely.”

“That is most generous of you,” Dr. Ribeiro enthused, his wide smile back in place. “Now, about the brainless heads…”

Chapter 8

“What a pompous nincompoop,” I stated and not too softly, although my words remained unheeded by the object of my derision.

Mr. Timmons merely crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed at a sideburn, his energy coiling dangerously around him.

“But don’t let that inspire you to drain him,” I added hastily, concerned by the dark glitter in my husband’s eyes. While arrogance and stupidity were grave offenses against humanity and worthy of the severest punishments that society could pronounce, our current legal system had no such standards in place, more’s the pity.

“Perish the thought,” he replied but his smirk informed me that the thought hadn’t perished nor was it in any danger of doing so.

The victim of our dismal appraisal was the Medical Officer’s secretary, a fine-looking specimen of English conceit. Well-built with a thick head of blond hair, the young man sat behind his desk, smugly ignoring our presence after informing us that Dr. Spurrier was otherwise occupied behind the closed door.

Guffaws were heard and the door that presumably led to the doctor’s office opened with a squeak and more laughter. Three men, chuckling in a hearty manner, meandered into the waiting room, still engaged in lively conversation.

At a glance, I deduced that two must be visiting hunters fresh from the old country, for they wore fashionable hunting attire, including riding boots that glowed from excessive polish. Their jackets would’ve been more appropriate in the cool, drizzly English countryside on a fox hunt, rather than on the dusty, dry Savannah under a callous sun.

The third man was infused with the energy of a bureaucrat, self-satisfied and firmly in control of all the documents that a person would need to pursue any endeavor short of breathing. A plump, bald fellow, he didn't seem the type to engage in anything more strenuous than signing papers and stamping forms.

The hunters left with a great stomping of boots and a disinterested glance at us.

“Ah, Mr. Timmons, is it?” Dr. Spurrier inquired, his small eyes squinting as he smiled effusively. “And the wife, I presume. Congratulations and many happy returns. I must’ve missed the wedding invite in all the correspondence I receive, but think nothing of it.”

I nearly interrupted him to inform him he never was sent an invite and that we most certainly weren’t in any way distressed by his absence, but Mr. Timmons stopped me with a sharp look.

“Do come in, please,” the man continued. He gestured for us to proceed into an office that was as classic an example of statesmanship as could be expected in our vicinity.

An officious, wooden desk dominated one corner and glowered with a proud veneer, despite the one broken leg that was propped up on a brick. Various stacks of paper were placed neatly around the edges. Behind the desk, on a wall, was mounted the head of a kudu, its twisted horns an impressive size. Another wall was covered by a set of shelves overflowing with books, while a window overlooked Victoria Street, the main thoroughfare of Nairobi.

“I presume you’ve registered your marriage with the Registrar-General?” Dr. Spurrier asked as he sat behind his desk.

“Our next visit is in fact to Mr. Monson,” Mr. Timmons answered.

“Jolly good,” the doctor said as he shuffled some papers into meticulous order. “Most fortunate that we have that illustrious official to keep track of these sorts of things.”

“Indeed,” I said. “We wouldn’t want people being born, getting married or dying without any records to show for it.”

Dr. Spurrier half frowned, half smiled at me, as if uncertain about the level of my sincerity. I produced an innocent smile for his benefit. Thus reassured, he continued, “How’s the business, Mr. Timmons?”

“I can’t complain,” Mr. Timmons said with more modesty than I thought him capable of, for business was indeed very good, given he was one of the main suppliers of the camp and construction projects. It was, in Mrs. Steward’s estimation, his most salient and praiseworthy feature.

“Good, jolly good,” Dr. Spurrier said. “Tea? No? You don’t mind if I partake?” Without waiting for our consent, he reached to a small trolley by his side and poured a cup. “And with what can I assist you on this fine day?” He directed his question to Mr. Timmons, clearly not expecting any meaningful contribution from me.

Mr. Timmons patted my hand — the one that was tightly clenched around my walking stick — and said in a most charming tone, “I heard there’s a bit of an outbreak of Bubonic Plague nearby. Fancy that.”

Impeccable timing was a feature that I rather admired in Mr. Timmons, for he had in fact paused before delivering his remarks, just long enough for the doctor to raise his delicate teacup to his puffy lips.

At the word ‘Bubonic’, Dr. Spurrier snorted tea out of his nose in a jet of steaming liquid. With the utterance of ‘Plague’, he succumbed to a great fit of coughing that suggested he might in fact be choking.

Or rather, one could always hope he would.

Mr. Timmons and I remained seated, observing the spectacle. The man plunked his cup down sharply with a satisfying crunch that indicated a chip had been created.

“My esteemed…” Cough. “Mr….” Cough, cough. “Timmons… What put such a preposterous notion into your mind?” he asked after regaining a grip on his respiratory system.

“The one and only medical practitioner of Nairobi,” I interjected between his hacking coughs. “He ran blood tests on a couple of his patients. They were two Somali chaps.”

“Medical practitioner? Are you referring to that little brown man on a zebra?” Dr. Spurrier retorted with as much scorn as a semi-choking man can muster. “This country is being overrun by those coolies. Why, we’re more like a province of India than a colony of the British Crown. They not only outnumber us, but we use their currency, the rupee, for financial transactions. And only just now, we’ve even started relying on the Indian legal code. Astonishing.”

“Some things certainly are,” I said, my metal hand glittering with wolf energy. The appendage was fortunately out of the man’s line of sight. Swallowing hard, I continued, “Regardless, he is a medical doctor and…”

“Really, madam,” the impossible imbecile interrupted me. “You need not worry your pretty little head over such rumors, or else you’d believe there are monsters hiding behind every tree and bush!”

“As for that,” I began before reason and Mr. Timmons tightened their grips on me.

“Perhaps you would consider paying a visit to the camp and inspecting the ailing men for yourself,” Mr. Timmons suggested.

“Bah!” Dr. Spurrier coughed out. “That place? It’s nothing more than a collection of damp, dark, unventilated, overcrowded dwellings on filth-soaked and rubbish-strewn ground.”

“The perfect breeding ground for vermin such as rats, wouldn’t you agree?” Mr. Timmons asked.

“The only vermin I’m interested in are those lions,” the man rebutted. “Now, those ones at least offer some fine sport. Indeed they do.”

“That’s all well and good, but you could at the least re-test the men, to confirm or deny the doctor’s results, as the case may be,” Mr. Timmons said, his voice soft, his eyes glittering.

The Medical Officer waved a soft hand as if to clear the air of such a ludicrously scientific idea. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Timmons. I can assure you all is as well as can be expected. Now, if you’d come to me with information about those Nandi blokes, that would be a conversation worth having.”

We both stared at the man, for how could one shift a conversation from a lethal Plague to an African tribe in one sentence? Or rather, why?

“Nandi?” I repeated, to confirm that the man hadn’t actually intended to say
blood tests
or
quarantine
.

“Yes, yes, we’re having a bit of a bother with them, you know,” Dr. Spurrier said. “Nothing to be overly alarmed about, mind you, but some of these natives don’t much appreciate our efforts to bring them the benefits of civilization and all that.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” I remarked, my fingers tapping the reassuringly hard surface of my walking stick. “Particularly when civilization means they lose their lands and traditional rights in exchange for cheap liquor and manual labor.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Spurrier said and then paused, peering at me as if possibly suspecting me of sarcasm. “At any rate, they’ve made up some rubbish about their women being abducted by a few of the workers, or some such thing. So they started raiding the railway for metal bits and bobs, to make jewelry. Imagine that! And they put the fishplate bolts atop those funny sticks of theirs, and use them to brain their enemies. And the list goes on and on.”

“As do you,” I muttered, but by now, the man was thoroughly worked up with regard to the depths that people would dare to go in order to defend themselves.

“As if that’s not bothersome enough, when they were asked — quite civilly, mind you — to cease such foolish behavior, those bloody-minded savages began putting up a bit of resistance, rabble-rousing again, no longer content to steal from the railway and to spread their monster stories.”

“Monster stories?” I repeated, astounded at the manner in which the conversation had fishtailed from one topic to another with such rapidity.

“Yes, yes, that Nandi Bear or some such name.” He breathed deeply, his coughs having subsided, and stated with all the confidence his office provided him, “But they’ll be dealt with soon enough. The troops are being sent to sort them out and quick. Our soldiers should be arriving any day now.”

“That’s news,” Mr. Timmons remarked in a disinterested tone.

“Indeed. Oh, but don’t discuss this too widely, just amongst ourselves,” Dr. Spurrier said as he leaned toward us, his voice lowered conspiratorially. “We don’t want to alarm the masses, now do we?”

I wasn’t sure what masses he was referring to, unless it was the masses of wildlife, and I was certain they wouldn’t be alarmed in the least. Or perhaps he didn’t want the Nandi to be forewarned, because he wouldn’t want them to actually be prepared to defend their lives and liberty. The massacre of unarmed tribespeople was far better sport.

“Well, now that’s sorted out,” Dr. Spurrier continued, smiling benevolently at us. “Was there any other matter that required my attention?” He nodded at my husband and ignored my pretty, little head that was overcome with visions of his fat, ugly head mysteriously connecting with the metal fist atop my walking stick.