A Spear of Summer Grass (26 page)

“I should have liked to have practiced my Swahili,” I said brightly.

Gilchrist cleared his throat and one of his minions entered bearing a tea tray. “How civilized. And how very English,” I murmured.

He gave me a thin smile and poured out a cup for me and laid a plate with sandwiches and cake. I lifted a brow and a slight flush touched his complexion.

“Eat it. It was sent over from the Norfolk Hotel.” His voice was kinder than I had expected, all things considered.

I shrugged and helped myself. I had missed two meals and teatime, and if I was supposed to sit through an interrogation, I ought to keep my strength up.

He watched me and after a moment took one of the sandwiches himself, wolfing it down in a single bite.

“You’ll give yourself indigestion.”

He grimaced. “I have that already, largely thanks to you.”

“You flatter me.”

He sighed. “Miss Drummond—”

“Delilah, please. I suspect we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together.”

“Delilah.” He dropped his voice to something altogether softer than I had heard from him before. “I need your help. I don’t believe you killed Kit Parrymore.”

“Odd, then, that you should take me in so quickly.”

He flushed again. “I let you goad me into that and I shouldn’t have. I ought to have known right off that you were bluffing.”

“Who says I was?”

He smiled, and to my surprise it was a genuine thing. “Where was he? In the kitchen? The storeroom?”

“The barn,” I admitted. “But it wouldn’t have done you any good to arrest an innocent man. I was doing you a favour.”

“By confessing to a crime you didn’t commit,” he finished.

“Who says I didn’t? I confessed. If you neglect that confession, I suspect the governor would be mightily put out. He’s going to be under quite a bit of pressure to make sure this is solved quickly and discreetly. And I imagine if the governor is under pressure, so are you. I hear the Duke of York is planning an official visit next year. Just think what the king would say if you get this wrong! Why, I imagine, he might refuse permission for the duke to come at all. Such a perfect opportunity to showcase to Whitehall how much Kenya deserves self-governance, wasted! Yes, you are under pressure indeed, Inspector.”

“You would not believe how much if I told you,” he admitted. “But this absurd confession of yours—”

“It’s not my fault if you don’t believe it.”

“Then help me to believe it. I must have facts, a motive.”

“Oh, surely you can draw the inferences yourself. You’re a clever man,” I said, putting out my hand for another sandwich.

His hand clamped about my wrist. “Do you think I got this job by playing the fool? I will admit I swallowed your little bait like a good little fish, but I’m done with that. I’ve snapped the line and I will go my own way now. You no longer whistle the tune, Miss Drummond.”

“You’ve rather mixed your metaphors there. And we agreed it was to be Delilah.”

I slipped my arm from his grasp. He sat back, rubbing a hand over his temple.

“Headache? I always take a spoonful of bitters and lie down in a cool room with a compress. You might try it.”

He gave a short laugh. “They warned me about you. They told me you would twist me forty different ways. I could not imagine how, and yet here you are.”

He forgot to be a policeman then. The cool efficiency dropped away and he sat, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his expression resigned. He looked like a man who had just had his dearest illusions stripped away, and there was nothing left but need. It was a look I had seen before and not one I ever cared to be responsible for.

“Inspector,” I said gently. “You ought to be asking me questions.”

“I know. I just wish we could be honest with one another. The rest of it is exhausting. But if we could just have the truth...” He trailed off and leaned forward again, his eyes warm and coaxing.

I felt myself leaning nearer. “Inspector,” I began, my voice a little tremulous.

He moved closer still, his lips parting expectantly. “Yes?”

I heard the frisson of expectation and I knew my instincts were correct.

I moved closer again. “I feel as though I could tell you anything. Anything at all.”

“Go on,” he urged, his eyes never leaving mine.

Closer still. I put a hand out to steady myself and felt the curve of his knee under my palm. “I will give you whatever you want,” I said, tightening my grip. His leg flexed under my hand and his mouth curved slightly into a thin smile of triumph.

“Yes?”

“As soon as you get my lawyer. Until then, you can go hang yourself.”

I sat back and laughed as he went brick-red and sat back as quickly as if I’d slapped him again.

“This isn’t a game, Delilah.”

“Of course it is. And you lost. Take it like a man. You thought you’d wheedle something out of me because I’m just a woman. Poor Gilchrist! I learned to turn men like you inside out before I could even walk. Now send me back to my cell and get my lawyer here. Quentin Harkness, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London. I’ll wait.”

“If you think I’m going to wait a fortnight for some spit-polished solicitor from London to make his way here, you are entirely mistaken.”

“Language! And I think you will. Remember, Inspector, I’m not just a British citizen. I’m American. And I think my great-uncle,
Senator
L’Hommedieu, would be greatly interested if I were to be denied due process.”

He wrote down Quentin’s name and address, snapping off the pencil lead as he did so.

“What makes you so certain he’ll even come?”

“He’s my ex-husband.”

Gilchrist laughed then, an unpleasant sound in the small room. “I’m surprised one got away alive. I rather thought you just bit off their heads and left them to die.”

I had to give him credit. He had gone toe-to-toe with me and gotten the last word. It was more than most men did.

22

I spent the night in my cell running over every word from the interview and listening to the rain pattering on the roof. I hadn’t mentioned the bracelet and neither had he. I think he meant to spring it on me and watch me fall like a house of cards. Little did he know the damned thing was most likely mine, and I had a witness who could prove it, so long as Bianca hadn’t been too lit to forget that she’d commented on it at Helen’s party. But the bracelet was a tricky card to play, and I wanted to save it for just the right moment. The next morning I was summoned bright and early for another interview with Gilchrist. This time he played to win, and I almost pitied him.

Almost. Instead, I waved my black ribbon in his face and fingered the butter knife, rubbing it against my wrist until he hollered for an officer and had me packed off back to my cell. That evening, after a surprisingly tasty meal sent over from the Norfolk, he came to my cell with two other officers, all dressed plainly. He brought me a simple black coat and told me to put it on.

“Well, it’s not exactly Patou, but I suppose it will have to do,” I commented acidly. I thrust my arms into the sleeves. “Where are we going, Inspector? Are you taking me out on the town?”

“Not precisely.” He took me by the arm and hurried me to the back door of the police station. He propelled me through the door, holding an umbrella over my head as we hurried to a waiting car. The driver apparently knew where we were headed because he floored it before the other two had hardly gotten themselves settled.

Gilchrist sat next to me, his shoulder pressed companionably to mine.

“Come on,” I said, batting my lashes. “I’m being winsome. The least you could do is tell me where we’re going.”

He sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. Arrangements have been made to hold you until your counsel arrives.”

I steeled myself against the chill that went through me. “Kilimani, then?”

“Kilimani.” The inspector was decidedly happy about it.

* * *

Kilimani Prison was not exactly summer camp. They put me into a special cell of my own and left me to rot as the rain continued to fall, relentless and grey, as soft and unfocused as I felt. I spent the next three weeks in my little cell, practicing my Swahili with the girl who brought my food and reading books loaned to me by the warden. He had an unnatural fondness for Dickens, but I managed. I made my way through most of them except
A Tale of Two Cities.
I got to the part where Carton is mounting the scaffold to give up his life in place of the husband of the woman he loves and I closed the book. “It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done” just struck a little too close to home. But later I went back and underlined it and when that wasn’t enough, I wrote it on the wall of my cell with a pencil.

I had visitors. Ryder didn’t come, and for that I gave fervent thanks every day. Each day that passed was hopefully taking him and Gideon farther into the bush. Helen visited, but cried so incoherently she had to be escorted right back out. Rex came, and insisted upon seeing me privately in one of the prison offices. I was shocked that they let him dictate the arrangements, but I suppose it was a mark of how much influence he had in the colony. Gilchrist was obviously looking at him as the future president and he gave us ten minutes together. Rex held me gently and didn’t say much. It felt glorious to have someone stroke my hair.

“I only wish you’d brought my hairbrush,” I told him. “I’m sure I look a fright.”

“You look wonderful,” he replied. He kissed me on the cheek then and asked all sorts of penetrating questions about the legalities and whether my rights were being respected. He told me he’d been in touch with Quentin and he was on his way, but there was nothing more he could tell me, and the inspector tapped at the door while he was still talking.

“I’m afraid your ten minutes are up, sir,” Gilchrist called.

Rex turned to me. “Is there anything I can send you?”

“A file?” I hazarded.

He smiled, but couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh. “Steady on, dear girl. It will all be over soon.”

“I hope so.” He left me then, and Gilchrist had me escorted back to my cell where I marked another day off the wall in pencil.

My next visitor wasn’t quite so diverting. Dora burst into lusty sobs the minute she saw me.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Dodo,” I muttered.

She blew noisily into her handkerchief. “I am sorry. I can’t seem to stop.”

“Were you able to get hold of Mossy? Did you explain the situation?”

“Not entirely,” she said. “I cabled that there had been a little trouble but that you were just fine and you would write her with details when you were able.”

“That’s just swell, Dora! Why didn’t you write her yourself? The story is bound to get picked up even by the London newspapers.”

She nibbled at her lower lip. “I didn’t know how much you wanted me to tell her. I didn’t think about the newspapers. I suppose I’ve muddled things.”

I sighed and folded my arms. “If I ever turn to a life of crime, you’ll excuse me if you’re not exactly my first choice for an accomplice.”

She threw her hands into the air. “I’m sorry. I did my best, but it’s all been so difficult. The funeral was—” She broke off and I wasn’t sorry. I had read about it in the newspapers. The occasion had been attended by almost every white person in Kenya, as much for ghoulish curiosity as respect for the dead. I was glad I’d missed it. I hated funerals almost as much as I hated weddings.

She took out her handkerchief and sniffled into it.

“Stop sniveling, Dodo. It will all get sorted,” I soothed. “I have been in worse scrapes.”

“Scrapes? This isn’t a scrape, Delilah. You have been taken in for questioning about the murder of Kit Parrymore. Do you even comprehend that? If you are tried, you will be hanged.”

“Only if I’m convicted,” I pointed out.

“How can you be so calm? You are not human!”

She burst into sobs again and I waited until she had soaked a second handkerchief.

“How’s Lawrence?”

She snuffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “We’re getting married.”

“Congratulations. Do you want me to tell you now or later about his odd sexual proclivities?”

“He told me himself,” she said sternly. “I don’t care. He said when we’re married we will go to a new mission in Uganda, right away from here. And he doesn’t mind that I’m not interested in that side of things. We will have a Josephite marriage.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not. Plenty of people do, you know. Particularly clergymen.”

“For Christ’s sake, Dora, there’s no need to play Charlotte Lucas and throw yourself at some odious man just because you don’t want to be an old maid.”

“I’m not an old maid!” she cried. “I’m not a virgin, you know. There, does that shock you? I’ve had experiences. And I don’t want them anymore. I’m finished with that sort of thing. I only want security, companionship. And so does Lawrence.”

She wiped her eyes, and all the fight seemed to have gone out of her after her little outburst.

“How stupid I am,” I murmured. “It was when I was off on safari, killing the lion that took the Kikuyu child, wasn’t it? You changed after that. Was he going to paint you?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “No. Evelyn and I were supposed to have a lesson, but she had to stay behind at the school and I went anyway. I knew it would be just the two of us and I went anyway. I knew what would happen,” she insisted. “I wasn’t stupid or naïve. I knew he would try. And I knew I would let him.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Because I am twenty-nine. Because after the age of nineteen virginity is a burden. Because it was time to let go of it. I just wanted to feel. All my life is neat and tidy and so orderly I wanted to scream. I just wanted to put it all aside and
feel
for once.”

I said nothing and she went on, her voice calmer now. “It was different from what I expected. I’ve read books, plenty of them. But it was different. I thought it would hurt more. And I never realised...that is to say, when it was done, I think I understood you for the first time.”

“How?”

“It isn’t the pleasure you’re after. It’s the oblivion.”

She was right. She did understand me better. It was indeed the oblivion that I craved, that moment of swimming in the sea that is the wide-open pupil of God’s eye, where nothing exists but nothingness.

She went on. “I cleaned myself up and left him and I knew that would be the last time I ever did that. I thought I wanted it, that loss of control, that complete euphoria. But I was wrong. The feeling of things building up was quite pleasant. I shouldn’t have minded if that were all. But then it kept going, it kept pushing and urging, and it took on a life of its own. It frightened me, that feeling. I would have done anything it demanded. I would have killed in that moment, I think. I would have thrown myself into a fire or drowned myself to finish it. I would have clawed the flesh off my own bones to be rid of it, to have that moment of completion. It was frightful. Honestly, Delilah, I don’t know how you do it.”

She lit a cigarette then with a deft gesture.

“You’re taking on all my bad habits.”

“Just this one. But you can have men, at least the ones that want something back. I haven’t the stomach for it.”

She blew out a ragged little smoke ring that dissolved into the air. “Remind me to teach you how to do that properly.”

She smiled then and it was through her tears. She stubbed out the cigarette. “I’m marrying Lawrence this week. Then we’re leaving for Uganda. The inspector isn’t happy, but he has no grounds to ask us to stay. I won’t be here to see this finished.”

“I understand, Dodo. You’ve served your time. Godspeed.”

She rose and brushed the ash off her skirts. “I always knew it would end in tears between us.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yes, you are.”

And so Dora left me. She had been my cousin, my companion, my chaperone, and I had become accustomed to her. Perhaps too much so. She had been my shadow, but shadows are insubstantial things, without depth or illumination, and Dora deserved better. I hoped she would be happy with Lawrence. Hoped it, but doubted it just the same. I heard through others that Evelyn was none too happy about Lawrence marrying and was devastated to leave her school. But Evelyn, like so many poor relations—like Dora, in fact—was at the mercy of her betters. She packed her bags and tagged along, the eternal third wheel. I hoped Kit had bedded her, too. God knew she’d have little enough to look back on with fondness at the end of her life if she kept on the way she was going.

I wrote letters to Dora and to Mossy and dozens of others, but there seemed little point in sending them. I tore them up instead and started a diary of sorts, writing down everything that had happened since that grey day in Paris when they had persuaded me to come to Africa. I didn’t blame them. I was a problem to be solved, and Africa seemed as good a solution as any. I had been swept under the carpet, tidied up like any other unpleasantness. And then I had to ruin it all by getting involved with a man who went and got himself murdered. The irony almost choked me.

So I read books I couldn’t remember and wrote letters I didn’t send, and taught the guards how to play poker. My grandfather had learned in the Civil War and taught it to me. We’d always played for cash, and he never cared if he cleaned me out of every penny of my pocket money.

Apparently, the press had gotten hold of the story in all its lurid detail and I had admirers. They flooded the place with gifts, including jewellery and liquor and proposals of marriage. They sent me Swiss linen handkerchiefs and Belgian lace collars, leather-bound books and boxes of marzipan fruits. I gave it all away. The other inmates had never owned such luxuries, and God knew I had little enough use for them.

But the result of my largesse was that I learned things. They paid me back in the only currency at their disposal—information. Every one of those girls knew someone or was related to someone who worked in a white household. I discovered the cannabis Gates had been growing at Fairlight had been a highly profitable operation for him and that he had sold to white settlers. I learned that Bianca’s cocaine was smuggled into the country in boxes of Spanish talcum that went straight to Government House in diplomatic pouches. And I learned that some of the white settlers were stockpiling weapons. Opinion was running hot against the powers in London that had squashed the idea of independence for Kenya. Many believed an armed rebellion was only a matter of time, and that certainty had caused most of them to secure caches of arms, ammunition and food to withstand the siege.

I learned, too, about the smaller dramas that had been playing out around me. I learned that people with daughters under seventeen gave Bunny Stevenson a wide berth, that Anthony Wickenden had moved off the ranch to live with a Masai woman who had given him the clap, and that Gervase had invested all of his money in a herd of Highland sheep that had fallen down dead in the heat. I also found out that the gallery owner in Nairobi had announced a posthumous showing of Kit’s work once my trial was over.

“Bastard thinks I’m guilty,” I muttered. I slipped the girl who told me that a box of violet creams from Charbonnel et Walker. I was still pondering the implications of an armed revolt when they removed me from my cell to meet with Quentin.

“You look like hell.” It wasn’t the nicest thing to have blurted out upon seeing him but it was true. His trousers were soaked to the knee and his hair was gleaming with raindrops.

He smiled ruefully. “Who knew it rained in Africa? And I wish I could say the same of you, my darling girl. You ought to at least have lost a little of your sleekness in prison.”

I patted my hair. “A girl has to have standards.” His smile faltered a little and I put up a hand. “Don’t. Anything but pity, Quentin. You know I can’t bear that.”

He reached into his pocket. “I’ve brought a letter from your mother.”

He held it out, but I hesitated. “I’m surprised the paper isn’t smouldering.”

Quentin smiled in spite of himself. “You might be surprised. You always did say Mossy came through best in a crisis.”