A Spear of Summer Grass

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I went crazy,” I said. I lifted my wrist and pulled off the black ribbon. “Do you see that scar? I did it with my husband’s razor the day they brought what was left of him home from France.”

  There was a flash of hesitation in the inspector’s eyes. Uncertainty was taking its first tentative steps. All it needed was a push.

  “I spent three months locked up in an asylum in England. If you don’t believe me, ask my cousin.”

  He turned his head to Dora. I didn’t look at her. It would be fatal to Gideon if Gilchrist suspected collusion. She had to tell him the truth, and I hoped she hated me just enough to do it.

  “It’s true,” she said, almost inaudibly. She turned and buried herself in Halliwell’s shoulder, weeping.

  “I shall require a more extensive confession that that,” Gilchrist said.

  “Well, you’re not getting one. Not until I’m in Nairobi with my lawyer present. Now take me in, gingernut.”

  I was gambling a little with that last bit, but as I expected, the belittling tone was enough to rattle him. He coloured to the roots of his red hair, then blanched as his men snickered. He took me by the wrists and towed me to his car. He opened the door and stepped back sharply to let me precede him. I turned back with a smile.

  “Aren’t you going to make certain I’m not armed?”

  “I will take my chances,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I did not dare look back. I ducked into the car and settled myself in for the drive to Nairobi. Behind us I could hear the rest of the policemen piling into their cars and bringing up the rear of our little caravan. We drove slowly out the gates of Fairlight, and as the drive doubled back on itself I saw them all standing just as I had left them, a tableau in the morning light. I hoped Gideon could see me through one of the chinks in the barn wall. I hoped he would get away and I hoped he would be safe. I hoped he would live a long and happy life. I hoped so many things during that long drive to Nairobi. I might have even prayed. Gideon needed a miracle to make it to safety and he would need a thousand more to keep him safe. But Gideon deserved a miracle. Even one I had to make with my own hands. It was a sloppy, untidy, makeshift little thing, my sad miracle, crooked and badly stitched, but it was all I had to offer him. I only hoped it would be enough.

  * * *

  I was taken directly to the police station for interrogation. We stopped once during the drive to Nairobi for the sharing out of a hamper of dry sandwiches and warm orange squash, but I refused. Anything I ate was likely to make an encore appearance, so I kept my mouth shut. We stopped twice more for punctures and mechanical trouble with the result that we arrived at the police station after dark, just as the first of the short rains was beginning to fall. I was hurried through a back entrance and put into a private holding cell. I glanced around, taking inventory. There was a narrow cot, one thin blanket, and unmentionable hygienic arrangements. I wrapped myself up and stretched out on the cot, closing my eyes. There were distant noises—voices, typewriters, the occasional ringing of the telephone, and once or twice the ominous clang as they locked another poor soul inside. I had seen Kilimani Prison on my first trip through Nairobi. It wasn’t exactly the Crillon, and I crossed my fingers and said the rosary twice, hoping they wouldn’t send me there. I was alone and separate from the holding cells of native Africans, something I pointed out to the inspector when he had me brought to an interrogation room some time later.

  “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 a
nd 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.”