A Spear of Summer Grass

20



The house was quiet that night without Dodo. We hadn’t been on good terms for a while, but I was always conscious of her, moving about, tidying and organising and patting things into place. Without her, I plumped cushions and changed the water in the flowers and dusted the picture frames myself. I even went outside and threw some toast for the tortoise, but it didn’t bother to visit me either. The chores killed a little time, but in the end I was forced to wind up the gramophone to break the silence. I put on my jazziest recordings and danced with my shadow until the machine wound down and it was time to go to bed. And before I slid under the mosquito netting, I looked at the calendar and counted down the number of days until I could reasonably return to Paris. It would be a matter of a few months and then I could leave Africa behind me. Africa with its beauty and its wildness and its two sets of laws, one for white men and one for blacks. Africa with its hot breath and its blood-warm rivers that ran like veins through its heart. Africa with its sudden sunrises and sunsets so swift that darkness fell like a mourning veil. I hated the place, I told myself sharply. I hated it as you can only hate something that is a part of yourself, long forgotten and unremembered. I hated it with the force of a child’s hate, unyielding and immovable. I hated it as I had never hated any place before.

And I cried long into the night at the thought of leaving her.

The next afternoon I consoled myself with a visit to Kit. His prospects were indeed improving. He’d gotten a much better gramophone, and a dozen new recordings which we spent the afternoon listening to while we sipped champagne—expensive stuff, not the swill he usually bought. He gave me caviar and toast points for lunch and when I asked if he’d sold a painting, he gave me a close-lipped smile and touched the side of his nose. I wasn’t surprised he chose to keep silent. I recognised the gramophone as Helen’s. She had apparently decided to tip the scales in her favour by giving him expensive presents, but she needn’t have bothered. Kit was a diversion for me and nothing more. I was frankly more interested in how my portrait was coming along. It was almost finished, he told me. Only the edges left to complete, but still he wouldn’t let me see it. He wanted it to be a surprise. That was Kit, I mused. Ever the child, he wanted the thrill of unveiling it at the opening. No doubt he expected gasps of admiration. But a grand gesture was a small thing to give him.

Later I remembered that afternoon. I forced myself to relive every caress, every word, every stroke and kiss and gasp. I wrote it down and tore it up. I dreamed it. I sat for hours on the sofa with a gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other, remembering it all. Did I know when he touched me it would be the last time? Did I have a premonition when he slid into me that never again would I feel the weight of his body on mine? I don’t think so. But there was something sad about that last afternoon, a sense of something winding down, like a clock ticking past its last minutes, a phonograph offering up its last song.

I kissed him as he slept and gathered up my clothes and walked back to Fairlight. I ate alone and it was afterwards, when I sat alone on the dark veranda nursing a gin and tonic that I saw lights approaching. The car turned sharply up the drive and I stood as the car rolled to a stop. Rex alighted and walked slowly to the house, his eyes fixed on mine. I must have looked ghostly in the darkness, my dress pale against the black shadows.

He came near and he took my hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

“What happened?” I asked in a voice I had not heard since I had buried Johnny.

“He was found this afternoon. Shot in the head. I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“Was it an accident? On safari?”

Rex held me by the shoulders. “Safari? What are you talking about? I’m not talking about Ryder. It’s Kit who has died, Delilah. It’s Kit. Kit is dead.”

He tightened his grip, but no matter how hard he held on, I knew I was slipping away as I fainted straight into his arms.

I came to on the sofa with Rex chafing my wrists. He had me propped against him, his arms holding me up. It felt blissful for a few minutes just to float there with nothing but his warmth tethering me to the earth. I knew there was something I did not want to remember, and I pushed everything aside except the feel of him. I was a shipwreck survivor, clinging to the only thing that could keep me afloat.

“Delilah,” he said softly. And then I remembered.

I sat up, pushing away from him. “What happened to Kit?”

“There’s no need to go into it just—”

“What happened?”

“He was shot. In his house. In bed. It was murder, but no one knows by whom.”

In the same bed where I had slept with him only that afternoon. I went to the bathroom and heaved for several minutes. I felt better then. I washed out my mouth with eau de cologne and went back to the drawing room to find Rex with his face buried in his hands. I sat next to him, shoulder touching shoulder, soldiers together.

“Helen is grief-stricken, as you can imagine. She was very fond of Kit. We all were. I will make the necessary arrangements. I don’t suppose his family would care to.”

“They’ll have to be told.”

“Of course. But they wouldn’t have time to come out. We will have to stand as his family instead.”

He rose and straightened, and I saw the force of Empire in him. “I will make sure an investigation is opened and the culprit is found. If it’s the last thing I do, I promise you. I will make certain there is justice for Kit.”

He left me with my unanswered questions, but I did not blame him. We could have circled around them like dogs snapping at a piece of meat and it wouldn’t do any good. Not until the police had had their way, asking questions and turning over stones. I knew I didn’t have long before they came to me. I sat smoking in the dark, knowing it would be the last peaceful evening for a very long time.

The next morning I was awake early, gritty-eyed and in a stupor. I thought Dora would have come back, but she didn’t. Only Gideon came, but he seemed preoccupied and his smile was not in evidence. I worried Moses might have taken a turn for the worse, but when I taxed him with it, he merely shook his head.

“Moses does well, Bibi.”

“You’re supposed to call me Delilah,” I snapped.

“I am sorry, Delilah,” he returned, but there was no gleam of amusement, no shared jokes. I took his hand.

“What is it, Gideon?”

“It is Bwana Tausi. The police have questioned me.”

“Questioned you about Kit? What on earth for?”

His eyes slid from mine. “They think it is possible I may have done this terrible thing to Bwana Tausi.”

His hand was like ice and I understood why. What sort of justice would a black man face in the murder of a white if there was evidence to connect him?

“Had you been to see him?”

“Not in many months. He painted my picture, but that was before the last rains.”

“Don’t you worry, Gideon. You had no reason to harm Kit. You have nothing to fear. I will take care of this.”

He straightened to his full warrior’s height. “It is not your place to take care of me, Delilah.”

“Gideon, in the bush, I would trust you with my life if we were faced with a lion. There is no one I would rather have protecting me.”

A proud smile touched his lips. “Thank you.”

“But these are my lions. And it’s my time to protect you.”

* * *

That afternoon the police came. I was ready for them. I left off the riding breeches and Misha’s shirts and put on a dress. It was white silk, light as a cloud, and designed to make me look fragile and vulnerable. I might have undone the effect by the red lipstick, but I had powdered well, making myself as pale as possible. I wanted them to remember I was not one of them, not a settler with skin browned and toughened to leather by seasons of equatorial sun. I came from a privileged place and privileged people who would use their influence to whatever end I wanted.

I received them in the drawing room and told Pierre to bring in tea and cakes. The inspector was athletic with a wiry build and a thatch of ginger hair he stroked constantly. He gave me a card that said his name was Gilchrist. He didn’t bother to introduce his subordinates and instructed them to wait outside.

“No need to overwhelm the lady,” he said with a small mournful nod in my direction. I gave him a wan smile in return and waved him to a sofa with a languid arm.

“Miss Drummond, I am very sorry to have to put you through this,” he began.

I opened my eyes very wide. “But of course, Inspector. I understand perfectly. You must do your job,” I finished.

That was the end of the pleasantries. For the next hour he hammered me, going over every inch of the same ground until he beat it flat. He explained that Kit had been killed most likely between five and six in the afternoon by a large-calibre revolver that belonged to him. The angle of the wound precluded suicide, and there had been no struggle. He covered my affair with Kit and everything else he thought might be pertinent. He was particularly insistent upon the point that this seemed to be a crime passionnel. Why were sex crimes always described in French terms, I wondered? Did it make them more palatable to Anglo-Saxon sensibilities? His eyes lit when he described what he thought might have happened.

“Is it not possible, Miss Drummond, that Mr. Parrymore was caught in flagrante delicto by a jealous spouse and was dispatched as a result of sexual jealousy?”

I decided to cut straight to the still-beating heart of the matter. “That is not possible, Inspector. I’m afraid Kit was not capable of pleasuring another woman yesterday afternoon.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Drummond?”

“Let us be frank, Inspector. Kit’s talents in the bedroom were quite satisfactory, but he had his limitations. He had been with me twice between two and four-thirty. He would have been entirely incapable of rising to the challenge again.”

The inspector flushed a little. “I am not quite certain I am—”

“Shall I speak even more plainly? Kit could not have achieved an erection then. After our time together he would have slept heavily. He certainly didn’t stir when I left, and I made no effort to be quiet. Whoever murdered him most likely snuck in when he was still sleeping and helped himself to Kit’s gun. Kit wouldn’t have heard anything.”

The inspector hesitated. “Well, Mr. Parrymore’s posture in death would indicate he had been surprised while in repose.”

“Another hole in your crime passionnel theory,” I added brutally.

The inspector gave me a thin smile. “As you say, Miss Drummond. But if Mr. Parrymore was killed as you suggest, by an intruder who came upon him as he slept, then this murder takes on an altogether more sinister cast.”

“How so?”

“Premeditation, Miss Drummond. To kill a man when you have apprehended him making love to your wife is sometimes excusable. To kill a man with his own gun when he is sleeping is the foulest crime. Whoever did this will swing for it.”

He paused. “Of course, premeditation speaks to resentment, deeply held emotion that has festered. Do you know of anyone who held a grudge against Mr. Parrymore?”

“No. The very notion is absurd. Kit is—was—the sort of man who glided through life, Inspector. He made friends easily, of both sexes. He had the gift of ease with people. Men liked investing in his art. Women liked investing in the man. I think they believed they could domesticate him.”

“Did you?”

“I’m not looking for a husband. Kit suited me just as he was. I can’t speak for other women.”

“No, of course not. But was there anyone who might have rested their hopes upon Mr. Parrymore and found him a rather unreliable vessel?”

“Perhaps. But Kit and I never discussed such things. I assume he was sleeping with other women. In fact, I hoped he was. But who they were was of absolutely no interest to me.” I didn’t see the point in mentioning the others by name. If Gilchrist was any sort of investigator, he’d find them himself. And if he didn’t? Well, that wasn’t my problem.

The inspector paused in jotting his notes and gave me a slightly slack-jawed stare.

“How extraordinary,” he murmured. “In my experience women tend to be curious about such things.”

“You have no experience of me,” I reminded him.

To my surprise, he flushed a little. “Quite,” he said, his voice clipped. “You have no knowledge of who Mr. Parrymore’s other special friends might have been. What about his politics?”

I shrugged. “The same as most colonists. He favoured independence.”

His brows peaked. “Strongly?”

“I haven’t the faintest. Kit and I seldom discussed such things when we were together. In fact, we didn’t talk much at all.”

This time the blush crept all the way to his neck and he tugged a little at his collar. “I see.” He changed tactics then, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth as silk, suddenly warm and insinuating, as if he meant to coax a confidence. “I have heard that you are quite often seen in the company of one of the Masai. A fellow named Gideon.”

I blinked slowly. “Oh, you mean Ryder White’s tracker. Of course. He’s a helpful fellow.”

The inspector sat forward suddenly, angling his body so that his shoulders blocked me into the sofa. Why had I thought him slight? “Miss Drummond, I have reason to believe this Masai was there. I believe he was involved in Kit Parrymore’s death. I want you to tell me why.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s madness.”

“Is it? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has been the cause of trouble in this colony,” he told me, his expression grim.

“You think Kit and Gideon quarreled? Over me? That’s too absurd for words.”

“I don’t know what to think yet, but I know where to look and I know whom to ask. But right now, I want the story from you.”

“I have no story to give you, Inspector. Gideon is in Ryder White’s employ and occasionally helps out here at Fairlight. Kit was my lover. As far as I knew, the two were barely acquainted. If you think I know anything else, I can only say you are barking up entirely the wrong tree.”

“Am I?” I shifted and the white silk slipped a little off one shoulder, showing a bit of flesh that was every bit as smooth and white as the fabric itself. The inspector’s eyes dropped to my skin. He leaned nearer still and I caught the smell of tobacco and bay rum and hair oil. “I want the truth. Are you and the Masai known as Gideon lovers?”

I miscalculated the slap a little. I wanted to hit him squarely on the cheekbone. If you aim it just right, you can actually split the skin on the ridge of the bone, leaving a spectacular mark. But I rushed it and caught his temple. My ring cut into his hairline and a bright line of blood appeared, marking the path of my hand like a river on a map. His head snapped back, but his body didn’t move. He must have been expecting it, which was a dangerous thing. It meant he was far more experienced in these matters than I was and he was willing to risk a minor assault to get what he wanted.

He never took his eyes off mine. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief as a few bright drops of his blood fell into my lap. I watched him press it to his temple as a slow smile crept over his face. He rose then and took out a card. He dropped it on the table.

“I will be in touch, Miss Drummond.”

When he left it was with a bit of a swagger, and I lit a fresh cigarette, wondering how much damage I had just done.