A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,113

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,