A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,123
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.”
If she’d written to tell me off it would have been easier. But I suddenly couldn’t bear the thought that she might understand, might be on my side. I put the letter away to read when I was alone and looked up at Quentin. He sighed.
“Jesus, Delilah,” he said, subsiding heavily into a chair. “How did it come to this?”
“How does it ever? Wrong place, wrong man.”
“You have a knack for that,” he acknowledged. He leaned forward, and I could smell the familiar scent of his body, his cologne, the hair oil he used. “I have to ask. Did you do it?”
“I thought lawyers never wanted to know the truth.”
“I am a solicitor.”
I shrugged. “I never knew the difference.”
“The difference is that I intend to make sure you get out. Now, tell me the truth.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked him squarely in the eye. “No. I did not shoot Kit Parrymore. Happy?”
“Not entirely. You could be lying.”
“To you, darling? Never.” I bared my teeth in a smile.
“Delilah, you do understand this is serious? Murder is a hanging offense.”
I gave him the same response I’d given Dora. “Only if you’re convicted.”
“Dammit, Delilah!” He thrust both hands into his hair, disrupting his careful combing.
“I’m sorry, Quentin. Yes, I understand this is serious, but I didn’t do anything except lie to the police, and they deserved it.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. What did you lie about and why?”