A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,140

you might do the honours?”

I murmured something appropriate and let him take charge of me. He towed me around the room, introducing me to various people. I was only half listening to the names and the faces were a blur. I hadn’t had an answer to the cable I sent Ryder, and I kept thinking of the contents. Just three short words, a scrap of language, but I had thought it enough to bind him to me.

MARRY ME. STOP.

A hundred things could have happened. The cable could have gone awry. They could have crossed, the cable arriving in Narok after he had left. Or Tusker could have exaggerated, I thought with a chill. She could have declared things he didn’t really feel. I pushed that thought aside and walked the gallery, looking at Kit’s paintings. There was one of Gideon, tall and proud, and I felt my heart roll up into my throat as I looked at my friend. I swallowed it down, hard, and it sat like a lump.

Just then a shadow fell over my shoulder. “Enjoying the show, Miss Drummond?”

I turned. “Inspector Gilchrist. I am surprised.”

“Why? Aren’t policemen permitted hobbies?” He peered at the painting. “Is it a good likeness?”

“The best.” I took a deep breath. “Inspector, I know—”

“No, you don’t,” he said firmly. “And whatever you think you know, forget it. He has friends in very high places, Miss Drummond. Very high places. You got lucky this time. But if you cross him again...well, don’t, is my advice.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about Helen then closed it again. What was the point? She was guilty of something dark and terrible—and very soon she would pay for it. As to Rex, at least Gilchrist knew to be watchful of him, and I suspected that without Helen’s careful planning, he would slip up one day, too badly for any of his connections to save him. Africa would take care of her own.

I smiled at Gilchrist. “Very well. But I have friends, too, Inspector. And I hope you’re one of them.”

He put out his hand to shake it. “I think if I were going to back a horse, I would always back you, Miss Drummond. You might be a long shot, but I suspect you always come through.”

With that he bent and kissed my hand and melted away into the crowd.

I was happy to see how many of the paintings bore tiny cards stating that the work had been sold and identifying the buyers.

After a few more toasts and a dozen more introductions, Mr. Hillenbrank moved to the centre of the gallery, bringing me with him. He made a lengthy speech about Kit, his enormous talent, his zest for life. At this last bit, several ladies in the crowd tittered and several more lifted discreet handkerchiefs to dab away a tear or two.

Mr. Hillenbrank carried on as if he heard nothing. “But Kit Parrymore was more than just a talented artist. He was an artist of tremendous potential—potential he only came close to unlocking with his very last work. Around you are hung samples of his youth, his exuberance. But with this painting, he came very close to maturity. With the help of its subject, I give you Delilah Drummond.”

At his signal, I reached for the cord. It hesitated at first, and I had to tug quite sharply to make it move. Then all at once it fell away, a puddle of crimson velvet on the floor at my feet. There was an audible gasp from the crowd. I turned to look at the painting.

Kit had captured me, all of me. I was child and woman, fully present and already gone, entirely his and no man’s at all. My painted self held every contradiction, and it held them in such perfect harmony it was like seeing a symphony spelled out note for note on the canvas.

My glance moved to the card pinned to the wall beside the painting. Delilah Drummond. And neatly typed below it in bold letters on a clean white card, PROPERTY OF J. RYDER WHITE.

Mr. Hillenbrank was at my elbow. “I am particularly pleased to have sold that piece before the show,” he said with a quiet air of satisfaction.

“Is he here?”

“No, but we received a cable only an hour ago from Narok. The gentleman was most particular about the wording on the card. He must be quite an ardent collector.”

I reached up and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a scarlet impression of lipstick