‘He did, yes—though a remarkably small and harmless one.’ Vaguely, Grey wondered what had happened to the little yellow snake. He thought he must have dropped it in the excitement of the governor’s abrupt exit and hoped it hadn’t been injured.
Mr Dawes looked troubled and murmured something that sounded like, ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear …’ but then he merely shook his head and sighed.
* * *
Grey made his way to his room, meaning to freshen himself before dinner; the day was warm, and he smelled strongly of ship’s reek—this composed in equal parts of sweat, seasickness, and sewage, well marinated in salt water—and horse, having ridden up from the harbour to Spanish Town. With any luck, his valet would have clean linen aired for him by now.
King’s House, as all royal governors’ residences were known, was a rambling old wreck of a mansion, perched on a high spot of ground on the edge of Spanish Town. Plans were afoot for an immense new Palladian building, to be erected in the town’s centre, but it would be another year at least before construction could commence. In the meantime, efforts had been made to uphold His Majesty’s dignity by means of beeswax polish, silver, and immaculate linen, but the dingy printed wallpaper peeled from the corners of the rooms, and the dark-stained wood beneath exhaled a mouldy breath that made Grey want to hold his own whenever he walked inside.
One good feature of the house, though, was that it was surrounded on all four sides by a broad terrace and was overhung by large, spreading trees that cast lacy shadows on the flagstones. A number of the rooms opened directly onto this terrace—Grey’s did—and it was therefore possible to step outside and draw a clean breath, scented by the distant sea or the equally distant upland jungles. There was no sign of his valet, but there was a clean shirt on the bed. He shucked his coat, changed his shirt, and then threw the French doors open wide.
He stood for a moment in the centre of the room, mid-afternoon sun spilling through the open doors, and enjoyed the sense of a solid surface under his feet after seven weeks at sea and seven hours on horseback. Enjoyed even more the transitory sense of being alone. Command had its prices, and one of those was a nearly complete loss of solitude. He therefore seized it when he found it, knowing it wouldn’t last for more than a few moments, but valuing it all the more for that.
Sure enough, it didn’t last more than two minutes this time. He called out, ‘Come,’ at a rap on the door frame and, turning, was struck by a visceral sense of attraction such as he had not experienced in months.
The man was young, perhaps twenty, and slender in his blue and gold livery, but with a breadth of shoulder that spoke of strength and a head and neck that would have graced a Greek sculpture. Perhaps because of the heat, he wore no wig, and his tight-curled hair was clipped so close that the finest modelling of his skull was apparent.
‘Your servant, sah,’ he said to Grey, bowing respectfully. ‘The governor’s compliments, and dinner will be served in ten minutes. May I see you to the dining room?’
‘You may,’ Grey said, reaching hastily for his coat. He didn’t doubt that he could find the dining room unassisted, but the chance to watch this young man walk …
‘You may,’ Tom Byrd corrected, entering with his hands full of grooming implements, ‘once I’ve put his lordship’s hair to rights.’ He fixed Grey with a minatory eye. ‘You’re not a-going in to dinner like that, me lord, and don’t you think it. You sit down there.’ He pointed sternly to a stool, and Lieutenant-Colonel Grey, commander of His Majesty’s forces in Jamaica, meekly obeyed the dictates of his twenty-one-year-old valet. He didn’t always allow Tom free rein but in the current circumstance was just as pleased to have an excuse to sit still in the company of the young black servant.
Tom laid out all his implements neatly on the dressing table, from a pair of silver hairbrushes to a box of powder and a pair of curling tongs, with the care and attention of a surgeon arraying his knives and saws. Selecting a hairbrush, he leaned closer, peering at Grey’s head, then gasped. ‘Me lord! There’s a big huge spider—walking right up your temple!’
Grey smacked his temple by reflex, and the spider in question—a clearly visible brown thing nearly a half inch long—shot off into the air, striking the looking glass with an audible tap before dropping to the surface of the dressing table and racing for its life.
Tom and the black servant uttered identical cries of horror and lunged for the creature, colliding in front of the dressing table and falling over in a thrashing heap. Grey, strangling an almost irresistible urge to laugh, stepped over them and dispatched the fleeing spider neatly with the back of his other hairbrush.
He pulled Tom to his feet and dusted him off, allowing the black servant to scramble up by himself. He brushed off all apologies, as well, but asked whether the spider had been a deadly one.
‘Oh, yes, sah,’ the servant assured him fervently. ‘Should one of those bite you, sah, you would suffer excruciating pain at once. The flesh around the wound would putrefy, you would commence to be fevered within an hour, and, in all likelihood, you would not live past dawn.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Grey said mildly, his flesh creeping briskly. ‘Well, then. Perhaps you would not mind looking about the room while Tom is at his work? In case such spiders go about in company?’
Grey sat and let Tom brush and plait his hair, watching the young man as he assiduously searched under the bed and dressing table, pulled out Grey’s trunk, and pulled up the trailing curtains and shook them.
‘What is your name?’ he asked the young man, noting that Tom’s fingers were trembling badly and hoping to distract him from thoughts of the hostile wildlife with which Jamaica undoubtedly teemed. Tom was fearless in the streets of London and perfectly willing to face down ferocious dogs or foaming horses. Spiders, though, were quite another matter.
‘Rodrigo, sah,’ said the young man, pausing in his curtain-shaking to bow. ‘Your servant, sah.’
He seemed quite at ease in company and conversed with them about the town, the weather—he confidently predicted rain in the evening, at about ten o’clock, leading Grey to think that he had likely been employed as a servant in good families for some time. Was the man a slave, he wondered, or a free black?
His admiration for Rodrigo was, he assured himself, the same that he might have for a marvellous piece of sculpture, an elegant painting. And one of his friends did in fact possess a collection of Greek amphorae decorated with scenes that gave him quite the same sort of feeling. He shifted slightly in his seat, crossing his legs. He would be going in to dinner soon. He resolved to think of large, hairy spiders and was making some progress with this subject when something huge and black dropped down the chimney and rushed out of the disused hearth.
All three men shouted and leapt to their feet, stamping madly. This time it was Rodrigo who felled the intruder, crushing it under one sturdy shoe.
‘What the devil was that?’ Grey asked, bending over to peer at the thing, which was a good three inches long, gleamingly black, and roughly ovoid, with ghastly long, twitching antennae.
‘Only a cockroach, sah,’ Rodrigo assured him, wiping a hand across a sweating ebony brow. ‘They will not harm you, but they are most disagreeable. If they come into your bed, they feed upon your eyebrows.’
Tom uttered a small, strangled cry. The cockroach, far from being destroyed, had merely been inconvenienced by Rodrigo’s shoe. It now extended thorny legs, heaved itself up, and was proceeding about its business, though at a somewhat slower pace. Grey, the hairs prickling on his arms, seized the ash shovel from among the fireplace implements and, scooping up the insect on its blade, jerked open the door and flung the nasty creature as far as he could—which, given his state of mind, was some considerable distance.
Tom was pale as custard when Grey came back in, but he picked up his employer’s coat with trembling hands. He dropped it, though, and with a mumbled apology bent to pick it up again, only to utter a strangled shriek, drop it once more, and run backwa
rds, slamming so hard against the wall that Grey heard a crack of laths and plaster.
‘What the devil?’ He bent, reaching gingerly for the fallen coat.
‘Don’t touch it, me lord!’ Tom cried, but Grey had seen what the trouble was: a tiny yellow snake slithered out of the crimson-velvet folds, head moving to and fro in slow curiosity.
‘Well, hallo, there.’ He reached out a hand, and the little snake tasted his skin with a flickering tongue, then wove its way up into the palm of his hand. He stood up, cradling it carefully.
Tom and Rodrigo were standing like men turned to stone, staring at him.
‘It’s quite harmless,’ he assured them. ‘At least I think so. It must have fallen into my pocket earlier.’
Rodrigo was regaining a bit of his nerve. He came forward and looked at the snake but declined an offer to touch it, putting both hands firmly behind his back.
‘That snake likes you, sah,’ he said, glancing curiously from the snake to Grey’s face, as though trying to distinguish a reason for such odd particularity.
‘Possibly.’ The snake had made its way upwards and was now wrapped round two of Grey’s fingers, squeezing with remarkable strength. ‘On the other hand, I believe he may be attempting to kill and eat me. Do you know what his natural food might be?’
Rodrigo laughed at that, displaying very beautiful white teeth, and Grey had such a vision of those teeth, those soft mulberry lips, applied to—he coughed, hard, and looked away.
‘He would eat anything that did not try to eat him first, sah,’ Rodrigo assured him. ‘It was probably the sound of the cockroach that made him come out. He would hunt those.’
‘What a very admirable sort of snake. Could we find him something to eat, do you think? To encourage him to stay, I mean.’
Tom’s face suggested strongly that if the snake was staying, he was not. On the other hand … he glanced towards the door, whence the cockroach had made its exit, and shuddered. With great reluctance, he reached into his pocket and extracted a rather squashed bread roll containing ham and pickle.
The snake was placed on the floor with this object before it. It inspected the roll gingerly, ignored the bread and pickle, but twined itself carefully about a chunk of ham, squeezing it fiercely into limp submission. Then, opening its jaw to an amazing extent, the snake engulfed its prey, to general cheers. Even Tom clapped his hands, and, if not ecstatic at Grey’s suggestion that the snake might be accommodated in the dark space beneath the bed for the sake of preserving Grey’s eyebrows, he uttered no objections to this plan, either. The snake being ceremoniously installed and left to digest its meal, Grey was about to ask Rodrigo further questions regarding the natural fauna of the island but was forestalled by the faint sound of a distant gong.
‘Dinner!’ he exclaimed, reaching for his now snakeless coat.
‘Me lord! Your hair’s not even powdered!’
Grey refused to wear a wig, to Tom’s ongoing dismay, but was obliged in the present instance to submit to powder. This toiletry accomplished in haste, he shrugged into his coat and fled, before Tom could suggest any further refinements to his appearance.
* * *
The governor appeared, as Mr Dawes had predicted, calm and dignified at the dinner table. All trace of sweat, hysteria, and drunkenness had vanished, and beyond a brief word of apology for his abrupt disappearance, no reference was made to his earlier departure.
Major Fettes and Grey’s adjutant, Captain Cherry, also appeared at table. A quick glance at them assured Grey that all was well with the troops. Fettes and Cherry couldn’t be more diverse physically—the latter resembling a ferret and the former a block of wood—but both were extremely competent and well liked by the men.
There was little conversation to begin with; the three soldiers had been eating ship’s biscuit and salt beef for weeks. They settled down to the feast before them with the single-minded attention of ants presented with a loaf of bread; the magnitude of the challenge had no effect upon their earnest willingness. As the courses gradually slowed, though, Grey began to instigate conversation—his prerogative, as senior guest and commanding officer.
‘Mr Dawes explained to me the position of superintendent,’ he said, keeping his attitude superficially pleasant. ‘How long has Captain Cresswell held this position, sir?’
‘For approximately six months, Colonel,’ the governor replied, wiping crumbs from his lips with a linen napkin. The governor was quite composed, but Grey had Dawes in the corner of his eye and thought the secretary stiffened a little. That was interesting; he must get Dawes alone again and go into this matter of superintendents more thoroughly.
‘And was there a superintendent before Captain Cresswell?’
‘Yes … in fact, there were two of them, were there not, Mr Dawes?’
‘Yes, sir. Captain Ludgate and Captain Perriman.’ Dawes was assiduously not meeting Grey’s eye.
‘I should like very much to speak with those gentlemen,’ Grey said pleasantly.
Dawes jerked as though someone had run a hatpin into his buttock. The governor finished chewing a grape, swallowed, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Colonel. Both Ludgate and Perriman have left their offices.’
‘Why?’ John Fettes asked bluntly. The governor hadn’t been expecting that, and blinked.
‘I expect Major Fettes wishes to know whether they were replaced in their offices because of some peculation or corruption,’ Bob Cherry put in chummily. ‘And if that be the case, were they allowed to leave the island rather than face prosecution? And if so—’
‘Why?’ Fettes put in neatly.
Grey repressed a smile. Should peace break out on a wide scale and an army career fail them, Fettes and Cherry could easily make a living as a music-hall knockabout cross-talk act. As interrogators, they could reduce almost any suspect to incoherence, confusion, and confession in nothing flat.
Governor Warren, though, appeared to be made of tougher stuff than the usual regimental miscreant. Either that or he had nothing to hide, Grey considered, listening to him explain with tired patience that Ludgate had retired because of ill health and that Perriman had inherited money and gone back to England.
No. He watched the governor’s hand twitch and hover indecisively over the fruit bowl. He’s got something to hide. And so does Dawes. Is it the same thing, though? And has it got anything to do with the present trouble?
The governor could easily be hiding some peculation or corruption of his own—and likely was, Grey thought dispassionately, taking in the lavish display of silver on the sideboard. Such corruption was—within limits—considered more or less a perquisite of office. But if that were the case, it was not Grey’s concern—unless it was in some way connected to the maroons and their rebellion.
Entertaining as it was to watch Fettes and Cherry at their work, he cut them off with a brief nod and turned the conversation firmly back to the rebellion.
‘What communications have you had from the rebels, sir?’ he asked the governor. ‘For I believe that, in these cases, rebellion arises usually from some distinct source of grievance. What is it?’
Warren looked at him, jaw agape. He closed his mouth, slowly, and hesitated for a moment before replying. Grey surmised he was considering how much Grey might discover from other avenues of inquiry.
Everything I bloody can, Grey thought, assuming an expression of neutral interest.
‘Why, as to that, sir … the incident that began the … um … the difficulties … was the arrest of two young maroons, accused of stealing from a warehouse in Kingston.’ The two had been whipped in the town square and committed to prison, after which—
‘Following a trial?’ Grey interrupted.
The governor’s gaze rested on him, red-rimmed but cool. ‘No, Colonel. They had no right to a trial.’
‘You had them whipped and imprisoned on the word of … whom? The affronted merchant?’
Warren drew himself up a little and lifted his chin. Grey saw that he ha
d been shaved, but a patch of black whisker had been overlooked; it showed in the hollow of his cheek like a blemish, a hairy mole.
‘I did not, no, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘The sentence was imposed by the magistrate in Kingston.’
‘Who is?’
Dawes had closed his eyes with a small grimace.
‘Judge Samuel Peters.’
Grey nodded thanks.
‘Captain Cherry will visit Mr Judge Peters tomorrow,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And the prisoners, as well. I take it they are still in custody?’
‘No, they aren’t,’ Mr Dawes put in, suddenly emerging from his impersonation of a dormouse. ‘They escaped, within a week of their capture.’
The governor shot a brief, irritated glance at his secretary but nodded reluctantly. With further prodding, it was admitted that the maroons had sent a protest at the treatment of the prisoners, via Captain Cresswell. The prisoners having escaped before the protest was received, though, it had not seemed necessary to do anything about it.
Grey wondered briefly whose patronage had got Warren his position but dismissed the thought in favour of further explorations. The first violence had come without warning, he was told, with the burning of cane fields on a remote plantation. Word of it had reached Spanish Town several days later, by which time another plantation had suffered similar depredation.
‘Captain Cresswell rode at once to investigate the matter, of course,’ Warren said, lips tight.
‘And?’
‘He didn’t return. The maroons have not demanded ransom for him, nor have they sent word that he is dead. He may be with them; he may not. We simply don’t know.’
Grey could not help looking at Dawes, who appeared unhappy but gave the ghost of a shrug. It wasn’t his place to tell more than the governor wanted told, was it?
‘Let me understand you, sir,’ Grey said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. ‘You have had no communication with the rebels since their initial protest? And you have taken no action to achieve any?’
Warren seemed to swell slightly but replied in an even tone.
A Plague of Zombies: An Outlander Novella Page 2