Tom was sufficiently pleased to see Grey in one piece as to make no protest at being awakened, and had him washed, nightshirted, and tucked up beneath his mosquito netting before the church bells of Spanish Town tolled midnight. The doors of his room had been repaired, but Grey made Tom leave the window open, and fell asleep with a silken wind caressing his cheeks and no thought of what the morning might bring.
He was roused from an unusually vivid erotic dream by an agitated banging. He pulled his head out from under the pillow, the feel of rasping red hairs still rough on his lips, and shook his head violently, trying to reorient himself in space and time. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! Bloody hell . . . ? Oh. Door.
“What? Come in, for God’s sake! What the devil—oh. Wait a moment, then.” He struggled out of the tangle of bedclothes and discarded nightshirt—good Christ, had he really been doing what he’d been dreaming about doing?—and flung his banyan over his rapidly detumescing flesh.
“What?” he demanded, finally getting the door open. To his surprise, Tom stood there, saucer-eyed and trembling, next to Major Fettes.
“Are you all right, me lord?” Tom burst out, cutting off Major Fettes’s first words.
“Do I appear to be spurting blood or missing any necessary appendages?” Grey demanded, rather irritably. “What’s happened, Fettes?”
Now that he’d got his eyes properly open, he saw that Fettes looked almost as disturbed as Tom. The major—veteran of a dozen major campaigns, decorated for valor, and known for his coolness—swallowed visibly and braced his shoulders.
“It’s the governor, sir. I think you’d best come and see.”
“WHERE ARE THE MEN WHO WERE ASSIGNED TO GUARD HIM?” GREY ASKED calmly, stepping out of the governor’s bedroom and closing the door gently behind him. The doorknob slid out of his fingers, slick under his hand. He knew the slickness was his own sweat, and not blood, but his stomach gave a lurch and he rubbed his fingers convulsively against the thigh of his breeches.
“They’re gone, sir.” Fettes had got his voice, if not quite his face, back under control. “I’ve sent men to search the grounds.”
“Good. Would you please call the servants together? I’ll need to question them.”
Fettes took a deep breath.
“They’re gone, too.”
“What? All of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a deep breath himself—and let it out again, fast. Even outside the room, the stench was gagging. He could feel the smell, thick on his skin, and rubbed his fingers on his breeches once again, hard. He swallowed and, holding his breath, jerked his head to Fettes—and Cherry, who had joined them, shaking his head mutely in answer to Grey’s raised brow. No sign of the vanished sentries, then. Goddamn it; a search would have to be made for their bodies. The thought made him cold, despite the growing warmth of the morning.
He went down the stairs, his officers only too glad to follow. By the time he reached the foot, he had decided where to begin, at least. He stopped and turned to Fettes and Cherry.
“Right. The island is under military law as of this moment. Notify the officers, but tell them there is to be no public announcement yet. And don’t tell them why.” Given the flight of the servants, it was more than likely that news of the governor’s death would reach the inhabitants of Spanish Town within hours—if it hadn’t already. But if there was the slightest chance that the populace might remain in ignorance of the fact that Governor Warren had been killed and partially devoured in his own residence, while under the guard of His Majesty’s army . . . Grey was taking it.
“What about the secretary?” he asked abruptly, suddenly remembering. “Dawes. Is he gone, too? Or dead?”
Fettes and Cherry exchanged a guilty look.
“Don’t know, sir,” Cherry said gruffly. “I’ll go and look.”
“Do that, if you please.”
He nodded in return to their salutes and went outside, shuddering in relief at the touch of the sun on his face, the warmth of it through the thin linen of his shirt. He walked slowly toward his room, where Tom had doubtless already managed to assemble and clean his uniform.
Now what? Dawes, if the man was still alive—and he hoped to God he was . . . A sudden surge of saliva choked him, and he spat several times on the terrace, unable to swallow for the memory of that throat-clenching smell.
“Tom,” he said urgently, coming into the room. “Did you have an opportunity to speak to the other servants? To Rodrigo?”
“Yes, me lord.” Tom waved him onto the stool and knelt to put his stockings on. “They all knew about zombies—said they were dead people, just like Rodrigo said. A houngan—that’s a . . . well, I don’t quite know, but folk are right scared of ’em. Anyway, one of those who takes against somebody—or what’s paid to do so, I reckon—will take the somebody, and kill them, then raise ’em up again, to be his servant, and that’s a zombie. They were all dead scared of the notion, me lord,” he said earnestly, looking up.
“I don’t blame them in the slightest. Did any of them know about my visitor?”
Tom shook his head.
“They said not—I think they did, me lord, but they weren’t a-going to say. I got Rodrigo off by himself, though; he admitted he knew about it, but he said he didn’t think it was a zombie what came after you, because I told him how you fought it, and what a mess it made of your room.” He narrowed his eyes at the dressing table, with its cracked mirror.
“Really? What did he think it was?”
“He wouldn’t really say, but I pestered him a bit, and he finally let on as it might have been a houngan, just pretending to be a zombie.”
Grey digested that possibility for a moment. Had the creature who attacked him meant to kill him? If so—why? But if not . . . the attack might only have been meant to pave the way for what had now happened, by making it seem that there were zombies lurking about King’s House in some profusion. That made a certain amount of sense, save for the fact . . .
“But I’m told that zombies are slow and stiff in their movements. Could one of them have done what . . . was done to the governor?” he swallowed.
“I dunno, me lord. Never met one.” Tom grinned briefly at him, rising from fastening his knee buckles. It was a nervous grin, but Grey smiled back, heartened by it.
“I suppose I will have to go and look at the body again,” he said, rising. “Will you come with me, Tom?” His valet was young, but very observant, especially in matters pertaining to the body, and had been of help to him before in interpreting postmortem phenomena.
Tom paled noticeably, but gulped and nodded, and squaring his shoulders, followed Lord John out onto the terrace.
On their way to the governor’s room, they met Major Fettes, gloomily eating a slice of pineapple scavenged from the kitchen.
“Come with me, Major,” Grey ordered. “You can tell me what discoveries you and Cherry have made in my absence.”
“I can tell you one such, sir,” Fettes said, putting down the pineapple and wiping his hands on his waistcoat. “Judge Peters has gone to Eleuthera.”
“What the devil for?” That was a nuisance; he’d been hoping to discover more about the original incident that had incited the rebellion, and as he was obviously not going to learn anything from Warren . . . He waved a hand at Fettes; it hardly mattered why Peters had gone.
“Right. Well, then—” Breathing through his mouth as much as possible, Grey pushed open the door. Tom, behind him, made an involuntary sound, but then stepped carefully up and squatted beside the body.
Grey squatted beside him. He could hear thickened breathing behind him.
“Major,” he said, without turning round. “If Captain Cherry has found Mr. Dawes, would you be so kind as to fetch him in here?”
THEY WERE HARD AT IT WHEN DAWES CAME IN, ACCOMPANIED BY BOTH Fettes and Cherry, and Grey ignored all of them.