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Tom made a hesitant noise, indicating that he had had a thought, and Grey nodded at him, giving permission to speak.
“You’re quite sure, me lord, as the man who went for you . . . er . . . wasn’t dead? Because by the smell of him, he’s been buried for a week, at least.”
A reflexive shudder went through all of them, but Grey shook his head.
“I am positive,” he said, as firmly as he could. “It was a live man—though certainly a peculiar one,” he added, frowning.
“Ought we to search the house, sir?” Cherry suggested.
Grey shook his head, reluctantly.
“He—or it—came from the garden, and went away in the same direction. He left discernible foot marks.” He did not add that there had been sufficient time for the servants—if they were involved—to hide any traces of the creature by now. If there was involvement there, he thought the servant Rodrigo was his best avenue of inquiry—and it would not serve his purposes to alarm the house and focus attention on the young man ahead of time.
“Tom,” he said, turning to his valet. “Does Rodrigo appear to be approachable?”
“Oh, yes, me lord. He was friendly to me over supper,” Tom assured him, brush in hand. “D’ye want me to talk to him?”
“Yes, if you will. Beyond that—” He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the sprouting beard stubble on his jaw. “I think we will proceed with the plans for tomorrow. But Major Cherry—will you also find time to question Mr. Dawes? You may tell him what transpired here tonight; I should find his response to that most interesting.”
“Yes, sir.” Cherry sat up and finished his whisky, coughed and sat blinking for a moment, then cleared his throat. “The, um, the governor, sir . . . ?”
“I’ll speak to him myself,” Grey said. “And then I propose to ride up into the hills, to pay a visit to a couple of plantations, with an eye to defensive postings. For we must be seen to be taking prompt and decisive action. If there’s offensive action to be taken against the maroons, it will wait until we see what we’re up against.” Fettes and Cherry nodded; lifelong soldiers, they had no urgent desire to rush into combat.
The meeting dismissed, Grey sat down with a fresh glass of whisky, sipping it as Tom finished his work in silence.
“You’re sure as you want to sleep in this room tonight, me lord?” he said, putting the dressing table bench neatly back in its place. “I could find you another place, I’m sure.”
Grey smiled at him with affection.
“I’m sure you could, Tom. But so could our recent friend, I expect. No, Major Cherry will post a double guard on the terrace, as well as in the main house. It will be perfectly safe.” And even if it wasn’t, the thought of hiding, skulking away from whatever the thing was that had visited him . . . no. He wouldn’t allow them—whoever they were—to think they had shaken his nerve.
Tom sighed and shook his head, but reached into his shirt and drew out a small cross, woven of wheat stalks and somewhat battered, suspended on a bit of leather string.
“All right, me lord. But you’ll wear this, at least.”
“What is it?”
“A charm, me lord. That Ilsa gave it to me, in Germany. She said it would protect me against evil—and so it has.”
“Oh, no, Tom—surely you must keep—”
Mouth set in an expression of obstinacy that Grey knew well, Tom leaned forward and put the leather string over Grey’s head. The mouth relaxed.
“There, me lord. Now I can sleep, at least.”
GREY’S PLAN TO SPEAK TO THE GOVERNOR AT BREAKFAST WAS FOILED, AS that gentleman sent word that he was indisposed. Grey, Cherry, and Fettes all exchanged looks across the breakfast table, but Grey said merely, “Fettes? And you, Major Cherry, please.” They nodded, a look of subdued satisfaction passing between them. He hid a smile; they loved questioning people.
The secretary, Dawes, was present at breakfast, but said little, giving all his attention to the eggs and toast on his plate. Grey inspected him carefully, but he showed no sign, either of nocturnal excursions or of clandestine knowledge. Grey gave Cherry an eye. Both Fettes and Cherry brightened perceptibly.
For the moment, though, Grey’s own path lay clear. He needed to make a public appearance, as soon as possible, and to take such action as would make it apparent to the public that the situation was under control—and would make it apparent to the maroons that attention was being paid and that their destructive activities would no longer be allowed to pass unchallenged.
He summoned one of his other captains after breakfast and arranged for an escort. Twelve men should make enough of a show, he decided.
“And where will you be going, sir?” Captain Lossey asked, squinting as he made mental calculations regarding horses, pack mules, and supplies.
Grey took a deep breath and grasped the nettle.
“A plantation called Twelvetrees,” he said. “Twenty miles or so into the uplands above King’s Town.”
