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“Oh, yes,” said Fettes, rolling his eyes. “No proof yet—but we haven’t been looking long, either.”
“I see. And we still do not know the whereabouts of Captain Cresswell?”
Cherry and Fettes shook their heads in unison.
“The general conclusion is that Accompong scragged him,” Cherry said.
“Who?”
“Oh. Sorry, sir,” Cherry apologized. “That’s the name of the maroons’ headman, so they say. Captain Accompong, he calls himself, if you please.” Cherry’s lips twisted a little.
Grey sighed.
“All right. No reports of any further depredations by the maroons, by whatever name?”
“Not unless you count murdering the governor,” said Fettes.
“Actually,” Grey said slowly, “I don’t think that the maroons are responsible for this particular death.” He was somewhat surprised to hear himself say so, in truth—and yet he found that he did think it.
Fettes blinked, this being as close to an expression of astonishment as he ever got, and Cherry looked openly skeptical. Grey did not choose to go into the matter of Mrs. Abernathy, nor yet to explain his conclusions about the maroons’ disinclination for violence. Strange, he thought. He had heard Captain Accompong’s name only moments before, but with that name, his thoughts began to coalesce around a shadowy figure. Suddenly, there was a mind out there, someone with whom he might engage.
In battle, the personality and temperament of the commanding officer was nearly as important as the number of troops he commanded. So. He needed to know more about Captain Accompong, but that could wait for the moment.
He nodded to Tom, who approached respectfully, Rodrigo behind him.
“Tell them what you discovered, Tom.”
Tom cleared his throat and folded his hands at his waist.
“Well, we . . . er . . . disrobed the governor”—Fettes flinched, and Tom cleared his throat again before going on—“and had a close look. And the long and the short of it, sir—and sir—” he added, with a nod to Cherry, “—is that Governor Warren was stabbed in the back.”
Both officers looked blank.
“But—the place is covered with blood and filth and nastiness,” Cherry protested. “It smells like that place where they put the bloaters they drag out of the Thames!”
“Footprints,” Fettes said, giving Tom a faintly accusing look. “There were footprints. Big, bloody, bare footprints.”
“I do not deny that something objectionable was present in that room,” Grey said dryly. “But whoever—or whatever—gnawed the governor probably did not kill him. He was almost certainly dead when the . . . er . . . subsequent damage occurred.”
Rodrigo’s eyes were huge. Fettes was heard to observe under his breath that he would be damned, but both Fettes and Cherry were good men, and did not argue with Grey’s conclusions, any more than they had taken issue with his order to hide Warren’s body—they could plainly perceive the desirability of suppressing rumor of a plague of zombies.
“The point, gentlemen, is that after several months of incident, there has been nothing for the last month. Perhaps Mr. Warren’s death is meant to be incitement—but if it was not the work of the maroons, then the question is—what are the maroons waiting for?”
Tom lifted his head, eyes wide.
“Why, me lord, I’d say—they’re waiting for you. What else?”
WHAT ELSE, INDEED. WHY HAD HE NOT SEEN THAT AT ONCE? OF COURSE Tom was right. The maroons’ protest had gone unanswered, their complaint unremedied. So they had set out to attract attention in the most noticeable—if not the best—way open to them. Time had passed, nothing was done in response—and then they had heard that soldiers were coming. Lieutenant Colonel Grey had now appeared. Naturally, they were waiting to see what he would do.
What had he done so far? Sent troops to guard the plantations that were the most likely targets of a fresh attack. That was not likely to encourage the maroons to abandon their present plan of action, though it might cause them to direct their efforts elsewhere.
He walked to and fro in the wilderness of the King’s House garden, thinking, but there were few alternatives.
He summoned Fettes and informed him that he, Fettes, was, until further notice, acting governor of the island of Jamaica.
Fettes looked more like a block of wood than usual.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “If I might ask, sir . . . where are you going?”
