‘Do you have Koromantyn slaves here?’

‘A few. The thing is, Koromantyns tend to be intractable. Very aggressive and hard to control.’

‘Not a desirable trait in a slave, I collect,’ he said, making an effort to keep any edge out of his tone.

‘Well, it can be,’ she said, surprising him. She smiled briefly. ‘If your slaves are loyal—and ours are, I’d swear it—then you don’t mind them being a bit bloody-minded towards … anyone who might want to come and cause trouble.’

He was sufficiently shocked at her language that it took him a moment to absorb her meaning. The tongue tip flickered out again, and had she had dimples, she would certainly have employed them.

‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘But you were about to tell me what an Obeah man is. Some figure of authority, I take it, among the Koromantyns?’

The flirtatiousness vanished abruptly, and she frowned again.

‘Yes. Obi is what they call their … religion, I suppose one must call it. Though from what little I know of it, no minister or priest would allow it that name.’

Loud screams came from the garden below, and Grey glanced out, to see a flock of small, brightly coloured parrots swooping in and out of a big, lacy tree with yellowish fruit. Like clockwork, two small black children, naked as eggs, shot out of the shrubbery and aimed slingshots at the birds. Rocks spattered harmless among the branches, but the birds rose in a feathery vortex of agitation and flapped off, shrieking their complaints.

Miss Twelvetrees ignored the interruption, resuming her explanation directly the noise subsided.

‘An Obeah man talks to the spirits. He, or she—there are Obeah women, too—is the person that one goes to, to … arrange things.’

‘What sorts of things?’

A faint hint of her former flirtatiousness reappeared.

‘Oh … to make someone fall in love with you. To get with child. To get without child’—and here she looked to see whether she had shocked him again, but he merely nodded—‘or to curse someone. To cause them ill luck or ill health. Or death.’

This was promising.

‘And how is this done, may I ask? Causing illness or death?’

Here, however, she shook her head.

‘I don’t know. It’s really not safe to ask,’ she added, lowering her voice still further, and now her eyes were serious. ‘Tell me—the servant who spoke to you, what did he say?’

Aware of just how quickly gossip spreads in rural places, Grey wasn’t about to reveal that threats had been made against Governor Warren. Instead, he asked, ‘Have you ever heard of zombies?’

She went quite white.

‘No,’ she said abruptly.

It was a risk, but he took her hand to keep her from turning away.

‘I cannot tell you why I need to know,’ he said, very low-voiced, ‘but please believe me, Miss Twelvetrees—Nancy.’ Callously, he pressed her hand. ‘It’s extremely important. Any help that you can give me would be … well, I should appreciate it extremely.’

Her hand was warm; the fingers moved a little in his, and not in an effort to pull away. Her colour was coming back.

‘I truly don’t know much,’ she said, equally low-voiced. ‘Only that zombies are dead people who have been raised by magic to do the bidding of the person who made them.’

‘The person who made them—this would be an Obeah man?’

‘Oh! No,’ she said, surprised. ‘The Koromantyns don’t make zombies. In fact, they think it quite an unclean practice.’

‘I’m entirely of one mind with them,’ he assured her. ‘Who does make zombies?’

‘Nancy!’ Philip had concluded his conversation with the overseer and was coming towards them, a hospitable smile on his broad, perspiring face. ‘I say, can we not have something to eat? I’m sure the colonel must be famished, and I’m most extraordinarily clemmed myself.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Twelvetrees said, with a quick warning glance at Grey. ‘I’ll tell Cook.’ Grey tightened his grip momentarily on her fingers, and she smiled at him.

‘As I was saying, Colonel, you must call on Mrs Abernathy at Rose Hall. She would be the person best equipped to inform you.’

‘Inform you?’ Twelvetrees, curse him, chose this moment to become inquisitive. ‘About what?’

‘Customs and beliefs among the Ashanti, my dear,’ his sister said blandly. ‘Colonel Grey has a particular interest in such things.’

Twelvetrees snorted briefly.

‘Ashanti, my left foot! Ibo, Fulani, Koromantyn—baptise ’em all proper Christians and let’s hear no more about what heathen beliefs they may have brought with ’em. From the little I know, you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, Colonel. Though if you do, of course,’ he added hastily, recalling that it was not his place to tell the lieutenant-colonel who would be protecting Twelvetrees’s life and property his business, ‘then my sister’s quite right—Mrs Abernathy would be best placed to advise you. Almost all her slaves are Ashanti. She … er … she’s said to … um … take an interest.’

To Grey’s own interest, Twelvetrees’s face went a deep red, and he hastily changed the subject, asking Grey fussy questions about the exact disposition of his troops. Grey evaded direct answers, beyond assuring Twelvetrees that two companies of infantry would be dispatched to his plantation as soon as word could be sent to Spanish Town.

He wished to leave at once, for various reasons, but was obliged to remain for tea, an uncomfortable meal of heavy, stodgy food, eaten under the heated gaze of Miss Twelvetrees. For the most part, he thought he had handled her with tact and delicacy, but towards the end of the meal she began to give him little pursed-mouth jabs. Nothing one could—or should—overtly notice, but he saw Philip blink at her once or twice in frowning bewilderment.

‘Of course, I could not pose as an authority regarding any aspect of life on Jamaica,’ she said, fixing Grey with an unreadable look. ‘We have lived here barely six months.’

‘Indeed,’ he said politely, a wodge of undigested Savoy cake settling heavily in his stomach. ‘You seem very much at home—and a very lovely home it is, Miss Twelvetrees. I perceive your most harmonious touch throughout.’

This belated attempt at flattery was met with the scorn it deserved; the eleven was back, hardening her brow.

‘My brother inherited the plantation from his cousin, Edward Twelvetrees. Edward lived in London himself.’ She levelled a look like the barrel of a musket at him. ‘Did you know him, Colonel?’

And just what would the bloody woman do if he told her the truth? he wondered. Clearly, she thought she knew something, but … No, he thought, watching her closely. She couldn’t know the truth but had heard some rumour. So this poking at him was an attempt—and a clumsy one—to get him to say more.

‘I know several Twelvetrees casually,’ he said very amiably. ‘But if I met your cousin, I do not think I had the pleasure of speaking with him at any great length.’ You bloody murderer! and Fucking sodomite! not really constituting conversation, if you asked Grey.

Miss Twelvetrees blinked at him, surprised, and he realised what he should have seen much earlier. She was drunk. He had found the sangria light, refreshing—but had drunk only one glass himself. He had not noticed her refill her own, and yet the pitcher stood nearly empty.

‘My dear,’ said Philip, very kindly. ‘It is warm, is it not? You look a trifle pale and indisposed.’ In fact, she was flushed, her hair beginning to come down behind her rather large ears—but she did indeed look indisposed. Philip rang the bell, rising to his feet, and nodded to the black maid who came in.

‘I am not indisposed,’ Nancy Twelvetrees said, with some dignity. ‘I’m—I simply—that is—’ But the black maid, evidently used to this office, was already hauling Miss Twelvetrees towards the door, though with sufficient skill as to make it look as though she merely assisted her mistress.

Grey rose, perforce, and took Miss Nancy’s hand, bowing over it.

‘Your servant, Miss Twelvetrees,’ he said. ‘I hope—’

‘We know,’ she said, staring at him from large, suddenly tear-filled eyes. ‘Do you hear me? We know.’ Then she was gone, the sound of her unsteady steps a ragged drumbeat on the parquet floor.

There was a brief, awkward silence between the two men. Grey cleared his throat just as Philip Twelvetrees coughed.

‘Didn’t really like cousin Edward,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ said Grey.

They walked together to the yard, where Grey’s horse browsed under a tree, its sides streaked with parrot droppings.

‘Don’t mind Nancy, will you?’ Twelvetrees said quietly, not looking at him. ‘She had … a disappointment, in London. I thought she might get over it more easily here, but—well, I made a mistake, and it’s not easy to unmake.’ He sighed, and Grey had a strong urge to pat him sympathetically on the back.

In lieu of that, he made an indeterminate noise in his throat, nodded, and mounted.

‘The troops will be here the day after tomorrow, sir,’ he said. ‘You have my word upon it.’

Grey had intended to return to Spanish Town, but instead paused on the road, pulled out the chart Dawes had given him, and calculated the distance to Rose Hall. It would mean camping on the mountain overnight, but they were prepared for that—and beyond the desirability of hearing firsthand the details of a maroon attack, he was now more than curious to speak with Mrs Abernathy regarding zombies.

He called his aide, wrote out instructions for the dispatch of troops to Twelvetrees, then sent two men back to Spanish Town with the message and two more on to discover a good campsite. They reached this as the sun was beginning to sink, glowing like a flaming pearl in a soft pink sky.

‘What is that?’ he asked, glancing up abruptly from the cup of gunpowder tea Corporal Sansom had handed him. Sansom looked startled, too, and stared up the slope where the sound had come from.

‘Don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a horn of some kind.’

It did. Not a trumpet or anything of a standard military nature. Definitely a sound of human origin, though. The men stood quiet, waiting. A moment or two, and the sound came again.

‘That’s a different one,’ Sansom said, sounding alarmed. ‘It came from over there’—pointing up the slope—‘didn’t it?’

‘Yes, it did,’ Grey said absently. ‘Hush!’

The first horn sounded again, a plaintive bleat almost lost in the noises of the birds settling for the night, and then fell silent.

Grey’s skin tingled, his senses alert. They were not alone in the jungle. Someone—someones—were out there in the oncoming night, signalling to each other. Quietly, he gave orders for the building of a hasty fortification, and the camp fell at once into the work of organising defence. The men with him were mostly veterans and, while wary, not at all panicked. Within a very short time, a redoubt of stone and brush had been thrown up, sentries were posted in pairs around camp, and every man’s weapon was loaded and primed, ready for an attack.