The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

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СКАЧАТЬ against the long length of her legs. He turned his focus back to the fort and what it was that he did not like about it.

      Gunner gave a nod. ‘I get that same feeling.’

      ‘No guard outside the gate.’ His eyes scanned, taking in every detail.

      ‘And apart from the lookout in the watchtower, not another soul to be seen,’ murmured Gunner.

      ‘Silent as a graveyard, and a gate that should be opening, demanding to know our business by now.’

      Kate Medhurst glanced round at him, as if she was thinking the same.

      ‘Wait here with the woman, Gunner. If I am not back in fifteen minutes—’

      ‘I’m coming with you,’ Kate Medhurst interrupted, as if she did not trust him.

      ‘Maybe Mrs Medhurst has a point,’ said Gunner. ‘You should have someone at your back.’ He touched a hand lightly to his cutlass.

      Eventually they were admitted through the fort’s gate by a lone marine in a coat faded pink by the sun and taken to see the admiral. The distant dry docks were empty, not a man could be seen working in the repair yards, not a man on the tumbleweed parade ground. Within the yellow-painted building every room was deserted. Not one other person did they pass along those corridors and staircases lined with paintings of maritime battles. And for all of that way there was a faint smell of rancid meat in the air.

      ‘It’s like a ghost town,’ Kate Medhurst whispered by his side and she was right. ‘Is this normal for a British fort?’

      ‘Anything but,’ replied Kit softly.

      ‘Something is definitely off.’ Gunner’s quiet voice held the same suspicion that Kit felt.

      He shifted his coat so that his hand would have easier access to both the pistol holstered on his hip and his cutlass and saw Gunner do the same.

      The marine eventually led them through a door mounted with a plaque that read Admiral Sir Ralston.

      The office was large and more grandly decorated than many a ton drawing room. Ornate, gilded, carved furniture filled it, along with a massive sideboard that looked as though it might have been brought from Admiralty House. There was a large black-marble fireplace, although the hearth was empty save for a pile of scrunched balls of paper which were clearly discarded letters. The windows had roman blinds of indiscriminate colour, pulled halfway up the glass, and were framed by fringed curtains that might once have been dark blue, but were now somewhere between pale blue and grey. From the ceiling in the centre of the room hung a crystal chandelier. But despite all of this faded opulence there was an unkempt feel about the place.

      The great desk was littered with a mess of paperwork and documents. A thick layer of dust covered the window sill and every visible wooden surface. It sat on the back of the winged armchair by the fireplace and turned the ringed, empty crystal decanter and silver tray that sat on the nearby drum table opaque. It hung with cobwebs from the chandelier. But the two things that concerned Kit more than any of this were the stench of rum in the room and that the man that sat on the other side of the desk was not Admiral Sir Ralston.

      ‘Acting Admiral John Jenkins, at your service, sir. I am afraid Admiral Sir Ralston died a sennight since.’ Jenkins was younger than Kit, no more than five and twenty at the most, with fine fair hair that stuck to a sweaty brow, red-rimmed eyes and thick determined lips.

      ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. My condolences to you and your men.’

      Jenkins gave a nod and gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk. ‘Take a seat. May I offer you a drink?’ He produced a bottle of rum from the drawer of his desk.

      ‘There is a lady present, sir,’ said Gunner.

      ‘Beg pardon,’ Jenkins said and sat the half-empty bottle on top of a book on the desk. ‘How are matters in London?’

      ‘I have no idea.’ Kit had no intention in wasting time in small talk. ‘What has happened here?’

      ‘We are awaiting reinforcements. They are due any day now.’

      ‘You have not answered my question. Why do you need reinforcements?’

      ‘We have lost almost all the men.’

      ‘How?’

      There was a silence while Jenkins stared longingly at the rum.

      ‘What happened to the men, Jenkins?’

      ‘Dead,’ he said, and did not take his eyes off the bottle. He reached a hand to it and began to absently pick at the wax near the rim. ‘It will have us all in the end. Every last one of us, you know.’ He smiled softly to himself.

      Cold realisation stroked down Kit’s spine. He understood now, not the detail, but the gist. Too late. He was here now, and more importantly so were Gunner and Kate Medhurst.

      ‘Get up,’ he snapped the order to them by his side, already on his feet. ‘We are leaving.’

      ‘What?’ She looked aghast. ‘But—’

      ‘I said we are leaving. Now.’

      ‘So soon?’ interrupted Jenkins. ‘You are welcome to stay and dine with Hammond and me.’ He smiled at Kate and walked round to their side of the desk. ‘It would be a delight to have the company of a lady at our table.’ He offered his hand to Kate.

      Kate moved to accept, but Kit grabbed her hand in his and pulled her away from Jenkins, placing himself as a barrier between them.

      ‘Captain North!’ she protested and tried to break free.

      ‘They have a pestilence here,’ he said harshly to her. ‘A pestilence that infects both men and women.’

      She ceased her struggle, shock and fear flickering in her eyes.

      ‘Which disease, sir?’ Gunner asked Jenkins, the scientist and physician in him coming to the fore.

      ‘Yellow Jack.’

      ‘May God have mercy upon your souls, brother,’ whispered Gunner.

      ‘Amen to that,’ said Jenkins.

      ‘What were you thinking of, admitting us?’ demanded Kit. ‘You know the drill when it comes to pestilence.’

      Jenkins smiled again and this time it held a bit of a leer. ‘Hammond said you had a woman with you. A white woman. An English woman.’ His gaze travelled brazenly down Kate Medhurst’s body to rest on the small bare toes that peeped out beneath the hem of her dress.

      In a prim angry gesture she twitched her skirt to cover them. ‘American,’ she corrected with a look of disgust that Kit could not tell whether it was due to Jenkins’s appetite or the fact he had mistaken her as English.

      ‘How many of you are left?’ Kit shot the question at him.

      ‘A handful.’

      ‘How many infected?’

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