Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (26 page)

‘We mean no harm,’ Frederickson spoke very slowly and softly to the boy. ‘We don’t even have guns, you see? We’ve simply come here to talk to your master.’ He took his hand from the boy’s mouth.

The boy, clearly terrified out of his wits by the two scarred and ragged men, tried to speak, but the events of the last few seconds had struck him dumb. Frederickson gripped the nape of the boy’s jerkin. ‘Come with us, lad, and don’t be frightened. We’re not going to hurt you.’

Sharpe propped the fowling piece against the wall, then led the way out of the shadowed arch. He could see a lit window across the château’s yard, and the shadow of a person moving behind the small panes of glass. He hurried. Frederickson kept hold of the frightened boy. Two of the geese stretched their necks towards the Riflemen.

The geese began their cackling too late, for Sharpe had already reached the kitchen door which, because the boy had to return his soup bowl, was still unlocked. Sharpe did not wait on ceremony, but just pushed open the heavy door.

Frederickson thrust the boy away from him, then ducked under the lintel behind Sharpe.

Two women were in the candle-lit kitchen. One, an elderly woman with work-reddened hands, was stirring a great vat that hung on a pothook above the fire. The other, a much younger and thinner woman who was dressed all in black, was sitting at the table with an account book. The two women stared in frozen horror at the intruders.

‘Madame?’ Frederickson said from behind Sharpe who had stopped just inside the door.

‘Who are you?’ It was the thin woman in black who asked the question.

‘We’re British officers, Madame, and we apologize for thus disturbing you.’

The thin woman stood. Sharpe had an impression of a long and bitter face. She turned away from the intruders to where two water vats stood in an alcove. ‘Haven’t you done enough already?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘Madame,’ Frederickson said gently, ‘I think you misunderstand us. We are only here ...’

‘William!’ Sharpe, understanding none of what was being said, turned and pushed Frederickson out of the kitchen. He had seen the thin black-dressed woman turn back from the vats, and in her hands was a great brass-muzzled horse-pistol. Her grey eyes held nothing but a bitter hatred and Sharpe knew, with the certainty of the doomed, that everything had gone wrong. He pushed Frederickson desperately into the yard and he tried to throw himself out of the door, but he knew he was too late. His body flinched from the terrible pain to come. He had already begun to scream in anticipation of that pain when Lucille Castineau pulled the trigger and Sharpe’s world turned to thunder and agony. He felt the bullets strike like massive blows, and he saw a sear of flame flash its light above him, and then, blessedly, as the gun’s stunning echo died away, there was just nothing.

Captain Peter d‘Alembord sat in the drawing-room of the Cork Street house and felt acutely uncomfortable. It was not that d’Alembord was unused to luxury, indeed he had been raised in an affluent family of the most exquisite tastes, but his very familiarity with civilized living told him that there was something exceedingly vulgar about this high-ceilinged room. There was, he considered, simply too much of everything. A great chandelier, much too large for the room, hung from a plaster finial, while a dozen crystal sconces crowded the walls. The sconces, like the chandelier, dripped with candle wax that should long have been scraped away. The furniture was mostly lacquered black in the fake Egyptian style that had been fashionable ten years earlier. There were three chaise-longues, two footstools, and a scattering of small lion-footed tables. The gilt-framed pictures seemed to have been bought as a job lot; they all showed rather unlikely shepherdesses dallying with very ethereal young men. A box of candied cherries lay gathering dust on one table, and a bowl of almonds on another.

Dust was everywhere and d‘Alembord doubted whether the room had been cleaned for days, perhaps even weeks. The grate was piled with ashes, and the room smelt overwhelmingly of powder and stale perfume. A maid had curtseyed when d’Alembord had handed in his card at the door, but there was little evidence that the girl did any cleaning. d’Alembord could only suppose that Jane Sharpe was merely lodging in the house, for he could not believe that she would allow such slovenliness in her own home.

d‘Alcmbord waited patiently. He could find only one book in the room. It was the first of a three volume romance which told the story of a clergyman’s daughter who, snatched from the bosom of her family by brigands in Italy, was sold to the Barbary pirates of Algiers where she became the plaything of a terrible Muslim chief. By the last page of the book, to which d’Alembord had hastily turned, she was still preserving her maidenly virtue, which seemed a most unlikely outcome considering the reputed behaviour of the Barbary pirates, but then unlikely things properly belonged in books. d’Alembord doubted if he would seek out the remaining volumes.

A black and gilt clock on the mantel whirred, then sounded midday. d’Alembord wondered it he dared pull aside the carefully looped velvet curtains and open a window, then decided that such an act might be thought presumptuous. Instead he watched a spider spin a delicate web between the tassels of a table-cloth on which a vase of flowers wilted.

The clock struck the quarter, then the half, then the hour’s third quarter. d‘Alembord had come unannounced to the house, and had thus expected to wait, but he had never anticipated being kept waiting as long as this. If he was ignored till one o’clock, he promised himself, he would leave.

He watched the filigreed minute hand jerk from five minutes to four minutes to one. He decided it would be prudent to leave a message in writing and was about to tug the bell-pull and demand paper and pen from the maid, when the drawing-room door suddenly opened and he turned to see the smiling face of Mrs Jane Sharpe.

‘It’s Captain d’Alembord!’ Jane said with feigned surprise, as though she had not known who had been waiting for her for so long. ‘What a pleasure!’ She held out a hand to be kissed. ‘Were you offered tea? Or something more potent, perhaps?’

‘No, Ma’am.’

‘The girl is perverse,’ Jane said, though d‘Alembord noted that she did not ring the bell to correct the perversity. ‘I didn’t know the battalion had reached England?’

‘Two weeks ago, Ma’am. They’re now in Chelmsford, but I’m on leave.’

‘A well deserved leave, I’m sure. Would you like to draw a curtain, Captain? We must not sit here in Stygian gloom.’

d‘Alembord pulled back the heavy velvet, then, when Jane had arranged herself on a chaise-longue, he sat opposite her. They exchanged news, complimented London on its current fine weather, and agreed how welcome the coming of peace was. And all the time, as this small-talk tinkled between them, d’Alembord tried to hide the astonishment he was feeling at the change in Jane. When she had been with the army she had seemed a very sweet-natured and rather shy girl, but now, scarce six months later, she was a woman dressed in the very height of fashion. Her green satin gown fell in simple pleats from its high waist to her ankles. The neckline was cut embarrassingly low so that d‘Alembord was treated to an ample view of powdered breasts; very pretty breasts, he decided, but somehow it seemed inappropriate for the wife of a man he liked and admired so to display herself. The shoulders of Jane’s dress were puffed and the sleeves very long, very tight and trimmed at their wrists with lace frills. She wore no stockings, instead displaying bare ankles that somehow suggested the vulnerability of innocence. Her shoes were silver slippers tied with silver thongs in the quasi-Greek fashion. Her golden hair was drawn up above her ears, thus displaying her long and slender neck about which was a necklace of rubies which d’Alembord supposed must have been plundered from the French baggage at Vitoria. The rubies suited her, d’Alembord decided. They were rare jewels for an undoubtedly beautiful woman. He saw her smiling at his inspection, and realized with embarrassment that Jane had perceived his admiration and was relishing it.

He quickly changed the subject to the reason for his visit. He had brought her, d’Alembord said, a message from Major Sharpe. He apologized that he had brought no letter, but explained the hurried circumstances of his meeting with Sharpe in Bordeaux.

‘So you don’t know where the Major is now?’ Jane asked eagerly.

‘Alas no, Ma’am, except that he’s gone to find a French officer who can attest to his innocence.’

The eagerness seemed to ebb from Jane who stood, walked to the window, and stared down the sunlit street. She told d‘Alembord that she already knew something of her husband’s predicament, and explained how the two men from the Judge Advocate General’s office had visited her with their outrageous demands. ‘I’ve heard nothing since then,’ Jane said, ‘and until your visit, Captain, I did not even know whether my husband was alive.’

‘Then I’m glad to be the bearer of good news, Ma’am.’

‘Is it good news?’ Jane turned from the window. ‘Of course it is,’ she added hurriedly, ‘but it all seems extremely strange to me. Do you think my husband did steal the Emperor’s gold?’

‘No, Ma’am!’ d’Alembord protested. ‘The accusations against him are monstrous!’

Jane resumed her seat, thus letting d‘Alembord sit again. She plucked the folds of her dress, then frowned. ’What I do not understand, Captain, is that if my husband is innocent, which of course he is, then why did he not allow the army to discover that innocence? An innocent man does not run away from a fair trial, does he?’

‘He does, Ma’am if the only evidence against him is false. Major Sharpe is attempting to prove those falsities. And he needs our help.’

Jane said nothing. Instead she just smiled and indicated that d’Alembord should continue speaking.

‘What we have to do, Ma’am, is harness what influence we can to prevent the machinery of accusation going farther. And should the Major fail to find the truth in France, then he will need the help of influential friends.’

‘Very influential,’ Jane said drily.

‘He mentioned a Lord Rossendale, Ma’am?’ d’Alembord wondered why Jane was so unresponsive, but ploughed on anyway. ‘Lord Rossendale is an aide to His Royal Highness, the Prince ...’

‘I know Lord John Rossendale,’ Jane said hurriedly, ‘and I have already spoken with him.’

d‘Alembord felt a surge of relief. He had been unsettled by this interview, both by Jane’s new and languid sophistication, and by her apparent lack of concern about her husband’s fate, yet now it seemed as if she had already done her duty by Sharpe. ‘May I ask, Ma‘am, whether Lord Rossendale expressed a willingness to help the Major?’ d’Alembord pressed.

‘His Lordship assured me that he will do all that is within his power,’ Jane said very primly.

‘Would that include presenting Major Sharpe’s problem to the Prince Regent, Ma’am?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Captain, but I’m sure Lord Rossendale will be assiduous.’

‘Would it help, Ma’am, if I was to add my voice to yours?’

Jane seemed to consider the offer, then frowned. ‘Of course I cannot prevent you from trying to see his Lordship, though I’m sure he is a most busy man.’

‘Of course, Ma’am.’ d’Alembord was again puzzled by Jane’s impenetrable decorum.

Jane turned to look at the clock. ‘Of course we will all do everything we can, Captain, though I rather suspect that the best thing to do is to allow my husband to disentangle himself.’ She gave a small unamused laugh. ‘He’s rather good at that, is he not?’

‘Indeed he is, Ma’am. Very good, but ...’

‘And in the meanwhile,’ Jane ignored whatever d‘Alembord had been about to say, ‘my duty is to make everything ready for his return.’ She waved a hand about the room. ‘Do you like my new house, Captain?’

‘Extremely, Ma’am.’ d’Alembord concealed his surprise along with his true opinion. He had imagined that Jane was merely staying in the house, now he discovered that she owned it.

‘The Major wished to buy a home in the country,’ Jane said, ‘but once I had returned to England I could not endure the thought of burying myself in rustic ignorance. Besides, it is more convenient to look after the Major’s affairs in London than from the country.’

‘Indeed, Ma’am.’ d’Alembord wanted more details of how Jane was looking after Sharpe’s affairs, but he sensed that further enquiries would reveal nothing. There was something unsettling in the situation, and d’Alembord did not want to provoke it.

‘So I bought this house instead,’ Jane went on. ‘Do you think the Major will like it?’

d‘Alembord was convinced that Sharpe would detest it, but it was not his place to say so. ‘It seems a very good house, Ma‘am,’ he said with as much diplomacy as he could muster.

‘Of course I share the house at the moment,’ Jane was eager to stress the propriety of her situation, ‘with a widow. It would hardly be proper otherwise, would it?’

‘I’m sure you would do nothing improper, Ma’am.’

‘It’s such a pity that the Lady Spindacre is still abed, but dear Juliet’s health is not of the best. You must visit us, Captain, one evening at eight. We usually receive downstairs at that hour, but if no link is lit outside, then you will know that we are not at home. If a lamp is lit then you must announce yourself, though I should warn you that London is sadly bored with soldiers’ tales!’ Jane smiled as though she knew her charms would ameliorate the rudeness of her words.

‘I would not dream of inflicting soldiers’ tales on you, Ma’am.’ d’Alembord spoke stiffly.

‘London has so many other fascinations to indulge besides the late wars. It will be good for the Major to come here, I think. Especially as he made some very high connections on his last visit, and it would be impossible to preserve those connections if he buries himself in Dorsetshire.’

‘You refer to the Prince?’ d’Alembord said in the hope that he would learn more of Jane’s conversation with Lord Rossendale.