Sir Henry Simmerson had thought himself a great soldier, yet, when he faced the French in battle for the first time, he had lost a Colour. The second time, he had run away. Now Sharpe was seeing the man's home, seeing the fantasy of a career. The house was filled with weapons, with pictures of soldiers, with models of guns, and now this!
Sharpe felt a terrible anger at the, sight. The flags were the pride of a Battalion, the symbols of its purpose. These great squares of silk were as out of place in this house as the French Eagle was in the Court of St James's, yet at least the French Eagle had been to war, had been won in a fight, while these flags, these pristine, new flags, had never flapped in a musket-fogged wind or drawn men towards their signal as the enemy fire thundered and whipped at the line. They had been purloined to feed Sir Henry's fantasies, just as the Battalion had been purloined to fill his pockets.
The door to the sitting room clicked open and Sharpe, standing in the doorway to the library, knew he could not reach the window undiscovered. There was one place only to hide and he stepped, praying his sword would not knock on wood, behind the angle of the open library door.
Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood's voice sounded just inches from his ear. 'You will forgive my haste, Miss Jane?
'It seems extravagant, sir.
Girdwood's footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Sharpe heard the saddle-bag scrape on the table, then Girdwood chuckled. 'When the army summons a soldier, dear Miss Jane, all we may do is obey with alacrity. It was ever thus. His footsteps paused the other side of the door. 'One day, perhaps, when my service is over, I might look forward to a leisure spent ever at your side. His heels clicked together, his spurs ringing. 'Mrs Grey? May I wish you a good night?
'Thank you, sir. You have your books safe?
'Most safe.
'And I pray you give Sir Henry our most dutiful regards.
'It will be my pleasure. There were more footsteps in the hall, the sound of the front door opening, and Sharpe stood, silent and still, debating whether to leave now. Perhaps, on the moonlit road, he could force from Girdwood the whereabouts of the accounts.
Yet before he could move, the sound of hooves on gravel was abruptly cut off by the closing of the front door, and voices murmured outside the library. They were close, and coming closer. 'I shall take your aunt her medicine, Jane.
'Thank you, Mrs Grey. Jane's voice was demure.
'And you will go to bed? It was as much an order as a question.
'I shall fetch my book first, Mrs Grey.
'Then goodnight. Sharpe heard footsteps on the hall floor. He was staring at the window. If a servant came to bolt the window-doors, then fold and bar the shutters on the night, surely he must see Sharpe behind the door? He held his breath as footsteps sounded in the room again.
'I'll lock the windows, Miss Gibbons? The voice was just the other side of the door.
‘I’ll do it, King.
'Thank you, miss.
Sharpe was in shadow. The room smelt musty and damp. He heard steps in the room, a key in the lock, then the squeal of a drawer opening. He guessed Jane Gibbons was looking into the bureau from which the books and pistols had been taken. The drawer closed, was locked again, then Sharpe saw her. She walked to the window-doors, closed them and seemed to show no surprise that one leaf had been ajar onto the night. Then, as she stooped to push the lower bolt home, she became completely still.
Sharpe could see her golden hair was in ringlets. She wore a blue dress, white collared, with a tight, old-fashioned waist that showed her slim hips.
She was staring at the floor.
There was mud there, brought in on Sharpe's boots from the creek bed, mud that led to his hiding place.
She straightened, turned, and raised her eyes slowly, following the trail of dry mud until she was staring into the shadow beside the door.
She jumped when she saw him, but did not cry out. Sharpe stepped sideways, out of the shadow, and they stared at each other, neither saying a word. He smiled.
For a moment he thought she was going to laugh, so mischievous and delighted was her face, then, decisively, she crossed to the door beside him. 'I have to talk with you!
'Here?
She shook her head. There was a pergola in the garden, built at the corner of the north wall, and she would join him there. 'You'll wait?
‘I’ll wait.
He waited in the dark shadow of the roses that grew unpruned about the lattice shelter. There was a seat in the pergola that ran around a table made of rough planks. The sea, far off to his right, seethed, faded, then seethed again. He had come here to find the missing Battalion's accounts, and instead he waited for a girl that he imagined he loved.
He had waited twenty minutes and was beginning to think that she would not come when he heard the creak of a door, and, seconds later, saw a dark-cloaked figure running over the grass. She slid into the shadow, sat, then looked nervously back at the upper windows of the brick house that were glowing with lamplight. 'I shouldn't be here.
He stared at her, suddenly not knowing what to say, and she bit her lower lip and shrugged as if she, too, was suddenly uncertain.
'Thank you for the food and money, Sharpe said.
She smiled and her teeth showed white in the moonlight that filtered through the roses. 'I stole it. She spoke barely above a whisper. She shuddered suddenly, perhaps remembering the man who had died in the marsh that night. 'I shouldn't be here.
He realised that, for all her vivacity, she was frightened. He put his hands slowly over the table and covered hers. 'I shouldn't be here either.
'No. She did not move her hands that were, even though it was a warm night, bitterly cold. 'No, you shouldn't. She smiled a little uncertainly. 'Why were you in the house?
'I wanted to find the records of the auctions. There must be records? Accounts? His voice tailed off, for she was nodding assent.
'There are. In London.
'London? In his disappointment he spoke too loudly, and she looked, fear on her face, towards the house. He lowered his voice. 'I thought Girdwood was taking them out of the drawer.
'He keeps some things there. Books, pistols. She shrugged. 'He said he'd been ordered to London, and I suppose he wanted the pistols for the road. What's happening?
He told her what he had done that day, how he had stripped Girdwood of his command. He did not tell her that he had no orders to take the camp under his authority. 'But I need those accounts.
'They're only here for the auctions. I write them and my uncle takes them back.
'You write them?
'My uncle makes me enter the figures. She left her hands in his and, in a low voice, told him of the money that had flowed through Foulness. Sir Henry Simmerson had made more than fifteen thousand pounds, Lord Fenner the same, and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood about half. They had spent three thousand and eight hundred pounds for expenses. She smiled, as if at her own precision. 'They're in two big books, red leather books.
'Where?
'In my uncle's town house.
'Where in his house? Sharpe was wondering if his ancient skills would have to be put to a sterner test.
'I don't know. I don't go to London often.
'You don't go to London?
She heard the astonishment in his voice, as if he had expected her to dazzle London's society and as if that expectation had given him the irrational envy people feel about the undiscovered life of someone they desire. She stared at him. 'You don't understand, Mr Sharpe.