He crossed the room, wincing whenever a board squeaked beneath the rugs. The hall was empty and the light was coming from the upper landing where he could hear voices raised in anger. They spoke Danish and he had no idea what was being said. He crossed the hall to the parlor where Astrid had been playing the harpsichord. It was pitch black inside, but he flattened himself beside the door and listened.
It sounded as though the whole household, including the servants, was being herded down the stairs. Then someone kicked the parlor door wide open to let in a wash of yellow lamplight, but blessedly no one came inside and Sharpe had time to move behind a screen printed with windmills and ducks. He accidentally kicked a flower-painted chamber pot, but no one heard because of the racket outside. He waited again.
Then he heard Lavisser’s voice. He was sure it was Lavisser, but he was not speaking Danish or English. French? Sharpe was almost certain it was French. He was giving orders and a moment later a lamp was brought into the parlor and Sharpe heard footsteps. There was a mirror between the shuttered windows and in its reflection he could see two maidservants, both in nightgowns and caps, being pushed into the room. The elderly manservant followed, then Astrid entered and, behind her, a man with a pistol. Lavisser spoke to him in French.
“You want me in there, sir?” a voice asked in English. It was Barker.
“No. Get Sharpe,” Lavisser answered and then, still using English, he spoke to Astrid. “You will not be hurt, I promise.”
“But my father!” Astrid sounded distraught, and no wonder. She was in a long nightdress and her blond hair fell loose on her shoulders. “I want to be with my father!”
“Your father has become rich by fighting France,” a voice replied. It was not Lavisser who spoke, but a woman. Another mystery on a night gone askew. “And your father should have known the consequences of such foolishness,” the woman finished. She had an accent. French?
The door closed. Astrid sat on the harpsichord bench, weeping, as the Frenchman waved the three terrified servants toward the sofa. Sharpe should have been visible to him in the mirror, but the rifleman was in deep shadow and the Frenchman suspected nothing. He did not even look behind the screen, but just leaned against the closed door with his pistol held low. He yawned. What did he have to fear? Three women and an elderly man?
Sharpe pulled one pistol from his belt. So Lavisser worked with the French? The idea was repugnant, but it made sense. The enemy must have their agents in London and how better to snare fools than to find them playing cards at Almack’s and the other rich gaming clubs? And they had snared a choice one in Lavisser, but if Lavisser was now planning on killing Skovgaard then Sharpe did not have much time. He wrapped the pistol in the hem of his jacket to muffle the distinctive sound of the flint being cocked. He had been out of his depth ever since he had arrived in Denmark, enduring insult, religion and imprisonment, but now he knew what he was doing. He was back where he belonged and he was smiling as he stepped out from behind the screen.
He held the pistol at arm’s length and it took the Frenchman at least two seconds to register his presence and by then the gun was just three feet from his head. Sharpe motioned with his left hand. “Put the gun down, Monsewer.” He spoke softly.
The man looked as if he was about to shout.
“Please,” Sharpe said. “Make a noise so I can kill you, please.” He was still smiling.
The Frenchman shook slightly. There was something about the eyes of the green-jacketed man that told him death was hovering very close in this comfortable parlor and so, sensibly and very slowly, he laid his own pistol on the floor. Astrid and the servants were staring wide-eyed. Sharpe kicked the Frenchman’s nistol across the nolished floorboards. “Down,” he told the man, indicating what he meant with his left hand.