“The city needs them more than I do,” Skovgaard had answered, “and Aksel has promised to find me some men. They will be cripples, probably, but a one-legged man can fire a musket.” Skovgaard had sounded bitter. “And there are plenty of cripples in Copenhagen, Lieutenant, thanks to your last attack.”
The bitterness had intrigued Sharpe. “Why didn’t you break with Britain then?” he asked.
Skovgaard had shrugged. “My dear wife was alive. Besides, when Nelson attacked, I could see some justice in the British cause. We were denying them trade and the lifeblood of a nation is trade. But now? Now we deny you nothing except what is undeniably ours. Besides, I have never done anything to jeopardize Denmark. I simply assisted Britain to combat France, that is all. Now, alas, we shall be France’s ally.”
Two men in black carrying valises stuffed with papers were waiting for Skovgaard when he returned from watching the Prince’s departure. Sharpe was instantly suspicious, but Skovgaard evidently knew the men and hurried them into his office. “They are from the government,” Aksel Bang told Sharpe.
“What do they want?”
“Perhaps they have come for you, Lieutenant?”
Sharpe ignored that jibe. He walked down the center aisle of the big warehouse. “Where does that lead?” He pointed to a staircase that vanished in the dusty rafters of the high roof. He wanted to check every door and window, looking for any place where men might break into the premises.
“It goes to my upper chamber,” Bang said, meaning a loft, “where I sleep now that Mister Skovgaard has returned.”
“Lost your house, have you?”
“I do not mind,” Bang said unctuously, “it is not my house and it is a blessing to have Miss Astrid back.”
“A blessing for you or for her?”
“For both of us, I think. It is like things were before they moved. It is good.”
Sharpe could find no weaknesses in the warehouse. Too much of value was stored in the place and Skovgaard had made it virtually thief-proof to protect the sacks of indigo, piles of jute, and barrels of pungent spices that reminded Sharpe of India. “So what does the government want with Skovgaard?” he asked Bang.
“They want to know if any of these goods belong to British merchants.”
“Why?”
“Because they will confiscate them, of course. We are at war, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe looked at the dusty bays filled with barrels, sacks and crates. “And is any of this stuff British?”
“No. We do not store goods for other merchants. It is all our own.”
“Good,” Sharpe said, meaning there was no excuse for any more visits from officials. He turned on Bang. “Tell me, when you delivered Mister Skovgaard’s letter, did you meet Lavisser?”
Bang blinked with surprise at Sharpe’s forceful tone. “I met Major Lavisser, yes. He was very gracious.”
“Did he ask you questions?”
Bang nodded. “He wanted to know about Mister Skovgaard, so I told him he is a good merchant and a committed Christian.”
“Is that all?”
“It is all God asks of us.”
Sharpe wanted to hit Bang. The man was nothing but a trumped-up clerk, but he had a sly and prickly pride about him. “What else did he ask you about Skovgaard?”
Bang pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “He asked if Mister Skovgaard had much to do with England. I said yes. I said he had many friends there and that he wrote there. That he had been married to an Englishwoman. Does it matter?”
“No,” Sharpe said. Lavisser must have guessed that Sharpe would get in touch with the man whose name had been given him by Lord Pumphrey, so when Skovgaard’s letter arrived it simply confirmed that suspicion. And, with the French on the point of evacuating their diplomatic mission, it must have seemed imperative to act immediately.
“I don’t understand why you ask me these questions,” Bang protested. He was genuinely confused why Skovgaard had moved back into the city and the explanation that his employer merely wanted to avoid the imminent British was made inadequate by Sharpe’s presence and even more inadequate by Skovgaard’s swollen face. “I think,” Bang told Sharpe, “that you have snared Mister Skovgaard in unseemly matters.”