“Did I hear you say he wants to come back?” Sharpe asked.
“I surmise as much. James Christopher is not a man to burn his bridges unless he has no alternative. Oh yes, I’m sure he’ll be designing some way to return to London if he finds a lack of opportunity with the French.”
“Now I’m supposed to shoot the shit-faced bastard,” Sharpe said.
“Not precisely how we in the Foreign Office would express the matter,” Lord Pumphrey said severely, “but you are, I see, seized of the essence. Go and shoot him, Richard, and God bless your little rifle.”
“And what are you doing here?” Sharpe thought to ask.
“Other than being exquisitely uncomfortable?” Pumphrey asked. “I was sent to supervise Christopher. He approached General Cradock with news of a proposed mutiny. Cradock, quite properly, reported the affair to London and London became excited at the thought of suborning Bonaparte’s army in Portugal and Spain, but felt that someone of wisdom and good judgment was needed to propel the scheme and so, quite naturally, they asked me to come.”
“And we can forget the scheme now,” Hogan observed.
“Indeed we can,” Pumphrey replied tartly. “Christopher brought a Captain Argenton to talk with General Cradock,” he explained to Sharpe, “and when Cradock was replaced, Argenton made his own way across the lines to confer with Sir Arthur. He wanted promises that our forces wouldn’t intervene in the event of a French mutiny, but Sir Arthur wouldn’t hear of his plots and told him to tuck his tail between his legs and go back into the outer darkness whence he came. So, no plots, no mysterious messengers with cloaks and daggers, just plain old-fashioned soldiering. It seems, alas, that I am surplus to requirements and Mister Christopher, if your lady friend’s note is to be believed, has gone with the French, which must mean, I think, that he believes they will still win this war.”
Hogan had opened the window to smell the rain, but now turned to Sharpe. “We must go, Richard. We have things to plan.”
“Yes, sir.” Sharpe picked up his battered shako and tried to bend the visor back into shape, then thought of another question. “My lord?”
“Richard?” Lord Pumphrey responded gravely.
“You remember Astrid?” Sharpe asked awkwardly.
“Of course I remember the fair Astrid,” Pumphrey answered smoothly, “Ole Skovgaard’s comely daughter.”
“I was wondering if you had news of her, my lord,” Sharpe said. He was blushing.
Lord Pumphrey did have news of her, but none he cared to tell Sharpe, for the truth was that both Astrid and her father were in their graves, their throats cut on Pumphrey’s orders. “I did hear,” his lordship said gently, “that there was a contagion in Copenhagen. Malaria, perhaps? Or was it cholera? Alas, Richard.” He spread his hands.
“She’s dead?”
“I do fear so.”
“Oh,” Sharpe said inadequately. He stood stricken, blinking. He had thought once that he could leave the army and live with Astrid and so make a new life in the clean decencies of Denmark. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“As am I,” Lord Pumphrey said easily, “so very sorry. But tell me, Richard, about Miss Savage. Might one assume she is beautiful?”
“Yes,” Sharpe said, “she is.”
“I thought so,” Lord Pumphrey said resignedly.
“And she’ll be dead,” Hogan snarled at Sharpe, “if you and me don’t hurry.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and hurried.
Hogan and Sharpe walked through the night rain, going uphill to a schoolhouse that Sharpe had commandeered as quarters for his men. “You do know,” Hogan said with considerable irritation, “that Lord Pumphrey is a molly?”
“Of course I know he’s a molly.”
“He can be hanged for that,” Hogan observed with indecent satisfaction.
“I still like him,” Sharpe said.
“He’s a serpent. All diplomats are. Worse than lawyers.”
“He ain’t stuck up,” Sharpe said.
“There is nothing,” Hogan said, “nothing in all the world that Lord Pumphrey wants more than to be stuck up with you, Richard.” He laughed, his spirits restored. “And how the hell are we to find that poor wee girl and her rotten husband, eh?”
“We?” Sharpe asked. “You’re coming too?”
“This is far too important to be left to some lowly English lieutenant,” Hogan said. “This is an errand that needs the sagacity of the Irish.”