`Yes.’ Somehow the young man looked familiar.
`It’s Trumper-Jones, sir, Lieutenant Michael Trumper-Jones?’
The boy expected Sharpe to recognise him. Sharpe remembered there had been a cavalry Colonel called Trumper-Jones who had lost an arm and an eye at Rolica. `Did I meet your father?’
`I don’t know, sir.’ Trumper-Jones took off his hat and smiled. `We met last week.’
`Last week?’
`At the battle, sir?’
`Battle? Oh.’ Sharpe remembered. `You’re an aide-decamp to General Preston?’
`Yes, sir.’ Trumper-Jones put some papers on the table. `And your defending officer.’
`My what?’ Sharpe growled it, making Trumper-Jones step backwards towards the door which had been closed by the guard.
`I’m your defence, sir.’
Sharpe sat down. He stared at the frightened young man who looked as if he was scarce out of school. He beckoned at the vacant chair. `Sit down, Trumper-Jones, for God’s sake. Defend me from what?’ He knew, but he wanted to hear it again.
Trumper-Jones came nervously forward. He put his hat on the table beside his papers and pushed a lock of light brown hair from his forehead. He cleared his throat. `You’re charged with the murder of the Spanish General Casares, the Marques de.’
`I know who the hell he is.’ Sharpe watched as
Trumper-Jones fidgeted with his papers. `Is there a cup of tea in this damned place?’
The question only made Trumper-Jones more nervous. `There’s not much time, sir.’
`Time?’
`The General Court-Martial is convened for half past noon, sir. Today.’ He added lamely.
`Jesus Christ!’ Sharpe shouted the words. Trumper-Jones said nothing. He was nervous of the scarred Rifleman who now leaned his elbows on the table. `Are you a lawyer, Trumper-Jones?’
`No, sir.’
`You’ve done this before?’
`No, sir.’ He smiled weakly. `I’ve only been out here a month.’
`Where’s Major Hogan?’
`Don’t know, sir.’
`So how do you plan to prove my innocence, Trumper-Jones?’
The young man pushed the lick of hair away from his forehead. He had a voice like d’Alembord’s, but without the easy confidence. He smiled nervously. `I fear it looks bleak, sir.’
`Tell me.’
Trumper-Jones seemed happier now that he could read from his papers. `It seems, sir, that you are acquainted with the Marquesa de Casares el Grande.’
`True.’
`And that you threatened her, sir.’ Trumper-Jones said it timidly.
`I did what?’
Trumper-Jones nearly jumped out of his chair. `You threatened her.’ He blushed. `Well, you threatened her, sir.’
`I did no such god-damn thing!’
Trumper-Jones swallowed, cleared his throat, and gestured with a piece of paper. `There is a letter, sir, from her Ladyship to her husband, and it says.’
Sharpe leaned back. `Spare me, Lieutenant. I know the Marquesa. Let’s accept they have a letter. Go on.’ So she had provoked the duel. D’Alembord had hinted at it, Sharpe had refused to believe it, but he supposed it made sense. Yet he found it hard to accept that a woman who had loved him could so easily betray him.
Trumper-Jones pushed the hair back again. `The letter provoked a duel, sir, that you were prevented from finishing?’
`True.’ It all sounded so hopeless.
`And because you were prevented from, fighting, sir, the prosecution is alleging that you went to the General’s quarters last night and murdered him.’
`Not true.’
`They have a witness, sir.’
`Really?’ Sharpe said the word scornfully. `Who?’
The papers rustled. `A Captain Morillos, sir, of the Princessa Regiment, He commanded the guard on General Casares’ house last night and he saw a British Rifle officer leave the house at three in the morning. The officer, he says, wore a straight sword.’
That was a nice touch, Sharpe thought. Rifle officers were issued with curved cavalry sabres, and only Sharpe wore a straight sword. He shook his head. `And why didn’t Captain Morillos stop this man?’
`He was ordered only to stop people from going into the house, sir, not from leaving it.’
`Go on.’
Trumper-Jones shrugged. That’s it, sir. I thought, sir.’ He stopped, nervous again.
`Well?’
`I thought, sir, that if we presented your record to the court, sir, that they must be lenient. The Eagle, sir, the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz.’ His voice tailed away.
Sharpe smiled. `You want me to plead guilty and trust that they won’t shoot a hero, is that it?’