pile of the grubby paper slips. He placed them on the table, then
invited Sharpe to inspect them. All the chitties had Sharpe’s
initials in the bottom right-hand corner, most of them in pencil, but
some had been initialled in ink and Sharpe set those aside.
“I didn’t sign any of those,” he said confidently.
“I don’t have a pen and ink.”
“You were right, Sajit!” Torrance said.
“You honour me, sahib,” Sajit said.
“And every chitty is a stolen anna,” Torrance said, ‘so we have to
discover which bullock men gave us the false ones. That’s the problem,
Sharpe.”
“They’ve got names on them,” Sharpe said, pointing at the slips of
paper.
“You hardly needed to drag me down here to tell you who they were
issued to!”
“Please don’t be tedious, Sharpe,” Torrance said plaintively.
“Ever since the General put a shot across our bows I am forced to be
particular.
And the names mean nothing! Nothing! Look’ he scooped up the chit
ties – ‘at least a dozen are assigned to Ram, whoever Ram is.
There are probably a dozen Rams out there. What I want you to do,
Sharpe, is go round the encampment with Sajit and point out which men
have visited the road. Sajit can then identify which bullock men are
submitting false claims.”
Sharpe frowned.
“Why doesn’t Sajit just identify which men were ordered up the
mountain? They must have got their chitties from him?”
“I want to be sure, Sharpe, I want to be sure!” Torrance pleaded.
“My testimony, sahib, would not be believed,” Sajit put in, ‘but no one
would doubt the word of an English officer.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said. The last thing he felt like doing was
wandering about the bullock camp identifying drivers. He was not sure
he could do it anyway.
“So why not summon the bullock men here?”
he demanded.
“The bad ones would run away, sahib, rather than come,” Sajit said.
“Best to ambush them in their encampment, Sharpe,” Torrance said.
“I’ll do my best,” Sharpe grunted.
“I knew you would!” Torrance seemed relieved.
“Do it now, Sharpe, and perhaps you could join me for a late dinner?
Say at half past one?”
Sharpe nodded, then went back into the sunlight to wait for Sajit.
Kendrick and Lowry had vanished, presumably with Hakeswill. Ahmed had
found a bucket of water and Stokes’s mare was drinking greedily.
“You can stay here, Ahmed,” Sharpe said, but the boy shook his head.
“You’re my bleeding shadow,” Sharpe grumbled.
“Shadow?”
Sharpe pointed to his own shadow.
“Shadow.”
Ahmed grinned, all white teeth in a grubby face. He liked the word.
“Sharpe’s shadow!” he said.
Sajit emerged from the house with a pink silk parasol that he offered
to Sharpe. Sharpe refused, and the clerk, who had discarded his apron,
gratefully shaded himself from the fierce midday sun.
“I am sorry to be troublesome to you, sahib,” he said humbly.
“No trouble,” Sharpe said dourly, following the clerk. Ahmed came
behind, leading the Major’s mare.
“The boy need not come,” Sajit insisted, glancing behind at the horse
which seemed to alarm him.
“You tell him that,” Sharpe said, ‘but don’t blame me if he shoots you.
He’s very fond of shooting people.”
Sajit hurried on.
“I think I know, sahib, which is the bad man who is cheating us. He is
a fellow from Mysore. He gave me many chitties and swore you signed
them in front of him. If you would be so kind as to confirm or deny
his story, we shall be finished.”
“Then let’s find the bugger and be done with it.”
Sajit led Sharpe through the bullock lines where the wealthier herdsmen
had erected vast dark and sagging tents. Women slapped bread dough
beside small ox-dung fires, and more piles of the fuel dried in the sun
beside each tent entrance. Sharpe looked for Naig’s big green tents,
but he could not see them and he assumed that whoever had inherited
Naig’s business had packed up and gone.
“There, sahib, that is the bad man’s tent.” Sajit nervously led Sharpe
towards a brown tent that stood slightly apart from the others. He
stopped a few paces from the entrance and lowered his voice.