‘Simmerson.’ Lord Fenner sat on the leather bench and disdainfully put his heels on the front cushion. He stared with distaste at the public enclosure opposite, then looked down at his immaculately polished boots in which, distorted by the curve of his toecaps, he could see twin reflections of his thin, distinguished face. ‘Well?’
Sir Henry, sweating in his uniform, smiled beneath the tasselled point of his bicorne hat. ‘My Lord.’ He lifted a leather bag onto the seat between them and opened its flap. Inside were two, big, red-leather bound books. ‘I assured you they were safe.’
‘So I see.’ Fenner’s voice, even though he tried to keep it calm and aloof, betrayed his relief. ‘The correspondence is there?’
‘Everything is safe.’ Sir Henry, whose bile and phlegm on hearing that Richard Sharpe still lived had not been relieved by three blood-lettings performed by his doctor, pushed the books towards Lord Fenner. ‘I can assure you, sir, they’re entirely safe in my house.’
Lord Fenner closed the flap as if the very sight of the incriminating accounts would harm him. ‘Do I have to remind you, Simmerson, that I have more to lose than you?’ Simmerson, insulted, said nothing. Fenner growled. ‘Where is Girdwood?’
‘He’s joining me here, my Lord.’
Fenner shrugged, as if he did not care. ‘And Sharpe?’ Lord Fenner asked the question without hope of an answer. He stared from beneath the brim of his silk hat at a Household officer, plumes lifting elegantly to the rhythm of his trotting horse. ‘Where, in God’s name, is Sharpe?’
His Lordship had discovered half of the missing Battalion, without their attestations, marooned in the Chelmsford barracks. Yet of the other half, and of Major Sharpe himself, there was no sign. Lord Fenner, on hearing that Sir William Lawford had not kept Sharpe silent and inactive, had lost his temper; swearing at Lawford that he was a traitorous fool, and then, scenting the danger to himself, had begun to hunt for his enemy. Orders had been given for Sharpe’s arrest, orders that had not been bruited abroad too loudly, for Fenner did not want to provoke questions from the Prince of Wales. ‘What is he doing?’
Sir Henry, whose hatred for Sharpe had not diminished over the years, frowned. ‘Chatham or Portsmouth?’
‘We’ve looked there. Besides, he can’t sail without orders! He must know that, unless he’s mad!’
‘He is mad.’ Sir Henry ran a finger beneath his stock, then wiped the sweat onto the bench beside him. ‘He’s also insolent. I recommended his dismissal in ’09, but my voice was not heeded.’
Lord Fenner listened to the complaint, as he had a dozen times before, and ignored it. He now felt that his first burst of temper on discovering that Sharpe still tried to fight him had been unnecessary. He had weighed the risks, and thereby drawn consolation. He had concern for the missing men, but not undue concern. He had always known that the scheme might have to end, and he had insured against it. The official records in the War Office and Horse Guards would show that the Second Battalion of the South Essex was a genuine Holding Battalion, and the only incriminating documents were the two record books which, as he had insisted, were now in his possession.
Which only left the missing men as an embarrassment, yet what damage could they cause? They knew nothing. The officers might, at risk of punishment, admit to taking money, but not one of them could prove that Lord Fenner was involved, for his Lordship had taken great care to stay deep in the shadows, letting others show themselves and earn the money he craved so badly. No one, apart from Simmerson and Girdwood knew the extent of his involvement. Only Sharpe, outside of Foulness, was a danger to his Lordship, and without these account books Sharpe was helpless.
And Major Sharpe would be silenced. If the Prince of Wales insisted that he be retained in the army, then Lord Fenner would accept Sir William Lawford’s proposal and send Sharpe to the war in America as a Rifle officer. Fenner smiled at the thought. ‘We’ll let the Americans kill him, eh?’