He had left Harper in Southwark, eating a huge breakfast and regaling Isabella and his relatives with stories of the chase over the marshland. The Sergeant, as soon as breakfast was done, was taking a message to the Rose Tavern for d’Alembord and Price. Sharpe fervently hoped that those two officers had stayed safely out of Lord Fenner’s notice.
Sharpe stopped in St Alban’s Street and, from Mr Hopkinson, took thirty guineas of the gold he had left with the army agent. He had money again, he wore a proper uniform, and he was ready for battle against Girdwood, Simmerson, and all the men who made their profits from the camp at Foulness.
He had thought long, as the Thames barge lumbered towards London on an incoming tide, just how he should fight the battle. Harper had been all for an immediate descent on the camp, both men in uniform, but, tempting as the prospect was, Sharpe had decided against it. Instead, with some trepidation, he would go to the authorities. He would turn the bureaucracy, behind which Simmerson and Girdwood hid, against them. He would return to Foulness, but in his own time, and on different business; the business of a golden-haired girl who had helped him escape.
He crossed Whitehall, stepped round a pile of horse-dung that was being swept from the Horse Guards’ courtyard, returned the salute of the sentries, and nodded at the porter who opened the door to him. Another porter, resplendent in his uniform, eyed Sharpe suspiciously as he came to the long table where he must state his business. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Major Richard Sharpe. South Essex.’
‘Of course, sir. You was here a few days back.’ The man, as big as Harper, had lost one eye. He was an old soldier, discharged wounded from the war, and, because Sharpe was a fighting man and not a uniformed administrator, he unbent enough to give the Rifleman a smile. ‘And what can we do for you today, sir?’
‘I’ve come to see the Duke of York.’
The smile went. ‘At what time, sir?’ The question was polite, but there was an undoubted warning in the words.
‘I don’t have an appointment.’
The porter, rocking slowly up and down on the balls of his feet, stared with his one good eye at the Rifleman. ‘You don’t have an appointment, sir?’ He said each word very slowly and distinctly.
‘No.’
‘His Royal Highness, the Duke of York,’ the porter said as though the King’s second son was on intimate terms with him, ‘will see no one without an appointment, sir. If you’d like to write your business, sir.’ He waved an imperious hand towards a writing desk that was set beneath the windows which opened onto Whitehall.
‘I shall wait,’ Sharpe said.
He refused to be dissuaded, just as he refused to put on paper the nature of his business. He insisted that he would wait until the Commander in Chief would see him, sat in a leather armchair beside an empty grate and turned a deaf ear to all the porter’s entreaties.
Men came and went in the hallway. Some looked curiously at the Rifle officer; others, sensing that he was being importunate, looked hurriedly away. Sharpe himself, as the great clock by the stairway ticked heavily through the morning, gazed up at a great oil painting above the fireplace. It showed the battle of Blenheim, and Sharpe stared at it for so long that it almost seemed as if the red lines of British infantry were moving before his eyes. Not much had changed, he thought, in a hundred years. The infantry lines were thinner now, but battlefields looked much the same. He yawned.
‘Major Sharpe?’
A staff officer, perfectly uniformed, smiled at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Captain Christopher Messines. Most honoured, sir. Would you like to step this way?’
The porter gave Sharpe a look that seemed to say “I told you so,” as Sharpe followed Messines through a doorway. They went down a hallway hung with paintings, and into a small reception room that looked out to the parade ground. Messines gestured to a chair. ‘Coffee, Major? Tea, perhaps? Sherry, even?’
‘Coffee.’
Messines went to a sideboard where silver pots waited and, into two tiny, fragile cups decorated with blue flowers, poured coffee. ‘You wanted to see His Royal Highness? Do please sit, Major. No need for ceremony. A water-biscuit, perhaps? The weather really is splendid, isn’t it? Quite wonderful!’ Messines seemed fascinated by the two crusts of blood on Sharpe’s cheeks, but was far too well bred to think of asking how they had come to be there.