Sharpe was close to the house now. He had noticed that the empty palanquin had been carried down a narrow and dark passage that led alongside the building, evidently giving access to a courtyard at the rear of the house, and he was considering going down the passage and coming back through the building to approach Nana Rao from the rear, but any of the beggars who ventured near the passage were beaten back by the bodyguards. The petitioners were being allowed onto the steps in small groups, but the beggars were expected to wait until the main business of the evening was over.
Sharpe suspected it would be a long night, but he was content to wait with his cloak hood pulled over his face. He squatted against the wall, watching for an opportunity to dash into the passageway beside the house, but then a servant who had been guarding the outer gate pushed through the crowd and spoke in Panjit’s ear. For an instant the merchant looked alarmed and a silence fell over the courtyard, but then he whispered to Nana Rao who just shrugged. Panjit clapped his hands and shouted at the bodyguards who energetically drove the petitioners back to form an open passage between the gate and the steps. Someone was plainly coming to the house and Nana Rao, nervous of their appearance, stepped into the black shadow at the back of the porch.
The way was clear now for Sharpe to go down the passage beside the house, but curiosity held him in place. There was a commotion in the alley, sounding like the jeers and scramble that always accompanied a band of constables marching through the lesser streets of London, then the outer gate was pushed fully open and Sharpe could only stare in astonishment.
A group of British sailors stood in the gate, led by a naval captain, a post captain no less, who was immaculate in cocked hat, blue frock coat, silk breeches and stockings, silver-buckled shoes and slim sword. The lantern light reflected from the heavy gold bullion of his twin epaulettes. He took off his hat, revealing thick blond hair, smiled and bowed. “Do I have the honor,” he asked, “of coming to the house of Panjit Lashti?”
Panjit nodded cautiously. “This is the house,” he said in English.
The naval captain put on his cocked hat. “I have come,” he announced in a friendly voice that had a distinct Devonshire accent, “for Nana Rao.”
“He is not here,” Panjit answered.
The captain glanced at the red-robed figure in the porch shadows. “His ghost will do very well.”
“I have answered you,” Panjit said, defiance now making his voice angry. “He is not here. He is dead.”
The captain smiled. “My name is Chase,” he said courteously, “Captain Joel Chase of His Britannic Majesty’s navy, and I would be obliged if Nana Rao would come with me.”
“His body was burned,” Panjit declared fiercely, “and his ashes have gone to the river. Why do you not seek him there?”
“He’s no more dead than you or I,” Chase said, then waved his men forward. He had brought a dozen seamen, all identically dressed in white duck trousers, red and white hooped shirts and straw hats stiffened with pitch and circled with red and white ribbons. They wore long pigtails and carried thick staves which Sharpe guessed were capstan bars. Their leader was a huge man whose bare forearms were thick with tattoos, while beside him was a Negro, every bit as tall, who carried his capstan bar as though it were a hazel wand. “Nana Rao”—Chase abandoned the pretense that the merchant was dead—”you owe me a deal of money and I have come to collect it.”
“What is your authority to be here?” Panjit demanded. The crowd, most of whom did not understand English, watched the sailors nervously, but Panjit’s bodyguards, who outnumbered Chase’s men and were just as well armed, seemed eager to be loosed on the seamen.
“My authority,” Chase said grandly, “is my empty purse.” He smiled. “You surely do not wish me to use force?”
“Use force, Captain Chase,” Panjit answered just as grandly, “and I shall have you in front of a magistrate by dawn.”