Montmorin and Bursay left and Dalton shook his head. “This is a sad business, Sharpe, a sad business.”
The noise overhead, from Pohlmann’s cabins, had stopped and Sharpe looked up. “Do you mind if I make a reconnaissance, sir?”
“A reconnaissance? Not on deck, I hope? Good Lord, Sharpe, do you think they’d really shoot us? It seems very uncivilized, don’t you think?”
Sharpe did not answer, but instead went out into the passageway and, followed by Dalton, climbed the narrow stairs to the roundhouse. The door to the cuddy was open and inside Sharpe found a disconsolate Lieutenant Tufnell staring at an almost empty room. The chairs had been taken, the chintz curtains removed and the chandelier carried away. Only the table which was fixed to the deck and had presumably been too heavy to move in a hurry still remained. “The furniture belonged to the captain,” Tufnell said, “and they’ve stolen it.”
“What else have they stolen?” Dalton asked.
“Nothing of mine,” Tufnell said. “They’ve taken cordage and spars, of course, and some food, but they’ve left the cargo. They can sell that, you see, in Mauritius.”
Sharpe went back into the passage and so to Pohlmann’s door which, though shut, was not locked and all his suspicions were confirmed when he pushed open the door, for the cabin was empty. The two silk-covered sofas were gone, Mathilde’s harp had disappeared, the low table was no more and only the sideboard and the bed, both monstrously heavy, were still nailed to the deck. Sharpe crossed to the sideboard and pulled open its doors to find it had been stripped of everything except empty bottles. The sheets, blankets and pillows were gone from the bed, leaving only a mattress. “Damn him,” Sharpe said.
“Damn who?” Dalton had followed Sharpe into the cabin.
“The Baron von Dornberg, sir.” Sharpe decided not to reveal Pohlmann’s true identity, for Dalton would doubtless demand to know why Sharpe had not uncovered the impostor before, and Sharpe did not think that he could answer that question satisfactorily. Nor did he know whether such a revelation could have saved the ship, for Cromwell was just as guilty as Pohlmann. Sharpe led the major and Tufnell down the stairs to Cromwell’s quarters to find them swept as clean as Pohlmann’s cabin. The dirty clothes were gone, the books had been taken from the shelves and the chronometer and barometer were no longer in the small cupboard. The big chest had vanished. “And damn goddamn bloody Cromwell too,” Sharpe said. “Damn him to hell.” He did not even bother to look in the cabin occupied by Pohlmann’s “servant,” for he knew that would be as bare as this. “They sold the ship, sir,” he said to Dalton.
“They did what?” The major looked appalled.
“They sold the ship. The baron and Cromwell. Damn them.” He kicked the table leg. “I can’t prove it, sir, but it was no accident we lost the convoy, and no accident that we met the Revenant.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “Cromwell believes the war is lost. He thinks we’re going to be living under French sufferance, if not French rule, so he sold himself to the winners.”
“No!” Lieutenant Tufnell protested.
“I can’t believe it, Sharpe,” the major said, but his face showed that he did believe it. “I mean, the baron, yes! He’s a foreigner. But Cromwell?”
“I’ve no doubt it was the baron’s idea, sir. He probably talked to all the convoy’s captains when they were waiting in Bombay and found his man in Cromwell. Now they’ve stolen the passengers’ jewelery, sold the ship and deserted. Why else has the baron gone to the Revenant? Why didn’t he stay with the rest of the passengers?” He almost called him Pohlmann, but remembered just in time.
Dalton sat on the empty table. “Cromwell was looking after a watch for me,” he said sadly. “Rather a valuable one that belonged to my dear father. It kept uncertain time, but it was precious to me.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Nothing we can do,” Dalton said bleakly. “We’ve been fleeced, Sharpe, fleeced!”
“Not by Cromwell, surely!” Tufnell said in wonderment. “He was so proud of being English!”