Sharpe tapped the glass scrap against the lantern’s metal, then scratched it on wood to make a noise like rats’ claws. He reached as far as he could, tapping the glass closer to Braithwaite. Braithwaite would be listening, trying to make sense of the small noises, trying to contain a rising terror.
“By what justification,” Braithwaite asked, his voice a tone higher, “can mere birth bestow such good fortune on one man and deny it to another? Are we lesser men because our parents were poor? Must we forever tug the forelock because their ancestors were brutes in plate armor who stole a fortune? You and I should combine, Sharpe. I beg you, think on it.”
Sharpe was lying flat on the deck now, reaching toward Braithwaite, grinding the glass on the rough planking, taking the sound ever nearer to the secretary who tried to see something, anything, in the stygian darkness.
“I never wrote to Colonel Wallace as I was ordered to,” Braithwaite said in desperation. “That was a favor to you, Sharpe. Can you not apprehend that we’re on the same side?” He paused, waiting for an answer to come from the pitch darkness, but there was only the small scraping sound on the deck in front of him. “Speak, Sharpe!” Braithwaite pleaded. “Or kill Lord William.” Braithwaite’s voice was almost sobbing with fear now. “Her ladyship will thank you, Sharpe. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sharpe? Answer me, Sharpe, for God’s sake, answer me!”
Sharpe tapped the glass fragment on the deck. He could hear Braithwaite’s hoarse breathing. The secretary lunged out a foot, hoping to find Sharpe, but the shoe struck nothing. “I beg you, Sharpe, think of me as a friend! I mean you no harm. How could I? When I so admire your achievements? Her ladyship misconstrued my words, nothing else. She is finely strung, Sharpe, and I am your friend, Sharpe, your friend!”
Sharpe tossed the glass scrap so that it rattled among the casks somewhere in the hold’s starboard side. Braithwaite gave a yelp of terror, but held his fire, then sobbed as he heard more small noises. “Talk to me, Sharpe. We are not brutes, you and I. We have things in common, we should talk. Talk to me!”
Sharpe gathered a handful of the broken glass, paused, then threw them toward the secretary who, as the small scraps struck him, screamed and thrust the pistol blindly forward and pulled the trigger. The small gun flashed blindingly in the hold and the bullet smacked harmlessly into a timber. Sharpe stood and walked forward, waited for the echo of the shot to die away. “One bullet, Oxford man,” he said, “then it was my turn.”
“No!” Braithwaite flailed wildly in the dark, but Sharpe kicked him hard, then dropped on him, pinioned his arms and turned the secretary over so that he lay on his belly.
Sharpe sat on the small of Braithwaite’s back. “Now tell me, Oxford man,” he asked softly, “just what you wanted of Lady Grace?”
“I’ve written it all down, Sharpe.”
“Written what down, Oxford man?” Sharpe had Braithwaite’s arms held tight.
“Everything! About you and Lady Grace. I’ve left the letter among Lord William’s papers with instructions to open it if anything should happen to me.”
“I don’t believe you, Oxford man.”
Braithwaite gave a sudden heave, trying to release his arms. “I’m not a fool, Sharpe. You think I wouldn’t take precautions? Of course I’ve left a letter.” He paused. “Just let me go,” he went on, “and we can discuss this.”
“So if I let you go,” Sharpe said, still holding tight to Braithwaite’s arms, “you’ll fetch the letter back from Lord William?”
“Of course I will. I promise.”
“And you’ll apologize to Lady Grace? Tell her you were wrong about your suspicions?”
“Of course I’ll do that. Willingly! Gladly!”
“But you weren’t wrong, Oxford man,” Sharpe said, stooping close to Braithwaite’s head, “her and me are lovers. Sweat and nakedness in the dark, Oxford man. I couldn’t have you telling lies to her, saying it never happened, could I? And now you know my secret I’m not sure I can let you go after all.”