Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil. Bernard Cornwell
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as it happened, there was no need for the letter to go to the postal office in Caen, for the very next night Patrick Harper offered to carry the letter clean into London itself. ‘You’re not going to be fighting fit, sir, not for a month or two, and I’m worried about Isabella, so I am.’
‘She’s not in London,’ Sharpe said.
‘Mr Frederickson thinks it’ll be quicker to get a ship for Spain out of England, sir, than it will be from France. So I’ll go to England, see Mrs Sharpe, then fetch my own lass back from Spain. Then I’ll take her to Ireland.’ Harper smiled and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. ‘My God, sir, but I’ll be going home at last. Can you believe it?’
Sharpe felt a moment’s panic at losing this strong man. ‘Are you going home for ever?’
‘I’ll be back here, so I will.’ Harper tossed the seven-barrelled gun on to Sharpe’s bed. ‘I’ll leave that here, and my uniform too. It’s probably best not to travel in uniform.’
‘But you will be back?’ Sharpe eagerly sought the reassurance. ‘Because if I’m going to find Ducos I’ll need you.’
‘So you are going to find him, sir?’
‘If I have to go to the end of the bloody earth, Patrick, I’ll find that bastard.’ It was obvious now, from the evidence of the two fingers that had been hacked off Lassan’s dead body, that it must have been Pierre Ducos who had killed Madame Castineau’s brother. Lucille herself had accepted that verdict, and her acceptance had only increased the remorse she felt for her precipitate shooting of the Rifleman. Sharpe did not care whether she felt remorse or not, nor did he much care that her brother was dead, but he did care that he should find Ducos. ‘I’ll get well first,’ he now told Harper, ‘then I’ll hunt the bugger down.’
Harper smiled. ‘I’ll be back here to help you, sir, I promise.’
‘It would be harder without you,’ Sharpe said, which was his way of saying that he could not bear it if Harper deserted him now. Sharpe had always known that peace might separate their friendship, but the immediate prospect of that separation was astonishingly hard to bear.
‘I’ll be back by the summer, sir.’
‘So long as the provosts don’t catch you, Patrick.’
‘I’ll murder the bastards before they lay a hand on me.’
Harper left the next morning. It seemed strange not to hear his tuneless whistle or his loud cheerful voice about the château. On the other hand Sharpe was pleased that the Irishman was carrying the letter to Jane for she had always liked Harper and Sharpe was certain she would respond to the big man’s plea that she travel quickly into Normandy where her husband lay ill.
A week after Harper had left, Frederickson carried Sharpe downstairs so he could eat at a table which had been placed in the château’s yard. Madame Castineau, knowing that Sharpe disliked her, had kept a very politic distance from the Rifleman since the night when she had shot him. This night, though, she smiled a nervous welcome and said she hoped he would eat well. There was wine, bread, cheese, and a small piece of ham that Frederickson unobtrusively placed on Sharpe’s plate.
Sharpe looked at Frederickson’s plate, then at Madame Castineau’s. ‘Where’s yours, William?’
‘Madame doesn’t like ham.’ Frederickson cut himself some cheese.
‘But you like it. I’ve seen you kill for it.’
‘You need the nourishment,’ Frederickson insisted, ‘I don’t.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘Is this place short of money?’ He knew that Madame Castineau spoke no English, so had no qualms about talking thus in front of her.
‘They’re poor as church mice, sir. Rich in land, of course, but that doesn’t help much these days, and they rather emptied the coffers on Henri’s betrothal party.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Sharpe sliced the ham into three ludicrously small portions. His actions were very clumsy for he could still not use his left arm. He distributed the meat evenly between the three plates. Madame Castineau began to protest, but Sharpe growled her to silence. ‘Tell her my wife will bring some money from England,’ he said.
Frederickson translated, then offered Lucille’s reply which was to the effect that she would accept no charity.
‘Tell the bloody woman to take what’s offered.’
‘I’ll hardly tell her that,’ Frederickson protested.
‘Damn her pride, anyway.’
Lucille blanched at the anger in Sharpe’s voice, then hurried into a long conversation in French with Frederickson. Sharpe scowled and picked at his food. Frederickson tried to include him in the conversation, but as it was about the château’s history, and the styles of architecture that history reflected, Sharpe had nothing to offer. He leaned his chair back and prayed that Jane would come soon. Surely, he persuaded himself, her previous silence had been an accident of the uncertain delivery of mail to the army. She would have already spoken to d’Alembord, and would doubtless welcome Harper’s arrival. Indeed, it was probable that Harper was already in London and Sharpe felt a welcome and warm hope that Jane herself might arrive at the château in less than a week.
Sharpe was suddenly aware that Frederickson had asked him a question. He let the chair fall forward and was rewarded with an agonizing stab of pain down his plastered right leg. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he cursed, then, with a resentful glance at the widow, ‘I’m sorry. What is it, William?’
‘Madame Castineau is concerned because she told the Paris lawyer that we murdered her brother.’
‘So she damn well should be.’
Frederickson ignored Sharpe’s surly tone. ‘She wonders whether she should now write to Monsieur Roland and tell him that we are innocent.’
Sharpe glanced at the Frenchwoman and was caught by her very clear, very calm gaze. ‘No,’ he said decisively.
‘Non?’ Lucille frowned.
‘I think it best,’ Sharpe suddenly felt awkward under her scrutiny, ‘if the French authorities do not know where to find us. They still believe we stole their gold.’
Frederickson translated, listened to Lucille’s response, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Madame says her letter will surely persuade the authorities of our innocence.’
‘No!’ Sharpe insisted a little too loudly.
‘Why not?’ Frederickson asked.
‘Because the damned French have already faked evidence against us, so why should we trust them now? Tell Madame I have no faith in the honesty of her countrymen so I would be most grateful if, for so long as we are in her house, she would keep our presence a secret from Paris.’
Frederickson made a tactful translation, then offered Sharpe Lucille’s reply. ‘Madame says she would like to inform the authorities who was responsible for the murder of her mother and brother. She wants Major Ducos punished.’
‘Tell her I will punish Ducos. Tell her it will be my pleasure to punish Ducos.’
The tone of Sharpe’s voice made any translation unnecessary. Lucille looked at Sharpe’s face with its slashing scar that gave him such a mocking look, and she tried to imagine her brother, her gentle and kind brother, facing this awful man in battle, and then she tried to imagine what kind of woman would marry such a man. Frederickson began to interpret Sharpe’s reply, but Lucille shook her head. ‘I understood, Captain. Tell the Major that I will be for ever grateful if he can bring Major Ducos to justice.’
‘I’m not doing it for her,’ Sharpe said in curt dismissal, ‘but for me.’
There was an embarrassed pause, then Frederickson studiedly returned the conversation to the château’s history. Within minutes he and Lucille