The battalion sang as it marched and Sharpe thought ruefully of Dan Hagman, dead and buried on the ridge at Waterloo, poor Dan, he had liked to sing and had sung well.
‘I owe you thanks, Colonel Sharpe,’ a voice said, and Sharpe turned to see that one of the released prisoners was riding towards him. It was the man he had been sent to rescue; an extraordinarily tall man, well over Sharpe’s height, who was mounted on a small mare that had belonged to Colonel Gourgand’s wife.
‘My pleasure, sir,’ Sharpe said. Major Vincent had made it plain that Sharpe was not to interrogate the freed prisoner, and he kept his voice guarded.
‘Alan Fox,’ the tall man said, holding out a hand. He still wore the grubby white overalls.
Sharpe shook the hand, but said nothing.
‘That bastard Gourgand was about to shoot us,’ Fox said.
‘So we thought, sir,’ Sharpe said, thinking it safest to use the honorific. Fox had a refined accent, sharp as glass.
‘The Emperor sent orders that we were to die. Know what saved us, Sharpe?’
‘My battalion, sir.’
‘Before that,’ Fox said. ‘The poor bugger couldn’t get his guillotine to work! He had it made in the town and the blade got stuck. Poor Gourgand, he was so looking forward to seeing it back at work, but after the first dozen executions the wretched thing went wrong! Every time they released the blade the damn thing stuck halfway down.’
‘It worked well enough for me, sir,’ Sharpe said, remembering the harsh noise as the weighted blade slid down the grooves of the pillars. The blade had struck with a sudden crunching sound and Gourgand’s head had toppled onto the floor, rolled, and then stared up at Sharpe with a reproachful look that had lasted for a few seconds before the eyes closed.
‘That was the repaired machine,’ Fox said cheerfully, ‘it was only finished yesterday. And thank you for razoring the bastard’s head off. He was a vile man.’
‘It was a vile death,’ Sharpe said.
‘No more than he deserved! I wish I could have seen it! So off to Paris now?’
‘So I’m told, sir.’
‘It will be good to be back there.’
‘You live there, sir?’
‘On and off, Sharpe, on and off. Usually in London, but once the Emperor was shovelled off to Elba I bought a place in Paris.’
‘And didn’t escape in time?’
‘I rather thought they’d leave me alone. Damn silly of me, of course. Next thing I knew there were a dozen of Boney’s skull-splitters arresting me! After that it was a month in the Conciergerie before they moved us all to Ham.’
‘What took you to Paris, sir?’ Sharpe asked, suspecting that it was a question he should not have asked and prepared to disbelieve whatever Fox answered.
‘Artworks, Sharpe!’ Fox answered enthusiastically.
‘Artworks?’ Sharpe sounded dubious.
‘Paintings, sculptures, the treasures of civilisation! Are you an art lover, Sharpe?’
‘The Baker rifle’s a work of art, sir, and I love that.’
Fox ignored Sharpe’s comment. ‘I trade in artworks, Sharpe. There’s money in England these days despite the damn war, and walls need decoration! I mostly bought landscapes and portraits and sold them to the nouveau riche in Britain. If you ever need a fake ancestor, then ask me, I’ve got hundreds of them stored in a warehouse.’
‘If they’re still there,’ Sharpe commented sourly.
‘There is that. Buggers have probably stolen the lot.’
‘So you’re in Paris to buy art?’
‘Why ever not? But that wasn’t why I was sent there.’
‘Sent?’ Sharpe probed.
‘I was sent to do a job, Sharpe, and was damned silly to stay on when the Emperor came back from Elba. Pure arrogance on my part, but the job was only half done.’
‘And the job, sir?’ Sharpe asked, suspecting he would get no answer.
‘Over the last few years, Sharpe,’ Fox went on happily, ‘the bloody French have stolen almost all Europe’s most valuable works of art. Sculptures, paintings, you name it, they stole it and crammed it into the Musée Napoléon. It’s a treasure trove of stolen art! But a year ago, while bloody Bonaparte was cooling his heels in Elba, the allies agreed that all the stolen works must be returned to their rightful owners, and my job was to identify those works. Make a list! Works by Michelangelo, Correggio, Veronese, Titian! All the great names! And, as you can imagine, the bloody Frogs don’t like what I’m doing! They believe the works should be in Paris, which they arrogantly consider to be the cradle of civilisation. So the buggers arrested me!’
‘For making a list?’
‘For exposing their foul crime, Sharpe. Have you ever been to Paris?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It’s a splendid city! Stinks like a bad drain, of course, but what city doesn’t? But when you get there make a point of going to the Musée Napoléon to admire the art.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Sharpe said, thinking that the last thing he would do in Paris was look at old paintings, but he was also thinking that Fox’s explanation made no sense. Why send a battalion to Ham to rescue a man who had merely been making a list of stolen paintings?
‘You like food, Sharpe?’ Fox asked abruptly.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Then you’ll let me thank you for the rescue by buying you a meal at Le Procope. Boney likes to eat there, though all he ever orders is the roast chicken.’
‘I look forward to it, sir.’
‘We’ll eat at the Emperor’s own table,’ Fox said, ‘and damn him to eternity.’
‘All well, Fox?’ Major Vincent, seeing the tall man deep in conversation with Sharpe, had hurried his horse to join them.
‘Just inviting Colonel Sharpe to Le Procope, Vincent. You must join us too.’
‘With pleasure!’
Alan Fox spurred ahead, leaving a suspicious Vincent riding with Sharpe. ‘You questioned him, Sharpe?’
‘I did,’ Sharpe confessed.
‘And what did he say?’
‘That he was in Paris making a list of stolen art, Major.’
‘That’s all?’ Vincent enquired sharply.
‘That’s all.’
‘And it’s an important job,’ Vincent went on, sounding relieved. ‘We have an agreement with the allies to restore their stolen art.’
‘And that’s why two of my men died at Ham?’
‘There is a war on, Sharpe,’ Vincent answered testily.
Sharpe nodded towards Fox, who was trotting ahead of the battalion. ‘So why didn’t the silly bugger leave Paris when the Emperor returned?’ he asked. ‘He doesn’t strike me as a fool.’
‘He’s no fool,’ Vincent said quietly.
‘So he was ordered to stay,’ Sharpe said.
Vincent rode in silence for a few paces. ‘Curiosity kills cats, Sharpe.’
‘Two of my men died, Major, and one of them was a good Sergeant. I’d like to know why.’