‘Aye, he would. Why don’t you just use a knife?’
‘Dan must have used a file because the notches are smooth. Pity to change it. I’ll file it, then I’ll go home to Normandy and hang Dan’s rifle over the kitchen hearth, and by God I hope I never take it down again.’
‘Farmer Sharpe?’ Harper grinned.
‘Why not? Worse things to be, Pat.’
‘Aye, that’s God’s truth. Hard to imagine it, though. What do you know about farming?’
‘Bugger all, but I’ll take Charlie Weller with me. He knows farming. You’d be welcome too.’
‘I’m not leaving Ireland again. Not ever. Maybe we’ll visit you, though.’
They retraced their steps, stopping only to buy bread and cheese to carry back to the warehouse where they discovered that Alan Fox had sent men to take away the horses. Their authorisation had been a note addressed to Sharpe which Charlie Weller had deciphered. ‘I didn’t know you could read, Charlie,’ Sharpe said.
‘I learned my letters long ago, Mister Sharpe, I still remember some of them. Did I do right?’
‘You did right.’ The brief note said the horses were going to a livery stable, and added that Fox would return as soon as possible. ‘So we wait,’ Sharpe said.
It was nightfall before Alan Fox came back. ‘You,’ he pointed at Sharpe, ‘and me. We’re going out.’ He was full of energy.
‘Just the two of us?’
‘Just the two of us.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Place called Champ de l’Alouette. The lark field!’
‘And why?’ Sharpe demanded.
‘Because I say so, Colonel.’
‘Now would you look at that,’ Harper intervened. He had picked up Sharpe’s rifle and opened the small cavity in the stock where Riflemen stored the leather patches in which their bullets were wrapped. He showed Sharpe a small round file, evidently snapped from a much longer rat-tail file. ‘Dan was always careful.’
‘We should leave now, Colonel,’ Fox insisted.
‘Do I need this?’ Sharpe took the rifle from Harper.
‘The man we’re going to visit is a royalist and a friend to Britain. You need no weapons.’
‘I’ll follow you,’ Harper said softly, ‘and bring some lads.’
Sharpe strapped on his sword belt. Fox might believe no weapons were needed, but Sharpe reckoned it would be dark before they returned, and only a fool walked unarmed through cities after dark. ‘Bit dramatic, Colonel?’ Fox commented when he saw the massive sword.
‘My job is to keep you alive,’ Sharpe said, and covered the scabbard with the long black oilcloth coat. He pushed the pistol into the coat’s deep pocket, then followed Fox into the street.
It was a long walk in the gathering dusk. They used the Pont Neuf to cross the river, then Fox led him into a tangle of streets going ever south and east. ‘The fellow we’re going to see,’ Fox explained as he walked briskly, ‘has been helpful in the past. He’s a royalist, though he worked for Bonaparte in the Ministère de la Guerre.’
‘Ministry of war,’ Sharpe offered the translation.
‘Indeed! And this fellow controlled the records of officers. Who serves where and in what rank. Much the same as those inky fellows do in the Horse Guards.’
‘How did you meet him?’ Sharpe asked.
‘He wanted to sell me a portrait. It was a rather ugly daub of his grandfather which he insisted was by Boucher, but it plainly wasn’t. But once he told me about his job I strung him along. Ended up paying him twenty guineas for a wretched painting that isn’t worth tuppence.’
‘And he’s expecting us?’
‘I sent word this afternoon, so yes. And he’ll be pleased to see us, I’ve no doubt. He likes our money, Sharpe. The horsemen of Saint George!’ He meant guineas, the golden coin which showed St George mounted on a horse.
Sharpe kept looking behind to see if Harper was following, but only glimpsed the Irishman a couple of times and worried that Harper and his men would get lost. Fox set a brisk pace, striding with his long legs and only occasionally pausing to decide which street to take. The streets were muddy, and Sharpe reckoned there was rain coming. The western clouds were dark, rimmed with the sunset. Men were lighting occasional oil lamps that hung from posts, though their light was so dim that Sharpe knew they would be useless to illuminate the night-time streets. ‘A thieves’ paradise,’ he commented.
‘Thieves and whores, Sharpe. Parisians! A wonderful place to live!’
They came to a wide grassy space not far from the city’s southern wall and Fox led him across to the far side. ‘We’re looking for number twenty,’ he said, ‘but the buggers jumble their house numbers.’
‘House numbers?’
‘It’s a new idea,’ Fox explained, ‘to give every house a number. They should be in order, one, two, three, four, but being bloody French they get it wrong. You’ll probably find number twenty between number six and number forty-three. Clever idea, though, to number the houses!’
‘You’ve not been here before?’
‘Only in broad daylight. Ah, that looks like the place!’ He pushed open an iron gate that creaked alarmingly on ungreased hinges and Sharpe found himself in a small garden facing a substantial stone-built house with dark shuttered windows. Fox rapped on the door with his stick. ‘Fellow’s name is Collignon, Félix Collignon. Treat him with respect, Sharpe.’
‘Of course.’
Fox rapped again. ‘Bugger must be asleep,’ he growled, then the door was pulled open by a maid who curtseyed. She seemed confused by Fox, who loomed over her, but then a middle-aged, grey-bearded man appeared in the candle-lit hall. ‘Monsieur Fox!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in! A pleasant surprise!’
‘Surprise?’ Fox asked as he took the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I sent you a note this afternoon!’
‘It never arrived, monsieur. Charlotte!’ He turned on the maid. ‘Did you see a letter this afternoon?’
‘Non, monsieur.’
‘These things get lost,’ Collignon said apologetically, ‘but come in, come in! With your friend.’
Sharpe was introduced, then followed the two men into a comfortable book-lined parlour lit by oil lamps. ‘Some wine, Charlotte,’ Collignon called over his shoulder, then invited his visitors to sit. ‘Can I take your coat, Colonel?’ Collignon asked in English.
‘I’ll keep it, sir,’ Sharpe said, and sat in a great leather armchair. A cat leaped onto his lap.
‘Do not mind Josephine,’ Collignon said, amused. ‘She likes to be petted.’