Sharpe’s Prey. Bernard Cornwell

want to know the purpose of our visit, but we shall merely say we are visiting families. What could be more innocent?’ Lavisser smiled, walked on and Willsen, reassured, followed the tall guardsman across the street. A crossing sweeper, a skinny boy with a running sore on his forehead, sprinted to brush a horse dropping out of Lavisser’s path. The guardsman spun a careless sixpence towards the lad, then led Willsen down an alleyway. ‘Would it offend you if we visited Hanssen by his servants’ entrance?’ Lavisser asked. ‘Only with the Baltic so tremulous you can be sure that the damned Frogs will be watching his front door.’

      ‘The French? In London?’

      ‘They have agents everywhere,’ Lavisser said, ‘even London. But not, I think, in this alley.’

      The alley was noisome and dark. It culminated in a gate that stood ajar and led into a bleak narrow yard that was made even darker by the day’s dense clouds and the surrounding walls. The yard’s cobbles were half covered in rubbish that was being loaded onto a handcart by a tall, heavy-set man who seemed surprised to see two red-coated officers invade his grubby domain. He hastily stood aside, snatched off his ragged hat and tugged his forelock as the two officers stepped gingerly through the yard’s filth.

      ‘Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?’ Lavisser asked.

      ‘I’m a married man, Captain,’ Willsen said severely.

      ‘Do call me John, please.’

      Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. ‘I’ll not stay after supper,’ he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.

      Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defence against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upwards with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. ‘I don’t think you need that, Harry,’ he said.

      ‘You …’ Willsen tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.

      ‘I do apologize, my dear Willsen,’ Lavisser said, ‘but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.’ The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. ‘Well done,’ Lavisser said warmly.

      ‘Easy work,’ the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.

      ‘He’s still alive.’ Lavisser frowned at Willsen.

      ‘Not for long, he ain’t,’ the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. ‘Not now, he ain’t.’

      ‘You are an example to us all, Barker,’ Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. ‘He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?’

      Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. ‘You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?’ he asked.

      ‘They seem tediously intent on giving me company,’ Lavisser said airily, ‘but time is short now, very short, and I doubt they’ll find anyone. But if they do, Barker, then you must deal with the new man just as you dealt with this one.’ Lavisser seemed fascinated by the dead Willsen, for he could not take his eyes from him. ‘You are a great comfort to me, Barker, and you will like it in Denmark.’

      ‘I will, sir?’

      ‘They are a very trusting people,’ Lavisser said, still unable to take his gaze from Willsen’s body. ‘We shall be as ravening wolves among the woolliest of baa-lambs.’ He finally managed to look away from the corpse, raised a languid hand and edged past the handcart. He made bleating noises as he went down the alley.

      The rain fell harder. It was the end of July, 1807, yet it felt more like March. It would be a poor harvest, there was a new widow in Kent and the Honourable John Lavisser went to Almack’s where he lost considerably more than a thousand guineas, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now. He left worthless notes of hand promising to pay his debts and walked away. He was on his way to glory.

      Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Mister Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor – he was not exactly a client – was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. ‘It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,’ he said heavily.

      ‘I fear so, Mister Brown.’

      ‘July!’ Brown said. ‘July indeed! Yet it’s more like March!’

      ‘A fire in July!’ Mister Belling said. ‘Unheard of!’

      The fire, a mean heap of sullen coals, burned in a blackened hearth above which hung a cavalry sabre. It was the only decoration in the panelled room and hinted at the office’s military nature. Messrs Belling and Brown of Cheapside were army agents and their business was to look after the finances of officers who served abroad. They also acted as brokers for men wanting to buy or sell commissions, but this wet, chill July afternoon was bringing them no fees. ‘Alas!’ Mister Brown spread his hands. His fingers were very white, plump and beautifully manicured. He flexed them as though he was about to play a harpsichord. ‘Alas,’ he said again, looking at the green-jacketed officer who glowered from the opposite side of the table.

      ‘It is the nature of your commission,’ Mister Belling explained.

      ‘Indeed it is,’ Mister Brown intervened, ‘the nature, so to speak, of your commission.’ He smiled ruefully.

      ‘It’s as good as anyone else’s commission,’ the officer said belligerently.

      ‘Oh, better!’ Mister Brown said cheerfully. ‘Would you not agree, Mister Belling?’

      ‘Far better,’ Mister Belling said enthusiastically. ‘A battlefield commission, Mister Sharpe? ’Pon my soul, but that’s a rare thing. Rare!’

      ‘An admirable thing!’ Mister Brown added.

      ‘Most admirable,’ Mister Belling agreed energetically. ‘A battlefield commission! Up from the ranks! Why, it’s a …’ He paused, trying to think what it was. ‘It’s a veritable achievement!’

      ‘But it is not’ – Mister Brown spoke delicately, his plump hands opening and closing like a butterfly’s wings – ‘fungible.’

      ‘Precisely.’ Mister Belling’s manner exuded relief that his partner had found the exact word to settle the matter. ‘It is not fungible, Mister Sharpe.’

      No one spoke for a few seconds. A coal hissed, rain spattered on the office window and a carter’s whip cracked in the street, which was filled with the rumble, crash and squeal of wagons and carriages.

      ‘Fungible?’ Lieutenant Richard Sharpe asked.

      ‘The commission cannot be exchanged for cash,’ Mister Belling explained. ‘You