Meeting at Headquarters

The General raised his eyebrows.

"Did the boy confess?"

Brandon cursed inwardly. It was so hard to read the General, even after quite some time in his service.

"Yes, he did. After the silver was found in his pack."

Sir Arthur shook his head and wentto sit behind his desk.

"Well then, there was nothing to be done. A self-confessed thief is a self-confessed thief and therefore must be dismissed. Did he mention his motive at all?"

Brandon stood a bit awkward in front of the General's desk. He thought of the boy trying to be brave and the father trying to explaine.

"No, he didn't." But he needn't to as it was always the same story. He shrugged and sighed again. "One can only guess."

He straightened and tried to make his expresseion a business one again.

"Was that really Lord Pumphrey with Lieutenant Sharpe in the dining room just now?" he asked, hoping the General would let the poor servant-boy's case rest as it was delt with anyway. "I didn't know he was to arrive so soon."

"It was," Sir Arthur said darkly. "And I didn't know he was here until just now. He was scheduled to arrive tomorrow or the day after - but it seems our man on the quayside failed to spot him."

The words held a dry sarcasm and he snorted.

"Can't think how anybody could miss the confounded peacock!"

"Indeed" he said at the General's last remark, sympathising with his obvious dislike of Pumphrey. He couldn't blame him for it as the Lord was quite an extravagant figure, to put it mildly.

"But what does he want from Sharpe?" he asked, not being able to imagine what the rough Lieutenant might possibly wish to discuss with Pumphrey.

Pumphrey turned back to the table, not having seen the servant again. He shrugged.

"Ah well," He nibbled daintily at the roll. "I suppose these lovely buns will have to suffice."

He looked at Sharpe who was eating his with gusto and almost shivered, allowing his thoughts full rein for once in this public, yet strangely private setting in the dining room with a closed but unlocked door.

Sharpe was looking at him with a half curious, half embarrassed look. He grinned inwardly. It was one of his best kept secrets, he thought. His ability to keep some of the most feared military men off-balance.

"This is fortuitous Richard. Am I to surmise by our meeting that Sir Arthur has asked you to assist us again?"

"Lord knows," Sir Arthur grumbled, although he had a very good idea what Pumphrey wanted from Sharpe - could guess as much from some of the comments passed in Copenhagen - but he owed it to Sharpe not to say such things in public. "But Sharpe is not my main concern. The reason for Pumphrey's presence here at all is what worries me, considering neither the Foreign Office or Horse Guards has seen fit to enlighten me, which means we must wait until he see fit to tell us."

Which would mean having to meet with the man, which was not a prospect Sir Arthur looked forward to.

Brandon knew that not knowing what was going on was a situation Sir Arthur was highly unconfortable with. And that getting enlightened depended on some one like Pumphrey made it even worse.

"So you have to receive him sooner or later." he stated. "Lets see how to prepare best for it."

He took a chair and seated himself in front of the General's desk. He didn't have a plan really or any clue where this might lead to but had to try anyway. As a meeting with Pumphrey was not avoidable he thought it would be best to go into it as well prepared as possible.

"Do we know about anything that might have brought us the honour of Lord Pumphrey's presence? Or do we know some one who might know something?"

"Nothing and no one," Sir Arthur said, leaning back in his chair and glancing out of the window. "You know as well as I do that the Foreign Office only answers to itself, and nor are their agents our agents."

He frowned.

"Although he may mention something to Sharpe. Depends on how friendly he is feeling at this particular time."

Brandon sighed. Of course he knew about the ways the Foreign Office behaved towards the Army.
And Sharpe? Maybe Pumphrey would mention something to him, maybe he wouldn't. It seemed they had to wait for Pumphrey to reveal to them whatever he intended to reveal.

"You were looking for me earlier, Sir. What was it that you wanted?"

Sharpe had a strange liking for the man, molly or not, yet he knew there was more to him than surface appearance would suggest. Which meant he could easily be out of his depth. Still waters were apt to run very deep indeed beneath those interesting waistcoats.

"I have barely seen Sir Arthur since he arrived here the other day," he answered instead, keeping to himself the note with its brief instructions to meet the General in private as soon as possible which Padstowe had handed him at dinner not so long ago.

He still had to arrange that meeting, but a lot had happened in those few days. He hoped Sir Arthur wouldn't give him a dressing-down for not meeting with him immediately, or as soon after 'immediately' as physically possible.

"I was just wondering whether you had yet seen the reports sent in from our scouts up North," the General said, folding his hands over the desk. "The make for very interesting reading."

Pumphrey finished the roll he was eating and wiped his fingers.

"Ah. Jolly well. You can come with me to see Sir Arthur and we may ascertain that. Your services will be helpful."

He picked up the teapot and gesturing to Sharpe's empty cup asked, "Shall I play mother?"

He tittered.

"No thanks. I'm fairly swimming with tea right now. Captain Padstowe's landlady was most insistent I always had a cup full." And he never thought he'd hear himself say that. He took another roll to cover the awkward pause. And he was hungry; he hadn't felt much like eating breakfast that morning, despite Harper's insistence, and there was enough bread in the basket to make up for what he hadn't had earlier.

"Ah. Very well then."

Pumphrey poured himself a cup, helped himself to milk and sugar and lifted the cup with appropriate sticking out of pinky and sipped the tea. He watched Sharpe over the lid of the cup before setting it back down.

"Padstowe has arrived then?" He asked. He wondered if he had already reported to Sir Arthur and what news he had to impart.

"He's been here since before the retreat," Sharpe said, referring to Sir John Moore's disastrous flight across Spain in the worst winter for thirty years that had saved the army. He wondered just how much Pumphrey knew about Padstowe, and decided it was best to say as little as possible. Behind the foppish exterior was a very shrewd mind, after all.

"So how was your journey out?" he asked, splitting the roll and buttering half of it.

Pumphrey wondered what game Sharpe was playing. The Officer had not been one for small talk but perhaps he was getting comfortable in his role as officer and gentleman.

He smiled.

Richard Sharpe had proved his usefulness and resourcefulness in Copenhagen. It would not be amiss to cultivate his friendship. Besides... for all his rough manners, Sharpe was a delicious specimen of manly pulchritude. It would do no harm to look all he wanted.

"The journey..." He gave a theatrical shudder, "the weather was uncommon bad, Richard."

Pumphrey waved a be-ringed hand. "Stores were spoilt... ah, but I bore you with the details."

"Now, tell me about the surroundings. The countryside around here."

He waved his hand again expansively.

"Hills. Lots of 'em and nothin' much to look at, neither." He hated small talk, always had, but he felt he should make the effort. Like sitting in here... the place was huge, over-decorated and he'd be more comfortable in the kitchen. And his fellow officers knew it and proceeded to make him even more uncomfortable by sneering at him. Or ignoring him; or talking about him in uncomplimentary terms when he walked in.

At least Pumphrey wasn't like that, though Heaven only knew why Pumphrey liked him. And now the man was staring at him... What had he done wrong this time?

"Mmm... I had thought I'd paint the countryside. I did bring my watercolors. Never go anywhere without them, you know."

He patted his lips with his handkerchief. The rolls were good, but it would not do to spoil his appetite for lunch and he hoped the kitchen was well appointed.

Sharpe had to hide a grin at the thought of Pumphrey painting. Surely he'd be too nervous about getting paint on his clothes to be much good as an artist. Mind you, you could never tell what people were good at, just by looking at them.

He finished his roll and tried to think of something else to say. And failed. He'd already asked about the journey out, and nobody really talked about the weather. Did they?

Padstowe had left Hogan and Maturin with every intention of going to find Sharpe, but as he had crossed the hallway in order to reach the dining room heard somebody shout his name.

"Sir! Sir! Captain Padstowe, sir!"

Padstowe stopped short, but did not immediately turn round, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Oh no. Oh Christ, why now...?

The captain had stopped, but not turned round and Hakeswill jogged over to him, arriving breathless, excited and quivered to attention in front of the Padstowe his posture rigid and hi child-like eyes staring straight ahead. The manoeuvre would have done any drill sergeant proud.

"Sir!"

Padstowe was clearly unimpressed.

"At ease, sergeant."

Hakeswill relaxed his posture fractionally.