Sharpes Havoc   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

„No,” Sharpe said, because he suddenly understood why the stones were there.

And knew what he could do about it.

Brigadier Vuillard, ensconced in the Quinta, poured himself a glass of Savages’ finest white port. His blue uniform jacket was unhooked and he had eased a button of his breeches to make space for the fine shoulder of mutton that he had shared with Christopher, a dozen officers and three women. The women were French, though certainly not wives, and one of them, whose golden hair glinted in the candlelight, had been seated next to Lieutenant Pelletieu who seemed unable to take his bespectacled eyes from a cleavage that was deep, soft, shadowed and streaked where sweat had made rivulets through the white powder on her skin. Her very presence had struck Pelletieu almost dumb, so that all the confidence he had shown on first meeting Vuillard had fled.

The Brigadier, amused by the woman’s effect on the artillery officer, leaned forward to accept a candle from Major Dulong that he used to light a cigar. It was a warm night, the windows were open and a big pale moth fluttered about the candelabra at the table’s center. „Is it true,” Vuillard asked Christopher between the puffs that were needed to get the cigar properly alight, „that in England the women are expected to leave the supper table before the cigars are lit?”

„Respectable women, yes.” Christopher took the toothpick from his mouth to answer.

„Even respectable women, I would have thought, make attractive companions to a good smoke and a glass of port.” Vuillard, content that the cigar was drawing properly, leaned back and glanced down the table. „I have an idea,” he said genially, „that I know precisely who is going to answer the next question. What time is first light tomorrow?”

There was a pause as the officers glanced at each other, then Pelletieu blushed. „Sunrise, sir,” he said, „will be at twenty minutes past four, but it will be light enough to see at ten minutes to four.”

„So clever,” the blond, who was called Annette, whispered to him.

„And the moon state?” Vuillard asked.

Pelletieu blushed an even deeper red. „No moon to speak of, sir. The last full moon was on the thirtieth of April and the next will be… „His voice faded away as he became aware that the others about the table were amused by his erudition.

„Do go on, Lieutenant,” Vuillard said.

„On the twenty-ninth of this month, sir, so it’s a waxing moon in its first quarter, sir, and very slight. No illumination in it. Not now.”

„I like a dark night,” Annette whispered to him.