Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell Page A

musical, managed to imbue his words with a sincere regret that he had, as he said, this unfortunate duty to prosecute an officer so famed for his gallantry.
    The British officers behind the table did not look at Sharpe. General Sir Edward Pakenham, the Adjutant General and Wellington’s brother-in-law, presided. Three Spanish officers, their faces like masks stared at the prisoner.
    Major Vaughn, despite his regrets, offered the court a swift and damning version of the night’s events. Major Sharpe had been prevented from defending his honour in a duel. That failure rankled. He had gone, by night, and murdered the husband of a woman whom he had pursued vilely. He much regretted bringing in this evidence, but he had no choice, and he produced the letter written and sealed by the Marquesa.
    Ned Pakenham lifted the letter as though it was plague-ridden and handed it back to Vaughn. The letter was read into the records of the Court-Martial.
    Vaughn brought the letter to Sharpe. ‘You recognise the handwriting, Major? Do remember you are under oath.’
    Sharpe looked up into the plump, clever face. ‘La Marquesa is a Frenchwoman, a spy, and ...’
    ‘Thank you, Major, I only asked if you recognised the handwriting. Do you?’
    He did, but he saw no sense in making things grimmer for himself than they already were. ‘I can’t tell.’
    Vaughn walked back to his table. ‘Fortunately we have witnesses who can.’
    Sharpe raised his voice. ‘I have another letter from ...’
    ‘We are concerned with this letter, Major!’ Vaughn turned sharply, but Pakenham held up a hand. He looked into Sharpe’s eyes for the first time since the Rifleman had entered the room.
    ‘You have another letter from this lady?’
    Sharpe nodded. He had not told Trumper-Jones of the letter because Sharpe had no faith in the young man’s ability. ‘She wrote to me, sir, after the death of my wife. She wanted to offer me her condolences. She regretted she would not convey them to me in person.’ He could not resist a small smile. Such a letter was hardly likely to have come from a woman he had persecuted. He saw the flicker of hope on Lieutenant Trumper-Jones’ face. ‘I’d like that letter read into the record too, sir.’
    The general officers behind the table smiled, sensing a victory for Sharpe. Pakenham leaned back. ‘You have the letter, Major Sharpe?’
    ‘It’s in my pack, sir.’
    ‘Major Vaughn?’ Pakenham turned to the Welshman.
    ‘You have no objection?’
    ‘No, sir, none. But I must tell the court that we have already impounded the prisoner’s belongings, searched them, and no such letter has been found.’
    ‘It’s in my pack!’ Sharpe said stubbornly.
    Vaughn sighed. ‘Major Michael Hogan conducted the search, sir. No letter was discovered.’
    The officers behind the table stared again at the green cloth on which their papers lay. Sharpe’s sword, its scabbard and hilt battered by war, was at the table’s front.
    The Marqués’ chaplain, through an interpreter, testified that he had found the Marqués’ servants asleep outside his master’s room. Perhaps, he wondered, they had been given a sleeping potion by the prisoner?
    Captain Morillos, a bull of a man, gave his evidence. He had seen, in the light of a torch bracketed at the garden gate of the house, a Rifle Officer leave at three in the morning. No, he had not seen the man’s face, but he had seen the English uniform and the Heavy Cavalry sword.
    It was hot in the courtroom. Sharpe could feel himself sweating beneath his shirt. He listened hopelessly as Lieutenant Trumper-Jones failed to budge Captain Morillos one inch. The Captain claimed to have an intimate knowledge of uniforms and swords and was certain of what he had seen.
    Sharpe had no defence other than innocence. He had eaten with Harper, Isabella, and d‘Alembord, but he had left before midnight. He had slept in his billet, but he could produce no witnesses who could swear that they had watched