Hogan shook his head. “There’s nothing so satisfying as a friendly and professional relationship with your fellow officers, my dear Sharpe. I can see this job will be a pleasure. What did he want?”

“Wanted me to salute him. Thought I was a private.”

Hogan laughed again. “God knows what Simmerson will think of you. Let’s go and find out.”

They were ushered into Simmerson’s room to find the Colonel of the South Essex sitting on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. A doctor knelt beside him who looked up nervously as the two officers came into the room; the movement prompted an impatient flap of Simmerson’s hand. “Come on, man, I haven’t all day!”

In his hand the doctor was holding what appeared to be a metal box with a trigger mounted on the top. He hovered it over Sir Henry’s arm and Sharpe saw he was trying to find a patch of skin that was not already scarred with strangely regular marks.

“Scarification!” Sir Henry barked to Hogan. “Do you bleed, Captain?”

“No, sir.”

“You should. Keeps a man healthy. All soldiers should bleed.” He turned back to the doctor who was still hesitating over the scarred forearm. “Come on, you idiot!”

In his nervousness the doctor pressed the trigger by mistake and there was a sharp click. From the bottom of the box Sharpe saw a group of wicked little blades leap out like steel tongues. The doctor flinched back. “I’m sorry, Sir Henry. A moment.”

The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the Colonel’s arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.

“Ah! That’s better!” Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.