“I was looking for the Master,” Sharpe said. “I was told he was a man of business.”

“Business.” Hocking spat the word. “And what business do you have, Major, other than the killing of the King’s enemies?”

“You want me to talk about it here?” Sharpe asked. He took one of the pennies from his coat pocket and spun it toward the ceiling. It glittered as it flew, watched by hungry, astonished children, then fell into Sharpe’s hand and vanished.

The sight of the money, even a humble penny, was all the reassurance Hocking needed. The rest of his questions could wait. “I has business outside the poorhouse tonight,” he announced, “it being a Friday. You’ll take an ale with me, Major?”

“That would be a pleasure, Master,” Sharpe lied.

Or perhaps it was not a lie, for Sharpe was angry and revenge was a pleasure. And this revenge had been simmering in his dreams for twenty years. He glanced a last time at the text on the wall and wondered if Jem Hocking had ever considered the truth of it.

Be sure your sin will find you out.

Jem Hocking should have taken note and been on his knees in prayer.

Because Richard Sharpe had come home.

CHAPTER 2

The tavern displayed no name. There was not even a painted sign hanging outside, nothing, indeed, to distinguish it from the neighboring houses except, perhaps, a slight air of prosperity that stood out in Vinegar Street like a duchess in a whorehouse. Some folk called it Malone’s Tavern because Beaky Malone had owned and run it, though Beaky had to be dead by now, and others called it the Vinegar Alehouse because it was in Vinegar Street, while some knew the house simply as the Master’s because Jem Hocking did so much of his business in its taproom.