There must have been a hundred men on the benches and a handful of women. Some of the spectators watched Sharpe as he climbed the steps. He did not fit in here and the silver buttons of his uniform coat made them nervous. All uniforms unsettled these folk, and spectators made room for him on the bench just as a tall man with a hooked nose climbed over the plank barrier. “The next bout, ladies and gentlemen,” the man bellowed, “is between Priscilla, a two-year-old bitch, and Nobleman, a dog of three years. Priscilla is by way of being the property of Mister Philip Machin”—the name provoked a huge cheer—“while Nobleman,” the man went on when there was silence, “was bred by Mister Roger Collis. You may place your wagers, gentlemen and ladies, and I do bids you all good fortune.”

A boy climbed to Sharpe’s bench, wanting to take his money, but Sharpe waved the lad away. Jem Hocking had appeared on a lower bench now and the wagers were being carried to his clerk. Another man, as thin as the ringmaster, threaded his way up the crowded benches to sit beside Sharpe. He looked about thirty, had hooded eyes, long hair and a flamboyant red handkerchief knotted about his skinny neck. He slid a knife from inside a boot and began cleaning his fingernails. “Lumpy wants to know who the hell you are, Colonel,” he said.

“Who’s Lumpy?” Sharpe asked.

“Him.” The thin man nodded at the ringmaster.

“Beaky’s son?”

The man gave Sharpe a very suspicious look. “How would you know that, Colonel?”

“Because he looks like Beaky,” Sharpe said, “and you’re Dan Pierce. Your mother lived in Shadwell and she only had one leg, but that never stopped her whoring, did it?” The knife was suddenly just beneath Sharpe’s ribs, its point pricking his skin. Sharpe turned and looked at Pierce. “You’d kill an old friend, Dan?”

Pierce stared at Sharpe. “You’re not… ” he began, then checked. The knife was still in Sharpe’s side. “No,” Pierce said, not trusting his suspicions.