Nuñez came down the stairs and immediately understood what Sharpe intended. He began pleading. “Tell him to be quiet,” Sharpe told Harris.

“These are the letters, sir.” Harris held out a sheaf of papers that Sharpe thrust into a pocket. “And he says there are more.”

“More? So get them!”

“No, sir, he says the girl must have them still.” Harris jerked a thumb at Chavez who was fumbling as he lit a cigar. “And he says he wants a drink, sir.”

There was a half-empty bottle of brandy on the table with the playing cards. Sharpe gave it to the writer, who sucked on it desperately. Hagman was pouring the mix of brandy and lamp oil onto the paper covering the floor. The two remaining smoke balls were by the back door, ready to fill the house with smoke and impede any attempt to extinguish the blaze. The fire, Sharpe reckoned, would gut the whole house. The lead letters, carefully racked in their tall cases, would melt, the shells would destroy the press, and the fire would climb the stairs. The stone side walls of the house should keep it confined and, once the roof burned through, the furious rain would subdue the flames. Sharpe had planned to just take the letters, but he suspected there might be copies. An intact press could still print the lies, so it was better to burn it all.

“Throw them out,” he told Harper, gesturing at the prisoners.

“Out, sir?”

“All of them. Into the back courtyard. Just kick them out. Then bolt the door again.”

The prisoners were all pushed through the door, the bolts were shot home, and Sharpe sent his men back up the stairs. He went to the foot of the stairs and used a candle to light the nearest papers. For a few seconds the flame burned low. Then it caught some sheets soaked in brandy and lamp oil and the fire spread with surprising speed. Sharpe ran up the steps, pursued by smoke. “Out the trapdoor onto the roof,” he told his men.

He was the last to the trapdoor. Smoke was already filling the bedroom. He knew the smoke balls would be seething in the flames. Then it seemed the whole house shuddered as the first shell exploded. Sharpe clung to the trapdoor’s edge as a succession of deep thumps and blasting smoke punched past him to announce that the rest of the shells had caught the fire. That, he thought, was the end of El Correo de Cádiz, and he slammed the trapdoor shut and followed Hagman across the rooftops to the empty church building. “Well done, lads,” he said when they were back in the chapel. “Now all we have to do is get home,” he told them, “back to the embassy.”

A church bell was ringing, presumably summoning men to extinguish the flames. That meant there would be chaos in the streets and chaos was good because no one would notice Sharpe and his men in the confusion. “Hide your weapons,” he told them, then led them across the courtyard. His head was throbbing and the rain was crashing down, but he felt a huge relief that the job was done. He had the letters, he had destroyed the press, and now, he thought, there was only the girl to deal with, but he saw no problem there.

He shot the heavy bolts and pulled at the gate. He only wanted to open it an inch, just enough to peer outside, but before it had moved even half an inch it was thrust inward with such force that Sharpe staggered back into Harper. Men suddenly crowded the gate. They were soldiers. Folk who lived in the street had lit lamps and opened shutters to see what happened at Nuñez’s house. There was more than enough light for Sharpe to see pale blue uniforms and white crossbelts and half a dozen long bayonets that glinted bright as a seventh soldier appeared with a lantern. Behind him was an officer in a darker blue coat, his waist circled by a yellow sash. The officer snarled an order that Sharpe did not understand, but he understood well enough what the bayonets meant. He backed away. “No weapons,” he told his men.

The Spanish officer growled a question at Sharpe, but again spoke too fast. “Just do whatever they want,” Sharpe said. He was trying to work out the odds and they were not good. His men had guns, but they were concealed beneath cloaks or coats, and these Spanish soldiers looked efficient, wide awake, and vengeful. The officer spoke again. “He wants us in the chapel, sir,” Harris translated. Two of the Spanish soldiers went first to make sure none of Sharpe’s men produced a weapon once they were out of the rain. Sharpe thought of attacking those two men, chopping them down and then defending the chapel’s doorway, but he abandoned the idea instantly. He doubted he could escape from the chapel, men would surely die, and the political fuss would be monstrous. “I’m sorry about this, boys,” he said, not sure what he could do.

He backed toward the empty altar steps. The Spanish soldiers lined opposite, their faces grim and their bayonets held level. The lantern was put on the floor and in its light Sharpe could see that the muskets were cocked. He doubted the guns would fire. There had been too much rain, and even the best musket lock could not prevent heavy rain dampening the powder. “If the bastards pull a trigger,” he said, “you can fight back. But not till then.”

The officer looked to be in his twenties, perhaps ten years younger than Sharpe. He was tall and had a broad, intelligent face and a hard jaw. His uniform, wet as it was, betrayed that he was wealthy for it was beautifully tailored of rich cloth. He rattled a question at Sharpe, who shrugged. “We were sheltering from the rain, señor,” Sharpe said in English.

The officer asked another question in impenetrable Spanish. “Just sheltering from the rain,” Sharpe insisted.

“Their powder will be damp, sir,” Harper said softly.

“I know. But I don’t want any killing.”

The officer had seen their weapons now. He snapped an order. “He says we’re to put the weapons on the floor, sir,” Harris said.

“Do it,” Sharpe said. This was a bloody nuisance, he thought. The likelihood was that they would end up in a Spanish jail, in which case the important thing was to destroy the letters, but this was no place to try that. He laid his sword down. “We were just sheltering from the rain, señor,” he said.

“No you weren’t,” the officer suddenly spoke in good English. “You were setting fire to Señor Nuñez’s house.”

Sharpe was so surprised by the abrupt change of language that he could find nothing to say. He was still half crouched, his hand on his sword.

“You know what this place is?” the Spaniard asked.

“No,” Sharpe said cautiously.

“The Priory of the Divine Shepherdess. It used to be a hospital. My name is Galiana, Captain Galiana. And you are?”

“Sharpe,” Sharpe said.

“And your men call you ‘sir,’ so I assume you have rank?”

“Captain Sharpe.”

“Divina Pastora,” Galiana said, “the Divine Shepherdess. Monks lived here, and the poor could receive medical care. It was a charity, Captain Sharpe, a Christian charity. You know what happened to it? Of course you don’t.” He took a step forward and kicked the sword out of Sharpe’s reach. “Your Admiral Nelson happened. It was in ’97. He bombarded the city and this was the worst damage he did.” Galiana gestured about the scorched chapel. “One bomb, seven dead monks, and a fire. The priory closed because there was no money to make the repairs. My grandfather founded the place and my family would have repaired it, but our fortune comes from South America and your navy ended that income. That, Captain Sharpe, is what happened.”

“We were at war when it happened,” Sharpe said.

“But we are not at war now,” Galiana said. “We are allies. Or had that escaped your attention?”

“We were sheltering from the rain,” Sharpe said.

“It was fortunate, then, that you discovered the priory unlocked?”

“Very fortunate,” Sharpe said.

“But what of the misfortune of Señor Nuñez? He is a widower, Captain Sharpe, struggling to make a living, and now his business is in ruins.” Galiana gestured to the chapel door, beyond which Sharpe could hear the commotion in the street.