Welbeck had just finished drilling his men when he saw that the major had been watching him. Cracknell beckoned him over with a lordly crook of his finger. The sergeant did not hurry.
'Good afternoon, Major,' he said.
'Your men were looking a bit ragged today, Sergeant. It's high time you taught them how to march in a straight line.'
'They were as straight as can be.'
'Not from where I'm standing,' said Cracknell. 'They were like the hind leg of a donkey.'
Welbeck knew that it was untrue and that Cracknell was trying to provoke him. It was pointless to argue with an officer, especially one as powerful as a major. Welbeck opted for gruff politeness.
'It won't happen again, Major.'
'I hope not,' said the other. 'I've got higher standards than Captain Rawson. Now that he's no longer here to protect you, there'll be more scrutiny of your work.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Rawson was far too lax.'
'I disagree, Major.'
'He let friendship interfere with duty and that's a fault in any officer. While he's away, you'll drill your men properly.'
'Yes, sir,' said Welbeck, hurt by the unfair criticism.
'Our regiment must be second to none. We have to set an example to the Dutch. If they were trained as they should be, they might even be prepared to fight a battle with us.'
'You're right, Major.'
'The Prussians know how to fight and so do the Austrians when they put their minds to it. Prince Eugene of Savoy is a true soldier, who leads his men from the front. Only the Dutch let us down and they will keep jabbering in that ridiculous language of theirs.' He gave a cold smile. 'When Captain Rawson talks in Dutch, he sounds like a goose having its neck wrung.'
'The captain is fluent in four languages, Major,' said Welbeck. 'How many do you speak?'
'The only one that matters,' retorted the other, stung by the question. 'Besides, I'm a soldier and everyone speaks the same language on the battlefield with swords and guns.' He tried to make his enquiry seem casual. 'When will we be seeing Rawson again?'
'You're more likely to know that, Major.'
'Didn't he tell you where he was going?'
'When we last spoke, Captain Rawson didn't know himself.'
'But he would surely have told you, if he had.'
'No, Major. He's very discreet.'
'Wouldn't he confide in a close friend?'
'The captain has never discussed any of his assignments beforehand,' said Welbeck. 'He's as close as the grave. I should imagine it's one of the reasons that the Duke entrusts him with such missions. A more boastful officer would be unable to keep secrets.'
Welbeck was delighted to see Cracknell wince slightly. The sergeant's thrust had gone home. Daniel had told him how conceited the major was and how quick to brag about his achievements. Any reminder of Daniel's closeness to their commander-in-chief annoyed Cracknell, who thought himself the better man and more deserving of Marlborough's attention. The major quickly retaliated.
'I understand you have a nephew in the regiment,' he said.
'Yes, Major.'
'I can't say that I approve. One Welbeck is more than enough.'
'The lad's name is Hillier, sir.'
'I know, sergeant. I made it my business to find out. Tom Hillier is a drummer. I shall be interested to see how he develops.'
Welbeck was worried. There was no reason why a major should take the slightest notice of the new recruit unless it was to use him as a means of wounding his uncle. It was the sort of thing that someone like Cracknell would do. In persecuting Hillier, the major would be hurting Welbeck and in doing that he would be assuaging his hatred of a fellow officer. Helpless to defend his nephew, the sergeant wished that Daniel Rawson was still there to come to his aid.
'Where the hell are you, Dan?' he said to himself.
Pierre Lefeaux was a cobbler in the city. While pursuing his trade, he also acted as a British spy, receiving and passing on intelligence to others. Because people came in and out of his shop all day, there was never any suspicion of him. Vital secrets had been concealed in shoes that needed to be repaired. Lefeaux had duly passed them on by all manner of devious means. His shop was in one of the more salubrious districts of Paris though Daniel had to ride through the teeming streets of the poorer quarters in order to find it. Even though it was afternoon, the place was closed. After tethering his horse, Daniel spoke to one of the neighbours and learnt that the cobbler's shop had not been open all week.
The news was disturbing. According to Daniel's information, Lefeaux was an important part of an intelligence system that had been developed in the French capital. He was unlikely to desert his post unless he had fled out of fear of discovery. The neighbour had told him that the cobbler lived above the shop with his wife but that nothing had been seen of either of them. Daniel studied the building. He could not leave without finding out what had happened to the couple. If one of his spies had gone astray, Marlborough would expect a full report. Daniel needed to get inside the premises to search for clues that indicated the fate of Pierre Lefeaux.
Making sure that he was not seen, Daniel went swiftly around to the rear of the house. The shutters were all locked and the little stable was empty, its door wide open. He moved to a ground floor window that was not overlooked by any of the neighbours and took out a dagger. Inserting it between the shutters, he tried to lift the catch but it was securely locked in place. He went back into the stable and looked for an implement that he could use as a lever. He found nothing suitable until his eye alighted on a pair of rusty horseshoes, lying in a corner as if tossed there. Seizing both of them, Daniel went back to the shutter. He used his dagger to saw away at the wood, making the slit wide enough to admit something thicker. Then he worked a horseshoe between the shutters and slowly applied pressure.
The catch held firm at first. As he put more effort into levering the timber apart, the shutters opened enough for him to push the other horseshoe into the gap further up. He now had two levers in play and the wood began to groan under the strain. All at once, with a loud bang, the lock snapped and the shutters flew open. Daniel had to leap back out of the way. He put the horseshoes aside and waited to see if the noise had been heard by anyone else. Nobody came. He flew into action. Removing his hat, he took hold of the window frame and pulled himself through it with speed and agility. He was in the kitchen and could see food left out on the table. The morsels of meat on the two platters were encircled by flies. Almost all of the butter had been eaten. When he felt the loaf of bread, it was dry and stale.
Daniel went through to the parlour but was unable to see much in the half-dark and did not want to open any other shutters in case he attracted attention. When he went through to the shop itself, he could smell the leather. A boot was affixed to a last and a hammer lay beside it. Shoes and boots in need of repair lined the shelves. Daniel had the feeling that many customers were going to be disappointed. As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, he went back into the parlour and up the staircase. A noisome smell soon hit his nostrils and it was all too familiar.
It was the unmistakable stink of death. Opening the door to the front bedroom, he blenched.
Pierre Lefeaux and his wife had been hanged from the main beam, their hands tied behind their backs. Their faces were badly bruised and dried blood stained their clothing. He surmised that they'd been tortured before execution. Flies buzzed noisily all around them. Maggots were dining on their rotting flesh. The reek of decomposition was overpowering. Daniel estimated that they'd been dead for several days. Hand over his mouth, he rushed down the stairs and climbed through the window so that he could breathe in fresh air again. His mind was racing and his stomach churning. It was a frightening development. The cobbler had obviously been punished for providing intelligence to the British army. As he rode away from the shop, Daniel was bound to wonder if Emanuel Janssen had met a similarly gruesome fate.