Saloon F contained many of the Exhibition’s most recent works, a number of which had been shown in the Royal Academy only the year before. Heeding Mrs James’ comment about the overwhelming effect of the display, Kitson was careful to discuss one painting at a time. He explained the nuances of expression in Landseer’s hounds; the meditation upon mortality in John Millais’ scene of young girls burning leaves in the autumn twilight; the wealth of symbolic detail in Holman Hunt’s representations of Shakespeare. And he threw himself into his task, summoning all his enthusiasm and fluency. Turning frequently towards his audience, he was encouraged by the signs of interest he found there. Some soon slunk away, of course, and others looked around vacantly–but a tight semicircle of people over a hundred strong was following his words with close attention.
Only once did he dare to glance at Mrs James, who stood beside her father. In her face he saw such pride and love that it made him stumble on his words; and he had to look away again before continuing.
Then he came to the Chatterton. He knew from the time he had already spent in the Exhibition that it was one of the most popular works on display. ‘Here we see The Death of Chatterton by Mr Henry Wallis. It shows the young poet lying dead upon his bed, having poisoned himself in his garret after his work was rejected by a publisher. We see his dandy clothes,’ Kitson pointed to the scarlet coat and turquoise britches, ‘for which he was well known; the remains of his work, this shredded paper, which he destroyed in despair before committing his fatal act. Here is the vial of arsenic rolling on the floorboards, where it has fallen from his lifeless hand.’ He lowered his head for a moment, an unexpected pulse of sadness beating through him. ‘The–the poet is famous now, the subject of paintings and books, but he would have been much more so had he allowed himself to live. The picture tells us about waste, my friends, the waste of life, and of talent–how men are often their own worst foes.’
‘Dear God,’ cried a muffled voice close to the back, ‘I reckon this poor cove’s set to burst out crying!’
There were a few sniggers at this artless interruption; several at the front of the audience made shushing noises and looked around indignantly. Kitson was about to respond when he noticed a tall, distinctly sinister-looking man in a black suit settle next to Charles Norton like a great raven and whisper urgently in his ear.
Suddenly the labour-lord declared that the lecture was over, many thanks to Mr Kitson for his time, lunch would be commencing shortly if they would all start towards the second-class extension back towards the railway station. The crowd thinned, visibly split between disappointment at the premature end of their lecture and hungry anticipation of their meal.
Mrs James turned angrily to her father, demanding to know what was going on. He bade her be quiet and walked over to Kitson with barely contained menace.
‘I don’t know what your game is, you dog,’ he fumed, ‘how making clever lectures fits into whatever you two are planning, but I will be chumped by it no longer. I allowed you this chance for my daughter’s sake, but no more!’
Kitson held Norton’s bulging eye. ‘Sir, I do not understand you. My only wish—’
Two black-suited men pushed through the remains of the audience, holding Cracknell between them. He was grinning as if he was having a marvellous time. It was him, Kitson realised, who had shouted out whilst he had been discoursing on the Chatterton.
‘Thomas, what an informative talk! Quite fascinating! The contents of this gallery do pale beside that of Saloon A across the hall, though, wouldn’t you say?’
The last lingering Foundry workers began to peer curiously at the loud, scruffy fellow being hauled before their employer. More black-suits appeared, shoving the operatives on their way and then standing guard at the gallery’s entrances. The Foundry managers, at Norton’s terse request, filed off obediently to the first-class refreshment rooms. Cracknell and Kitson were now alone with Charles Norton, Jemima James and half a dozen of Norton’s black-suits.
‘What is this?’ Norton demanded, glaring from one to the other. ‘What is this, damn you!’
‘Father,’ said Mrs James, looking at Kitson despairingly, ‘you are mistaken. Mr Kitson has no connections with this person. He is not a part of whatever it is that you fear so much.’
‘Jemima, leave us,’ ordered Norton coldly. ‘Go out to the nave, this instant.’
‘I will not, not until I am certain—’
‘Mr Norton, sir,’ purred Cracknell with hideous, mocking obsequiousness. ‘An honour, truly, to stand before the Buckle King himself. And this structure of yours–well, it is beyond words. The finest of its kind since the Crystal Palace. Not a patch on that particular building, of course, but then no one really expected it to be, did they? Not in Manchester.’
‘Shall we eject them, Mr Norton?’ asked the black-suit who had whispered in the labour-lord’s ear; he was plainly their leader.
‘Tell me, though,’ Cracknell continued, his voice rising a little as one of the men holding him twisted his arm further across his back, ‘why on earth was such a festival for the eye, such a sumptuous visual feast, placed next door to a blind asylum? Are the Committee deliberately trying to incite distress amongst the unfortunate inmates?’
Norton drew himself up, obviously determined not to reward Cracknell’s attempts at aggravation with any further loss of temper. ‘You will no doubt be disappointed to learn that there were no deaths in the fire you started at the barracks, villain. All that was lost was a few outbuildings.’ He turned to Kitson. ‘And Major Wray lives on, despite your perverse conspiracy to finish him with your fake doctoring.’
Kitson grew exasperated. ‘Again, sir, I do not understand your meaning. I am not involved in any conspiracy!’
‘I will get nothing from either of you, I see.’ Norton moved in a little closer. ‘You’re determined, I’ll give you that much. But know this–any further attempt by either of you to interfere with my affairs or set my daughter against me will be met with a harsh penalty indeed.’ He stepped back, nodding at the leader of the black-suits. ‘Throw them out, Mr Twelves.’
To Mrs James’ escalating protests, Mr Twelves took hold of Kitson’s collar, twisting it hard, and began to drag him forcibly from the gallery.
The black-suits holding Cracknell attempted to do the same, but he dug his heels in. He had one more thing to say. ‘All these men, Mr Norton, merely to guard against us two! Your silent partner must be arriving soon, I think! Have you set aside a guest apartment in Norton Hall, sir?’
Kitson, being marched out briskly to the nave, didn’t catch Norton’s response. Twelves was a large man with evident experience at moving people who didn’t wish to be moved; any resistance, Kitson soon discovered, was useless. One of the constables appointed to the Exhibition approached them as they neared the turnstiles. Twelves informed him that Kitson and Cracknell were just a couple of drunks who had been harassing the party of his employer, Charles Norton. Upon hearing Norton’s name, the policeman immediately seemed to lose interest, turning on his heel and strolling off in the opposite direction.
Once they were through the main doors, Twelves propelled Kitson down the steps and released him. He was about to go back inside when he hesitated, seeming to reconsider something; then he hooked a fast blow into the side of the street philosopher’s chest. Twelves had clearly detected Kitson’s old injury and now he deliberately targeted it, his knuckles striking squarely against the ridged scar.
Kitson fell into the dust of the turning circle like a curtain cut from its pole. It felt as if his fragile ribs had been staved inward, their splintered ends rending tissue and pressing hard against the tender organs beneath. He struggled up on to his hands and knees, blue sparks squirming behind his eyes, and spat out a long, glutinous rope of spittle, shot through with a vivid strand of blood. A barking cough forced itself out of him, followed by another. Somewhere close by, he heard Cracknell laughing.
‘Chest still bothering you, Thomas? That’s what ha
ppens, my friend, when a wound is not allowed to heal properly!’
Kitson looked up dizzily, blinking away tears. Cracknell was sitting on the bottom step of the Exhibition, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand. His cuffs were frayed, his boots scuffed, his elbows patched and shiny; he looked every inch the impoverished gentleman. Behind him, inside the Palace’s glass doors, two black-suits were watching them both carefully.
‘Bloody well done with the widow, by the way. It would’ve been so easy for you to have overplayed your hand by now, but she’s in a state of perfect readiness. I think she really trusts you, y’know.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘Absolutely perfect.’
Wrapping an arm tightly around his ribcage, Kitson managed to pull himself over to the step. An omnibus drew up before the façade, its passengers staring at him in alarm as they disembarked. He told himself to disregard these remarks about Mrs James, which were intended to anger him and thus put him at a disadvantage–a favoured tactic of Cracknell’s. If he was to discover anything, he had to remain calm.
‘You were waiting for a chance to catch me with Norton,’ he said, hoarse with pain. ‘To make him think that we are in league with one another. You want him to be suspicious of me.’
Cracknell only laughed again, slightly harder this time, and promised that all would be made clear.
‘And the partner you mentioned–is it who I think?’
At this his former colleague gave a heavy sigh, and ground out his cigarette against the side of the step. ‘It’s in there, Thomas, in this oversized bloody greenhouse behind us–that blasted panel from the Crimea, for which good British soldiers were murdered.’ He looked down at the crumpled butt between his feet. ‘Even now, I still cannot think of it without the blood boiling in my veins. It shows how little he fears us, does it not, that he feels he can now parade the thing before the Queen herself without danger of exposure. He has kicked me down, kicked me down with his many hideous crimes, and now he pisses on me like a bloody great carthorse.’
Kitson summoned the last of his patience. ‘Cracknell, what is it that you know about Charles Norton?’
This was not heard. Excitedly, Cracknell smacked a fist against his open palm. ‘He imagines me helpless, but I am far, far from bloody helpless. My weapons of choice, as you well know, are the pen and the printing press, but these have been denied me–denied me by him, no less. So I am compelled to resort to other more imaginative means. And I need your assistance, old fellow. Your partnership. As things were–you know.’
There was a disconcerting resolve in his eyes. He is mad, Kitson thought. His spectacular fall from grace has left him deranged. The street philosopher’s equanimity, already straining, began to give way. ‘I will not help you. How can you even ask? I will not collude in your stabbings–or your fires.’
Cracknell studied Kitson for a moment, strangely satisfied by this unequivocal refusal. Then he patted him on the shoulder, sprang up from the step and trotted off towards the city. ‘Until later then, Thomas!’
Kitson tried to go after him, but the stinging complaints of his chest prevented him even from rising to his feet. ‘What of Norton, Cracknell?’ he croaked. ‘Answer me, damn you!’
4
Charles Norton walked up the grand staircase of the Union Club, his shoes sinking into the thick carpet. The large circular window on the landing offered its usual barren view of the flank of the next building along; but that morning the expanse of neat brickwork was bisected by a diagonal shaft of summer sunshine, divided equally into the brightest light and the blackest shade. The effect was quite dazzling, and as Norton rounded the corner and completed his ascent to the coffee room, a greenish, semi-circular after-image floated across his sight.
The coffee room of the Union was spacious, and decorated with a combination of stately oak panelling and ornate rococo plasterwork. There was even a modest fresco in an oval between the room’s two chandeliers, depicting an allegory of Wisdom crowning Industry with laurels, enacted by blowsy ladies in flowing Grecian robes. Below this scene, high-backed leather chairs stood around low tables scattered with newspapers and periodicals. Infusing the room, as ever, were the rich, reassuring smells of fine tobacco and fresh coffee.
A cart clattered by outside, the sound uncommonly loud. Charles saw that the tops of the Union’s tall front windows had been drawn down to admit what little breeze there was. He caught a whiff of roasting meat, and realised that they must be starting lunch. It was almost noon, and other members were beginning to arrive from their offices and warehouses. The room was filling with conversation about the state of play at the Exchange, the price of this or that, the new contracts that had been put up for tender–talk in which the proprietor of the Norton Foundry would usually have taken a keen interest. That day, however, was different.
Charles was slightly disappointed to find the Brigadier-General in civilian clothes. He had expected to see the searing scarlet of the infantry coatee before anything else; but this, he supposed, would have attracted unwanted attention. They had not met since the winter of 1855, but he recognised his associate straight away on account of that enormous moustache of his, so carefully pruned, the sharp tips now snowy white. The face behind, Norton noticed, was becoming jowled, and the features a little sunken. Nathaniel Boyce had aged.
The Brigadier-General had chosen a small corner alcove, tucked away from the main area of the coffee room. He greeted the labour-lord without enthusiasm, clearly regretting that circumstances had obliged them to see one another, and gestured towards the empty chair at the table with an immobile, gloved hand. As he lowered this hand, his right, it connected with the arm of his own chair with a dull crack–the sound of wood striking wood.
The third chair in the alcove, the one closest to its window, was occupied by a large young man of about twenty-two or -three, who was staring down into the street with open-mouthed, oafish fascination.
Norton regarded him uncertainly. ‘I wasn’t aware that anyone else would be present here this morning, Brigadier.’
Boyce clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Do not worry yourself, Norton. This is Captain Nunn, my ADC. You have nothing to fear from him.’
Nunn did not look around. Scarcely reassured, Norton squeezed into his seat. Both the soldiers were big men; there was only just enough room for the three of them, and Charles was obliged to sit sideways to keep his knees from brushing against Captain Nunn’s.
‘So who did it, Norton?’ asked Boyce, sitting back. ‘Who stabbed Archie Wray?’
Again, Norton glanced at Nunn. He still hadn’t turned from the window. ‘There is a rumour going about of an insane cripple–a man with terrible deformations and an implacable loathing of all soldiers. We are certain, however, that Richard Cracknell is involved somehow. He is in Manchester, making an annoyance of himself in his usual manner.’
Boyce narrowed his eyes; and then, to Charles’ surprise, he smiled languidly. ‘Do you know, I was wondering if my submission to your little Exhibition would flush him out. After I cut him down to size in the Crimea, the pathetic fool seems to have devoted his entire existence to wreaking some kind of vengeance. Quite tragic. Stabbing, though–that’s a new one. Perhaps he has finally found his backbone.’
A china coffee-pot stood at the centre of the table, with an empty cup set before each of the officers. Thinking that he would very much like some coffee, Norton turned in his seat, looking for a waiter who might bring them another cup. ‘He has an accomplice, also, this time. A fellow named Thomas Kitson.’
Boyce raised his eyebrows without much interest. ‘Kitson… yes, I believe he was the Courier’s junior correspondent during the war. Very much second fiddle to our Mr Cracknell.’
There was a squeaking sound; Captain Nunn had pressed a fingertip against the window pane and was moving it across the glass as if following something down in the street.
Norton tried his best to ignore him. ‘I’d assumed that their connection would be something of that nature. My own
feeling is that they must be planning something together, for them both to be in the city at the time you have chosen to visit. This devil Kitson has already tried to strike at me through my daughter.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do–do you wish us to do anything? I have men who will—’
‘Colonel, I see him! I see him, Colonel!’
The words burst out of Nunn in a heavy spray of saliva. Norton started; the Captain was all but shouting. Boyce told him firmly to keep his voice down. The man gaped at his commander, his head lolling. The muscles in his long face were relaxed, like someone deep in sleep; his eyes were pale and soapy, entirely devoid of any reasoning intelligence.
‘So-sorry, Colonel, but I see him–Captain Wray, sir, walk-walking in the street. Major Maynard, sir, is there, too, and Davy, sir, and Major Fairlie, and, and…’
‘Really, Mr Nunn! Captain Wray, imagine that!’ Boyce’s tone was flat. ‘Is Lord Raglan down there with them as well, perchance, or Major-General Codrington?’
The young officer turned back to window so quickly he almost put his head through it.
Boyce picked up his coffee cup with his left hand. ‘The lad understands little and remembers less–and sometimes thinks he can see people who are not actually there. Our old comrades from the 99th Foot, in particular, make regular appearances in his daily life, Wray included.’ He took a sip. ‘One of several burdens placed upon me by my service in the Crimea.’
The Street Philosopher Page 25
