The illustrator, staying silent in the shadows, found that he could watch all of this without any sense of consternation, jealousy or anger. He felt strangely removed, as if he were not a thinking, feeling person but merely an object, an inanimate witness. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he took out his sketch-book and pencil.
‘Richard,’ she asked, from deep inside the alcove, ‘what do I mean to you?’
There was a short pause as Cracknell fiddled with an obscure fastening. ‘You mean more to me, my tender little Frenchie, than all the brandy in the world. Than all the cigars in the world.’
‘What of the other women–of the other women you have known?’
‘You are the finest by far. The most beautiful, the most exquisite–a rare treasure so precious that naught can equal it.’ There was a faint, almost indiscernible note of weariness in Cracknell’s voice as he said this. ‘You would be my choice of all the women in creation.’
Styles could now see Mrs Boyce, half-naked, reclined on Cracknell’s cot. Her shoulder, breast and thigh formed a rhythmic, curving pattern, which his pencil quickly traced out in the strip of candlelight that fell across the page of his sketch-book. Drawing her, even in this extraordinary, unseen state, seemed immediately familiar to him. It was as if his hand remembered the dozens of depictions it had made on the decks of the Arthur so many months before, and created a rapid, faithful likeness of a well-loved subject. The high, wide cheekbones, the skin over them lightly flushed with arousal; the large, dark eyes misted with love; the full lips curling with gratified amusement at Cracknell’s sweeping declarations–all were captured in a flurry of economic strokes.
Cracknell, who was lying across from her, propped up on an elbow, was a very different prospect. His shoulder hid his face, and was round and pink like a side of bacon, heavily shaded with thick black hairs. Despite the privations of the campaign, something of a round belly could still be seen; and there, before Styles’ dispassionate gaze, his member sprang into view, suddenly released from his trousers. It was an angry, tumescent red, like a raw root, strangely incongruous with the rest of the man, as if a swollen appendage from a quite different creature had been unaccountably attached to his burly frame. The pencil worked away busily.
Slowly, Mrs Boyce reached over and took it in her hand. ‘What would you do, Richard, to be with me?’
‘I–I would give up all that I am,’ answered Cracknell with a slight tremor. ‘I would turn in my post at the Courier in an instant, I would sell everything but the clothes on my back, I would sail any distance. Without you, dearest Maddy, life is but ashes.’
This speech finished, his hands vanished under what remained of her skirts. She moaned his name, pulling him towards her. There was a brief struggle, and a couple of oaths, and then her petticoats came away, revealing her nakedness. Cracknell cast the garments aside, and moved in over her, their feet, both still in their boots, scrabbling and bumping together as they positioned themselves.
‘Will you ever leave me?’ she gasped.
‘Never.’
Styles turned over a page in his sketch-book and began another drawing.
7
Charles Norton made some enquiries, and then headed over briskly to a miserable-looking lodging house close to the quay. Once again, the stench of Balaclava was quite unbelievable; he put a handkerchief up to his face in a vain attempt to block it.
Someone called his name before he could enter. James was sitting on a wall at the side of the building. He was pale, his coat drawn tightly around him as he coughed into his hand. The lines at either side of his mouth were more pronounced, and the eyes behind his spectacles, although red with exhaustion, were strangely bright.
‘What are you doing out here, Anthony?’
James coughed again, phlegm rattling in his throat. ‘Believe me, Charles,’ he whispered, ‘it is preferable to being inside.’
Speaking quickly, Norton apologised for leaving him; and then, unable to contain his glee, said that he had brokered a deal the previous evening that would change everything for them. This awful war, Charles declared, was going to give them the chance they had prayed for. He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and waved them in his son-inlaw’s face–urgent telegrams that had to be wired back to Manchester as soon as possible.
James, however, was not impressed. ‘Who exactly have you been negotiating with, Charles?’
Norton shrugged defensively. ‘An officer of infantry, that is all. A man with an interest in the railway that is being built outside town. A man who has—’
‘Colonel Nathaniel Boyce of the 99th Foot. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Norton didn’t deny it. He gave a brief account of the situation regarding the spikes, and Boyce’s long association with the Quartermaster-General–which would ensure the success of a bid from the Norton Foundry.
‘For someone of high birth, the Colonel has a rare appreciation of business matters.’ Norton paused carefully. ‘He has already obtained a crate of the spikes currently in use, in fact, for us to examine back at the Foundry, and perhaps utilise as models. His men will be bringing it down from the plateau later today, to be loaded aboard the Mallory.’
James shook his head. ‘So you have been neglecting the worthy task Mr Fairbairn assigned us to hatch alliances with corrupt soldiers–men prepared to exploit personal connections in order to bypass the normal conditions of contractual competition. Did it not occur to you, Charles, that abuses of privilege such as this might be a part of what has gone so terribly wrong out here?’
I am being judged once more, Norton thought, irritation souring his mood. ‘I will attend to our errand for Fairbairn in due course, Anthony. Do you not understand what is being proposed here? Do you not understand what is being laid before us?’
But James would not listen. ‘I have been speaking with people also, Charles. Yesterday afternoon I met Richard Cracknell, the Crimean correspondent from the London Courier. He shared a number of disturbing confidences with me.’
Norton snorted, remembering the officers’ conversation in the farmhouse. ‘Ah yes, the Irishman from the Courier. I have heard all about him.’
His son-in-law coughed again, and removed his spectacles so that he could wipe his eyes. ‘No, Charles, I seriously doubt that you have. Mr Cracknell had come down to the harbour specifically to warn travellers such as ourselves about Boyce. He said that the Colonel has been trying to recruit men from outside the military for several weeks, to serve his own crooked ends.’ He tried to put the spectacles back on his face, and only just managed it without poking himself in the eye. Norton realised that for all his vociferousness, James was desperately weak. ‘Your Colonel is guilty of heinous crimes indeed. At Inkerman, he led his regiment to an entirely avoidable disaster through his own incompetence: this is a matter of military record. But he has also engaged in looting, Charles, and has had men killed, his own men, to cover up his robberies.’ He started to cough. ‘There is–is a–a painting…’
James was prevented from talking any further by a severe cramp, which seized his midriff and bent him over almost double. His spectacles dropped from his nose, chinking against the stones below.
For a moment, Norton stood very still, absorbing what he had heard. James knew about the painting in the crate–knew more than he did, in fact, about the murderous means by which his new partner had supposedly obtained it. His estimation of the deal itself was startlingly accurate as well, tearing away the comfortable net of self-delusion Norton had spun around himself. The truth of Boyce’s venture could no longer be denied. It was corrupt–criminal, even.
He looked steadily at James’ shivering, shuddering back, and suddenly he knew that his son-in-law was dying; one night in the festering filth of Balaclava was all it had taken for disease to claim him. None of Anthony James’ immense ambition or ability would ever amount to anything. His daughter would be made a widow at twenty-eight. And he, Charles Norton, would take the opportunity Colonel Boyce h
ad offered and make himself one of the foremost labour-lords of Manchester.
‘A painting? In this place?’ He furrowed his brow with good-humoured scepticism. ‘What utter nonsense. That Irishman is an unhinged troublemaker, nothing more.’ He became solicitous. ‘You are weary, Anthony; weary and, I fear, a little credulous. Have you had any sleep, or anything to eat? I’m afraid that you might have caught something here, my lad–you need to go to bed. Come, we will find you a clean room. There must be one somewhere. On board one of these ships, if nowhere else.’ Norton crouched down and picked up the spectacles. They were smeared with black mud and the left lens was smashed. He gave them back to James, who now had a hand pressed blearily against his brow. ‘What would my Jemima say if I brought her husband home an invalid?’
Manchester
June 1857
1
Cregg had been waiting with Stewart on London Road for the better part of the afternoon. They passed a pint of gin between them, trying to keep their eyes on the modest doorway of the Model Lodging House.
This, Cregg knew, was his last chance. He’d seen enough coves go under to know well enough what was happening to him; he just didn’t seem to be able to muster the energy to bring a halt to it. His acts against the army, against that bleeder Wray, hadn’t brought him any real satisfaction or relief. Some days it even seemed like they had made things worse. His hand, his leg and his face all ached to high buggery, sometimes getting so bad that his insides twisted up and his eyes grew unreliable. There was one answer to all this and one answer only: the bottle.
His recollections of his time in Manchester were accordingly sparse–half-memories of dingy pot-houses and gin palaces, of dark alleys and rank, undrained courts, of squalid two-room houses and crumbling basements, all nestled in the shadows of pounding mills. There had been vomiting, a good deal of vomiting; some joyless fornication with a toothless whore not a day under fifty; and numerous clumsy attempts to position himself on floorboards already covered with coughing bodies.
At some point he had acquired Stewart, a pallid, sly looking Irishman. Cregg was dogged by the sense that Stewart was after something beyond simple companionship. He was a steady drinker, though, and didn’t yet seem to be tiring of his new friend’s lengthy Crimean stories, tearful eulogies to the Crimean dead, and Crimean songs, sung over and over with sodden earnestness. He said he was an ironmonger by trade, with a specialisation in making spanners–yet he had plainly practised little but self-obliteration for some time.
One morning, quite recently–three or four days ago, he thought–Cregg had woken at dawn in a turd-filled gutter with his mouth full of straw. This in itself was hardly unusual, but as he had sat up and tried to get his bearings, he found that he was also smarting with lost purpose. Before him was a public house called the Hare and Hounds. He could dimly recall entering it for an important meeting with his employer. Whether this had transpired or not he couldn’t rightly say. Drink had close-shaved all remembrance of the day from his mind, leaving it utterly bald. He knew, though, in that brief moment of semi-sobriety, that he had duties in the Cottonopolis. He had come there for a reason. There was a proper scheme in place, a scheme for revenge. The nature of this scheme, however, and his role in it, were lost to him completely.
Shaking the worst of the filth from his greatcoat, Cregg had decided that he must see Mr Cracknell, offer his sincerest apologies, and make his best effort to get himself back on track. A few shreds of information clung to his bruised brain, like the scraps of an over-pasted bill left sticking to a wall after an attempt to tear it down. Cregg still knew where Mr Cracknell had based himself; and he swore that once he had drunk his shaking limbs back under his control, and soothed the beast that raged inside his skull, he would go there straight away.
And so there he was–a little late maybe, and not exactly clean, but chock-full of the best will in the world. The unexpected length of their wait was taking its toll, though. A soft impact on Cregg’s upper arm told him that Stewart had gone to sleep, and was leaning against his sleeve. The crippled veteran lifted up their gin bottle. Only a quarter-inch of the dirty spirit remained. Bringing the bottle close to his disfigured face, he sloshed this liquid from side to side, momentarily transfixed by the tiny bubbles popping at its edges. Then, through the warped glass, he spotted the man he sought, swinging a cane as he walked briskly towards the Model. Dropping the bottle in the gutter, and leaving Stewart to topple on to the pavement, Cregg rushed over to intercept him. Cap in his hand, he made a boozy but heartfelt plea for forgiveness.
Mr Cracknell stopped with some reluctance. ‘I cannot use you, Cregg,’ was his impatient response. ‘You were drunk in the Hare and Hounds, drunk as a bloody lord.’ He leant in closer, sniffing, his nose wrinkling slightly. ‘And by Jove, you’re pretty bloody drunk now. How exactly I am supposed to lay complex plans, and make careful arrangements, with a man who can’t stay dry for long enough to bloody well hear ’em? Answer me that!’ The correspondent set off again. Six strides took him almost to the door of the lodging house.
Cregg, contrite and servile, scurried along at his side. ‘I’ll make amends, sir, promise I will. You know me will is strong, sir. What’s the scheme, sir? What would you ’ave me do?’
Mr Cracknell turned around, quickly moving in close again, his voice sharp with spite. ‘Your will may be strong, Cregg, but your mind is weak indeed. There is no place in my scheme for the weak-minded.’
A familiar feeling crept into Cregg. The situation was sliding beyond his control. Nothing he could say or do now would stop Mr Cracknell from dropping him. It was like all the other positions he’d lost, all the magistrates he’d stood before, all the demotions, humiliations and punishments he’d received in his wretched life. Bitter rage welled up inside him. ‘So ’ow am I to get me vengeance, then?’ You fat paddy bastard, he almost added. ‘’Ow am I to get Boyce, if you won’t ’ave me?’
‘Well, the Brigadier appears to be out of town at the minute,’ Mr Cracknell replied, stepping up to the door of the Model, ‘but my sources tell me that he is due at the Albion Hotel in a couple of days. You left your bayonet in Captain Wray, I understand, but I’ll warrant that a fellow like you will have no trouble securing himself another weapon. Why don’t you simply go over there and kill him? Stick him one in the gut, perhaps? There, is that a scheme you can take in? You would certainly have your vengeance then, Cregg! Now, begone!’
Mr Cracknell opened the door and walked through grandly, as if the Model Lodging House was the swankiest address in all Manchester. It slammed behind him.
2
‘Hello,’ said Bill Norton, spying the soot-scarred back of a city cab through a tangle of wisteria. ‘What’s a growler doing here at this hour?’
His father glanced up from his half-eaten kipper. Promptly dropping his fork on to his plate, he cast aside his napkin and rose from the breakfast table. ‘A business associate,’ he explained curtly, walking around the back of Bill’s chair. ‘I will return shortly.’
Bill and Jemima looked at each other. The morning sun shone brightly through the breakfast room’s large window, casting slanting shapes across the table between them. It was early still, but these blocks of light already shimmered with rising heat.
‘Strange time of day for a Foundry call,’ Bill mused. ‘And since when did the governor’s associates ride around in growlers? Every man-jack of them has at least one private carriage.’
Jemima lowered her eyes. ‘You are right. It is strange.’ She moved her coffee cup around in its saucer. ‘Almost as strange as the readiness with which he agreed to let me go to the Belle Vue this evening.’
It had been a risky proposition–even Bill had seen this. The upsets of the company visit were less than two weeks old. Their father had forbidden Jemima from seeing Mr Kitson again, in the severest terms. And now all of a sudden she was requesting permission to accompany her brother and his friend Alfred Keane to the Belle Vue, Manchester’s largest pleasure
garden–a place she had not visited, and shown no desire to visit, since before her marriage. It would hardly have been a great piece of deduction for their father to realise that Mr Kitson had been contacted and would be meeting her there.
But Jemima had been determined to try. She said that she had to see Mr Kitson as a matter of urgency. This was not merely lover’s hyperbole. Since the company visit she had been stuck fast in a quiet, bitter anger, which was far more significant than the impatient ire that formed a daily part of her character. It was an anger of rumination, and of ominous conclusions; Bill had thought about asking its precise cause, but swiftly decided that he didn’t really want to know. Best to leave it to Mr Kitson.
‘I take it that you are suspicious of his leniency.’
Jemima stared at him in disbelief. ‘William, are you not?’
‘Come now, Jem, what sinister motive could there possibly be? The governor has no inkling of our, ah,’ here Bill paused, blushing a little, ‘of our true pursuits once we are clear of these walls. Perhaps he simply wants peace.’
‘I would put nothing past Father, and neither should you.’ She got up. ‘We must remain very much on our guard.’
Bill sighed, pushing away the remains of his plate of buttered toast. ‘Very well, Jemima. As you say.’
He followed his sister out in to the velvet gloom of the hall. There was a faint smell of dried lavender and wood polish. The door to their father’s study was firmly closed. Jemima went towards the wide staircase, heading up to her rooms. After a second’s reflection, the heir to the Norton Foundry turned on his heel and strode down towards the hall’s opposite end with sudden purpose. The sonorous ticktocking of a dark grandfather clock seemed to echo his steps as he walked past.
The Street Philosopher Page 32
