The Street Philosopher (13 page)

Taken aback by the unforgiving severity of Cracknell’s tone, Kitson tried to speak up in Styles’ defence but could not find the words. It was like trying to move a dead limb. The will was there yet nothing happened. Closing his eyes, he saw again the faces of the men back on those slopes; and found himself wondering if he had drawn his last untroubled breath.

‘I imagined him to be a kindred spirit, y’know,’ the senior correspondent went on. ‘A worthwhile addition to our brave reporting team. Yet look at what he has turned out to be–naught but a poltroon, a vomit-flecked booby.’

Cracknell had stopped work. He looked over at the plain beyond the battlefield, where the Allied Army was camping out on its hard-won ground, putting up tents and starting fires with wood gathered from the valley. His harangue became a touch more conciliatory.

‘You would have done your duty, Thomas, I know that, had you not been burdened by our young illustrator. This is a problem we will have to address. A unified courage will be needed in the months to come.’ He lit a fresh cigarette with the end of its predecessor. ‘Grave errors have been made today, errors that dash all hopes of a speedy resolution to this campaign. There will be more battles, and bloody ones too–mark my words.’ He tapped the sheets resting on his knee. ‘All this is explained here, and will go straight to the
Courier
.’

‘
More battles?
’ The disbelieving anger Kitson had felt on the battlefield returned abruptly, driving away his confusion. ‘How the hell can they hope to fight more battles when the injured are just left on the ground to die? How can such–such
murderous
negligence possibly be sustained?’

Cracknell nodded approvingly. ‘You are absolutely right, it is obscene. But we will be here to bear witness. Our mission has undergone a change, Kitson. We are messengers, my friend, and together we will ensure these abuses and failings do not go unreported–or unpunished.’

This sounded very noble, as Cracknell’s little speeches
invariably did. For the first time, however, Kitson found that he listened with a degree of mistrust.

‘You must tell me of your pistol, Mr Cracknell,’ he said, the smallest barb in his voice. ‘Did it serve you well?’

Cracknell stared at him in astonishment, the rug pulled from under his grand posturing. He reached into his jacket for the revolver and hefted it in his hand, a look of bewilderment on his face.

‘Do you know,’ he said slowly, ‘I forgot completely that I had it.’

Then he lowered it a fraction, and a long spurt of dirty river water ran out of the barrel, dripping down on to the scorched grass below.

‘It has often been said that the crowd is one of the great levellers
of mankind; that a lord or bishop, placed in a large, adversarial
gathering of his peers, will for all his supposed breeding and education
behave no better than a navvy brawling outside a pot-house.
Reader, the truth of this axiom was well demonstrated on the steps
of the Art Treasures Exhibition on the morning of the fifth of May
1857. As the chapel bells of the nearby Blind Asylum began to strike
eleven, the appointed hour of opening, the mass of finely dressed
ladies and gentlemen pressed up against the Exhibition doors began
to strike the glass and rattle the handles with such impatient force
that this correspondent feared that they might succeed in bringing
them down.

‘Like cattle drivers charged with a particularly skittish, heavily
perfumed herd, the stewards within eased open their gates and let
this noisy throng jostle through. The city’s highest in rank, fashion
and beauty all but ran up to the turnstiles, the gentlemen removing
their hats, the ladies gathering up their skirts to allow for more
rapid locomotion. Imprecations not to push were imperiously ignored,
yellow admission tickets waved dismissively at attendants, and the
revolving metal barriers wrenched around with the utmost violence.
Several, in their urgency to get through and secure their seats, tried
to pull these barriers the wrong way, resulting in them becoming
stuck; and those caught directly behind could only watch in helpless
rage as others flew past them on either side, beating them to
the best locations.

‘
Passing quickly into the grand hall, these worthy notables did
not gasp at the magnificence of the nave, sweeping down to the
cavernous transept with the great bronze tubes of the organ behind;
they did not marvel at the enormous skylights overhead, or the intricate
web of girders that support them, with every single rivet picked
out in gold leaf; they did not stare at the thick red carpet that runs
the length of the structure, flanked by statues of white marble, to a
dais at its heart, on which is mounted a golden throne; nor did they
pause to admire the hundreds of masterful paintings that adorn the
walls, almost obscuring the maroon paper behind. They looked only
to the chairs and benches, accumulating around the dais like mud
on an axle. The triumph with which places were claimed diminished
the further they were from the Royal seat: those who had
secured the very closest gloated victoriously, whilst those on the fringes
of the transept, and stuck out in the aisles of the nave, frowned with
disappointment, and wondered to whom they could address their
complaints.

‘Gradually, however, this first wave of guests recovered their
breath, readjusted their ruffled clothes and started to look around
them properly. The Art Treasures Palace was finally allowed to exert
its undeniable effect, and its girders echoed with exclamations of a
rare, entirely unstudied awe.’

Kitson turned over a page in his pocketbook and was about to commence his next sentence when Edward Thorne, editor of the
Manchester Evening Star
, gestured with his walnut walking stick towards a fashionable group standing near the heart of the Exhibition.

‘The Baileys,’ he declared. ‘I happen to know that their latest carriage cost in excess of a thousand pounds.’

Thorne and Kitson sat together on the northern balcony of the transept, which had been set aside for the men of the Manchester press. The
Star’
s editor was present purely for his own entertainment, however, and wrote nothing. In contrast with many of those around him, whose attempts at morning dress spanned the full spectrum of shabbiness, Thorne’s grey suit was immaculate, and his habitually sceptical features clean-shaven. It was as if he was trying to correct the somewhat grubby reputation of his journal with his own spruce appearance.

‘And there,’ the editor continued pointedly, ‘is Colonel
Bennett and the officers of the Glorious 25th. Without poor Major Wray, of course…’

The hall before them was carpeted with a constantly shifting, murmuring mass of humanity, bathed in slanting shafts of sunlight. Above rose the vast, still space of the iron palace, enclosed by girders and glass, and festooned with dozens of bright flags and banners. And crowning everything, in a golden arch above the spray of organ pipes, ran an inscription in a strong, Latinate script, each letter five feet tall:
To Wake the Soul by Tender Strokes of Art
.

Over on the far side of the nave were the soldiers Thorne had indicated. There were about a dozen of them, in full dress uniform, standing in a loose circle beside a densely patterned suit of Elizabethan armour. The sight of the crimson jackets seemed to make the sunny hall grow uncomfortably hot, its atmosphere suddenly close and stifling. Perspiration broke out across Kitson’s brow, beneath the hard brim of his hired top hat, and a dull queasiness welled inside him. He looked away for a moment, down at his boots; then he returned his attention to his pocketbook.

Thorne turned towards him in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Tell me again how you did it, Kitson. Exactly how you did it.’

The street philosopher stopped writing. He knew that he bore Thorne a heavy debt. The
Star’
s editor had taken him on shortly before the Christmas of 1856 with few questions asked. Considerable tolerance had subsequently been shown regarding Kitson’s reclusive tendencies, the rarity of his appearances at the journal’s premises on Corporation Street, and his general unwillingness to speak about himself at any length. At times, however, Thorne would adopt a gratingly interrogative manner, no doubt thinking to draw out through some oblique questioning that which Kitson would not openly volunteer.

‘What more can I possibly tell you, Thorne? The Colonel sent a letter asking if there was anything he could do to thank me for assisting his officer. It seemed like the obvious request.’

That Saturday night, even with his skin scrubbed raw and
his bloody clothes burned, Kitson had been incapable of rest. The encounter with Wray was so unlikely, such a foul trick of chance, that it had kept him pacing back and forth across his attic until several hours past daybreak. He was sorely tempted to go to the Royal Infirmary, confront Wray in his sick bed and demand to know what he was doing in Manchester.

But wisdom had prevailed; and first thing on Monday, he had gone instead to Wovenden’s Coffee House and made his inquiries there. This establishment, located in the dead centre of Market Street, was a favourite with his fellow newspapermen and the prime place to obtain information. Wray, he soon discovered, had transferred to the 25th Manchesters only a couple of months earlier, yet already was widely despised as a martinet. In fact, there were strong suspicions amongst the constabulary that it was one of his own regiment who had attacked him, despite the lurid stories of a mad cripple that were circulating throughout the city.

The note from Colonel Bennett had been waiting for him back at Princess Street. He had penned a reply immediately, biting his lip as he wished Wray a speedy recovery and then wondering whether the Colonel could secure him an invitation to the ball at the Polygon the following evening. Bennett, he knew, was a long-standing fixture in Manchester society, and on good terms with the Fairbairns: this was well within his capabilities.

Only after the reply had been sent did Kitson pause to examine why he had asked for such a thing. This was the sort of event he would normally go out of his way to avoid. Then he had remembered Mrs James, and their disputative, unexpectedly intimate conversation in her father’s office. He recalled the frown line etched between the light crescents of her eyebrows, and the way her sharp green eyes had looked so intently into his, as if searching determinedly for something. He wished to see her, to speak with her again. This was the reason he had sought an invitation to the Polygon. Kitson had taken a breath, made a quick calculation of his meagre finances and headed back out into the city to obtain some formal clothes.

Thorne straightened his cuffs. ‘Well, I must say that it is a welcome change. We had grown used to you being the
Star’
s very own Saint Jerome, Kitson, cowering away in the shadows–but now, all of a sudden, you seem to be the epitome of the well-connected gentleman. I look forward to it opening up a whole new dimension in your work.’ The editor tapped at Kitson’s shoulder with his cane. ‘Aha, look! The Buckle King is among us! And with both offspring in tow!’

Kitson sat up, leaning a little closer to the balcony rail. She was not hard to locate. Compared with the lace-laden ladies through whom she moved, Mrs James was a model of taste and restraint. Her pale blue dress was worn with only a modest crinoline and a simple flounce, complemented by a dark shawl and bonnet. She drew condescending and occasionally hostile glances from those around her, but ignored them all completely. As she passed into the nave, taking it in, the look on her face suggested a reluctant admiration.

Thorne followed the direction of his gaze. ‘The widow Jemima. A soul with a natural bent to controversy, they say; quixotic, rebellious, a constant source of concern to her father.’ He studied Kitson more closely. ‘Are you two acquainted, Kitson, perchance?’

‘We met on the night Major Wray was stabbed. She saw me with him on Mosley Street, and we—’

‘So this is the true motivation behind all this initiative, this dextrous ingenuity! Mrs Jemima James!’ The
Star’
s editor rapped the end of his cane smartly against the balcony’s metal floor. ‘And there was I, naïve fool that I am, assuming that you acted out of dedication to me, to my paper!’

Kitson could not help grinning. ‘I have not forgotten the
Star
, Thorne. Never fear.’

Thorne sighed, sitting back in his chair. ‘Well, I wish you luck, Kitson, honestly I do. The only advice I can offer is of a depressingly traditional nature, I’m afraid:
beware the
father
. Like all men who have but recently arrived at their fortunes, Norton seeks to elevate himself, and is unlikely to be pleased by the advances of a lowly newspaperman.’
His face darkened a little. ‘Believe me, these self-made men are ruthless fellows–and that one particularly so.’

The street philosopher looked across the hall to Charles Norton, the so-called Buckle King. He was in his mid-fifties, bewhiskered and austere, the classic figure of the Manchester labour-lord. He was conversing solemnly with other grandees, accepting compliments on the Exhibition as if it were all his doing alone–as if there weren’t another eighty-nine men on the Exhibition Committee, and an Executive Committee to boot.

His children, meanwhile, were heading off into the crowd without him. William Norton, clad in a ruby-red cravat and yellow waistcoat, had taken his sister’s hand; they weaved around a gleaming marble statue of a sinuous classical huntsman and slipped through a gap between two display cases crammed with ornamental silverware. Kitson realised that they were making for a trio of chairs positioned off to one side of the dais, deep in the shadow cast by the southern balcony, which were being held for them by a willowy, long-haired young man. Like William Norton, he was extravagantly dressed, and his face was alive with anticipation. He greeted the siblings effusively, shaking their hands with great warmth. Before the three had time to sit, a ripple of applause started down by the doors, gathering quickly to a rousing ovation. Kitson could see nothing, but word soon travelled along the balcony that Lord Overstone, the Exhibition’s president, had just made his entrance, and now stood in place ready to welcome Prince Albert. It would not be long now.

‘Alfred Keane,’ Thorne informed him, indicating the willowy man. ‘One of the most notorious sodomites in Lancashire. And a
close companion
of the young dandy Norton, if you follow my meaning.’ He gave a low laugh and nodded at Kitson’s pocketbook. ‘Probably best if you omit that from your account.’

William Norton and his friend Keane, placing themselves on either side of Mrs James, began to talk over her animatedly, gesturing and pointing as they surveyed the enormous audience gathered in the hall. Trapped between them, she read her programme, entirely disengaged from her surroundings.

Kitson was so absorbed in his contemplation of her that it took him a few seconds to notice that William Norton had spotted him. He nudged his sister with an elbow, clearly amused, and directed her attention to the northern balcony. Mrs James’ face lifted upwards, and for an instant their eyes met. Kitson’s pulse throbbed against his tight collar. He went to raise his hat. She began to smile.

A deep, rumbling roar started up outside, from the direction of the city, the loose chorus of thousands of voices cheering thunderously along the Prince’s route to the Exhibition. Every head in the hall turned towards the main doors; then, as one, the audience leapt to their feet, their conversation suddenly escalating in volume as they strained to catch a glimpse of the Royal carriage pulling up outside. Their grand ceremony was about to begin.

When Kitson looked back across the transept, he could not find Mrs James. She was lost in a chaos of top hats and bonnets, all dipping and craning as they vied for a decent view. As he searched impatiently through the shifting multitude, he experienced a startling, unwelcome jolt of recognition. One of the faces he had passed over was familiar–very familiar.

With mounting unease, he made himself look again. There, under the balcony opposite, off behind where he had seen Jemima, in what was probably the darkest corner of the hall, stood a stocky, bearded, black-haired man. Austere portraits of Cromwell and his generals stared down disapprovingly as he leant against a column, half-facing the wall, a cupped hand raised to his lips. A small spark glowed: Kitson realised that, in defiance of the rules of the Exhibition, the man was surreptitiously puffing on a cigarette. He tilted his head back to exhale, forcing the smoke out of one side of his mouth, a look of calm, slightly mocking confidence on his wide, ruddy face. Although he was over a hundred and fifty feet away, and shrouded in shadow, there could not be any doubt. It was Cracknell.