The Street Philosopher (22 page)

The line of soldiers stretched across the parade ground, between the kitchen pump and the burning barrack-house. Dragged from their bunks, most were in a state of some undress, with many sporting bare feet and trailing shirt ends. They were wide awake, though, to a man; the air of emergency, the strong, choking smoke and the sight of rising flames against the night sky had served to banish all bleariness. Large iron pails were travelling along this human chain at some speed, losing a good quantity of their contents to the flagstones of the drill square. A group of sergeants had positioned themselves at the barracks end of the line, rushing in dangerously close to hurl what was left of the water on to the blaze. This was proving desperately ineffectual, the water hissing away to nothing whilst the fire grew in size and ferocity.

The two night sentries came running up from the front gate, and were about to set down their Enfield rifles and join in when they were halted by a wild-eyed lieutenant clad only in a nightshirt. He instructed them to conduct an immediate search of the waste ground to the west of the barracks–the cripple had been sighted. The sentries, Privates Donlan and Vernor, looked at each other before heading back towards the gate.

Like every man in the 25th Manchesters, Donlan and Vernor knew all about the cripple. It was, most agreed, pretty damned amusing. A hunchbacked tramp was stalking their
heroic officers like a dog circling a duck-pond, and by Christ did he have them a-quacking! Only last week he had got his fangs into Captain Grier, cutting up his arm something nasty; but after the unholy fuss made in the papers over that bastard Wray, Colonel Bennett had been careful to keep it quiet. He wanted this cripple caught, though, and sharpish. Word was that some top brass were coming to Manchester soon, for the Queen’s visit, and an embarrassment like this could not–
would
not be endured.

The two sentries left the barracks, hurrying a short distance along Regent Road before swerving into a side passage. This led them to a black, unlit expanse of open land, the cobbles underfoot giving way to loose earth strewn with refuse. Very little could be seen of their surroundings. Ahead of them was a horizon of distant hills. To their left was the barn-like nave of St Bartholomew’s, its yard crowded with pale gravestones.

‘’E only goes fer officers, right, Vern?’ whispered Donlan nervously as they advanced, rifles at the ready. ‘Shall we put one in’t pipe, just in case, like?’

‘Nay,’ snapped Vernor. ‘They want ’im breathin’, ye numbskull. If ye catch ’im, give ’im a tap wi’ yer butt.’

‘Is it true that ’e’s tried t’break into th’Colonel’s ’ouse, t’get at Wray? T’finish ’im off?’

Vernor nodded quickly, but his answer was cut short by a series of shouts from inside the barracks, and the stamping of boots. A squad was being formed up to come and assist with the search.

‘’Ear that, cripple?’ Vernor cried into the darkness. ‘’Ear that, you bleeder? We’re comin’ for ye! Ye’ll regret triflin’ wi’ us!’

A ragged shape loped across the waste ground in the direction of the churchyard. The soldiers gave chase, weaving in amongst the tightly packed graves, holding their rifles upright in front of them. For a second they lost him; then both heard a scrabbling, rustling sound, and turned to see a figure in a badly torn coat scaling an ivy-covered wall with unlikely agility. Vernor started after him, gesturing for Donlan to head around the side and cut him off.

Donlan left the yard by a rusty gate, his eyes open wide, his heavy Enfield raised and ready to strike. The lane beyond was quite empty. He ran along it, checking every back alley he passed. There was no sign of their quarry. Vernor dropped into the lane with a curse and a shower of brick dust, twigs and ivy leaves. Together they hunted around for a minute or two longer, but it was no use. It was as if the cripple had taken flight from the top of the wall like a greasy, tattered owl.

The sentries looked at each other, knowing that they would now have to return and report their failure to the regiment. Wearily, they shouldered their rifles and started back towards the barracks. Before them, the spire of St Bartholomew’s spiked up into a fire-tinted sky.

Kitson tried to keep away from it. He tried to keep the wide avenue of the nave between himself and the old master saloons, to confine his attention solely to the modern galleries where, in under an hour, he was to give his talk to the operatives of the Norton Foundry. He knew exactly where it was. The
Star’
s street philosopher had spent much of the past few weeks under the great glass roof of the Art Treasures Palace, detailing the immense collection, penning observations on the milling crowds, or nursing a port negus in the refreshment rooms. Every time he visited he attempted the same thing, and every time he failed. This occasion, despite the imminent arrival of Mrs James, her father and close to a thousand of his workers, would be no different.

Cursing himself, Kitson strode grimly across the strip of crimson carpet that ran down the centre of the nave. The Exhibition had been open for less than an hour, the few early morning visitors floating like motes of dust in the cavernous interior. On the opposite side of the transept, someone started to play a jaunty popular tune on the grand organ, the serried notes groaning through the building. The street philosopher passed quickly through the banks of display cases and into Saloon A, the room devoted to the Italian and Northern Renaissance.

And there it was, hanging on the line in the centre of the saloon–the
Pilate
from the Crimean villa. No matter how often he stood before it, Kitson always felt unprepared.
There was a fresh horror, a fresh dismay each time. As he looked at the painting, his chest tightened and a cold, damp shadow seemed to fall over the gallery. He could smell the musty kitchen once again, could hear the rainfall and feel Robert Styles crouched anxiously beside him; and he could see Captain Wray, cocking his revolver with his thumb.

Abruptly, Kitson turned from the
Pilate
, thrusting his hands into his pockets with such violence that a stitch gave out in the lining of his jacket. Facing him now, opposite the Italian wall which held the
Pilate
, was a dizzying expanse of early Netherlandish art; stiff-limbed, melodramatic
Crucifixions;
brightly clothed Virgins holding pot-bellied Christ-children, their little faces prematurely old; and minutely detailed portraits of gem-encrusted, fur-lined merchants. Kitson closed his eyes.

Away from the Exhibition, sitting at his desk or lying sleeplessly in bed, he had considered the
Pilate’s
presence at Manchester at exhaustive length. He had not expected ever to see the panel again. That Boyce had managed to get it out of the Crimea was amazing enough. Although Major-General Codrington had dismissed their claims, had Boyce been seen afterwards to have an old master painting in his possession, suspicions would certainly have been aroused; Kitson had even thought that the Colonel might have destroyed it in order to protect himself.

Now, however, Boyce seemed to be in the clear. The Tsar the panel had belonged to was dead, succeeded in 1855 by a son who was entirely unaware of its existence, if what the Crimean steward had said was true. Codrington and his staff–those of them who had survived the campaign–were hardly likely to remember the details of that brief, farcical hearing, given all that had come after it. And even if they did, the connection would now be impossible to prove. Since the war, Boyce was known to have bought a great many pictures; with the help of some forged papers, the
Pilate
could easily be claimed as one of these. Only Kitson and Cracknell knew its real source, and how it had been obtained–and what had a mighty lion like Boyce to fear from the likes of them?

The
Pilate’
s presence in the Art Treasures Exhibition had not been hard to explain. After learning from Cracknell that Boyce was coming to Manchester, Kitson had asked around in Wovenden’s–and discovered that the Brigadier-General, as he now was, was attending the Queen’s state visit in two weeks’ time. The
Pilate
was being hailed in some quarters as the sensation of the entire Exhibition, overshadowing even Henry Labouchere’s Michelangelo, and its owner acclaimed as a connoisseur of the highest discernment and intellect. Bold and shameless as ever, Boyce was looking to win the praise of Queen Victoria herself with his blood-soaked plunder.

These deductions left Kitson completely furious, longing to see some kind of justice done. This, surely, had been Cracknell’s intention when he had waylaid the street philosopher at the Polygon, but no attempt at contact had been made by his former colleague since then. For the first week, Kitson had expected him; for the second, his patience expiring, he had sought him out; and for the third he had grown convinced that Cracknell was no longer in Manchester at all. At that precise moment, in Saloon A of the Exhibition, Kitson wished that Cracknell would appear at his side so that he would have someone with whom to vent his seething fury–the only other person alive who would fully understand it.

Then, as always, he remembered Cracknell’s own inexcusable actions, and the part he himself had played in them. This was not a man he could ever be allied with again, under any circumstances. If Cracknell was in the city somewhere, hatching his plots, Kitson was determined to remain uninvolved; especially if the stabbing of Wray was an indication of their nature.

He looked at his pocket-watch. Mrs James would be there in minutes.

After her spirited exchange with Cracknell in the Polygon, Kitson was half-afraid that she would end their friendship simply on the grounds that he was acquainted with such an obnoxious individual. But she had written to him only a few days later, initiating a frequent correspondence. Her letters
were packed with thoughts and questions, so like her conversation that they made him smile as he read them. It was plain, though, that Cracknell’s comments about her father were preying on her mind–as had been his intention. Several times, she asked Kitson directly whether he could throw any light on the so-called ‘Tomahawk’s’ strange statements. He could not, of course, and no amount of inquiry in Wovenden’s or anywhere else even hinted at an explanation. In writing his replies, he could only try to express the deep regard and affection that he felt for her, and set aside his fears that their connection was leading her into danger.

Mrs James had also communicated repeatedly how much she was looking forward to his lecture, and Kitson had resolved that it would be worthy of her anticipation. He had been completely prepared, a model of calm composure–before the Crimean panel had exerted its irresistible pull.

Without thinking, he turned back towards the
Pilate
. Eyes fixed upon it, upon that man with his impossible burden of blame, Kitson sat down slowly on an upholstered bench in the centre of the gallery. Forearms on his trembling knees, he pressed his sweating palms together as hard as he could.

After a long, gradual deceleration, the train jerked to a halt, causing its passengers to rock back and forth in their seats. There was a brief pause as they gathered their belongings, and then a vast throng of working people gushed out of the string of third-class carriages on to the covered platform of the special Art Treasures Exhibition station. A holiday atmosphere prevailed in amongst the drifting clouds of smoke and steam that billowed down from the engine. Clad in its Sunday best, the massive outing was alive with merry chatter, with gangs of children racing around its edges like swallows circling a steeple.

In the first-class carriage, Charles Norton got to his feet, the springs of the plush red upholstery creaking underneath him. ‘This day will be remembered,’ he announced, his voice heavy with portent, ‘as the day when our Foundry, although successful already, set itself upon a still brighter path. Never before, I believe, have humble people been exposed to improving influences such as those contained in this grand
building before us. The drunkenness, the indolence, the vice of our workforce will soon be but a distant, unsavoury recollection. They are, at this moment, but gnomes groping in the earthy darkness, guided by ignorance and instincts purely animal; but this thing, this great thing here, will open their eyes to the light. It will enable them speedily to take their proper rank in the great human family.’

The managers and wives assembled within the carriage applauded this declaration enthusiastically, some saying ‘hear, hear’ with sycophantic conviction. Jemima rolled her eyes. Her father had been rehearsing his little speech for days. It sounded to her as if he’d lifted the bulk of it from one of his Tory periodicals.

‘I wonder what rank that would be,’ whispered Bill, who was sitting beside her. ‘That of idiot children, perhaps?’

Jemima glanced at her brother. Both were in high spirits. She was to see her friend Mr Kitson after three long weeks; and he simply enjoyed these company excursions, relishing the departure from the ordinary that they permitted.

Norton raised his hands, bidding his audience to fall quiet. ‘All I ask, ladies and gentlemen, is that you make sure our men and women pass through the Exhibition’s doors. I am quite convinced that once inside, the refining influence of the place, and the elevated glory of the paintings, will ensure their good conduct. You have all visited the Exhibition already, I presume?’ There was a chorus of affirmatives. ‘Well then, you’ll be well equipped to answer any questions they might have. I believe it’s all fairly straightforward, but it never pays to be too confident where the working man is concerned. Now, we dine at one. Our company here will meet in the first-class refreshment room–the rest of the Foundry in the lower-class extension. I shall be visiting the workers as they take their repast, to see how their experiences have touched them, and would gladly welcome any of you who might wish to accompany me.’

‘So that will be all of them, then,’ Bill observed archly. ‘The governor is so seldom disappointed by his managers.’

Realising that her father was about to conclude his address, Jemima cleared her throat loudly.

Norton looked over at her, and for a second his insufferable patrician satisfaction faltered. ‘Also, ladies and gentlemen,’ he added, ‘my daughter has arranged for a short lecture to be given in the modern galleries. The speaker is an authority on artistic matters, I’m told, and once worked in this capacity for the
London Courier
magazine. This will commence in one half-hour, and I urge you and however many operatives you can secure to attend.’

The reluctance with which this postscript was delivered brought a dry smile to Jemima’s lips. After the ball at the Polygon, that same night in fact, Charles had summoned her to his study and ordered her not to have anything more to do with her Mr Kitson–or his friend Mr Cracknell.

Such tyrannical behaviour invariably provoked Jemima rather than cowed her, and an altercation had ensued. She had informed her father curtly that it was Mr Kitson she knew; and that Mr Cracknell was
not
his friend, he could be sure of that, and she would not be meeting that person again if she could possibly help it. At any rate, she’d continued, Mr Kitson could not be dropped as readily as he commanded, as he had been generous enough to agree to lecture the Foundry workers in the Art Treasures Exhibition at her request. Striking his desk with his fist, Charles had demanded that this address be cancelled right away.

Seldom one to tip-toe meekly around a potentially inflammatory subject, Jemima had barely paused before asking him if his objections were rooted in the Crimea. Had he encountered the newspapermen whilst they were working in the theatre of war for the
London Courier
? Did this have anything to do with the contract he had secured whilst staying in Balaclava?

Charles would not answer, stating wrathfully that none of this was her concern–that he was her father and she would obey him. She had retorted that she was not a daft girl in petticoats but a grown woman, and although forced to rely on him for food and shelter, she would not have him arbitrarily terminate her friendships without proper justification. The challenge had thus been made: either he explained his antipathy or the lecture would go ahead. She had heard nothing more.

Seeing that her father’s speech was at an end, Jemima adjusted her bonnet, gathered her skirts and climbed from the train. The Norton workforce had spread along the lengthy platform as they waited for their master. A number had sat themselves upon benches, taken out packed lunches and a variety of bottles, and begun an impromptu picnic. Behind them, plastered on the outer wall of the Palace, was an overlapping mass of lurid commercial posters, each bearing boasts and promises in elaborate script, with dense blocks of text beneath.

Charles Norton and his entourage of managers emerged from the first-class carriage. They put on their top hats as they stepped down, the spotless jet-black cylinders shining dully in the diffuse light.

‘You people!’ bellowed the white-whiskered proprietor, pointing at the picnickers as he strode up the platform. ‘Throw that food away! There’s to be no food taken inside the building, is that clear?’

Norton swept towards the corridor that led into the Exhibition, his offspring trailing a short distance behind him. Herded by the more junior members of the managerial staff, the workforce slowly followed, reluctantly abandoning their pies, sandwiches and bottles. Jemima watched as her father took up a position just inside the turnstiles, surveying the teeming mass of his employees as they formed into lines and were fed steadily into the Art Treasures Exhibition.

Then something odd happened. A tall, black-suited man, resembling a low-class undertaker, sidled up to him, tipping his stew-pan hat. They spoke briefly, Charles clearly wishing to dispense with their business as quickly as possible. The man withdrew to the shadows beneath the balcony, where three or four others, all similarly attired, were waiting for him. He relayed his instructions, making a series of efficient gestures with his right hand; and they all walked off purposefully in different directions.

The workers, once they were past the barriers, drifted into the vastness of the Palace, gaping at its lavish luxury. Slowly, they strolled towards the picture galleries and up to the transept, their conversations growing louder and
livelier the further they were from the gaze of their master. The few visitors already in the Exhibition, seeing the Foundry’s noisy approach, retreated to the first-class refreshment room, exchanging indignant looks as they went.