The Street Philosopher (23 page)

Bill returned from a book-vendor in the station corridor with two Exhibition catalogues. He handed one to his sister and then sloped away. Jemima studied the weighty volume for a few moments before tucking it under her arm, skirting the crowds of factory people and walking into the nave. The Foundry expedition was running early; Mr Kitson was not due to arrive for another ten minutes. She decided to take a turn through the old master galleries before going to their agreed meeting place in Saloon F. Several dozen of her father’s workers were already wandering through the long, bright row of connected rooms, looking over the many hundreds of paintings they contained. They stared at grappling nudes and mythological beasts enacting alien, incomprehensible scenes; peered at grimy landscapes and discoloured portraits; shrugged before obscure allegories, and tales from the lives of the more esoteric saints. A large group of men and women stood before a cluster of fleshy Venetian pictures, pointing out certain anatomic endowments with lewd, echoing laughter. Seeing their employer’s daughter approaching, they nudged each other and assumed a grinning, unconvincing decorum. But as she passed, their eyes returned to the naked, contorted forms on the walls, and they burst into hilarity once more.

Jemima went through to the far gallery, designated Saloon A, where the most ancient paintings were displayed. On her previous tour of the Exhibition, this was where she had spent the least time, being largely unfamiliar with the artists and schools it represented. As with all the old master galleries, the long, rectangular room had been arranged so that the northern paintings hung on one side, and the southern on the other–the idea being that a visitor could turn around at any moment and compare the productions of the two geographical regions. It was but sparsely populated. There was a single working family present, the husband and wife studying a mystical Botticelli
Nativity
in a state of sombre confusion
whilst their four children played hide-and-seek around the gallery seats.

And there, quite unexpectedly, was Mr Kitson, neatly shaven and well dressed, clad in a dark suit and hat with a pale grey waistcoat. He was standing, his arms crossed, engrossed in a large panel in the centre of the room. She felt a sudden, pure happiness. Jemima James and Thomas Kitson were together again, standing within the same walls, breathing the same air. Anything else could surely be brushed aside. She said his name, smiling broadly, and crossed the gallery.

The deep distraction with which he turned away from the panel, however, made her remember the many questions that remained unanswered. There was much she still didn’t know–about him, and her father, and the disturbing interest that Mr Cracknell had in them both. This situation, she saw, could not reach an easy resolution.

Nonetheless, when Mr Kitson saw her, a genuine, slightly awkward delight suffused him, dispelling his anxiety. They spoke warmly for a few minutes, discussing the hanging scheme; he attempted to extract praise for the curators’ achievements from her, having not forgotten her scepticism about the Exhibition on the day they met. She acknowledged that it was a remarkable feat of organisation, but said that the great cliff-faces of art towering over them on either side left her feeling overwhelmed rather than inspired. He chuckled, and went on to point out some of the more impressive loans that had been secured. Beneath his light-hearted conversation, though, lay something of the tender yet determined evasiveness that had characterised his letters. Jemima could not decide if he was trying to protect her somehow, or if that which he concealed was simply too painful for him to contemplate. She had read of the great difficulties encountered by those returning from the Russian campaign. Workhouses and asylums across the country had admitted scores of former soldiers who were utterly unable to resume ordinary lives–men reduced to vagrancy or madness by what they had experienced.

For he was certainly a veteran of the Crimea. After the
Polygon, she’d gone back to her pile of old
Couriers
. It had not taken long to find mention in an editorial of both a junior correspondent and an illustrator dispatched by the paper to the peninsula at the outset of the invasion, before its coverage came to focus on the controversial Mr Cracknell. The illustrator remained an enigma, but Jemima was convinced that the junior correspondent had been Mr Kitson. She tested this with some oblique references in their correspondence; to which he did not respond directly, of course, but neither did he deny what they implied.

Abruptly, Jemima realised that he was trying to hide something from her even then–that the locations of the paintings he talked about were being carefully chosen so that he could stand between her and the work he had been examining when she had entered the saloon. She immediately peered around him, noted the number on the frame and looked it up in her catalogue.

‘What of this one?’ she said, pointing out the entry with her finger. ‘
Pontius Pilate Giving Christ up for Crucifixion
by Raffaello Sanzio, from the collection of Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce?’

As she read the name of the owner, she understood something of the painting’s significance. This was the officer who had been so censured by the
London Courier
during the Russian War–the villain of the Tomahawk’s reports. Mr Kitson paled slightly at the mention of Boyce. Seeing that he had failed to distract her attention from the panel, he moved away, saying nothing, raising his face up towards the band of blue sky visible through the gallery’s glass roof. Jemima looked at the
Pilate
. The subject was profoundly unsettling, certainly a league away from the sweetly pious works that had been positioned around it. Even a nearby depiction of the crucifixion itself by the same painter could not match its disturbing power.

‘I have read of this work,’ she murmured. ‘It is attracting a good deal of attention, is it not?’

He made no reply. She realised that Mr Kitson, in his coverage of the Exhibition for the
Manchester Evening Star
, had not so much as mentioned its presence. Ever since that
night on Mosley Street, Jemima had been an avid reader of the
Star’
s street philosopher. In recent weeks, he had touched upon every aspect of the Exhibition, from the character of the crowds to the bill of fare available in the refreshment rooms. The collection itself had been described in detail, both in terms of individual exhibits and the rigorous educational principles on which they had been arranged. Raphael’s
Pilate
, however, the painting Jemima had found Mr Kitson so transfixed by, the painting owned by Mr Cracknell’s Crimean nemesis, had been omitted completely.

Also, rather more disconcertingly, despite the confident claims in the leading art journals that this panel had emerged from nowhere to appear in the Exhibition–almost as if Raphael had risen from the grave, executed one last commission and then dropped straight back in–Jemima found that it was distinctly familiar. The shape of the wringing hands, the tone of the purple toga, the terrible guilt in those haunted eyes: all were known to her. An impossible conviction gathered in her mind. She had seen Raphael’s
Pilate
before.

Mr Kitson’s voice cut through her confusion. ‘Mrs James, I believe the hour of the lecture is approaching.’

He was holding a pocket-watch in his hand. As he replaced it in his waistcoat, he winced; the injury in his chest that she had noticed in the Polygon was clearly troubling him again. His main concern, though, was to remove them both from the presence of the
Pilate
.

‘Do allow me to apologise for my strange mood,’ he added with sudden earnestness. ‘You caught me by surprise–that is all. Seeing you again, madam, is truly a tonic for the soul. You–you look very lovely, may I say.’

‘Why, thank you, sir.’ Jemima, caught off guard, blushed a little.

‘And you know that I would stay alone with you all day if I possibly could. But we should not keep your father waiting.’

Jemima nodded, and cast a final bewildered look at the
Pilate
. She then slid her fingers into the crook of his arm and held on to him tightly as they walked together into the nave.

* * *

A party of Foundry men, thirty or so strong, emerged from the old master saloons. Bill lowered the catalogue he’d been pretending to read and studied them. Their intention was plain–they were leaving. He’d noticed that as the morning progressed, and their feet became sore, the novelty of the Palace had begun to wane for many of his father’s employees, and its manifold, unfathomable glories had started to feel somewhat oppressive. Barely forty minutes in, and they were already streaming for the exits, not even held back by the prospect of their free lunch. Those who were going–and there were hundreds–were heading off past the collegial spires of the Blind Asylum, on to the Stretford New Road and back into the centre of the city.

The men he was watching were among this number. ‘The stupidest exhibition that ever I saw!’ declared one gruffly.

‘There’s nowt here but pictures,’ another agreed. ‘Let’s off to the Belle Vue.’

This proposal appeared to meet with the approval of the group. They strode down the nave, shoving their way through the turnstiles and out through the main doors. Bill, still grinning at their remarks, caught the eye of a straggler, a sinewy youth with a downy beard and a wide, sensuous mouth. Both stood still for a moment, holding the connection; then, with deliberate slowness, they looked each other up and down. Lingering yet further behind his comrades, the boy turned right before the doors, going down towards the second-class refreshment room. A hit, thought Bill triumphantly as he started after him. A palpable hit.

As he strolled along the wide red carpet towards the turnstiles, however, he noticed a familiar figure lurking around a marble Magdalene on the northern side of the nave. It was the black-bearded, shabbily dressed Irishman–Richard Cracknell, the one-time Tomahawk of the
Courier
, who had introduced himself so forcibly at the Polygon.

Bill stopped dead. His immediate fear was that the fellow might have seen his mute exchange with the factory boy, and have realised what was transpiring. He could tell that the infamous war correspondent was the sort who might well decide to stir up a bit of trouble just for larks. But no,
Cracknell’s attention was thankfully directed towards one of the modern saloons, where the exodus from the Exhibition seemed to have been halted, to some extent at least. Bill heard his father within, droning away through the partition wall; and then another voice took over, a voice altogether kinder on the ear. It was Jemima’s friend Mr Kitson–his lecture was beginning.

Cracknell edged from behind the knotted stone tresses of his Magdalene and sauntered towards the saloon entrance. This brought him some yards closer to Bill; flashing him a reptilian smile, the Tomahawk tipped his dented topper and wished young Mr Norton a perfectly
splendid
morning.

As he began to speak, the last trace of Kitson’s nervousness left him. Nothing, he thought, absolutely nothing restores presence of mind like having to address an audience.

Being reunited with Mrs James whilst standing before the
Pilate
, hearing her say Nathaniel Boyce’s name and stare so intently at the panel he had stolen, had been severely disorientating. Kitson had been beset by an alarming sense that the two things he should be striving to keep apart were becoming inextricably tangled together. When he saw Charles Norton, however, standing in Saloon F with his managers flanking him like a royal bodyguard, and the loose crowd of perhaps two hundred and fifty working people assembled behind them, all this promptly vanished from his mind. Something awakened in him–an old assurance dating from his life as an art correspondent in the Metropolis, back when he would have been unable even to find the Crimean peninsula on a map.

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 happens, 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!’