The Street Philosopher Part 12

Cracknell paused. His eyes held a trace of amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Good Lord, Thomas, you are fractious today. Is a mutiny brewing, I wonder?'

Kitson ignored this. 'It will be on our heads, sir, if we do not act.'

Putting up his collar, Cracknell looked to the tree trunks ahead. 'We'll discuss this later, back at the camps,' he said with firm finality. 'Now, we must press on. There is still some distance to go.'

Styles hopped across the stones some yards back, absorbed in his own thoughts. He had found the experience of killing a confusing one. It was Religion's greatest sin, the sin of Cain; yet it had actually been rather easy. No thunderclaps or lightning, no horrible shadow of d.a.m.nation falling over one's soulall one had to do was pick up a rock and strike with it, much as one might chop a log, or poke a fire. Although it had been the decision of an instant, Styles found that he was not surprised or dismayed by what he had done. As they crept out of the ravine, and made their way along the valley, he had searched for feelings of remorse inside himself, but as yet had failed to find any. All he could think of was Cracknell, reeling in surprise, hand over his stupid mouth, his greasy skin saved by someone he had maligned so ruthlesslyand falselyfor his cowardice.

In short, he felt as if he had finally managed to prove himself. He had shown quite incontrovertibly that he was as capable, as brave as the wretched senior correspondent. How might Mrs Boyce's views of the pair of them change, he dared to wonder, when she discovered what had happened there in the cave? Cracknell's dastardly slander would surely be exposed for what it was.

But this thought led him to a sharp recollection of their encounter out by the pickets a few hours earlier; of the awful antipathy with which she had attempted to dismiss him from her presence. Grimacing, he tried vainly to clear this annihilating, hopeless memory from his mind.

After another half an hour's trudging through the fog, a break in the trees appeared before them. This clearing contained an expansive lawn, a little overgrown but properly seeded and bordered. He heard Kitson calling to Cracknell, off in the fog somewhere up ahead. Styles knew that Kitson had been disturbed by what had happened in the cave, and wished to have him sent away. This was not surprising. Since the Alma, Styles had nursed growing doubts about Thomas Kitson. The man was not his friend, as he had claimed. A similar impulse may have brought them both to the Crimea, but no true kinship existed between them. How could it? He possessed an absolute dedication to the task before themwhereas Kitson had only his endless caveats, queries and reservations. He had overestimated the junior correspondent. The man lacked spirit, and had no place in a war.

As he wandered across the lawn, a large shape slid slowly from the murk before him. At first, he had thought it to be a rock formation, or a particularly close grouping of trees, but as he reached the rest of the Courier Courier team he saw that it was neither. team he saw that it was neither.

The villa was low and wide, built from light Crimean stone in a simple approximation of the Palladian style. It was two storeys high, with a pediment before the doors, supported by six thick pillars. Most of its tall windows had been smashed, the jagged holes revealing only darkness within. Even in the fog, it was obvious that the location had been carefully chosen for the concealment provided by the nearby woods.

Cracknell whistled. 'Quite a pile. You'd think it would be on the Allied maps. Come on, let's give ourselves a tour.' He made for the doors.

Kitson did not follow. 'Mr Cracknell, should we not exercise a little caution?'

Cracknell turned back, his plump cheeks creased by a sarcastic grin that made Styles wince with loathing. 'Caution, Thomas? How unlike you, my friend! Don't you want to take shelter from this accursed rain? Lay a fire, perhaps, and dry out your coat?'

'Of course I do, sir,' Kitson replied, 'but what if anyone should be in there?' He looked briefly at Styles.

The ill.u.s.trator saw apprehension in his facenot due to the threat of the enemy, of Cossack raiders or Russian infantry, but of him, of Robert Styles, of what further acts of violence he might commit that day. Suddenly, Styles realised that he had, in the s.p.a.ce of an hour, become a killer of men, a repugnant brute. He looked down at the gra.s.s, a perplexing, powerful shame spreading through him. Lucid memories returned to his mind; the way the Russian's skull had caved in beneath his blow; the tiny glimpse he had caught of the eyeball rolling upwards; the fitful shudder of the dead man's limbs. These images and sensations, he realised with a mounting panic, were now etched on to his very soul.

Cracknell let out an exaggerated sigh. 'Looking on the sunny side of the wall as ever, eh, Kitson? The place is quite deserted, surely you can see that. This is a chance for a bit of exploration, a bit of b.l.o.o.d.y adventure! Is that not why you left the comfort of your picture salonsof your art criticism?' He laughed harshly. 'And anyway, should we encounter some nasty villain within, young Robert here has shown himself extremely able to deal with such dangers, has he not?'

As ever, the senior correspondent's good humour had an aggressive element to it; and the comradely slap he then delivered to the ill.u.s.trator's back was a little firmer than it needed to be. Styles, lost in remembrance of the Russian's broken skull, of the brittle cracking of his bone, could only mumble wordlessly in response.

A stone coat of arms above the villa's doors contained the double-headed Imperial eagle. This secluded house, Kitson thought, was the property of an important person indeed. The cavernous hall beyond was dark and smelled strangely sepulchral, the odour of candle-wax hanging heavily in the stale air. A faint glow seemed to emanate from the paler sections of the patterned marble floor. Empty niches lined the walls, a single broken Caesar all that remained of their occupants. Tides of brown silt had acc.u.mulated on the sills of the smashed windows. There were no signs of life. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Kitson saw that the floor was scuffed and covered with a web of cracks, as if many dirty boots and a number of heavy objects had moved back and forth across it, without the usual protective precautions having been taken.

'A speedy exit,' said Cracknell, his voice loud in the hall's stillness. 'And a careless one.'

Kitson tried to tread softly on the fractured marble slabs, but the senior correspondent was intent on demonstrating his heroic indifference as to whator whotheir intrusion into this place might disturb. His steps echoed around the hall as he marched intrepidly across it.

'Kitchens are what we need,' he p.r.o.nounced, selecting one of the pa.s.sageways that led off into the rest of the villa. 'Over here.'

Cracknell led Kitson and Styles along a dingy corridor panelled with black wood. It was covered with relief carvings of the beasts of the Russian forest, represented in an exaggerated, folk-tale style. Most, for some reason, had been left unmolested. Bears and boars wrestled around archways; snarling wolves crouched beside doors; round-faced owls perched above window frames. This corridor took them past a succession of grand saloons, each one thoroughly defaced. Paper peeled from walls in long, sagging strips, and rotting carpets were littered with fragments of broken furniture.

Eventually, in one of the building's most far-flung corners, they found a spiral staircase made from roughly hewn stone. At its bottom was an enormous vaulted kitchen. The room was filled with the lapping sound of rain falling on leaves, its high windows, all shattered, showing only flat greyness outside. Again, destruction was everywhere. It had been completely ransacked; shelves had been torn down, dressers and tables overturned, china ground to chips, copper pots bashed out of shape.

A number of heavy doors were set into the walls. The majority had been staved in or pulled from their hinges, revealing the looted pantries or store-rooms on the other side. Kitson noticed, however, that a couple had been st.u.r.dily reinforced, managing to withstand what had clearly been determined attempts to breach them.

As they walked deeper into the ruined kitchen, a small horde of rats wriggled away noisily through the debris; Kitson caught sight of several thick pink tails. The numbness that had carried him through the morning was fading fast, and the touch of his rain-sodden garments against his skin was starting to have an icy bite. He looked towards the large fireplace and suggested they get a fire going.

The Courier Courier team were dragging the remains of a bench to the hearth when they heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps somewhere above them. team were dragging the remains of a bench to the hearth when they heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps somewhere above them.

Cracknell set down his part of the bench. 'We have company,' he said, listening hard. 'There's several of 'em. Fourwait, five.'

The footsteps grew louder. 'Christ,' muttered Kitson, 'they're coming this way.'

All three had frozen, alive with excitement, the sense of crisis prompting them to forget their differences once more. There was no other way out of the kitchen. They had to face these people or hide. The proclivity for violence that Styles had demonstrated in the cave had deserted him; he now looked positively aghast at the prospect of further confrontation. The newspapermen were exhausted, unarmed and outnumbered. Even Cracknell saw at once which choice to make.

'Those barrels,' he said, pointing to a heap of empty wine b.u.t.ts on the far side of the room, next to a long iron oven. They hurried over and ducked behind them.

Soon afterwards, the voices arrived at the kitchen staircasethey were talking in English. Cracknell promptly started to stand. Kitson, recognising one of them, pulled him back down with all his strength.

'Must I hide even from my own people, then?' the senior correspondent asked indignantly.

'Wray,' Kitson hissed.

Cracknell fell quiet, and peered out from their hiding place with keen curiosity. Many of the wine b.u.t.ts were falling apart, affording the Courier Courier team a good view of the room through their loosened slats. Captain Wray, they saw, was accompanied by two corporals from the 99th and a pair of men in civilian clothes. Both these civilians were grubby and unshaven, but had an odd air of refinement about them. One was telling Wray about the villa's history and the circ.u.mstances of its construction. A slight accent in his speech told Kitson that he was Russian, and of the highest social rank; the other man, whose demeanour was subtly deferential, was a servant of some kind. The redcoats were very much on their guard, minies ready in their hands, scanning the shadows. team a good view of the room through their loosened slats. Captain Wray, they saw, was accompanied by two corporals from the 99th and a pair of men in civilian clothes. Both these civilians were grubby and unshaven, but had an odd air of refinement about them. One was telling Wray about the villa's history and the circ.u.mstances of its construction. A slight accent in his speech told Kitson that he was Russian, and of the highest social rank; the other man, whose demeanour was subtly deferential, was a servant of some kind. The redcoats were very much on their guard, minies ready in their hands, scanning the shadows.

'It is a terrible, terrible shame,' the Russian was saying. 'I am taken aback, Captain, really I am. Only two months ago this house was fit for the Tsaralmost too good for him, in fact! I do not blame you British. No, I blame the filthy Turks. The beasts have a natural bent towards wickedness and rapine. The stories told in Sebastopol of how they treat the women of countries they occupy curdle the blood. Quite why the n.o.ble forces of Britain and France have taken their side I will never, never never understand.' understand.'

Wray's lack of interest was plain. 'Where is it, Gorkachov?'

'Over here, Captain.' The Russian walked across the room, stepping gingerly through the wreckage towards one of the reinforced doors. 'This is it! One of the first modifications I made when I was appointed steward. The cellar below is impregnable, a place no thief can force his way into, reserved for the storage of the most valuable treasures during difficult times such as these.'

He drew off one of his long cavalry boots and shook three keys from it. The door, once unlocked, opened soundlessly, and all five men went through. Gorkachov's amiable voice could be heard for some time as they descended deeper beneath the building, amplified by the stone walls.

'What is this?' Kitson whispered urgently. 'What is going on?'

'Boyce,' Cracknell replied. 'Has to be.'

There was no question of the Courier Courier team taking this chance to depart. Even Styles had shrugged off some of his morbidity and was watching the doorway with close interest. After a minute or so, one of the corporals and the Russian servant emerged, carrying a framed wooden panel between them. It was about four and a half feet by three; they set it down against the wall, facing outwards. The corporal then took his rifle from his shoulder and ushered the Russian back down to the cellar with evident distrust. team taking this chance to depart. Even Styles had shrugged off some of his morbidity and was watching the doorway with close interest. After a minute or so, one of the corporals and the Russian servant emerged, carrying a framed wooden panel between them. It was about four and a half feet by three; they set it down against the wall, facing outwards. The corporal then took his rifle from his shoulder and ushered the Russian back down to the cellar with evident distrust.

As they moved away from in front of the panel, a rectangle of l.u.s.trous, dazzling colour was revealed, shining warmly through the dullness of the kitchen. It was a painting, depicting a man standing beside a table. He was dressed in the purple toga of a senior Roman official, and was rubbing his hands over a wooden bowl. Clean-shaven and hard-featured, he had the composed face of a capable administrator. Water could be seen dripping down between his fingers: he was washing. In the background was a palace, rows of mighty Corinthian columns stretching off into the distance. A man clad in a long white robe was being led away through these columns by a squad of armoured soldiers. Holy light was breaking through the palace's ceiling in golden shafts, bathing this prisoner as he was taken away.

Kitson registered the subject and style, and started; then he stared in complete astonishment. He had to get closer. Ignoring the protests of his senior, he left the barrels and crept over the kitchen's dusty flagstones as stealthily as he could.

Despite the composure of the rest of the face, the eyes bore the very faintest suggestion of emotion; of a horrible, overwhelming, haunting guilt. Although so small and subtle, this touch was like a tiny spot of blood on a murderer's shirt, sweeping away in an instant all his efforts to detach himself and claim innocence and, once noticed, transforming the picture completely.

'Pilate washing his hands,' he murmured under his breath, unable to stop a grin from breaking across his face.

There were noises from the cellar. Eyes still on the panel, he returned reluctantly to his comrades. 'Styles,' he asked immediately, 'do you know of this work?'

'II recognise the style, I think,' the ill.u.s.trator replied diffidently. 'Is it not Raphael? His Roman manner?'

Recovering this old knowledge brought Styles a palpable relief, and for that moment the warping woes of the Crimean campaign seemed to fall away from him. All is not lost, Kitson thought; Robert Styles may still be saved.

'Indeeda Raffaelo Sanzio, here in the Crimea. This work is mentioned by Giorgio Vasari as being owned by Cosimo de Medici in 1568, but nothing has been heard of it since. It was thought to be destroyed. This is an incredible discoveryincredible! G.o.d only knows how it came to be in this place. Make a sketch, Robert, quickly.'

The ill.u.s.trator fumbled with his equipment for a few seconds and then started to draw with eager haste.

'They are stealing it for Boyce,' said Cracknell quietly. 'Just you watch.'

Wray's party emerged from the cellar. This time the other corporal carried a strongbox with the servant. It was heavy; they set it down with a groan. Coin, guessed Cracknell, or gemstones.

'Mallender, Lavery,' said the Captain in his lisping drawl of a voice, addressing the corporals. 'Get the cart into that hall upstairs. The less distance we have to move this lot, the better.' They hesitated. 'You can manage that, can't you?'

'Best I stay with you, Cap'n,' answered one of them. 'Can't trust these Ruski b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, sir. A month in the pickets 'as taught me that much.'

'I can move the cart alone, Cap'n,' added the other. 'Mall can stay.'

Cracknell bit his knuckle. Such misguided loyalty!

Wray sighed, seemingly unable to summon the energy to shout them down. 'Very well, do what you will.'

So Corporal Lavery went back up, whilst Mallender stood guard at the foot of the staircase, out of Cracknell's sight. The loquacious Russian, although clearly pained by thought of a vehicle being driven into the villa, soon recovered his spirits and began to talk about the painting Kitson was so impressed by. The Tsar's father, it turned out, had bought it at the secret sale of a disgraced Austrian Count. It was said that the panel had been given to his family back in the seventeenth century as payment for a nefarious actan a.s.sa.s.sination, it was suspected.

Wray was sneering, his features becoming even more rodent-like as the thin lips drew back. 'And your Tsar doesn't mind you using this masterpiece to pay the Colonel for your escape to Paris?'

Aha, thought Cracknell; that's why this Gorkachov's being so b.l.o.o.d.y cooperative. There is a deal underwaya deal with Nathaniel Boyce.

The Russian smiled. 'Nicholas and I are good friends. He would not want me to suffer in this war. Besides, he does not care overmuch for the painting. Very few people know he has itnot even his own children. The att.i.tude of an emperor to his possessions-'

'You knew about the attack, didn't you, Gorkachov?' interrupted Wray suddenly. 'The attack, this morning. That's why you made your escape when you did. To avoid a big fight.'

The Russian seemed unperturbed by the hostility in Wray's voice. 'Captain, how can you think such a thing? I merely wished to reach Paris for the winter. It is my favourite season in the city. To see the Tuileries frosted with snow is as enchanting as anything I can imagine. Society is alive as at no other time of year, and the distractions for a gentleman are both choice and illimitable.'

Wray let Gorkachov ramble on about Paris, about the b.a.l.l.s, the fine restaurants and the charming ladies, for a short while. Then he took the revolver from his belt and lifted it so that the barrel was almost touching the Russian's chest.

This brought the Parisian monologue to an immediate halt. 'C-captain,' the Russian stammered pleadingly, 'II do not know what-'

Wray fired twice, felling Gorkachov so quickly that the eye could barely follow it. Without pause, in a single fluid movement, he turned the pistol on the servant, sending him spinning into a splintered crockery cabinet. The gunshots filled the kitchen completely, hitting the ears with a percussive clap and leaving them ringing shrilly.

A second later Corporal Mallender yelled, 'Cap'n Wray, what are ye doing?'

Swivelling around, Wray closed an eye to aim. He daren't, Cracknell thought disbelievingly; not one of Her Majesty's soldiers. But then the Captain fired, and fired again. There was a clattering thump as a large uniformed body struck against the kitchen's stone stairs.

The servant was still alive. Murmuring weakly in Russian, he was trying to crawl inside the cabinet he had fallen against. Wray fiddled with his pistol, cursing the mechanism; then he walked over to the cabinet and put his last bullet in the back of the man's head.

A soldier's boots sprinted across the room above them. Wray idly studied the painting as Lavery rushed down the kitchen stairsand stopped abruptly when he saw Mallender's body.

'Jimmy!' Lavery's cry was hoa.r.s.e with disbelief. 'Oh no, pal, no, no...'

'Turns out Gorkachov here had a pistol,' Wray informed him coolly. 'He got off a few shots, I'm afraid, before I could put him and his man down. Dashed bad luck.'

Cracknell looked at Kitson. His junior's face was set in a hard scowl. The ill.u.s.trator, however, had crossed his arms over his head as if under bombardment. So collected in the cave when he had silenced that Russian infantryman, he had now reverted to his usual ineffectual self.

Corporal Lavery, still on the stairs, had started to sob. 'Ah, Jimmy... I served with 'im these fifteen years, Cap'n. An' a better fellow never stepped.'

'Stop that, Corporal,' ordered Wray. 'We have to get this upstairs, and then back to camp. Quickly.'

Lavery shambled mournfully into view and together the two men hefted the strongbox from the kitchen.

As soon as they were gone, Cracknell was on his feet and pacing around the wine b.u.t.ts. 'Murder!' he spat, his voice straining to express the extent of his outrage. 'This is murder! Two defenceless menand an English soldier English soldier!'

Corporal Mallender was laid out awkwardly upon the staircase, an ugly red tear in his shoulder and another at the base of his neck. His rifle was still clenched in his hands, and there was an expression of innocent surprise on his face.

'There, Thomas, there there is a killing to effect the b.l.o.o.d.y mind! A killing without sense or the slightest b.l.o.o.d.y justification!' Cracknell spun about. 'Why the h.e.l.l did he do it? The Russian was is a killing to effect the b.l.o.o.d.y mind! A killing without sense or the slightest b.l.o.o.d.y justification!' Cracknell spun about. 'Why the h.e.l.l did he do it? The Russian was giving him giving him the painting. The Corporal, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, was the painting. The Corporal, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, was watching out for him watching out for him!'

His subordinates had stood up, and were looking around the kitchen, at the painting and the fresh bodies, with stunned uncertainty. There were noises upstairs; a shout, then the wooden clank of cartwheels.

'We have to leave,' Cracknell told them, 'this second. If Wray finds us we'll be as dead as Corporal Mallender there. You've seen how much he enjoys that pistol of his.'

'But what of the painting?' Kitson said. 'We cannot just allow Wray to take it!'

'Don't fret, Thomaswe will get them for this,' Cracknell promised. 'They won't succeed, my friend. The painting will incriminate them, don't you see? And there's that soldier, Corporal Laveryhe'll talk. We will d.a.m.n well get them for this, I swear it. But right now, we have to go.'

Feeling more like a true leader than he had done all day, the senior correspondent hurried his team up into the villa and through the first doorway they came to. It took them into a small, circular antechamber with a single broken window. They knocked through the loose shards of gla.s.s and clambered out into the rain.

8.

'Are you quite finished?' Major-General Sir William Codrington's white sideburns seemed to glow against the reddening skin beneath them. His narrow, lipless mouth was pressed together into a hard line.

Kitson and Cracknell stood side by side in the hut that served as Codrington's brigade headquarters. It was modestly furnished, with several maps of the region mounted on the walls, and smelled strongly of wood resin and boot polish. The Major-General himself sat behind a long trestle table strewn with papers. The Courier Courier men were positioned at one end of this table; Boyce and Wray, in full dress uniform, stewed silently at the other. men were positioned at one end of this table; Boyce and Wray, in full dress uniform, stewed silently at the other.

Cracknell raised his chin, defiant in the face of Codrington's obvious disbelief. 'I believe that's everything,' he replied calmly. 'Call forth Corporal Lavery and then search Boyce's quarters for the painting. That will corroborate what we've told you.'

Codrington sat back heavily, crossing his arms. There was a long pause. He looked out of a window towards the battlefield, his craggy profile framed against the raw planks behind him. 'You seriously expect me to believe,' he said eventually, his gruff voice slowed by incredulity, 'that a rare painting by some ancient Italian was here, in the Crimeaand that Colonel Boyce of the Paulton Rangers entered into a deal with a Russian n.o.bleman to acquire it, which he then broke by having the man murdered.'

'Yes, in order to cover the theft,' Kitson interjected. 'The painting is immensely rare, Major-General, its value beyond all reckoning. Most connoisseurs think it destroyed. It has no provenance, no history since the sixteenth century. Its only link with the Crimea, with the Tsar, was this Imperial steward. By murdering those who led him to the painting Colonel Boyce is free to make up any story about its acquisition that he likes. It is his word against that of whoever might challenge him.'

'And also,' Cracknell added, 'he wouldn't then have to arrange the Russian fellow's pa.s.sage out of the Crimea, and risk being caught aiding the enemy.'

A couple of the staff officers standing around the edges of the hut stirred uneasily. Whether their arguments were convincing anyone Kitson could not tell. They certainly weren't making any progress with Major-General Codrington. Indeed, every word they uttered seemed to harden the commander of the Light Division's first brigade yet further against them. It was becoming clear to Kitson that their case was an impossible one to make. Boyce and Wray had committed a crime so brazen and unlikely that it would not even be believed, let alone investigated. The army, also, had suffered a traumatic blow only two days previously. Kitson could well understand Codrington not wishing to probe the black corruption that existed amongst his regimental officers whilst the dead were still being pulled from the caves and crevices of Inkerman Ridge. Cracknell, in requesting this audience, had pushed them into a confrontation too quickly simply because he longed to have it.

The Major-General shook his head. 'All of this is ridiculous, all of it. Your accusation regarding the corporal, though, is positively despicable despicable.'

'That is the word,' agreed Cracknell emphatically. 'Despicable it most certainly is. This Colonel sent his men away from a major defensive battle for his own material gain, and ordered them to killRussians, yes, but also any Englishman who stood in their path. Corporal Mallender's only crime was to refuse to leave Captain Wray alone so that he could execute the steward and his servant. He saw them die, Sir William, and so had to die himself.'

Codrington glared at him, his round eyes black and furious. 'I am a major-general, and will be addressed as such by you,' he snapped. 'We are in the camp of Her Majesty's Army, not one of your grub-street taverns.'

'My apologies, Major-General Major-General, but I-'

'And my meaning, which you plainly comprehend but choose to ignore, is that you, sir, you you are despicable for making such an accusation.' are despicable for making such an accusation.'

Turning away from Cracknell in disgust, the Major-General addressed Wray. The Captain came to attention with such force that Codrington's quill bounced in its inkpot. Trussed up in his dress uniform he looked like a little bantam c.o.c.kerel, not the merciless murderer of the villa. He stated that there was no truth whatsoever to any of the newspapermen's foul allegations. He had been fighting against the Russians that morning, from beginning to bitter end. Confirmation of his continual presence on the front line could have been provided by his immediate superior, Major James Maynard, had he not died in Colonel Boyce's advance past the Sandbag Battery.