The Street Philosopher Part 26

Kitson flinched. He had in fact brought a small number of Styles' works back from the Crimea with him, taking them from the Courier Courier tent on that last afternoon and tucking them inside his filthy jacket. His intention had been to try to honour the ill.u.s.trator's dying wish; but, as he had expected, it had been impossible to engage the interest of any respectable publisher. The bundle of gruesome studies had lain untouched at the bottom of a wardrobe in his cousin's attic for nearly eighteen months. tent on that last afternoon and tucking them inside his filthy jacket. His intention had been to try to honour the ill.u.s.trator's dying wish; but, as he had expected, it had been impossible to engage the interest of any respectable publisher. The bundle of gruesome studies had lain untouched at the bottom of a wardrobe in his cousin's attic for nearly eighteen months.

'Death was his fascination,' Cracknell p.r.o.nounced. 'A lunatic obsession. Styles wanted nothing more than to join the fallen soldiers he studied so a.s.siduously. He wanted to die. If it had not been by your hand, Thomas, it would've soon been another's. Perhaps even his own.'

'Tush, quoth the friar, thou needst needst not doubt not doubt,' went on the ballad, accompanied by the sc.r.a.ping of the fiddle, 'If thou wert in h.e.l.l I could sing thee out! wert in h.e.l.l I could sing thee out!' The tavern exploded into uproarious mirth.

'You cannot honestly believe that.'

Cracknell merely raised an eyebrow as he polished off his second measure of gin.

Kitson glared at him. 'So you feel nothingno shame, no remorse, not even the smallest sense of responsibility? Two young people died as a direct result of your neglectful behaviour. The Norton Foundry will surely close, bringing want and worry to its many hundreds of employees. William Norton has been forced to flee the country, and Jemima James has been reduced to almost certain penury. And yet you feel nothing nothingnothing but your righteous wrath about the evils of Nathaniel Boyce?'

Cracknell picked up Kitson's beer-jar and took a long draught; then he set it down, his moustache heavy with foam and his cheeks red as radishes. He paused for a few seconds, as if considering what his former junior had said. Then he grinned. 'Astute as ever, Thomas!'

Kitson strode away from the bar with livid energy. He had heard enough. It was time for him to leave.

'Wait, my friend, wait,' Cracknell begged with a boozy chortle, jogging after him and fastening a hand around his arm. 'What about Mr Twelves?'

'That is my concern, is it not? If they are even out there.'

'I cannot let you go outside. They will surely murder you.'

Kitson looked into Cracknell's rosy face, trying to find an explanation for this concern for his wellbeing, and saw at once that it was somehow part of the schemepart of the reason he had waylaid Kitson on King Street, brought him to this place, plied him with drink, and tried so hard to provoke an altercation between them. He attempted to free himself, and they began to grapple; a table went over with a crash. People began to shout.

Men, the landlord's roughs, were soon prising them apart. Mr Bairstowe himself looked down from the balcony, and asked what the trouble was. He addressed Cracknell by name; they were plainly acquainted. This was the world in which his former colleague had hidden himself so effectively for all these weeks.

'Oh, nothing, Bairstowe old chap,' Cracknell replied breezily, 'just a difference of opinion. I will replace any drinks that were lost.'

Bairstowe snorted. 'As if ye could. Who's this with ye?'

'An old friend from my days on the London Courier London Courier. He's at the Evening Star Evening Star now.' now.'

Kitson shook off the man who was holding him. 'I am no friend of his,' he said fiercely; and then he walked out of the tavern into the rain.

4.

The musicians started up again, and another song began. Bairstowe walked slowly down the balcony stairs, stopping by the door. Cracknell found himself being escorted over to him. The Trafford's proprietor crossed his arms. He had the flattened, broken nose of a retired pugilist, and was regarding the swaying Tomahawk with weary amus.e.m.e.nt 'Time for ye to leave as well, I think, Mr Cracknell,' he said. 'Afore my other customers tear out that bushy beard of yours.'

Cracknell gave a throaty chuckle. 'My apologies, Bairstowe. You know how these things can go. What is the hour, if you please?'

'Aff past eight, near enough,' someone mumbled.

'Heavens, early still.' He chuckled again, and made a great show of stumbling into the man beside him. 'Yet I feel already that I should be heading to my bed.' The barmaid appeared and sullenly returned his cane, which had been left leaning against the bar. He bowed to her in grat.i.tude.

'Aye,' agreed Bairstowe, nodding at a man to open the door, 'and not a moment too soon. Good night to thee, Mr Cracknell.'

Outside, Cracknell looked around for Twelves. There was no one at all in the rainy street. Perhaps Kitson had been right. He straightened his jacket, shrugging off his show of inebriation like a cloak and directing himself not towards London Road and the Model Lodging House, but somewhere else altogether.

Then he caught sight of them down a side alley, silhouetted against a distant gas-light: four black-suits standing around their victim, who lay coughing at their feet. Immediately, he started back to the Trafford. Reaching the door, he wrenched it open.

'Mr Bairstowe!' he bellowed. 'There's something out here I believe you might be interested in!'

Kitson landed on his side and curled up on the wet cobblestones. The stick had struck him in the stomach, close enough to his old wound to set off a great sparking bonfire behind his eyes, and lay him out, entirely helpless. He hadn't seen his a.s.sailant; he could tell, though, that more than one man stood around him.

'So this is the end,' said a nasal, inexpressive voice somewhere above him. It belonged to the man from the Belle VueMr Twelves, the leader of the black-suits. 'This is it for ye, Mr Kitson, and no mistake. No gang of b.u.g.g.e.r-boys to rescue ye this time. Brigadier Boyce has ordered you dead.' He tapped a knotted cudgel against his leg. 'And it will 'appen.'

Before Twelves could act, however, someone barked his name with gruff aggression, the word ringing flatly off the close walls of the alley. It was the Trafford Arms landlord, Mr Bairstowe. Kitson could hear the sound of boots walking purposefully across the cobbles towards them.

'Twelves!' Bairstowe repeated. 'What did I bleedin' well say about your lot comin' round 'ere, eh? Weren't it clear enough for ye?'

There were thuds and grunts; feet scuffed and scrabbled against the stones. A black-suit fell close to where Kitson lay and had several savage kicks planted in his midriff. Kitson struggled up on to his elbows. Twelves tried to stop him, to beat him back down with his cudgel, but was dragged away by another man before he could lift it. The two of them exchanged a few jabbing blows and then toppled together into a deep, filth-choked gutter.

Kitson managed to rise to his knees. He peered down the alley. It was filled with brawling men, wrestling, punching and kicking at each other with vicious vigour. Both sides were obviously experienced at such backstreet combat, and it was brutal indeed. Kitson saw a manhe could not tell which group was which in the darknesspitched head first against a cl.u.s.ter of lead drainage pipes that snaked down the alley's wall. There was an empty clang, and he slumped senseless to the ground. And there, on the opposite side of this desperate fight, was Cracknell, looking on excitedly, holding his cane like a sword as if ready to swipe at anyone who came near him.

Their eyes met through the ducking heads and flailing limbs. 'Run, Thomas!' Cracknell cried. 'Run, my friend!'

Kitson needed no further encouragement. Arriving on the wide Oldham Road at a brisk trot, clutching his side, he started down towards the centre of the city. He could not now return to his attic. Princess Street was a good half-mile away, and there could easily be more black-suits along the route. All that was there, in truth, were some old clothes and a negligible sum of money. Time was beginning to run rather short, also; the train was due to leave Bank Top in under an hour. He turned right at the bottom of Oldham Road on to Swan Street, splashing heedlessly through dirty puddles, wincing at the continued complaints of his chest.

It was now plain that an act had been staged in the Trafford Arms, in cla.s.sic Cracknell fashion; an act that Kitson had fallen for completely. Cracknell had wanted to cause a disruption, and had manipulated him towards that end with every success. The reason for this he could not fathom. No details of his scheme against Boyce had actually been revealed. Neither had he tried to recruit his one-time colleague to his cause.

Cracknell had clearly believed everything that he had said, though. Kitson's attempts to challenge his wilful, self-serving distortions concerning Styles had not had any effect whatsoever. Rather than simply reawaken his anger, however, this realisation made Kitson recognise the inflections that he himself had given to their tale. After years of black confusion, he could now regard those events with a new clarity. He had contributed to the ill.u.s.trator's death; but the blame was not his alone, far from it. And he, unlike Cracknell, felt deep remorse for what he had done. In this simple fact he could sense the possibility of redemption.

Up amongst the cl.u.s.tered roofs before him, a dirty locomotive chugged along a raised railway into the immense hulk of Victoria Station, a line of carriages trailing behind it. Kitson stopped briefly, catching his breath, following the engine with his eyes; then he hurried over to the station's long front, where a row of hackney cabs stood before its thick Doric columns. He selected one and climbed inside, directing the driver towards Cheetham Hill. The interior smelled of cheap perfume, cigars and wet leather. They started with a jolt, wheeling off towards the outskirts of the city. Sitting back on the cab's flattened cushions, he looked out at the storm and the soaked decorations that swung helplessly in its clutches. Few people were about, and traffic was at an absolute minimum. The empty, waterlogged streets shone like ca.n.a.ls beneath the City Corporation's gas lamps.

Jemima stepped on to the landing of Norton Hall, her valise in her hand. She wore her plainest bonnet and a long, st.u.r.dy cloak, a costume calculated not to attract notice. Her fine clothes, all bought with Foundry money, remained in her wardrobe, and of every book and journal she had collected in her rooms, only one volume had a place in her valise: the London and North-Western Railway Almanac.

Many of the servants had departed Norton Hall, keen to escape any contaminating a.s.sociation with the scandal that had broken there. As Jemima crossed the stair, however, a footman strode along the hallway below to her father's study. She moved close to the wall, concealing herself in the gloom; no candles or lamps had yet been lit in the understaffed house.

The man opened the study door. Jemima could see her father sitting in the red glow of a guttering fire, an open watch in one hand and a full gla.s.s of liquor in the other. He looked immensely tired and careworn, clearly lost in embittered contemplation of the events that had reduced him with such devastating speed. Jemima knew that he had nurtured dreams of a great dynasty, stretching off into the mists of futurity, long after he himself was dead; dreams that would now surely come to nothing. She felt a stirring of pity, and an unexpected impulse to go to his side. Then he spoke, and she checked herself.

'Where the blazes have ye been?' he bawled at the servant, his voice rough with drink. 'I rang five minutes ago! Five minutes Five minutes ago ago! What do I pay you for, to sit warming your idle feet by the scullery fire? You worthless dog!'

Her reasons for leaving, for never wanting to set eyes on Charles Norton again, returned to her forcefully. The grandfather clock chimed nine. She had to leave. The tirade in the study went on, out of all proportion with the perceived offence. Her father's enraged voice echoing around her, Jemima took her valise in her arms in order to avoid accidentally b.u.mping it against anything in the dark, and crept along the hall. She extracted an umbrella from the stand. The front door opened a crack, just enough to allow the pa.s.sage of a slim woman and all her worldly possessions; and Jemima James slipped away from Norton Hall entirely un.o.bserved.

The rain was so heavy that it almost forced the umbrella from her grasp. She walked rapidly down the drive; the lamps of a hackney cab shone up ahead, waiting at the gate as they had agreed. As she neared it, she saw that its windows were misted up with Mr Kitson's breath. She climbed inside, dropping her umbrella to the floor and sitting with an exclamation of relief. Raindrops drummed upon the roof of the cab as it turned back towards the centre of Manchester. Mr Kitson sat across from her, deep in shadow; she could see, however, that he was smiling. Jemima was light-headed with exhilaration. It was underway. They would soon be free. She looked over at him, her partner in this bold action, and returned his smile.

'Thomas,' she said.

And then they were reaching out across the cab, embracing each other, kissing with a determined pa.s.sion. His hands slid quickly beneath her cloak and across the sheen of her gown. Hers gripped on to his jacket, the damp material gathering under her fingers.

5.

The six open carriages rolled up the Stretford New Road to peals of thunder, which all but drowned out the patriotic cheers of the bedraggled, threadbare crowd. Rain had plastered the proud plumes of the dragoon escort down against their helmets, turning them into slick black query-marks of sodden horse-hair. The personages within the carriages, from the Royal tutors in the first to the Queen and her Consort in the last, were largely concealed from the public eye beneath expansive umbrellas. A cold wind had started to blow, tugging at hats and coats, whipping up the fabric of the triumphal arch at the Old Trafford toll gate, exposing its skeletal wooden frame. The sopping soldiers of the 25th Regiment of Foot, turned out to line the final stage of the route, watched the pa.s.sing of the Sovereign to whom they had sworn their allegiance with rather less reverence than they might have done on a clear day.

Up ahead was a notable a.s.sembly indeed, waiting inside the Exhibition building with a reasonable display of patience. There sat lords, dukes, earls and marquises, accompanied by graceful spouses, and clad in the finery of their station; influential Members of Parliament from the Government and the Opposition, including none other than Lord Palmerston himself, grumbling loudly about the cold; bishops and archdeacons, generals and colonels, every one in full uniform; and a varied mult.i.tude of people of fashion, of the arts, of industry and of science. A good number were far too important themselves to be overly excited by the approach of the Queenand those who were not did their very best to appear as if they were, and m.u.f.fle their thrilled whispers.

The deafening drum-rolls of the skies, however, were causing agitation in some quarters. A circle of engineers and architects gathered around Sir Joseph Paxton, designer of the Crystal Palace, earnestly debating the risk of lightning striking, and perhaps even igniting, this iron-and-gla.s.s structure. Utter nonsense, declared Sir Joseph, smiling rea.s.suringly at some alarmed ladies who sat nearby, the chance was negligibly small; for what, he asked, in a building containing so little wood in its upper regions, could a spark possibly catch against?

The first carriage arrived at the Exhibition, and soon the whole Royal procession was queued up before the facade. Footmen, rainwater running off the brims of their top hats, urged a rapid descentas their Queen was left exposed to the downpour for every second that they dallied. Lords and ladies, princes and princesses were hurried from their vehicles and into the building with little ceremony, in order to make way for their Monarch.

Queen Victoria rose, stepped down and entered the Exhibition hall. As she was directed through to the reception room, where the Royal party was to rea.s.semble before the ceremony, a ma.s.sive orchestra stirred.

The sound of the rain on the gla.s.s roof, Boyce fancied, was like a vigorous round of applause, an untiring ovation for the Queen, and for men like himself, the heroes of her Empire. He was standing at a carefully selected point, under the balcony, close to the vestibule that led through to Saloon A, where his Pilate Pilate was on display. It had been suggested that he do so by Colonel Phipps, an admirer of his who was serving in the Royal entourage. It was understood that the Queen's tour of the collection was to be strictly private, but Phipps was certain that he could win Boyce a moment of the Sovereign's time whilst she stood before his painting, to tell his story and win him the honour of her attention and interest. was on display. It had been suggested that he do so by Colonel Phipps, an admirer of his who was serving in the Royal entourage. It was understood that the Queen's tour of the collection was to be strictly private, but Phipps was certain that he could win Boyce a moment of the Sovereign's time whilst she stood before his painting, to tell his story and win him the honour of her attention and interest.

Since his arrival in Manchester, Boyce had been amazed by the speed with which the reputation of his Pilate Pilate, and of himself as its discoverer, had spread as a result of its inclusion in the Exhibition. The previous evening, at his dinner with the aristocratic Raphael enthusiasts, he had been informed repeatedly that he was the envy of the art-loving nation, a veritable prince amongst connoisseurs. The Queen and her Consort, they had a.s.sured him, being the wise patrons and collectors that they were, would certainly wish to meet the man who had discovered such a work.

And now it was about to happen. Boyce knew, of course, that this was about far more than painting and connoisseurship. It could well be the defining moment of his lifethe moment when he came to the Queen's notice. It could lead to promotions, preferment and t.i.tles; and to introductions to eligible ladies of the highest rank. This one brief moment before the Monarch could, in short, mark the beginning of his ascent to the very summit of society.

The Queen made her entrance to rousing cheers and a rendition of the National Anthem. Boyce stood impa.s.sively through the tedium of the ceremonials that followed; through the interminable addresses where everybody stated their esteem for everybody and everything else; through the toing and fro-ing of the vulgar dignitaries of the factory city before the Royal group up on the dais; through the undeserved knighting of their fat shop-keeper of a mayor. What honour, he asked himself with growing impatience, could there possibly be in men of commerce?

The Brigadier-General had soon decided that he was best rid of any connection, however clandestine, with the sphere of business. It was supremely undignified for a man of quality. His severance from Norton, although somewhat inconvenient from a purely financial standpoint, could be seen in every other regard as a blessedly clean release.

Eventually, these ceremonials came to an end, and to the sound of more cheers the Queen and her court, attended on only by a few members of the Exhibition's Executive Committee, made a rapid retreat into the picture galleries. The orchestra struck up, and a buxom Italian lady stepped forward and started to sing a soaring, swooping solo. Boyce did not recognise the piece. He had not the least interest in music.

His hour was growing close. He studied his moustache, on which he had invested an additional measure of time that morning, in the muted reflection of a display case. It formed a perfectly symmetrical white 'W', glowing in the drab light of its surroundings. He straightened his dress-jacket. All was in order.

An equerry, one of Phipps' men, emerged from the vestibule and cleared his throat discreetly. Boyce nodded to Nunn, who stood by his side, his wounded arm in a sling, quite entranced by the singing. He thought it best to keep the boy close. Poor Nunn had a tendency to blurt out all manner of things, without warningincluding fragmentary recollections from the Crimea that, if heard by the wrong ears, had the potential to cause his commander significant difficulties. This could be controlled; Boyce had learned that if sufficiently distracted, his aide-de-camp became as quiet and compliant as a well-trained hound. At that moment, the music in the hall was fulfilling this purpose admirably. Boyce peered into Nunn's eyes for a second, searching for even the tiniest flicker of awareness of the events that had brought them to this point. They were quite empty. The Brigadier-General left him gaping at the orchestra and went through.

The gloom in the picture galleries exceeded even that of the great hall. Rain beat against the gla.s.s above, and could be seen sluicing across the sloping panes in long loops, the sky beyond only a shade away from black. The glorious a.s.semblage of works of the ancient masters was reduced in these conditions to a pattern of dull greys and browns. It was hard indeed to discern any detail. Even the subjects of most of them were rendered unclear. Boyce located his painting though, in the very centre of the display. He noticed with some alarm that it was cloaked in obscuring shadow. The Queen would barely be able to see it.

Before he had time to protest, however, the Royal party strolled into view. The Queen led, with Albert by her side, dominating the group entirely. Everything in the saloon, in Boyce's eyes, seemed immediately to rearrange itself around her progress. She was short, and the body beneath her skirts was undeniably a little rounded. The face framed by her bonnet and bow was long-nosed, also, and rather amply cheeked; but she has a radiance, the Brigadier-General told himself, a regal radiance that cannot help but leave her loyal subjects utterly enchanted.

The Queen looked relieved that the Royal party was removed from the thousands in the great hall. Then, surveying the paintings with obvious dissatisfaction, she asked for a lamp to be brought so that they might be viewed properly. Mr Thomas Fairbairn, bewhiskered labour-lord and chairman of the Exhibition, informed her humbly that no illumination of any kind was permitted in the building, due to the risk of fire. Ign.o.ble dog, Boyce thought harshly; that is your monarch you address with such casual flippancy! If it were down to me, I would have you dragged from the hall and flogged, flogged before all of your wretched peers!

The Queen's eyes, however, were shining with ironical amus.e.m.e.nt. 'We have many pictures of our own, Mr Fairbairn,' she said in her clear, authoritative voice. 'We believe that we can prevent these from catching fire. Besides,' she added with a glance up at the skylights, 'it is not as if there is no water to hand, is it?'

The courtiers and members of the Executive Committee, who had gathered in a crescent around her, made a polite patter of sycophantic laughter. Prince Albert smiled, stroking the plump hand the Queen had placed on his arm. Sweeping strains of music drifted in from the main hall beyond.

A lamp was brought. The yellow gas flame actually made the rest of the saloon seem darker, as if it was late in the evening rather than shortly after midday. Pictures were lit brightly as the lamp was carried by them, only to be plunged back into shadow once it had pa.s.sed. It was handed to Sir George Grey, Secretary of State for the Home Department, who bowed to Victoria before asking where it might please her Majesty to begin her inspection of the paintings.

'Wait,' said the Queen sharply, noticing Boyce standing in the corner. 'Who is that soldier over there?' All good humour had left her in an instant. The tone she used was not admiring, nor in any way amiable, nor even distant and imperious. It was hostile. Every head in the saloon turned towards the Brigadier-General, who had frozen stiff with apprehension. 'Did we not give the clearest instructions that no one beside our own party and certain members of the Executive Committee were to be present in the picture galleries this day? Did we not?'

Colonel Phipps rushed over. 'Please excuse the impertinence, your Majesty, but allow me to introduce an old comrade of mine, Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce.' The Prince Consort, to Boyce's immense relief and delight, made a noise that indicated recognition of his name. 'The Brigadier was gravely injured fighting in the Russian War, where he distinguished himself on a number of occasions.'

This was a wise revelation. The Queen's interest was engaged, and her antipathy disappeared entirely. Her eyes flickered over him again, playing, it seemed to Boyce, on the moustache with a gleam of unmistakable regard; and coming to rest, finally, on the immobile wooden hand.

Phipps nodded to him, signalling that he should approach. 'He is also the owner of the painting of Pontius Pilate Washing Pilate Washing His Hands His Hands by Raphael, made so famous by its inclusion in this Exhibition.' by Raphael, made so famous by its inclusion in this Exhibition.'

At this the Queen of England, sovereign of all the mighty Empire, looked at Boyce and smiled. 'Brigadier, please excuse our manner, but on occasions like these there are so very many people seeking to impinge on our time. It really cannot be said often enough how grateful we are for your bold serviceand sacrificein the Crimea. And you have our warmest congratulations on your acquisition,' Victoria continued. 'A Roman Raphaelas we understand yours to beis a rare prize indeed.' She turned to Prince Albert. 'Our husband prefers the sterner feel of the early Northern schools, but we are still won over absolutely by the eternal beauties of Il Il Divino. Come, you must tell us how you came to possess it.' Divino. Come, you must tell us how you came to possess it.'

Boyce followed the Queen to the picture, inwardly rehearsing his tale of miraculous good fortune whilst rooting around in a Florentine curiosity shop, his chest swelling with pride, his head swimming with golden visions of his glorious future. To converse with the Queen! Greatness was surely in his reach.

The lamp was raised to the Pilate Pilate. There were a couple of shocked gasps and then a decidedly awkward silence. The rain beat on the gla.s.s roof; the enormous choir sung in the great hall. The sixteen-year-old Prince Edward, slouched on one of the saloon's seats, looked over to see what had captured the company's attention so completely. He let out a hard laugh.

Someone had set about the Pilate Pilate with thick brushes and house-paints, smearing over the delicate ancient hues with a coa.r.s.e, oleaginous mess. The picture had been utterly ruined, that much was apparent straight away; but worse still was the malicious purpose that lay behind this desecration. Upon the bowl had been written ' with thick brushes and house-paints, smearing over the delicate ancient hues with a coa.r.s.e, oleaginous mess. The picture had been utterly ruined, that much was apparent straight away; but worse still was the malicious purpose that lay behind this desecration. Upon the bowl had been written 'the 99th Foot', and the water within it coloured a lurid reda red that dripped down from the rubbing hands. Pilate was washing off blood. One of these hands was now black, as if gloved, and was fastened to the forearm with several bulky straps. Across the top of the panel, in letters ten inches high, was printed 'THE FRUIT OF A ROTTEN TREE'. Emerging from Pilate's mouth was a crude speech-bubble containing the words, 'A painting bought with the blood of English soldiersand cheap at the price!!! bought with the blood of English soldiersand cheap at the price!!!' And there, on the n.o.ble Roman's face, white and glaring, was a resplendent rendition of the moustache, its points stretching outward across the canvas like the wings of an albatross.

How long did the silence continue after the Prince's laugh? Boyce was never able to recall. A minute, five, ten? Half an hour? No one in the saloon knew how to react. Those who were not staring at the defaced painting in faintly horrified confusion were looking to the Queen, intending to take their lead from her.

'Brigadier,' said Victoria at last, the ghost of a smile on her pale face, 'we do believe that they have captured your moustache to a tee.'

There was some low laughter at this, both from courtiers and the Executive Committee. Albert shook his head indulgently at the cruelty of his wife's wit. Thomas Fairbairn had crossed the room, and was engaged in urgent conference with the chief steward.

Boyce stood as if nailed to the floor. Blinking rapidly, he was beset with a powerful, distorting sense of everything collapsing inwards, the gla.s.s above coming loose and falling down in great plates, part.i.tion walls toppling, and iron girders snapping like brittle bones. The orchestra in the main hall seemed to be sliding into horrible, tuneless discord. He was all too aware of who was responsible for this act. That blackguard Twelves had clearly failed in his task. It had been a grave error on his part, he now saw, to a.s.sign such a delicate errand to that c.o.c.ksure fool. And this was the cost.

The Brigadier-General's eyes darted to the Queen and her party. Those around her were red-faced, making ineffectual efforts to conceal their mirth. Victoria herself was regarding him with curious amus.e.m.e.nt. This, he knew with dreadful certainty, was how she would remember him for ever more: as a dark, controversial joke, as one who had, for whatever reason, earned himself a determined and rather eccentric enemy. There would always be an indefinable question hanging over him; there would always be a touch of the ridiculous appended to his name.

The sound of the rainfall upon the Art Treasures Exhibition had changed. Where once had been admiring applause, there was now only thunderous laughter, the mocking laughter of thousands, all of it directed at him.

6.

The Tomahawk lit a cigarette beneath his borrowed umbrella, relishing the brief warmth of the match against his fingers. As he shook it out, he noticed a dark fleck on his thumb: a crescent of dried paint, still lodged under the nail. Grinning wickedly, he sc.r.a.ped out this tenacious mark with the end of the match.

He knew, of course, that he really should not be there, standing in amongst the spa.r.s.e, soaking crowd that had washed up on the front steps of the Art Treasures Palace like debris after a shipwreck. He knew that he should have fled the city the previous nightmade that late train for Liverpool as he'd been planning. But the desire to be present when the trap was sprung, to see its awful results for himself, had proved impossible to resist. He reckoned that he could easily slip away afterwards.

The scheme was going extremely well so far, he had to say. Kitson had exceeded expectations, rising volubly to meet every piece of carefully honed provocation and even joining him for a little tussle in the middle of the tavern. The action outside with Twelves had been an additional bonus; Cracknell had made sure that the investigator was getting a suitably sound thrashing from Bairstowe and his men before he left for the Art Treasures Palace. And the landlord had been grateful for the opportunity, he could tell. This was a fellow who could be relied upon to cover a chap's back should the crushers come to call.

All in all, the Tomahawk had been provided with a gratifyingly robust alibi. He had already drafted a lengthy letter, in fact, addressed to a hypothetical inspector of the Manchester police. Regretfully, sir Regretfully, sir, it concluded diffidently, I I cannot recall the exact hours of our sojourn in the Trafford Arms, cannot recall the exact hours of our sojourn in the Trafford Arms, as neither I nor my renowned friend from the Evening Star were as neither I nor my renowned friend from the Evening Star were quite ourselves. You can be sure, however, that Mr Bairstowe, the quite ourselves. You can be sure, however, that Mr Bairstowe, the proprietor, and our fellow customers will remember our time there, proprietor, and our fellow customers will remember our time there, and the lamentable condition in which we left. Indeed, I might and the lamentable condition in which we left. Indeed, I might venture to a.s.sert that we were certainly in no state to undertake the venture to a.s.sert that we were certainly in no state to undertake the ambitious, infamous act that has so damaged the Brigadier-General. ambitious, infamous act that has so damaged the Brigadier-General.

There was another rolling rumble of thunder overhead. Cracknell peered out from under his umbrella, taking in the imposing ironwork facade and the elaborate patterns it contained; then his eye wandered to the tall gla.s.s doors, which were locked firmly against any intruders. Through them, past a colourless reflection of himself and those around him, he could make out the colossal nave, packed with the beautiful and brilliant, yet still looking decidedly dreary in the tempestuous half-light. He had padded up this very same hall not twelve hours earlier, in rather different conditions, with a pair of paint-pots dangling from each hand, having forced his way into the special railway corridor and crept past the two dozy Peelers on duty by the main entrance. The work itself had been done by the flame of a tiny candle, its light carefully channelled by the heavy fold of his cloak.

Had he felt anything as he daubed the oily paint over the graceful forms, as he destroyed with his mortal hands an eternal work of art, created by one of the greatest geniuses ever to lay brush on canvas? Yes, he most certainly had. He had felt an enormous satisfaction, a mighty sense of justice being done. For what is art after all, he reasoned, but so many objectsobjects that men will kill to possess? That painting was a symbol of Boyce, of all his murderous wickedness; and it was with a spirited pleasure that Cracknell had gone about its destruction. And as destructions went it was pretty d.a.m.n creative. He had laughed softly as the subtle moderations of colour and masterful insights of expression of the long-dead Italian were obliterated by the crude, vengeful strokes of the very much still-living Irishman.

Suddenly, a minor fracas started up inside the Exhibition Hall, the splendidly dressed audience parting in att.i.tudes of agitation, knocking over chairs in their haste to remove themselves from something's path. Then, to Cracknell's delight, Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce came into view, pushing aside lady and gentleman alike as he charged for the exit. Moving through the turnstile, he all but yanked the metal arm from its socket; and a moment later the doors exploded open, releasing the Brigadier-General out into the rain.

It had happened. Cracknell knew that victory was his. The blow had landed as squarely, as solidly as he could have hoped for. And now his defeated foe had been brought before him for an unexpected coup-de-grace coup-de-grace. Boyce staggered to a halt, roughly unfastening the high, gold-encrusted collar of his dress uniform. He was breathing hard, and looked most unwell, very pale but with a startling shot of crimson in his cheeks. Well, so much the better.

Cracknell threw away his cigarette. 'Boyce,' he called out coolly. 'Over here.'

The officer turned. Upon seeing Cracknell, he let out an alarming howl, a primitive, almost b.e.s.t.i.a.l roar of rage, and dived towards him. Boyce's hair was awry, his ridiculous moustache in the process of collapse, and his eyes quite, quite mad.

The Tomahawk's intention had been to say 'For truth', or 'For Madeleine', or words to that effectto let the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d know exactly why this thing had been done. Boyce's increasingly rapid progress in his direction made him hesitate, though; and when the Brigadier-General drew his dress sword in a manner suggesting that he fully intended to use it, Cracknell realised that he may have misjudged the situation somewhat.