The Street Philosopher Part 7

Suddenly, Mrs Boyce cried out. She had seen something over by the spectators' pavilion; Cracknell, d.a.m.n him, sat in plain view, writing intently. Feeling the eyes of Boyce's group on him, he looked up and gave Mrs Boyce a sly wink. Beaming with joy, she took an unthinking step towards her loveronly to have her husband pull her back, tightening his fingers viciously around her arm.

As he watched fresh tears shine on Mrs Boyce's cheeks, Maynard felt compelled to act, to challenge this bullying fool in some small way. He cleared his throat. 'Can I ask you, Lieutenant-Colonel, why we are not pursuing the Russians? The Light Brigade stands ready. Surely our generals are making a great mistake.'

Predictably, Boyce was appalled by this notion, as he was by anything remotely critical of the High Command. 'Military honour decrees that having met and bested the foe, we allow him to withdraw. Military honour Military honour, Majorhave you any conception of such a thing?' His eyes narrowed. 'By G.o.d, you've been talking to that Courier Courier devil, haven't youagainst my express instructions!' devil, haven't youagainst my express instructions!'

Maynard didn't deny it. Mrs Boyce met his eye in momentary collusion. 'His perspective is certainly refreshing, sir, and unenc.u.mbered by the dogma that so often hinders our own thinking on matters of strategy.'

'How dare he?' Boyce yelled. 'How dare the ruffian doubt Lord Raglan, a man who served under none other than Wellington himself Wellington himself? It is positively treasonous. He must be stopped.' He waved his sword furiously, swiping it so close to Maynard's face that it threatened to clip the brim of his cap. 'I will see him sent homesent home in utter disgrace!'

There was a rifle report, very close; Quartermaster Arthurs exclaimed and then fell over, clutching at his rump. A wounded Russian infantryman, left for dead on a mound of corpses close to where they stood, had caught sight of the officer's uniform and taken a shot with his musket. The privates in Boyce's detail promptly lumbered over to him. The Russian was young and very thin with a wisp of a moustache, and lowered his weapon as they approached, meeting them with a resigned expression. They poked at him listlessly with their bayonets, as if shifting dung with pitchforks at the end of a long day in the cattle sheds. Boyce looked on, not relaxing his hold on his wife for an instant.

'd.a.m.n and blast it!' Arthurs spluttered from the ground, blood bulging up blackly between his fingers. 'Dodo excuse me, Mrs Boyce, Ioh, the wretched, goat-f.u.c.king peasant! Again, Mrs Boyce, my apologiesd.a.m.n it!'

Maynard called out tiredly for a stretcher.

Kitson picked his way through the knotted battlefield as quickly as he could. A sour, fetid smell hung everywhere, and the gra.s.s slopes of the Heights were slimy with congealing blood. All around, wounded men wept, prayed and pleaded for a.s.sistance that did not come. Many requested water, others liquor, and a few, those with the very worst injuries, only a speedy death to end their suffering. Hands clawed and clutched at Kitson's clothes as he went by. They were desperate but weak, and easily shrugged off. He had given his water canteen to the first man to ask, only to be asked again a minute laterand be showered with savage curses when he declared his inability to help. So he had hardened his heart, lowered his head and pressed on.

There were no surgeons at work on those dreadful slopes. Kitson had realised this early in his ascent and had barely been able to believe it. He'd spotted some donkey-drawn hospital vans over at the coast, but these belonged to the French, whose casualties were relatively light. For the hundreds of redcoatsand thousands of Russiansleft broken and helpless in that valley there were only the exhausted regimental bandsmen and a smattering of overwhelmed stretcher-bearers. Officers were being seen to first; it would be many hoursdays, evenbefore some of these men received aid, surely too late for a good number of them.

Cracknell was sat close to the spectators' pavilion, writing with feverish concentration, wringing every last second of light from the fading day. He was even more unkempt than usual, the orange tip of a cigarette glowing in amongst the coa.r.s.e tresses of his beard. His pencil dashed across the paper; he had covered several pages already with his spidery hand. He didn't notice Kitson's urgent approach.

'Mr Cracknell, have you seen any sign of Styles? We were separated in the confusion on the riverbank, and I fear that he might have... have been...'

Cracknell, barely looking up, pointed to a rocky escarpment that overlooked the length of the Alma valley. Styles was perched upon it, missing his hat but otherwise unharmed. He was immersed in a sketch.

Kitson blinked, the dizziness of his relief making him feel suddenly sick. He exhaled hard. 'Thank G.o.d,' he mumbled. 'Thank G.o.d G.o.d.'

'A late rally,' Cracknell observed sarcastically, puffing on his cigarette. 'He's in a d.a.m.ned strange temper, I must say. Strode up, took some paper and a pencil from me without a word, then walked straight off again. Honestly, anyone would think that it was I I who had been transformed into a fear-crazed imbecile as soon as the shot started to fly.' who had been transformed into a fear-crazed imbecile as soon as the shot started to fly.'

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

'I imagined him to be a kindred spirit, y'know,' the senior correspondent went on. 'A worthwhile addition to our brave reporting team. Yet look at what he has turned out to benaught but a poltroon, a vomit-flecked b.o.o.by.'

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

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

'More battles?' The disbelieving anger Kitson had felt on the battlefield returned abruptly, driving away his confusion. 'How the h.e.l.l can they hope to fight more battles when the injured are just left on the ground to die? How can suchsuch murderous murderous negligence possibly be sustained?' negligence possibly be sustained?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manchester May 1857

1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2.

The spinners swayed unsteadily, cheering themselves as they did so, delighting in their drunkenness. They had worked fast. The half-holiday granted by their employers was only an hour old, yet already a good number were well on their way to intoxication, quickly drinking away any trace of sickness left over from the night before. They toasted Albert, they toasted the Queen, they toasted the sun, they toasted the policemen who toiled before them to keep the road clear, they toasted anything they could think of. Cheap boots and clogs clacked against the cobbles as they danced dizzy jigs together, and fell laughing into the dirt.

The steam whistles had blown at midday, the mill-gates opening to release a flood of working people that rushed down from Ancoats, Oldham and Hulme, through the maze of streets and alleys towards the Royal route. Its progress was slowed only by visits to gin palaces and beer shops, which found themselves doing a brisk trade indeed for a Tuesday. In an atmosphere of abandoned celebration, the spinners lined the Stretford New Road, popped the stoppers on their bottles and awaited the Prince.

Some, growing restless, found amus.e.m.e.nt in taunting the lines of policemen who wrestled to keep the vast bodies of people on either side of the road apart. Any good will on the part of these constables was soon used up, and more than a few blows administered with their polished wooden sticks. The better cla.s.ses of spectator, who sat on the balconies of houses lining the road, or atop the large wooden platforms that had been erected on the intermittent stretches of open ground, peered down at the drab, swirling ma.s.s of the poor and shuddered.

Prince Albert, when he finally appeared, did not disappoint. The Royal procession was composed of a long line of open carriages filled with lords and ladies, clad in all their finery, flanked by a company of golden-helmed dragoons. Albert himself sat in the fourth carriage, in the resplendent uniform of a field marshal. His long, sombre face bore an uncertain smile as he surveyed the vast numbers all around; the countless flags and handkerchiefs frantically waving; the signs and banners that hung from every window; the triumphal arches made from wood, cloth and cardboard that had been erected along the route to the Exhibition, swathed with flowers and bearing declaration after declaration of extravagant, patriotic welcome.

At last, the straight road began to turn and the Art Treasures Palace glided majestically into view. After the modest, scattered dwellings of Old Trafford, the purpose-built edifice seemed truly gigantic, equal almost to the famous Crystal Palace that had housed the Great Exhibition. Part cathedral and part railway terminus, this structure comprised three long iron half-tubes, fringed with decorative castings and set upon a two-storey base of red and yellow brick. As the carriages wheeled up before it, sunlight flashed across the semi-circle of its main facade, catching brilliantly against the many hundreds of gla.s.s segments encased within the intricately patterned metalwork. The company of dragoons turned about, formed into tight ranks and fired off a salute to announce the Consort's arrival; and Prince Albert stepped down on to Mancunian soil.

Beyond the open doors was a wall of silks, crinolines and morning-coats, and thousands of pink faces, all turned expectantly towards the Royal guest. Lord Overstone, a slight man in his early sixties, came down the steps. From inside the hall there came the sound of a vast choir, a hundred voices or more, singing the national anthem. Overstone greeted Prince Albert with a bow and a few formal words; and then the Prince and his entourage swept into the building.

Up in the balcony, Kitson rose clumsily to his feet and stumbled back through the rows of newspapermen, deaf to their exclamations of annoyance. Thorne, still sitting at the balcony's edge, looked around for him briefly, but his attention soon returned to the main aisle below, where Prince Albert was commencing his procession to the dais. The voices of the a.s.sembled congregation were joining with those of the choir that had appeared before the organ to create a stirring, mighty refrain. Whilst the metal rafters rang to cries of 'G.o.d save the Queen!', Kitson clattered down the balcony staircase, imagining as he went that Cracknell's black eyes were boring into his back with destructive force. To loud tutting, he shoved his way around the corner of the transept and left by the northern door, heading out into the adjacent botanical gardens.

Panting heavily, he leant against the side of an ivy-clad hothouse, taking off his top hat and running a hand roughly through his hair. His chest began to tighten most painfully, forcing him to s.n.a.t.c.h shallow, grating coughs between his gasps. He was utterly dumbfounded. How had Cracknell managed to locate him? What could he possibly want, after all that had happened between them? What might he be poised to reveal?

The sun was warm upon his sweating face. He looked over to the pale gothic spires of the Blind Asylum, just visible behind a screen of poplars, and then back to the door of the Exhibition building. No one had followed him outside. This meant that either Cracknell had failed to notice himor that it had not been his former senior after all. Could he have been mistaken? Was it even possible that the incident with Wray had affected him in some deep and injurious mannerthat this apparent sighting of Cracknell was a new variation of delusory attack?

Kitson tried to reason with himself. Cracknell used to make a regular show of his lack of interest in art, and he loathed the northern industrial towns with a pa.s.siona significant factor in Kitson's decision to take up residence in one. Why on earth would he attend the opening of the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition? It started to seem likely that Kitson's regrettably disruptive exit had been made in error.

But it had looked so much like Cracknell: the bulbous nose, the jutting jaw, the domineering self-a.s.surance. Kitson stood still for some time, recovering his breath and waiting for his coughing fit to subside. More music floated over from inside the Palace as the ceremonials got underway: The The Heavens are Telling Heavens are Telling, then The Hundredth Psalm The Hundredth Psalm. The street philosopher stared hard at the ground, a hand on his aching side, trying to work out if he was losing his mind.

3.

The orchestra started a waltz, the first few bars looping gently to a short pause. Jemima looked on listlessly from the side of the ballroom as the couples on the floor made their bows and curtseys, changed their partners and resumed the dance. Bill and Alfred Keane were directly behind her. They were discussing Keane's latest backstreet conquest, a clerk from Watts' warehouse on Fountain Street, in the most lurid language. Jemima, who was both widely read and well past the blushes of youthful innocence, was not shocked or scandalised by what she overheard; and she had long ago accepted that her brother was a committed denizen of this clandestine world. She did wish, however, that they would pay more consideration to their surroundings. They were in the Polygon, seat of the great Fairbairn family, and the sanctimonius were everywhere.

The wide ballroom was illuminated by a low-hanging formation of ornate gas chandeliers, which cast a soft yet pervasive orange light on to the guests gathered below. Over a hundred had already arrived, and those who were not engaged in the waltz stood talking of the glorious successes of the opening ceremony with grave satisfaction. The oak-panelled walls, usually covered with paintings, were all but bare: Thomas Fairbairn was chairman of the Exhibition, and had led by example when loaning the curators artwork from his collection.

According to the monstrous clock on the mantle, Jemima had been at the ball for less than an hour, yet it felt strangely as if she had always been there, consigned to a particularly tedious level of Purgatory. A bibbed, heavily oiled waiter floated past, bearing a tray of crystal champagne flutes. She plucked one off and drank deeply. Bill and Keane, seeing her do this, left their less than private conversation to claim drinks of their own.

'Dearest Jemima,' drawled Keane as he leant past her to pick up a gla.s.s, 'has anyone ever told you of your quite startling resemblance to Mr Millais' Mariana Mariana? D'you know it? You have the same straight nose, and her pale auburn hair is yours exactly. Most handsome, I must say.'

Jemima looked into Keane's smooth, equine face and thanked him with faint sarcasm. One would not think that this effete character was the second son of one of Manchester's wealthiest cotton magnates. Like her brother, he lived in fear of the family firm and did all he could to forget its inevitable claim on his future.

'Where's Father got to, I wonder,' mused Bill idly, taking a swig of champagne. 'I don't see him. Off strengthening his business contacts in the smoking room, I expect.'

Jemima turned away from the dancing. 'As long as he is not preparing me another suitor from his inexhaustible supply of whey-faced, chinless millionaires, William, I am content.'

Keane snorted with mirth. 'D'you recall the reception at Waite's, Bill, last October? That poor dunce from Liverpool? Why, I thought our Mrs J. was going to reduce him to tears before the entire company!'

Their laughter was intended to be collusive, to show Jemima how much they admired her strength of will, but it irritated her nonetheless. They could hardly understand what it was like to be hawked around as if you were an aging brood mare or an unwanted piece of furniture. This was the humiliation of her positionas a penniless widow entirely dependent upon her rich father, she was forced to endure his intermittent efforts to rid himself of her.

Jemima took a sip of her champagne and surveyed the room, which was growing fuller by the minute. For a Manchester a.s.sembly, she had to admit, it was a remarkably eclectic one. Amongst the usual industrialists and their families were churchmen, n.o.bles of all stripes and a smattering of rather more singular figures. Some were plainly literary in background, or gentlemen from the national press; others she recognised as notable personalities from the art world, such as Sir Charles Eastlake and his statuesque wife, and the bespectacled Dr Waagen of the Berlin gallery.

A handful, however, stubbornly defied any attempt at cla.s.sification. She spied an especially conspicuous example leaning in the tall stone doorway that led through to the smoking room. Heftily built with a large black beard, he had a cigarette stuck in his mouth and his shirt was open at the necka dishevelled appearance more suited to the end of a night's revelry than the beginning. He was watching the ballroom nonchalantly, but there was a wolfish air to him. Jemima felt sure that he was on the lookout for something. Suddenly, calmly, his eyes flickered on to hers, as if he'd been aware of her scrutiny. Smoke trailed out of his nostrils. He gave her a slow wink.

Embarra.s.sed, Jemima turned back quickly to Keane and Bill, saying the first thing that came into her head. 'Aa shame that Prince Albert could not be with us this evening.'

They fell upon this much-discussed topic with enthusiasm, expressing heartfelt sympathy for the recent Royal bereavement. The previous Sunday, the d.u.c.h.ess of Gloucester, last child of mad King George and Victoria's beloved great-aunt, had died. It was this loss that had kept the Queen from Manchester and prevented Albert from attending the Fairbairns' ball.

'You could see the strain in him, I thought,' opined Bill.

'He is right to hurry back to his family,' Keane said sagaciously. 'They need him. It's said that the Queen positively wallows wallows in grief. Gets quite drunk on it, she does.' in grief. Gets quite drunk on it, she does.'

Jemima nodded along, not listening; after a couple of minutes, she glanced back furtively at the doorway. The bearded man had gone.

Bill caught sight of something behind her, and his face lit up. 'Why, look who's arrived!' he cried. 'Major Wray's guardian angel! Come over, sir, join us! We noticed you leave the opening ceremony in the most dramatic mannerI trust nothing was amiss?'