The Street Philosopher Read online

  Talking loudly over the orchestra, which had just struck up the robust rhythm of the gallop, he bade them all a good evening, then bowed to her. ‘Nothing of note, thank you, Mr Norton. I only needed some air.’

  ‘You missed little, sir, in truth,’ proclaimed Keane loftily. ‘The poor Prince’s spirits were so depressed that he spoke in little more than a murmur throughout. And the others–the bishop, the mayor and Mr Fairbairn–all adopted the same tone so as not to seem like they were trying to out-speak him. As a result, almost nothing of the ceremonials could be heard beyond the dais. My feeling was—’

  Bill pretended to recognise someone across the room, over the charging heads of the gallopers. He hooked his arm through Keane’s and dragged his garrulous friend away.

  Jemima and the Star’s street philosopher were alone once more. She suggested they move away from the commotion of the gallop to a quieter corner, over by the ballroom’s long bank of French windows. Since their first meeting on Saturday, Jemima had managed to learn something about the enigmatic Mr Kitson. Finding his work in her back-issues of the London Courier had been easy. Although most of that paper’s articles were printed anonymously, enough pieces of art correspondence bore the initials ‘TK’ for her to be able to build up a clear idea of his style. And it was distinctive indeed, deeply knowledgeable yet brimming with savage wit; he had been unafraid both to champion unknowns, and to go up against the most established and respected figures. His contributions had ceased abruptly, however, in early 1854. If he had not come to Manchester until the winter of 1856, this left nearly two years unaccounted for. Mr Kitson’s story, as she had been told it, lacked a chapter.

  She told him that she had not expected to see him there, and asked how he had managed to obtain an invitation. He replied that it had been done through Colonel Bennett, out of gratitude for his having helped Major Wray; but that the Colonel, and indeed everyone else at the ball prior to her brother, now seemed markedly reluctant to have anything whatsoever to do with him.

  ‘They have discovered your occupation, I’ll wager,’ Jemima said. ‘They took you for a medical man, as I first did, but have since uncovered the truth.’ She shook her head. ‘But it is too late–a street philosopher is present at a society ball, like a serpent that has slithered between the bars of the parrot cage.’

  His eyebrow moved by the smallest fraction. ‘I think you exaggerate their fear of the Manchester Evening Star, Mrs James. Although I must say that my editor is certainly excited by the benefit he believes this experience will offer to my work.’

  ‘And you are not, sir?’

  ‘I did not come here with a complete absence of enthusiasm, I admit.’ He paused. ‘Knowing as I did who else would be in attendance.’

  Jemima met his gaze for a second. They both smiled, a little shyly; and a clear, powerful understanding coursed between them. Unnerved by the strength of this silent connection, Jemima looked away suddenly, out through the French windows, across the Polygon’s stone terrace to the moonlit lawns beyond.

  ‘There–there is much inspiration for your pen here tonight, I would imagine,’ she managed to say, acutely aware of his grey eyes upon her and the beating of her heart beneath her ballgown.

  Mr Kitson was quiet for a few seconds longer. ‘Indeed, madam. The cravenness and vanity upon which the street philosopher thrives are here in abundance. Especially amusing is the spectacle of the nobility being forced to ingratiate itself with the same industrialists it has disdained and denigrated for so many generations.’

  Her composure recovered, Jemima turned back towards him. One side of his face was tinted silver by the moonlight, emphasising the line of his cheekbone; just beneath his jaw was a shaving cut, plainly inflicted by an unsteady hand. His lip curled slightly. ‘Over there, for instance, by the fireplace.’

  A tall man with a drawn, haughty face was smiling queasily as he listened to the vigorous extrapolations of Mr Gregory Simcock, owner of a successful small-ware mill and an occasional dinner guest of Jemima’s father.

  ‘The Earl of Beeston,’ Mr Kitson continued dryly, ‘has lent a handful of mouldy Ruiysdaels to the Exhibition, and expects the Committee’s boundless gratitude for his generous contribution. Yet it is common knowledge that the good Earl is quite bankrupt, having thrown away the family fortune on the rouge-et-noirs of various Metropolitan gaming houses–and that he has only submitted his paintings because he needs to sell them as soon as possible.’

  Jemima feigned dismay. ‘Surely not! What of the stated goals of the Exhibition, Mr Kitson–what of the art education of the poor?’

  The street philosopher grinned. ‘For the Earl, Mrs James, these are strictly secondary to drumming up a purchaser. And if that wealthy looking fellow he speaks with so superciliously were to offer a half-decent sum, our noble friend would kiss those plebeian chops in sheer relief.’

  Jemima’s laugh caught her by surprise, causing her to spill what was left of her champagne on Mr Kitson’s shoes. She apologised profusely, and attempted to sweep away the droplets on the shining black leather with the hem of her skirts. Her naked elbow brushed briefly against the sleeve of his evening jacket; he took a polite step backwards, assuring her of his unconcern.

  They talked on for another minute or so, sharing acerbic observations about a number of the Fairbairns’ guests. Mr Kitson’s easy articulacy made Jemima remember the scheme she had devised during the slower passages of the opening ceremony. She revealed in a confidential tone that her father, in order to demonstrate his dedication to the Art Treasures Exhibition as both a Committee member and an employer of labour, had recently announced that he intended to pay for a grand expedition of the entire Norton Foundry to the building at Old Trafford. Jemima had learned that there were to be no lecturers or guides present in the Exhibition; it had been assumed that the paintings on display would somehow explain themselves to their unschooled viewers without the need for intermediaries. Pondering this obvious oversight in relation to the Foundry visit, it had occurred to Jemima that she was acquainted with an authority on matters of art.

  ‘The strong belief in the potential of the Exhibition that you expressed when we last spoke surely makes you the ideal person to address my father’s workforce. A short talk in the modern galleries is all that will be required, I should think–merely to cast some basic illumination on their contents.’

  Mr Kitson nodded; he had divined her plan. He knew that she was trying to engineer a situation where her father was in his debt, and obliged to overlook his humble, slightly disreputable post at the Star. Some form of courtesy would have to be extended–perhaps even an invitation to dine at Norton Hall–which would open the way for the two of them to commence a proper association.

  ‘And will you be in attendance, madam, during this visit?’

  ‘I will,’ Jemima answered, her smile broadening.

  ‘Then I would consider it an honour.’ He glanced down at her empty glass, and reached forward to take it. ‘Allow me to fetch you another, Mrs James. Will you wait for me here?’

  The dancers were embarking on the first movement of a quadrille. Their numbers had swelled significantly, and Kitson had to push himself up against the wall to pass by the whirling mass of coat-tails and flounces. He barely noticed them. All he saw was her face as she laughed; the thick, loose coils of her hair; the soft curve of her neck, exposed to the Polygon’s orange glow.

  Kitson had spent the afternoon locked away in his attic. Pacing across the rug, aiming the occasional kick at his desk or divan, he had forced himself to relive those few seconds on the balcony a hundred times over, striving to recall exactly what he had seen–and to determine whether Cracknell had been real or the product of his diseased imagination. Black doubt crept insidiously into any solid conclusion he reached, though, rotting it away and leaving him floundering once again in miserable confusion. Gripped by a fierce headache, he had lain down upon the floor; and, curled up by the grate, had finally fallen into an exhausted, dream
less sleep, waking only half an hour before the commencement of the ball.

  Yet now, less than two hours later, he could hardly recognise this behaviour as his own. They were the actions of a madman–not of the charming, self-possessed lover of the widow Jemima James. The travails of the past few days now seemed trifling. His run-in with Wray was an unfortunate coincidence, best forgotten. The incident at the opening ceremony was the last delusion of a mind now firmly on the mend. All he wanted on Earth was to find a waiter, obtain two glasses, and get back to her as quickly as possible.

  Mrs James’ assessment of his status at the Polygon ball, however, was woefully correct. Away from the dancing, the street philosopher found himself caught in a great shoal of disapproving faces. A waiter approached, cruising like a clipper through the assembly, his tray aloft. Kitson’s attempt to hail him was utterly ignored; the man simply altered his course, cutting towards the Polygon’s main hall. At that moment, Kitson was so full of light-hearted hope that he decided to give chase, repeating his hail as he did so. This attracted further opprobrium, with someone clucking ‘disgraceful’ as he passed them. Neither did it halt the waiter; indeed, he seemed to pick up speed. He left the ballroom, bending away into a servant’s corridor, vanishing from sight.

  Kitson took four steps into this corridor and stopped. There was no sign of the man he pursued. Away from the orchestra, the hush was striking; a pungent smell of beeswax had replaced the many mingled perfumes of the ballroom, and the dim lambency of candlelight seemed almost like darkness after the gas chandeliers. He wondered what he was to do now.

  A hand clapped on Kitson’s shoulder, seizing hold of his collar. His first thought was that he was to be ejected from the Polygon by a footman, and separated from Mrs James; but he was shoved instead into a corner beneath the twist of a back staircase and held hard against the wall. It was far worse than that.

  ‘Well I never,’ hissed his assailant, his heavy beard scratching against Kitson’s ear, ‘if it isn’t the fellow who saved Archie bloody Wray. Why would he do such a thing, I wonder, knowing what he does?’

  ‘Cracknell,’ Kitson gasped. ‘Release me, damn it. What do you–’

  ‘Is he on a divinely ordained mission to heal the afflicted, like Saint Elizabeth of Hungary? Does he hold an honest belief in the ultimate bloody goodness within every man?’ The grip on Kitson’s collar tightened. ‘Or has he perhaps forgotten what exactly our Archie is a party to?’

  Despite painful protests from his chest, Kitson managed to turn himself around and push the other man back. And there it was, that same face he had glimpsed from the northern balcony, now only an arm’s length away. It had gained a few lines, and the black beard was flecked with grey–but it was indisputably the face of Richard Cracknell. Something was different, though; there was a bitterness beneath the old bombastic swagger that both reduced him and made him seem yet more volatile. He grabbed Kitson’s lapel, bunching it up in his hairy, tobacco-stained fist.

  As his initial shock receded, Kitson felt a rush of fury. His detestation of this man, he discovered, was quite undiminished by the time that had passed. ‘Do you suppose I knew?’ he spat. ‘It was dark. I could see nothing. Do you honestly think I would have helped Wray if—’ He tried to free himself, but could not. Cracknell was still the stronger. ‘What the devil are you doing here? What do you want?’

  Cracknell’s grin was chillingly familiar. ‘Let’s begin with Mrs James, shall we?’

  Kitson frowned uncomprehendingly. He stopped struggling. A cold, deadening heaviness was gathering in his midriff; his fingers were suddenly numb. ‘What–what of her?’

  Seeing that restraint was no longer necessary, Cracknell released him. ‘The hand of fate is at work here, Thomas. Can you not feel it? I arrive in Manchester to hear of a stabbing, and discover first that it’s Wray–and second that a fellow named Kitson was responsible for saving him. So I root around, as I am wont to do, and I find out that my dear old comrade Thomas Kitson is on the most favourable terms with none other than Charles Norton’s daughter. Is this chance? I think not! A higher agency is at work, my friend!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Kitson could hear the tense uncertainty in his voice. ‘You are drunk.’

  With a throaty chuckle, Cracknell took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it on a nearby candle. ‘I’ve been watching you two this evening–all that delightful awkwardness and secretive simpering. For what it’s worth, I’d say your feet are well parked under that particular table. The gratitude of widows, eh? Still, a good piece of work–almost a shame to think of what must be done.’

  Now Kitson was growing properly afraid. ‘What is your meaning?’

  Cracknell laughed. ‘Charles bloody Norton, Thomas!’ he said, as if this was an explanation in itself; then he looked at his former junior incredulously. ‘Christ’s balls, d’ye really not know? Is that not why you are here, living in this godforsaken cesspool of a city? And cosying up to his daughter?’ He hesitated, taking the cigarette from his lips. ‘Haven’t you looked around the Exhibition yet?’

  This caught Kitson off-guard. ‘No one has, bar the Committee. It opens to the public tomorrow. Why do you ask?’

  Cracknell put a hand on his shoulder, rather more gently than before. ‘Introduce me to Mrs James.’

  Jolted to his senses, Kitson knocked away Cracknell’s hand. ‘I will not. I don’t know what your purpose is in Manchester, despite all your insinuations, but I will have nothing to do with it.’

  Cracknell smiled indulgently, a clear threat in his eyes. ‘Introduce me to her, Thomas,’ he murmured, ‘or by God I will go over there and introduce myself.’

  4

  It was immediately clear that something was amiss.

  When Mr Kitson eventually reappeared, he brought not flutes of champagne but the black-bearded man who had winked at Jemima earlier. The street philosopher’s entire demeanour had altered. All peace and good humour had left him; his expression contained the same mixture of anger and shame that it had done on Mosley Street whilst in the proximity of Major Wray. He was stooping slightly, a hand lingering at the side of his chest–clutching at the ribs, Jemima could not help but think, as if it was holding them together.

  The bearded man was the obvious reason for Mr Kitson’s discomfort, and Jemima found herself disliking him for this alone, before he had even opened his mouth to speak. As they approached the French windows, she saw that this odd person was not in proper evening dress. His jacket and trousers belonged to two different suits, and his puce waistcoat was stained with a variety of unidentifiable substances. He was attracting a good deal of attention, none of it favourable. Jemima wondered who he must know in order to have been invited.

  Then, sustaining a neutral tone with evident effort, Mr Kitson introduced him. Jemima recognised the name at once. ‘Were you not the Crimean correspondent for the London Courier, Mr Cracknell? “The Tomahawk of the Courier”, didn’t they call you, in the later stages of the campaign?’

  Mr Cracknell laughed condescendingly. ‘Yes, madam, my editor at the time decided to adorn me with that colourful title.’

  A brisk polka began, the dancers greeting it with giddy hurrahs. Jemima looked at the two men. The London Courier linked them, but the relationship was palpably not that of correspondents working in different branches of a publication who happened to have become acquainted. Their demeanour spoke of something weightier, darker; something that had gone terribly wrong.

  ‘Much as Punch recently saw fit to call your father the Buckle King,’ Mr Cracknell continued, his voice becoming more loaded. ‘It is a silly habit of the press. I rather prefer mine, I must say.’ He lifted up his hand, drawing on the cigarette concealed within, and turned to Mr Kitson, who was staring down impassively at the floor. ‘Which is not to belittle Mr Norton’s accomplishments–Heaven forbid it! How could I, a lowly grubber scorned by the world, possibly cast aspersion on a man who has risen so high, and in such an astonishingly short space of
time?’

  ‘His ascent has indeed been remarkable,’ Jemima replied carefully.

  Tapping ash on to the Fairbairns’ carpet, Cracknell shook his head in sardonic amazement. ‘What connections the fellow must have.’

  With some irritation, Jemima sensed that she was being used by Mr Cracknell to make a point for Mr Kitson’s benefit–not that he seemed any wiser than she about what the Tomahawk of the Courier was implying. That her father had somehow attracted Mr Cracknell’s disapproval did not surprise her; this jaded eccentric appeared to define himself by being antagonistic. She would not, however, simply stand and listen to him pontificate unchallenged.

  ‘So tell me, sir,’ she broke in, ‘why is the Tomahawk not in India? I have read that the Sepoys are close to open revolt. Is your rightful place not out there?’

  The overbearing smirk that had been playing across Mr Cracknell’s florid cheeks since their introduction grew forced and mirthless. He did not wish to discuss the Indian mutiny and his great distance from it, and tried to divert their talk back to Charles Norton.

  Jemima persisted. ‘The Courier, I see, has sent someone else. Could it be that you have lost favour with the magazine’s proprietors–that the controversy caused by your behaviour during the Russian War has prevented them from appointing you?’

  Mr Kitson shifted his weight from one foot to the other, raising his head to watch Mr Cracknell’s reaction to Jemima’s question.