The Street Philosopher Read online

  ‘It was a complicated situation, madam.’ He sighed, as if summoning his patience. ‘The war ended badly, as I’m sure you’ll recall, with the enemy undefeated and things generally rather unsatisfactory. None were pleased by that spineless treaty drawn up in Paris. The neutralisation of the Black Sea! What the deuce is that?’ There was a quick anger in his voice. He leant in towards her, so close that she could see the broken veins in his cheeks. ‘The truth is that we gained next to nothing for our staggering losses. The Russians laughed at us, Mrs James–we took their port city from them only to give it back a few months later and sail away.’ He dropped the end of his cigarette on the floor, and trod on it emphatically. ‘Few reputations escaped from that dreadful mess unscathed–my own included.’

  A neat enough piece of evasion, but it did not satisfy Jemima for an instant. More blatant provocation was needed if she was to learn anything worthwhile. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I was referring to the specific allegations made against you alone. I greatly admired your work in the first months of the war. I must confess that the invasion seemed gratuitous to me from the start, but I had no idea that it was being done so thoughtlessly, with so little regard on the part of the commanders for the lives of those beneath them. You helped to raise awareness of this.’

  Mr Cracknell nodded in wary acknowledgement, knowing that a qualification was coming. Mr Kitson had withdrawn into himself once more. Jemima could not tell if he was even listening.

  ‘It is regrettable, though, that you grew so vindictive. There was that one officer with whom you became quite obsessed, that colonel…’

  He snorted. ‘It was warranted, madam, I assure you.’

  ‘But it enabled your opponents to depict you as a mere provocateur, whose views stemmed only from personal animosity. And then there were those letters in the Times, accusing you of opportunism and worse—’

  ‘As I think I said, Mrs James, it was most complicated; and, I might add, entirely beyond female comprehension.’ Mr Cracknell’s tolerant smile now contained a distinct seam of malice. ‘I can assure you, also, that there were far more opportunistic people on that Peninsula than I. Compared with some I could name, I was a beginner, a bumbling amateur! If you do not believe me,’ he added casually, narrowing his eyes, ‘you can ask Kitson here.’

  And suddenly Jemima saw it. Her street philosopher had been in the Crimea with Cracknell of the Courier. This was the missing episode from Mr Kitson’s life.

  The orchestra brought the dancing to a close and stopped playing, setting down their instruments. After a round of applause, the flushed participants dispersed throughout the ballroom, adding appreciably to the hum of conversation. The Fairbairns must have returned from Bank Top station, after escorting the Prince to the Royal train; they would be making their entrance at any moment. Someone cleared their throat close behind her. She turned to see Bill, looking at her apologetically.

  ‘Sorry, Jem,’ he mumbled, ‘but Father insists that you join us. He wants to offer his congratulations to our hosts with his family around him. Or so he says.’

  Jemima acquiesced absently, without a fight, her mind trying to assimilate this discovery into what she already knew. It was about the Crimea. It was about these two newspapermen and what had happened between them there; but it was also somehow about her father and the Norton Foundry, and that expedition to Balaclava where her husband had perished. There could be little doubt that Mr Cracknell had a reason for being in Manchester. What precisely it was, however, and what he planned to do, she could only speculate.

  Mr Kitson bade her farewell. She looked up, setting her troubling reflections aside. They shared a despondent glance, realising that they would not see each other again that evening. Both knew that their friendship, which had seemed such a gloriously simple thing not half an hour before, was now beset with difficulty; but neither was deterred.

  Mr Cracknell was busy introducing himself to a bemused Bill. Jemima took the street philosopher’s hand in hers. ‘Do not forget, Mr Kitson,’ she said evenly. ‘Three weeks’ time. The Foundry’s visit to the Exhibition.’ Their fingers locked; she pressed her gloved thumb hard against the side of his hand.

  Mr Cracknell, releasing Bill, moved himself back between them. ‘Goodbye, Mrs James,’ he said, his tone both jolly and dismissive. ‘A real pleasure to talk with you, madam.’

  Charles Norton watched his children cross the ballroom, wishing they would move faster and put more distance between themselves and the two miscreants at the French windows.

  Mr Twelves had made his first report the previous night. The investigator had revealed that this Kitson was a street philosopher with the Evening Star, resident in the city for under a year, his previous whereabouts uncertain. Despite the social character of his work, he had few acquaintances or contacts, preferring to treat his topic in more general terms. He was highly regarded by his peers, though, and appreciated by the Star’s readers; circulation had doubled since his addition to its staff.

  ‘I’ve read ’im myself, from time to time,’ Twelves had commented slyly. ‘All flash and banter, but a good deal better than the rest o’ that miserable organ.’

  More pertinently, it transpired that Kitson had not been Wray’s attacker on Saturday night, as the Major’s note had suggested, but rather the opposite. And afterwards, apparently, the fellow had sat in Norton’s own office as Wray was taken up to the Infirmary, drinking his brandy at the invitation of his meddlesome daughter; she had not, of course, thought to mention any of this to him herself. Norton had listened with growing confusion, none the wiser as to what it was about Kitson that had prompted such panic in Wray.

  Then, at the opening ceremony, he had been talking with Colonel Bennett–the 25th had just taken a consignment of undress belts made with Norton buckles–and had learned that the Colonel had obtained Kitson an invitation to the Fairbairns’ ball. It had brought him no little pleasure to inform Bennett that he had asked a street philosopher from a notorious local rag into the house of the most powerful family in Manchester. The Colonel had turned quite pale.

  At the Polygon, he had kept his eyes peeled for this person, confident that so modest a character would be easy to spot. He had cursed when he located the man deep in conversation with his daughter. They were doubtlessly building on the acquaintance they had formed in his Mosley Street office. It was typical of Jemima to form associations that would cause him the utmost inconvenience or embarrassment. Charles remembered her marriage, how she had–on purpose, it seemed to him–selected the most argumentative and bloody minded of his managers to be her husband; and how much more outspoken Anthony James had become after their union. James and his forthright opinions had almost cost Norton the greatest chance of his life, in fact. Fortune, thankfully, had intervened.

  This Kitson did not look like much of a menace, though. He had the bearing of an impoverished scholar, or a poet perhaps; Norton had expected someone a little more rascally. It was hard to think of this cerebral sort as one who necessitated the attentions of Mr Twelves.

  But then the Irishman had joined them and the true nature of the situation was revealed. Everything suddenly made sense. Despite his innocuous appearance, this Kitson was an accomplice of Richard Cracknell, formerly of the London Courier, a disgraced and very dangerous man. Norton knew Cracknell well; earlier in the year, he had made a desperate nuisance of himself at the Foundry’s London sales office. It had taken the intervention of the police to deter him from his activities. He was an undoubted enemy of the company, and could only be in Manchester to make further trouble. Mr Twelves would have to be informed–Norton’s visitor was arriving in a matter of weeks, and this disturbance had to be resolved by then.

  After dispatching Bill to reclaim Jemima from these undesirables, Norton summoned a pair of footmen from the hall, and voiced a suspicion that the bearded man by the French windows was present without an invitation. They bowed, and went to consult with the butler.

  His offspring arrived before
him. Bill, as usual, looked ridiculous, his waistcoat patterned with golden oriental dragons, his necktie an ostentatious shade of plum. The lad imagines that he is a new Lord Byron, Norton thought ill-temperedly–a Regency buck in search of profligate adventure. Did he not realise that this was a different age, an age of industry and pious discipline? Well, no matter, the labour-lord told himself; he will be made to see it soon enough.

  Jemima’s brow was furrowed, as if she was deep in thought of a disquieting nature. Charles felt his responsibility towards his widowed daughter keenly, but she made it impossible for him to behave as a kind father should. She was so fractious and deceptive, concealing so much and doing whatever she could to undermine him; and now she was openly fraternising with his enemies. It would stop. He dreaded to think what that deranged rogue Cracknell might have told her.

  ‘You and I will speak, Jemima,’ he said sternly.

  Before she could respond, Thomas Fairbairn was announced. Everyone turned towards the main doors that led out into the hall; and the chairman entered in the most lordly manner, graciously accepting the congratulations that erupted all around him. Norton beamed, his fears momentarily forgotten, and raised his applauding hands.

  ‘We are being scrutinised,’ Cracknell shouted over the uproar, indicating a huddle of conferring servants. ‘I propose we go outside.’

  They left through the French windows. The night was cool and quiet after the hot crush of the ballroom. Cracknell strolled towards the balustrade, his shoes clacking on the stone terrace, looking out at the stand of silvery oak trees that bordered the garden.

  ‘Well, that was most amusing, wasn’t it?’ he declared. ‘Did you notice how I guessed that you had not told her about your time in the Crimea, Thomas? Perspicacious, no?’

  Kitson strode over to Cracknell and grasped hold of his arm. ‘You stabbed Wray, didn’t you? Deliberately close to my lodgings, so I would hear?’

  Cracknell grinned as he shook Kitson off. ‘Is that what you were brooding over in there, whilst your she-lion mauled me so savagely? I salute your courage, my friend; these northern fillies have a flintiness about them that is rather frightening.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I think she got a taste though, don’t you? Something to chew on, at least. She seems the chewing type, does the widow.’

  Kitson glared at him, still barely able to believe that he was being forced to battle against this person once more. ‘Where is this leading, Cracknell? What is this all-consuming interest in Charles Norton?’

  The cigarette made Cracknell cough hard. ‘Ye Gods,’ he wheezed, ‘all these bloody questions, Thomas. I had no idea that you were so damned ignorant. All will be revealed in time, don’t you worry. Just be sure to visit the Exhibition as soon as you are able, and know this.’ He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and then said offhandedly, ‘Boyce is coming.’

  ‘Boyce? To Manchester?’

  ‘Yes, Thomas, to Manchester–to this thing, this Art Treasures Exhibition.’ Cracknell spoke slowly, as if addressing an idiot.

  ‘How–how did you discover this?’

  ‘Simply by using the investigative skills that have made me such an effective newspaperman–skills you would do well to recover.’ Cracknell drew again on his cigarette, his broad face puckering with malevolence. ‘You and I alone know the full extent of that man’s crimes. And we’re going to punish him. More than that, we’re going to bloody well destroy him. You’ll see.’

  Kitson stared speechlessly at the luminous windows of the Polygon, a profusion of disturbing scenarios playing out in his mind. Addresses were underway inside, the assembled guests suddenly shaking with laughter. He caught a glimpse of Jemima amidst the admiring crowd, standing behind her chortling father, her slender arms crossed with impatience.

  The French windows opened, and a pair of footmen emerged. It was obvious who they sought; Kitson looked around, but saw only the moonlit garden. Cracknell had disappeared.

  Before Sebastopol,

  Crimean Peninsula

  October–November 1854

  1

  ‘From the western end of the Causeway Heights, just north of Balaclava, the true scale of the calamity is revealed. A skein of shattered bodies is cast across the floor of the valley beyond, the men and their horses intermingled in death, knocked to pieces by grape, canister and shot. Patches of bright colour, the cherry red of a Hussar’s overalls, the golden yellow of a standard, or the blue of a Lancer’s tunic, can be made out in amongst the dust and blood; and tiny sparks of light ripple over the surface of the carnage, where bridles, spurs, buttons and blades catch the setting sun.’

  Kitson lowered his pocketbook and rubbed his aching eyes. He sat blankly for a few moments, then cleared his throat and tried to begin his next sentence. His mind kept stumbling, however, the words emerging in the wrong order or not at all. After six or seven attempts he gave up, and only just managed to prevent himself hurling his pencil down the hillside.

  Cracknell came panting up the path from the low-walled redoubts further along the Heights, around which the earlier stages of the battle had been fought. His brow was shining with sweat. ‘Damn this country,’ he gasped, spitting out a bead of phlegm. ‘How vertiginous it is! Enough to bring a fellow’s heart to bursting point.’

  He staggered over to where Kitson was sitting, complaining about various aspects of life on the peninsula. The view from the summit, however, was enough to silence even Richard Cracknell.

  ‘So there it is,’ he said eventually. ‘The Light Brigade is lost.’

  Black-winged carrion birds were circling down towards the valley floor with the lazy ease of creatures who knew that a certain feed awaited them. There was a distant dash of musketry from the far side of the valley, on the Fedyukhin Hills, where the Russian Army had managed to gain a lasting foothold after the battle. They seemed to be firing on a British detail sent out to retrieve the last of the wounded, which had accidentally strayed into range.

  Cracknell turned away, fumbling with a cigarette. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he muttered, ‘they might as well have sent the poor bastards charging straight at the barricades of Sebastopol.’

  He sat down heavily and asked to see what Kitson had. The junior correspondent handed over his pocketbook and lay back on the grass, gazing up at the evening sky, following wisps of cloud as they drifted out to sea. Kitson was immensely tired. It had been many nights since he had rested properly. He had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed; and the noise of the Allied artillery bombardment, although over two miles distant from the small hut Cracknell had secured for them, was more than he could stand. This dull, constant fatigue was slowly leeching away his vigour, his eloquence, and his enthusiasm for his work.

  Cracknell, Kitson realised, was pleased. ‘This is good, Thomas,’ he said approvingly. ‘Good indeed. You have a real feeling for the human tragedy of all this–for the plight of the men who are falling victim to our generals’ woeful ineptitude. The political and the strategic elements elude you almost completely, of course, but this is to be expected, given your background. You write through sorrow and sympathy rather than anger, a deficiency well supplied by my own commentaries.’ He tossed the pocketbook on to Kitson’s chest. ‘This, my friend, is why we are such an effective partnership.’

  Their account of the battle of the Alma and its aftermath had been published mere days after the event, thanks to the wonder of the electric telegraph. Filled with both copious praise for the fighting men and severe criticism of Lord Raglan and his generals, it had been a major success for the Courier, completely selling out the issue that had carried it. Telegrams had arrived from O’Farrell relating its impact, and the fierce debate it had provoked–and urging them to keep up the good work. Already, however, there had been signs of how this prominence might have adverse effects. Shortly after publication, the Captain whose vessel conveyed their reports to the telegraph office at Varna had stated that he was no longer prepared to associate with them. Cracknell had found this encouraging, str
angely enough, and a new messenger had been secured that same morning; but for Kitson at least, a worrying precedent had been set.

  The senior correspondent now started to read out his own work. It was predictably blunt and confrontational, littered with speculation, fearlessly assigning blame to those in command. There was a delight in Cracknell’s voice, a deep pleasure in his own polemical savagery that was utterly incongruous with his subject. Kitson closed his eyes.

  ‘A crime was done today, dear reader,’ the report concluded stridently, ‘a great and terrible crime against all the codes and usages of war. Our foe, the men of Tsar Nicholas, took a great chance, rushing out of Sebastopol in massive numbers, cunningly skirting the Allied camps on the plateau to strike at Balaclava, the port supplying their besiegers. They were thwarted, but only after a great many valiant lives had been squandered due to the wretched stupidity of a villainous, cold-hearted cadre of aristocratic buffoons. Our Light Cavalry, among the finest in the world, was left unused at the Alma, when it could have made a real difference; and has now been destroyed needlessly at Balaclava. This reprehensible waste seems the result of a spat between noblemen, between the famous enemies (and, we might add, brothers-in-law) Lucan and Cardigan. The latter, who supposedly led the charge, was interestingly among the very first back to safety; and whilst so many of his men lay bleeding in the dust, the Earl was enjoying a bath on his yacht in Balaclava harbour, with the prospect of a fine dinner before him. Such is the calibre of leadership in the Crimea!’

  His recitation complete, Cracknell launched directly into a passionate tirade about the wider strategic failings of the campaign–about how Raglan had made yet another error in listening to his engineers rather than his generals and bringing up the artillery for a bombardment instead of mounting an immediate attack.

  ‘Now they pound away at earthworks with cannon, achieving nothing and allowing Russians to come at us as they have done here. And still, still they talk so lightly of Sebastopol falling in a matter of weeks!’ He got to his feet and gazed out at the gruesome panorama before them. ‘Honestly, I cannot believe that I supported this war at its outset. I shiver with embarrassment, Thomas, at the praise I heaped on this wrong-headed enterprise. I honestly thought that they had a proper plan of action–that they had to have one.’ He shook his head, exhaling cigarette smoke. ‘But they do not, my friend; they most definitely do not.’