The Street Philosopher Page 22

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

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

  ‘Wray,’ Kitson hissed.

  Cracknell fell quiet, and peered out from their hiding place with keen curiosity. Many of the wine butts were falling apart, affording the Courier team a good view of the room through their loosened slats. Captain Wray, they saw, was accompanied by two corporals from the 99th and a pair of men in civilian clothes. Both these civilians were grubby and unshaven, but had an odd air of refinement about them. One was telling Wray about the villa’s history and the circumstances of its construction. A slight accent in his speech told Kitson that he was Russian, and of the highest social rank; the other man, whose demeanour was subtly deferential, was a servant of some kind. The redcoats were very much on their guard, miniés ready in their hands, scanning the shadows.

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

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

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

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

  ‘What is this?’ Kitson whispered urgently. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Boyce,’ Cracknell replied. ‘Has to be.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I–I recognise the style, I think,’ the illustrator replied diffidently. ‘Is it not Raphael? His Roman manner?’

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

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

  The illustrator fumbled with his equipment for a few seconds and then started to draw with eager haste.

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

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

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

  ‘Best I stay with you, Cap’n,’ answered one of them. ‘Can’t trust these Ruski bastards, sir. A month in the pickets ’as taught me that much.’

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

  Cracknell bit his knuckle. Such misguided loyalty!

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

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

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

  Aha, thought Cracknell; that’s why this Gorkachov’s being so bloody cooperative. There is a deal underway–a deal with Nathaniel Boyce.

  The Russian smiled. ‘Nicholas and I are good friends. He would not want me to suffer in this war. Besides, he does not care overmuch for the painting. Very few people know he has it–not even his own children. The attitude of an emperor to his possessions—’

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

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

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

  This brought the Parisian monologue to an immediate halt. ‘C-captain,’ the Russian stammered pleadingly, ‘I–I do not know what—’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Jimmy!’ Lavery’s cry was hoarse with disbelief. ‘Oh no, pal, no, no…’

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

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

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

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

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

  As soon as they were gone, Cracknell was on his feet and pacing around the wine butts. ‘Murder!’ he spat, his voice straining to express the extent of his outrage. ‘This is murder! Two defenceless men–and an English soldier!’

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

  ‘There, Thomas, there is a killing to effect the bloody mind! A killing without sense or the slightest bloody justification!’ Cracknell spun about. ‘Why the hell did he do it? The Russian was giving him the painting. The Corporal, poor bastard, was watching out for him!’

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

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

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

  ‘Don’t fret, Thomas–we will get them for this,’ Cracknell promised. ‘They won’t succeed, my friend. The painting will incriminate them, don’t you see? And there’s that soldier, Corporal Lavery–he’ll talk. We will damn well get them for this, I swear it. But right now, we have to go.’

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

  8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘My apologies, Major-General, but I—’

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

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

  ‘And what of these corporals–Mallender and…?’

  ‘Lavery, sir,’ Boyce said. His arm was in a sling, and he had a look of noble endurance on his face. ‘Both were killed in the advance.’

  ‘So Lavery was done in too, was he?’ sneered Cracknell. ‘You again, Wray, I suppose, covering your tracks?’

  Kitson stared at the floor, wishing that Cracknell would keep quiet. Such combativeness would not help them; and sure enough, Codrington told him bluntly to hold his tongue or be thrown out into the mud.

  ‘They gave their lives for their Queen in the finest fashion,’ Boyce continued with stoic reserve. ‘I am appalled by this slander, quite frankly, but not altogether surprised by it. I have crossed swords with this paper’s senior correspondent before, and know him to be a liar and a cad of the lowest conceivable sort. The man bears a bitter grudge against the army, as any who have read a London Courier recently will know all too well. He seems to hold me in particular disdain–a source of no little pride, I must say.’

  Someone to the rear of the hut chuckled. Was Boyce making an oblique allusion to the widespread rumours about Cracknell and his wife, Kitson wondered, and using them to his advantage, suggesting that here lay the motive for these allegations?

  ‘I saw the Courier’s coverage of the Alma,’ mused Codrington. ‘It was tendentious, certainly, and quite reckless in its criticism of Lord Raglan and our generals.’