The Street Philosopher Read online

  ‘I assure you that we hold no grudge against the army, Major-General,’ said Cracknell darkly, ‘only against those who would lead it to ruin through their incompetence.’

  Codrington was not listening. He looked at Boyce. ‘You know nothing of this villa, I take it–or this painting?’

  Boyce said that he did not.

  ‘Is there even anything there?’ Codrington asked his staff. ‘I see nothing on the maps.’

  ‘I rode out there at dawn, sir,’ said a major. ‘Found a burned-out ruin, nothing else.’

  ‘Very well.’ Codrington sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. Kitson knew then that it was over; his mind was made up. ‘This has gone quite far enough. I think we are seeing the hazards inherent in this recent fashion for letting untrained civilians embed themselves amongst the fighting men. Whether these two are crazed by drink, or their experiences of battle, or something else altogether I cannot say, but I absolutely will not allow them to repay the army’s misplaced hospitality with fantastical, abusive accusations against an officer who fought with such courage against the Russian attack.’ He pointed at the newspapermen, stressing his pronouncements with aggressive jabs of his finger. ‘If I hear that you have written a single word of this sorry business in that Whiggish rag of yours I will see you both expelled from the plateau. I have Lord Raglan’s ear, and I promise that you’ll be back in Constantinople so fast your heels won’t touch the bloody ground. It will go no further than this room. Is that clear?’

  Cracknell bowed. ‘As glass, Major-General.’

  An hour later, Cracknell and Kitson sat on the rocky outcrop from which they had watched the ill-fated advance of the 99th two days before. Cracknell was working, and grumbling constantly as he wrote. ‘Like a damned gentleman’s club, all bloody watching out for each other like that. Blasted Codrington holds his rank only because of a dearth of other candidates. Old men and stop-gaps, that’s what the army’s reduced to, old men and bloody stop-gaps. And they dare to speak of Maynard! Poor, upright, honourable Maynard…’

  Kitson gazed out at the scene below. It was a dull day, but clear; he could see the rocky hollows, steep spurs and thick undergrowth across which the soldiers had been made to fight. More than forty hours after the final repulsion of the attack, bodies were still being found. Parties of orderlies searched through the rocks, brushwood and tattered copses, their calls sounding back and forth across the ridge as if competing with one another. ‘Six Ruskis–dead!’ ‘One of ours, Guardsman–dead!’

  Huge ditches had been dug at the edges of the battlefield, into which the stiff-limbed bodies were being tipped with little ceremony, most meeting this grim, undignified end stripped of everything but their greatcoats. This, they had learned, had been Maynard’s probable fate. He had been carried back three hundred yards to an improvised field hospital, where both of his legs had been removed. Kitson had seen this often enough already to know what it must have been like. Maynard hadn’t lasted more than a couple of hours after this operation. His mutilated body had lain out on the grass for the rest of the day; and then, as far as anyone seemed to know, had been buried in one of the first mass graves dug that evening.

  ‘A grudge!’ Cracknell was saying vehemently. ‘He’ll see what a bloody grudge is, Thomas, oh yes! I promised you that he would not get away with what he did in that villa, and I will bloody keep that promise.’ He drew a line under his latest paragraph. ‘Listen to this.

  ‘So it was a victory, reader, but like that of King Pyrrhus of old: if we are cursed with another such victory, we will surely be undone. A surprise attack of immense proportions engulfed the ridge. There were rushes back and forth, as strategic points were lost, retaken and lost again; there were terrible knots of hand-to-hand, and blade-to-blade fighting; there was deep confusion as lines of communication broke down in the dense fog. Yet rather than rely on caution and care in these treacherous conditions, many of our commanders became intoxicated by an almost suicidal pride. Much is being said of their courage; but what use is courage without the good sense to make it count for something?

  ‘Some of these incidents are already famous. Sir George Cathcart, for example, threw his life away for a second of questionable glory, disobeying his orders and being shot from his saddle into the arms of his aide-de-camp. Others survived their folly, managing to transfer the penalty on to those unlucky enough to be under their command. Prominent among such figures is Colonel Nathaniel Boyce of the 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers). Hungry for renown after a disappointing Alma, the good Colonel cast aside all notions of tactics or prudence and plunged ahead in a foolish advance that proved fatal for many dozens of the stout-hearted redcoats who followed him. One man’s arrogance led directly to—’

  Kitson kicked at a rock as Cracknell talked on. He found that he was no longer engaged by the senior correspondent’s denunciations. The Pilate was lost; Boyce and Wray had escaped all consequences. It all suddenly seemed rather pointless. ‘I cannot find Styles, Cracknell,’ he interrupted. ‘He has not come to the hut since the day of the battle.’

  Cracknell snorted, gesturing towards the Sandbag Battery. ‘He’ll be out there, won’t he, with his bodies. A deluge of inspiration for him, I should think.’

  ‘He needs to leave the Crimea. He has become unbalanced, Cracknell. The boy-soldier in the cave, everything else we witnessed that day–it is too much for him to bear.’

  Seeming to appreciate that Kitson would not be deterred this time, Cracknell set down his notebook and lit a cigarette. ‘So you’ve said. Shouldn’t think O’Farrell will like it. He had high hopes for the lad, as you well know.’

  ‘Surely it’s clear by now that they won’t be met.’

  The senior correspondent sighed, picking a shred of loose tobacco from his lip. ‘Very well. When we’ve finished our report of this battle, I’ll write our editor a letter explaining the situation, which I’ll see wired back from Varna at the same time. That’s the best I can offer.’

  Kitson nodded; taking the hint about the report, he reached for his pocketbook, and then sat staring uselessly at a blank page. He had not written anything since the battle. There was something in him that prevented it, a profound discontent that utterly paralysed his intellect.

  There were some shouts from the slope, near its base. Remarkably, a group of injured infantrymen had been found alive in a remote gully. Kitson lifted Cracknell’s field telescope; the white-faced soldiers were being lifted over the rocks with evident difficulty. One of them was howling with astonished agony, waving the blackened remains of his arm around as if the wound had just that moment been inflicted. They had lain undiscovered for all this time, he realised, simply because there weren’t enough orderlies to come to their aid any sooner.

  ‘I am going to help,’ Kitson stated, rising to his feet.

  The senior correspondent nodded absently, blew out some smoke and turned over a page. Kitson started down towards the battlefield, leaving Cracknell of the Courier perched alone on the outcrop, absorbed in his work.

  Manchester

  May 1857

  1

  The line of soldiers stretched across the parade ground, between the kitchen pump and the burning barrack-house. Dragged from their bunks, most were in a state of some undress, with many sporting bare feet and trailing shirt ends. They were wide awake, though, to a man; the air of emergency, the strong, choking smoke and the sight of rising flames against the night sky had served to banish all bleariness. Large iron pails were travelling along this human chain at some speed, losing a good quantity of their contents to the flagstones of the drill square. A group of sergeants had positioned themselves at the barracks end of the line, rushing in dangerously close to hurl what was left of the water on to the blaze. This was proving desperately ineffectual, the water hissing away to nothing whilst the fire grew in size and ferocity.

  The two night sentries came running up from the front gate, and were about to set down their Enfield rifles and join in when they
were halted by a wild-eyed lieutenant clad only in a nightshirt. He instructed them to conduct an immediate search of the waste ground to the west of the barracks–the cripple had been sighted. The sentries, Privates Donlan and Vernor, looked at each other before heading back towards the gate.

  Like every man in the 25th Manchesters, Donlan and Vernor knew all about the cripple. It was, most agreed, pretty damned amusing. A hunchbacked tramp was stalking their heroic officers like a dog circling a duck-pond, and by Christ did he have them a-quacking! Only last week he had got his fangs into Captain Grier, cutting up his arm something nasty; but after the unholy fuss made in the papers over that bastard Wray, Colonel Bennett had been careful to keep it quiet. He wanted this cripple caught, though, and sharpish. Word was that some top brass were coming to Manchester soon, for the Queen’s visit, and an embarrassment like this could not–would not be endured.

  The two sentries left the barracks, hurrying a short distance along Regent Road before swerving into a side passage. This led them to a black, unlit expanse of open land, the cobbles underfoot giving way to loose earth strewn with refuse. Very little could be seen of their surroundings. Ahead of them was a horizon of distant hills. To their left was the barn-like nave of St Bartholomew’s, its yard crowded with pale gravestones.

  ‘’E only goes fer officers, right, Vern?’ whispered Donlan nervously as they advanced, rifles at the ready. ‘Shall we put one in’t pipe, just in case, like?’

  ‘Nay,’ snapped Vernor. ‘They want ’im breathin’, ye numbskull. If ye catch ’im, give ’im a tap wi’ yer butt.’

  ‘Is it true that ’e’s tried t’break into th’Colonel’s ’ouse, t’get at Wray? T’finish ’im off?’

  Vernor nodded quickly, but his answer was cut short by a series of shouts from inside the barracks, and the stamping of boots. A squad was being formed up to come and assist with the search.

  ‘’Ear that, cripple?’ Vernor cried into the darkness. ‘’Ear that, you bleeder? We’re comin’ for ye! Ye’ll regret triflin’ wi’ us!’

  A ragged shape loped across the waste ground in the direction of the churchyard. The soldiers gave chase, weaving in amongst the tightly packed graves, holding their rifles upright in front of them. For a second they lost him; then both heard a scrabbling, rustling sound, and turned to see a figure in a badly torn coat scaling an ivy-covered wall with unlikely agility. Vernor started after him, gesturing for Donlan to head around the side and cut him off.

  Donlan left the yard by a rusty gate, his eyes open wide, his heavy Enfield raised and ready to strike. The lane beyond was quite empty. He ran along it, checking every back alley he passed. There was no sign of their quarry. Vernor dropped into the lane with a curse and a shower of brick dust, twigs and ivy leaves. Together they hunted around for a minute or two longer, but it was no use. It was as if the cripple had taken flight from the top of the wall like a greasy, tattered owl.

  The sentries looked at each other, knowing that they would now have to return and report their failure to the regiment. Wearily, they shouldered their rifles and started back towards the barracks. Before them, the spire of St Bartholomew’s spiked up into a fire-tinted sky.

  2

  Kitson tried to keep away from it. He tried to keep the wide avenue of the nave between himself and the old master saloons, to confine his attention solely to the modern galleries where, in under an hour, he was to give his talk to the operatives of the Norton Foundry. He knew exactly where it was. The Star’s street philosopher had spent much of the past few weeks under the great glass roof of the Art Treasures Palace, detailing the immense collection, penning observations on the milling crowds, or nursing a port negus in the refreshment rooms. Every time he visited he attempted the same thing, and every time he failed. This occasion, despite the imminent arrival of Mrs James, her father and close to a thousand of his workers, would be no different.

  Cursing himself, Kitson strode grimly across the strip of crimson carpet that ran down the centre of the nave. The Exhibition had been open for less than an hour, the few early morning visitors floating like motes of dust in the cavernous interior. On the opposite side of the transept, someone started to play a jaunty popular tune on the grand organ, the serried notes groaning through the building. The street philosopher passed quickly through the banks of display cases and into Saloon A, the room devoted to the Italian and Northern Renaissance.

  And there it was, hanging on the line in the centre of the saloon–the Pilate from the Crimean villa. No matter how often he stood before it, Kitson always felt unprepared. There was a fresh horror, a fresh dismay each time. As he looked at the painting, his chest tightened and a cold, damp shadow seemed to fall over the gallery. He could smell the musty kitchen once again, could hear the rainfall and feel Robert Styles crouched anxiously beside him; and he could see Captain Wray, cocking his revolver with his thumb.

  Abruptly, Kitson turned from the Pilate, thrusting his hands into his pockets with such violence that a stitch gave out in the lining of his jacket. Facing him now, opposite the Italian wall which held the Pilate, was a dizzying expanse of early Netherlandish art; stiff-limbed, melodramatic Crucifixions; brightly clothed Virgins holding pot-bellied Christ-children, their little faces prematurely old; and minutely detailed portraits of gem-encrusted, fur-lined merchants. Kitson closed his eyes.

  Away from the Exhibition, sitting at his desk or lying sleeplessly in bed, he had considered the Pilate’s presence at Manchester at exhaustive length. He had not expected ever to see the panel again. That Boyce had managed to get it out of the Crimea was amazing enough. Although Major-General Codrington had dismissed their claims, had Boyce been seen afterwards to have an old master painting in his possession, suspicions would certainly have been aroused; Kitson had even thought that the Colonel might have destroyed it in order to protect himself.

  Now, however, Boyce seemed to be in the clear. The Tsar the panel had belonged to was dead, succeeded in 1855 by a son who was entirely unaware of its existence, if what the Crimean steward had said was true. Codrington and his staff–those of them who had survived the campaign–were hardly likely to remember the details of that brief, farcical hearing, given all that had come after it. And even if they did, the connection would now be impossible to prove. Since the war, Boyce was known to have bought a great many pictures; with the help of some forged papers, the Pilate could easily be claimed as one of these. Only Kitson and Cracknell knew its real source, and how it had been obtained–and what had a mighty lion like Boyce to fear from the likes of them?

  The Pilate’s presence in the Art Treasures Exhibition had not been hard to explain. After learning from Cracknell that Boyce was coming to Manchester, Kitson had asked around in Wovenden’s–and discovered that the Brigadier-General, as he now was, was attending the Queen’s state visit in two weeks’ time. The Pilate was being hailed in some quarters as the sensation of the entire Exhibition, overshadowing even Henry Labouchere’s Michelangelo, and its owner acclaimed as a connoisseur of the highest discernment and intellect. Bold and shameless as ever, Boyce was looking to win the praise of Queen Victoria herself with his blood-soaked plunder.

  These deductions left Kitson completely furious, longing to see some kind of justice done. This, surely, had been Cracknell’s intention when he had waylaid the street philosopher at the Polygon, but no attempt at contact had been made by his former colleague since then. For the first week, Kitson had expected him; for the second, his patience expiring, he had sought him out; and for the third he had grown convinced that Cracknell was no longer in Manchester at all. At that precise moment, in Saloon A of the Exhibition, Kitson wished that Cracknell would appear at his side so that he would have someone with whom to vent his seething fury–the only other person alive who would fully understand it.

  Then, as always, he remembered Cracknell’s own inexcusable actions, and the part he himself had played in them. This was not a man he could ever be allied with again, under any circumstances. I
f Cracknell was in the city somewhere, hatching his plots, Kitson was determined to remain uninvolved; especially if the stabbing of Wray was an indication of their nature.

  He looked at his pocket-watch. Mrs James would be there in minutes.

  After her spirited exchange with Cracknell in the Polygon, Kitson was half-afraid that she would end their friendship simply on the grounds that he was acquainted with such an obnoxious individual. But she had written to him only a few days later, initiating a frequent correspondence. Her letters were packed with thoughts and questions, so like her conversation that they made him smile as he read them. It was plain, though, that Cracknell’s comments about her father were preying on her mind–as had been his intention. Several times, she asked Kitson directly whether he could throw any light on the so-called ‘Tomahawk’s’ strange statements. He could not, of course, and no amount of inquiry in Wovenden’s or anywhere else even hinted at an explanation. In writing his replies, he could only try to express the deep regard and affection that he felt for her, and set aside his fears that their connection was leading her into danger.

  Mrs James had also communicated repeatedly how much she was looking forward to his lecture, and Kitson had resolved that it would be worthy of her anticipation. He had been completely prepared, a model of calm composure–before the Crimean panel had exerted its irresistible pull.

  Without thinking, he turned back towards the Pilate. Eyes fixed upon it, upon that man with his impossible burden of blame, Kitson sat down slowly on an upholstered bench in the centre of the gallery. Forearms on his trembling knees, he pressed his sweating palms together as hard as he could.

  After a long, gradual deceleration, the train jerked to a halt, causing its passengers to rock back and forth in their seats. There was a brief pause as they gathered their belongings, and then a vast throng of working people gushed out of the string of third-class carriages on to the covered platform of the special Art Treasures Exhibition station. A holiday atmosphere prevailed in amongst the drifting clouds of smoke and steam that billowed down from the engine. Clad in its Sunday best, the massive outing was alive with merry chatter, with gangs of children racing around its edges like swallows circling a steeple.