'And what of these corporalsMallender and...?'

'Lavery, sir,' Boyce said. His arm was in a sling, and he had a look of n.o.ble 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 London Courier recently will know all too well. He seems to hold me in particular disdaina source of no little pride, I must say.' recently will know all too well. He seems to hold me in particular disdaina 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' Courier's coverage of the Alma,' mused Codrington. 'It was tendentious, certainly, and quite reckless in its criticism of Lord Raglan and our generals.'

'I a.s.sure 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 itor 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 p.r.o.nouncements 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 b.l.o.o.d.y ground. It will go no further than this room. Is that clear?'

Cracknell bowed. 'As gla.s.s, 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 d.a.m.ned gentleman's club, all b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Ruskisdead!' 'One of ours, Guardsmandead!'

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 gra.s.s for the rest of the day; and then, as far as anyone seemed to know, had been buried in one of the first ma.s.s graves dug that evening.

'A grudge grudge!' Cracknell was saying vehemently. 'He'll see what a b.l.o.o.d.y grudge is, Thomas, oh yes! I promised you that he would not get away with what he did in that villa, and I will b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Pyrrhus of old: of old: if we are cursed with another such victory, we will surely be undone. if we are cursed with another such victory, we will surely be undone. A surprise attack of immense proportions engulfed the ridge. There A surprise attack of immense proportions engulfed the ridge. There were rushes back and forth, as strategic points were lost, retaken were rushes back and forth, as strategic points were lost, retaken and lost again; there were terrible knots of hand-to-hand, and and lost again; there were terrible knots of hand-to-hand, and blade-to-blade fighting; there was deep confusion as lines of blade-to-blade fighting; there was deep confusion as lines of communication broke down in the dense fog. Yet rather than rely communication broke down in the dense fog. Yet rather than rely on caution and care in these treacherous conditions, many of our on caution and care in these treacherous conditions, many of our commanders became intoxicated by an almost suicidal pride. Much commanders became intoxicated by an almost suicidal pride. Much is being said of their courage; but what use is courage without the is being said of their courage; but what use is courage without the good sense to make it count for something? good sense to make it count for something?

'Some of these incidents are already famous. Sir George Cathcart Cathcart, for example, threw his life away for a second of questionable glory, for example, threw his life away for a second of questionable glory, disobeying his orders and being shot from his saddle into the arms disobeying his orders and being shot from his saddle into the arms of his aide-de-camp. Others survived their folly, managing to transfer of his aide-de-camp. Others survived their folly, managing to transfer the penalty on to those unlucky enough to be under their command. the penalty on to those unlucky enough to be under their command. Prominent among such figures is Colonel Nathaniel Boyce of the Prominent among such figures is Colonel Nathaniel Boyce of the 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers). Hungry for renown after a disappointing 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers). Hungry for renown after a disappointing Alma, the good Colonel cast aside all notions of tactics Alma, the good Colonel cast aside all notions of tactics or prudence and plunged ahead in a foolish advance that proved fatal or prudence and plunged ahead in a foolish advance that proved fatal for many dozens of the stout-hearted redcoats who followed him. One for many dozens of the stout-hearted redcoats who followed him. One man's arrogance led directly to-' 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 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.' 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 dayit 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 Courier perched alone on the outcrop, absorbed in his work. 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 quant.i.ty 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 barracksthe 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 d.a.m.ned 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d Wray, Colonel Bennett had been careful to keep it quiet. He wanted this cripple caught, though, and sharpish. Word was that some top bra.s.s were coming to Manchester soon, for the Queen's visit, and an embarra.s.sment like this could notwould not be endured. not be endured.

The two sentries left the barracks, hurrying a short distance along Regent Road before swerving into a side pa.s.sage. 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 b.u.t.t.'

'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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sed. 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' Star's street philosopher had spent much of the past few weeks under the great gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 saloonthe Pilate 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, c.o.c.king his revolver with his thumb. 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, c.o.c.king his revolver with his thumb.

Abruptly, Kitson turned from the Pilate Pilate, thrusting his hands into his pockets with such violence that a st.i.tch gave out in the lining of his jacket. Facing him now, opposite the Italian wall which held the Pilate Pilate, was a dizzying expanse of early Netherlandish art; stiff-limbed, melodramatic Crucifixions; 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. 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 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. 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 staffthose of them who had survived the campaignwere 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 Pilate could easily be claimed as one of these. Only Kitson and Cracknell knew its real source, and how it had been obtainedand what had a mighty lion like Boyce to fear from the likes of them? could easily be claimed as one of these. Only Kitson and Cracknell knew its real source, and how it had been obtainedand what had a mighty lion like Boyce to fear from the likes of them?

The Pilate' 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'sand discovered that the Brigadier-General, as he now was, was attending the Queen's state visit in two weeks' time. The Pilate 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. 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 furythe 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 circ.u.mstances. If 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 mindas 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 antic.i.p.ation. He had been completely prepared, a model of calm composurebefore the Crimean panel had exerted its irresistible pull.

Without thinking, he turned back towards the Pilate 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 pa.s.sengers 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-cla.s.s 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 ma.s.sive outing was alive with merry chatter, with gangs of children racing around its edges like swallows circling a steeple.

In the first-cla.s.s carriage, Charles Norton got to his feet, the springs of the plush red upholstery creaking underneath him. 'This day will be remembered,' he announced, his voice heavy with portent, 'as the day when our Foundry, although successful already, set itself upon a still brighter path. Never before, I believe, have humble people been exposed to improving influences such as those contained in this grand building before us. The drunkenness, the indolence, the vice of our workforce will soon be but a distant, unsavoury recollection. They are, at this moment, but gnomes groping in the earthy darkness, guided by ignorance and instincts purely animal; but this thing, this great thing here, will open their eyes to the light. It will enable them speedily to take their proper rank in the great human family.'

The managers and wives a.s.sembled within the carriage applauded this declaration enthusiastically, some saying 'hear, hear' with sycophantic conviction. Jemima rolled her eyes. Her father had been rehearsing his little speech for days. It sounded to her as if he'd lifted the bulk of it from one of his Tory periodicals.

'I wonder what rank that would be,' whispered Bill, who was sitting beside her. 'That of idiot children, perhaps?'

Jemima glanced at her brother. Both were in high spirits. She was to see her friend Mr Kitson after three long weeks; and he simply enjoyed these company excursions, relishing the departure from the ordinary that they permitted.

Norton raised his hands, bidding his audience to fall quiet. 'All I ask, ladies and gentlemen, is that you make sure our men and women pa.s.s through the Exhibition's doors. I am quite convinced that once inside, the refining influence of the place, and the elevated glory of the paintings, will ensure their good conduct. You have all visited the Exhibition already, I presume?' There was a chorus of affirmatives. 'Well then, you'll be well equipped to answer any questions they might have. I believe it's all fairly straightforward, but it never pays to be too confident where the working man is concerned. Now, we dine at one. Our company here will meet in the first-cla.s.s refreshment roomthe rest of the Foundry in the lower-cla.s.s extension. I shall be visiting the workers as they take their repast, to see how their experiences have touched them, and would gladly welcome any of you who might wish to accompany me.'

'So that will be all of them, then,' Bill observed archly. 'The governor is so seldom disappointed by his managers.'

Realising that her father was about to conclude his address, Jemima cleared her throat loudly.

Norton looked over at her, and for a second his insufferable patrician satisfaction faltered. 'Also, ladies and gentlemen,' he added, 'my daughter has arranged for a short lecture to be given in the modern galleries. The speaker is an authority on artistic matters, I'm told, and once worked in this capacity for the London Courier London Courier magazine. This will commence in one half-hour, and I urge you and however many operatives you can secure to attend.' magazine. This will commence in one half-hour, and I urge you and however many operatives you can secure to attend.'

The reluctance with which this postscript was delivered brought a dry smile to Jemima's lips. After the ball at the Polygon, that same night in fact, Charles had summoned her to his study and ordered her not to have anything more to do with her Mr Kitsonor his friend Mr Cracknell.

Such tyrannical behaviour invariably provoked Jemima rather than cowed her, and an altercation had ensued. She had informed her father curtly that it was Mr Kitson she knew; and that Mr Cracknell was not not his friend, he could be sure of that, and she would not be meeting that person again if she could possibly help it. At any rate, she'd continued, Mr Kitson could not be dropped as readily as he commanded, as he had been generous enough to agree to lecture the Foundry workers in the Art Treasures Exhibition at her request. Striking his desk with his fist, Charles had demanded that this address be cancelled right away. his friend, he could be sure of that, and she would not be meeting that person again if she could possibly help it. At any rate, she'd continued, Mr Kitson could not be dropped as readily as he commanded, as he had been generous enough to agree to lecture the Foundry workers in the Art Treasures Exhibition at her request. Striking his desk with his fist, Charles had demanded that this address be cancelled right away.

Seldom one to tip-toe meekly around a potentially inflammatory subject, Jemima had barely paused before asking him if his objections were rooted in the Crimea. Had he encountered the newspapermen whilst they were working in the theatre of war for the London Courier London Courier? Did this have anything to do with the contract he had secured whilst staying in Balaclava?

Charles would not answer, stating wrathfully that none of this was her concernthat he was her father and she would obey him. She had retorted that she was not a daft girl in petticoats but a grown woman, and although forced to rely on him for food and shelter, she would not have him arbitrarily terminate her friendships without proper justification. The challenge had thus been made: either he explained his antipathy or the lecture would go ahead. She had heard nothing more.

Seeing that her father's speech was at an end, Jemima adjusted her bonnet, gathered her skirts and climbed from the train. The Norton workforce had spread along the lengthy platform as they waited for their master. A number had sat themselves upon benches, taken out packed lunches and a variety of bottles, and begun an impromptu picnic. Behind them, plastered on the outer wall of the Palace, was an overlapping ma.s.s of lurid commercial posters, each bearing boasts and promises in elaborate script, with dense blocks of text beneath.

Charles Norton and his entourage of managers emerged from the first-cla.s.s carriage. They put on their top hats as they stepped down, the spotless jet-black cylinders shining dully in the diffuse light.

'You people!' bellowed the white-whiskered proprietor, pointing at the picnickers as he strode up the platform. 'Throw that food away! There's to be no food taken inside the building, is that clear?'

Norton swept towards the corridor that led into the Exhibition, his offspring trailing a short distance behind him. Herded by the more junior members of the managerial staff, the workforce slowly followed, reluctantly abandoning their pies, sandwiches and bottles. Jemima watched as her father took up a position just inside the turnstiles, surveying the teeming ma.s.s of his employees as they formed into lines and were fed steadily into the Art Treasures Exhibition.

Then something odd happened. A tall, black-suited man, resembling a low-cla.s.s undertaker, sidled up to him, tipping his stew-pan hat. They spoke briefly, Charles clearly wishing to dispense with their business as quickly as possible. The man withdrew to the shadows beneath the balcony, where three or four others, all similarly attired, were waiting for him. He relayed his instructions, making a series of efficient gestures with his right hand; and they all walked off purposefully in different directions.

The workers, once they were past the barriers, drifted into the vastness of the Palace, gaping at its lavish luxury. Slowly, they strolled towards the picture galleries and up to the transept, their conversations growing louder and livelier the further they were from the gaze of their master. The few visitors already in the Exhibition, seeing the Foundry's noisy approach, retreated to the first-cla.s.s refreshment room, exchanging indignant looks as they went.

Bill returned from a book-vendor in the station corridor with two Exhibition catalogues. He handed one to his sister and then sloped away. Jemima studied the weighty volume for a few moments before tucking it under her arm, skirting the crowds of factory people and walking into the nave. The Foundry expedition was running early; Mr Kitson was not due to arrive for another ten minutes. She decided to take a turn through the old master galleries before going to their agreed meeting place in Saloon F. Several dozen of her father's workers were already wandering through the long, bright row of connected rooms, looking over the many hundreds of paintings they contained. They stared at grappling nudes and mythological beasts enacting alien, incomprehensible scenes; peered at grimy landscapes and discoloured portraits; shrugged before obscure allegories, and tales from the lives of the more esoteric saints. A large group of men and women stood before a cl.u.s.ter of fleshy Venetian pictures, pointing out certain anatomic endowments with lewd, echoing laughter. Seeing their employer's daughter approaching, they nudged each other and a.s.sumed a grinning, unconvincing decorum. But as she pa.s.sed, their eyes returned to the naked, contorted forms on the walls, and they burst into hilarity once more.

Jemima went through to the far gallery, designated Saloon A, where the most ancient paintings were displayed. On her previous tour of the Exhibition, this was where she had spent the least time, being largely unfamiliar with the artists and schools it represented. As with all the old master galleries, the long, rectangular room had been arranged so that the northern paintings hung on one side, and the southern on the otherthe idea being that a visitor could turn around at any moment and compare the productions of the two geographical regions. It was but spa.r.s.ely populated. There was a single working family present, the husband and wife studying a mystical Botticelli Nativity Nativity in a state of sombre confusion whilst their four children played hide-and-seek around the gallery seats. in a state of sombre confusion whilst their four children played hide-and-seek around the gallery seats.

And there, quite unexpectedly, was Mr Kitson, neatly shaven and well dressed, clad in a dark suit and hat with a pale grey waistcoat. He was standing, his arms crossed, engrossed in a large panel in the centre of the room. She felt a sudden, pure happiness. Jemima James and Thomas Kitson were together again, standing within the same walls, breathing the same air. Anything else could surely be brushed aside. She said his name, smiling broadly, and crossed the gallery.

The deep distraction with which he turned away from the panel, however, made her remember the many questions that remained unanswered. There was much she still didn't knowabout him, and her father, and the disturbing interest that Mr Cracknell had in them both. This situation, she saw, could not reach an easy resolution.

Nonetheless, when Mr Kitson saw her, a genuine, slightly awkward delight suffused him, dispelling his anxiety. They spoke warmly for a few minutes, discussing the hanging scheme; he attempted to extract praise for the curators' achievements from her, having not forgotten her scepticism about the Exhibition on the day they met. She acknowledged that it was a remarkable feat of organisation, but said that the great cliff-faces of art towering over them on either side left her feeling overwhelmed rather than inspired. He chuckled, and went on to point out some of the more impressive loans that had been secured. Beneath his light-hearted conversation, though, lay something of the tender yet determined evasiveness that had characterised his letters. Jemima could not decide if he was trying to protect her somehow, or if that which he concealed was simply too painful for him to contemplate. She had read of the great difficulties encountered by those returning from the Russian campaign. Workhouses and asylums across the country had admitted scores of former soldiers who were utterly unable to resume ordinary livesmen reduced to vagrancy or madness by what they had experienced.

For he was certainly a veteran of the Crimea. After the Polygon, she'd gone back to her pile of old Couriers Couriers. It had not taken long to find mention in an editorial of both a junior correspondent and an ill.u.s.trator dispatched by the paper to the peninsula at the outset of the invasion, before its coverage came to focus on the controversial Mr Cracknell. The ill.u.s.trator remained an enigma, but Jemima was convinced that the junior correspondent had been Mr Kitson. She tested this with some oblique references in their correspondence; to which he did not respond directly, of course, but neither did he deny what they implied.

Abruptly, Jemima realised that he was trying to hide something from her even thenthat the locations of the paintings he talked about were being carefully chosen so that he could stand between her and the work he had been examining when she had entered the saloon. She immediately peered around him, noted the number on the frame and looked it up in her catalogue.

'What of this one?' she said, pointing out the entry with her finger. 'Pontius Pilate Giving Christ up for Crucifixion by Raffaello Sanzio, from the collection of Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce?' by Raffaello Sanzio, from the collection of Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce?'

As she read the name of the owner, she understood something of the painting's significance. This was the officer who had been so censured by the London Courier London Courier during the Russian Warthe villain of the Tomahawk's reports. Mr Kitson paled slightly at the mention of Boyce. Seeing that he had failed to distract her attention from the panel, he moved away, saying nothing, raising his face up towards the band of blue sky visible through the gallery's gla.s.s roof. Jemima looked at the during the Russian Warthe villain of the Tomahawk's reports. Mr Kitson paled slightly at the mention of Boyce. Seeing that he had failed to distract her attention from the panel, he moved away, saying nothing, raising his face up towards the band of blue sky visible through the gallery's gla.s.s roof. Jemima looked at the Pilate Pilate. The subject was profoundly unsettling, certainly a league away from the sweetly pious works that had been positioned around it. Even a nearby depiction of the crucifixion itself by the same painter could not match its disturbing power.

'I have read of this work,' she murmured. 'It is attracting a good deal of attention, is it not?'

He made no reply. She realised that Mr Kitson, in his coverage of the Exhibition for the Manchester Evening Star Manchester Evening Star, had not so much as mentioned its presence. Ever since that night on Mosley Street, Jemima had been an avid reader of the Star' Star's street philosopher. In recent weeks, he had touched upon every aspect of the Exhibition, from the character of the crowds to the bill of fare available in the refreshment rooms. The collection itself had been described in detail, both in terms of individual exhibits and the rigorous educational principles on which they had been arranged. Raphael's Pilate Pilate, however, the painting Jemima had found Mr Kitson so transfixed by, the painting owned by Mr Cracknell's Crimean nemesis, had been omitted completely.

Also, rather more disconcertingly, despite the confident claims in the leading art journals that this panel had emerged from nowhere to appear in the Exhibitionalmost as if Raphael had risen from the grave, executed one last commission and then dropped straight back inJemima found that it was distinctly familiar. The shape of the wringing hands, the tone of the purple toga, the terrible guilt in those haunted eyes: all were known to her. An impossible conviction gathered in her mind. She had seen Raphael's Pilate Pilate before. before.

Mr Kitson's voice cut through her confusion. 'Mrs James, I believe the hour of the lecture is approaching.'

He was holding a pocket-watch in his hand. As he replaced it in his waistcoat, he winced; the injury in his chest that she had noticed in the Polygon was clearly troubling him again. His main concern, though, was to remove them both from the presence of the Pilate Pilate.

'Do allow me to apologise for my strange mood,' he added with sudden earnestness. 'You caught me by surprisethat is all. Seeing you again, madam, is truly a tonic for the soul. Youyou look very lovely, may I say.'

'Why, thank you, sir.' Jemima, caught off guard, blushed a little.