'And you know that I would stay alone with you all day if I possibly could. But we should not keep your father waiting.'

Jemima nodded, and cast a final bewildered look at the Pilate Pilate. She then slid her fingers into the crook of his arm and held on to him tightly as they walked together into the nave.

A party of Foundry men, thirty or so strong, emerged from the old master saloons. Bill lowered the catalogue he'd been pretending to read and studied them. Their intention was plainthey were leaving. He'd noticed that as the morning progressed, and their feet became sore, the novelty of the Palace had begun to wane for many of his father's employees, and its manifold, unfathomable glories had started to feel somewhat oppressive. Barely forty minutes in, and they were already streaming for the exits, not even held back by the prospect of their free lunch. Those who were goingand there were hundredswere heading off past the collegial spires of the Blind Asylum, on to the Stretford New Road and back into the centre of the city.

The men he was watching were among this number. 'The stupidest exhibition that ever I saw!' declared one gruffly.

'There's nowt here but pictures,' another agreed. 'Let's off to the Belle Vue.'

This proposal appeared to meet with the approval of the group. They strode down the nave, shoving their way through the turnstiles and out through the main doors. Bill, still grinning at their remarks, caught the eye of a straggler, a sinewy youth with a downy beard and a wide, sensuous mouth. Both stood still for a moment, holding the connection; then, with deliberate slowness, they looked each other up and down. Lingering yet further behind his comrades, the boy turned right before the doors, going down towards the second-cla.s.s refreshment room. A hit, thought Bill triumphantly as he started after him. A palpable hit.

As he strolled along the wide red carpet towards the turnstiles, however, he noticed a familiar figure lurking around a marble Magdalene on the northern side of the nave. It was the black-bearded, shabbily dressed IrishmanRichard Cracknell, the one-time Tomahawk of the Courier Courier, who had introduced himself so forcibly at the Polygon.

Bill stopped dead. His immediate fear was that the fellow might have seen his mute exchange with the factory boy, and have realised what was transpiring. He could tell that the infamous war correspondent was the sort who might well decide to stir up a bit of trouble just for larks. But no, Cracknell's attention was thankfully directed towards one of the modern saloons, where the exodus from the Exhibition seemed to have been halted, to some extent at least. Bill heard his father within, droning away through the part.i.tion wall; and then another voice took over, a voice altogether kinder on the ear. It was Jemima's friend Mr Kitsonhis lecture was beginning.

Cracknell edged from behind the knotted stone tresses of his Magdalene and sauntered towards the saloon entrance. This brought him some yards closer to Bill; flashing him a reptilian smile, the Tomahawk tipped his dented topper and wished young Mr Norton a perfectly splendid splendid morning. morning.

3.

As he began to speak, the last trace of Kitson's nervousness left him. Nothing, he thought, absolutely nothing restores presence of mind like having to address an audience.

Being reunited with Mrs James whilst standing before the Pilate Pilate, hearing her say Nathaniel Boyce's name and stare so intently at the panel he had stolen, had been severely disorientating. Kitson had been beset by an alarming sense that the two things he should be striving to keep apart were becoming inextricably tangled together. When he saw Charles Norton, however, standing in Saloon F with his managers flanking him like a royal bodyguard, and the loose crowd of perhaps two hundred and fifty working people a.s.sembled behind them, all this promptly vanished from his mind. Something awakened in himan old a.s.surance dating from his life as an art correspondent in the Metropolis, back when he would have been unable even to find the Crimean peninsula on a map.

Saloon F contained many of the Exhibition's most recent works, a number of which had been shown in the Royal Academy only the year before. Heeding Mrs James' comment about the overwhelming effect of the display, Kitson was careful to discuss one painting at a time. He explained the nuances of expression in Landseer's hounds; the meditation upon mortality in John Millais' scene of young girls burning leaves in the autumn twilight; the wealth of symbolic detail in Holman Hunt's representations of Shakespeare. And he threw himself into his task, summoning all his enthusiasm and fluency. Turning frequently towards his audience, he was encouraged by the signs of interest he found there. Some soon slunk away, of course, and others looked around vacantlybut a tight semicircle of people over a hundred strong was following his words with close attention.

Only once did he dare to glance at Mrs James, who stood beside her father. In her face he saw such pride and love that it made him stumble on his words; and he had to look away again before continuing.

Then he came to the Chatterton Chatterton. He knew from the time he had already spent in the Exhibition that it was one of the most popular works on display. 'Here we see The Death The Death of Chatterton of Chatterton by Mr Henry Wallis. It shows the young poet lying dead upon his bed, having poisoned himself in his garret after his work was rejected by a publisher. We see his dandy clothes,' Kitson pointed to the scarlet coat and turquoise britches, 'for which he was well known; the remains of his work, this shredded paper, which he destroyed in despair before committing his fatal act. Here is the vial of a.r.s.enic rolling on the floorboards, where it has fallen from his lifeless hand.' He lowered his head for a moment, an unexpected pulse of sadness beating through him. 'Thethe poet is famous now, the subject of paintings and books, but he would have been much more so had he allowed himself to live. The picture tells us about waste, my friends, the waste of life, and of talenthow men are often their own worst foes.' by Mr Henry Wallis. It shows the young poet lying dead upon his bed, having poisoned himself in his garret after his work was rejected by a publisher. We see his dandy clothes,' Kitson pointed to the scarlet coat and turquoise britches, 'for which he was well known; the remains of his work, this shredded paper, which he destroyed in despair before committing his fatal act. Here is the vial of a.r.s.enic rolling on the floorboards, where it has fallen from his lifeless hand.' He lowered his head for a moment, an unexpected pulse of sadness beating through him. 'Thethe poet is famous now, the subject of paintings and books, but he would have been much more so had he allowed himself to live. The picture tells us about waste, my friends, the waste of life, and of talenthow men are often their own worst foes.'

'Dear G.o.d,' cried a m.u.f.fled voice close to the back, 'I reckon this poor cove's set to burst out crying!'

There were a few sn.i.g.g.e.rs at this artless interruption; several at the front of the audience made shushing noises and looked around indignantly. Kitson was about to respond when he noticed a tall, distinctly sinister-looking man in a black suit settle next to Charles Norton like a great raven and whisper urgently in his ear.

Suddenly the labour-lord declared that the lecture was over, many thanks to Mr Kitson for his time, lunch would be commencing shortly if they would all start towards the second-cla.s.s extension back towards the railway station. The crowd thinned, visibly split between disappointment at the premature end of their lecture and hungry antic.i.p.ation of their meal.

Mrs James turned angrily to her father, demanding to know what was going on. He bade her be quiet and walked over to Kitson with barely contained menace.

'I don't know what your game is, you dog dog,' he fumed, 'how making clever lectures fits into whatever you two are planning, but I will be chumped by it no longer. I allowed you this chance for my daughter's sake, but no more!'

Kitson held Norton's bulging eye. 'Sir, I do not understand you. My only wish-'

Two black-suited men pushed through the remains of the audience, holding Cracknell between them. He was grinning as if he was having a marvellous time. It was him, Kitson realised, who had shouted out whilst he had been discoursing on the Chatterton Chatterton.

'Thomas, what an informative talk! Quite fascinating! The contents of this gallery do pale beside that of Saloon A across the hall, though, wouldn't you say?'

The last lingering Foundry workers began to peer curiously at the loud, scruffy fellow being hauled before their employer. More black-suits appeared, shoving the operatives on their way and then standing guard at the gallery's entrances. The Foundry managers, at Norton's terse request, filed off obediently to the first-cla.s.s refreshment rooms. Cracknell and Kitson were now alone with Charles Norton, Jemima James and half a dozen of Norton's black-suits.

'What is this?' Norton demanded, glaring from one to the other. 'What is this is this, d.a.m.n you!'

'Father,' said Mrs James, looking at Kitson despairingly, 'you are mistaken. Mr Kitson has no connections with this person. He is not a part of whatever it is that you fear so much.'

'Jemima, leave us,' ordered Norton coldly. 'Go out to the nave, this instant.'

'I will not not, not until I am certain-'

'Mr Norton, sir,' purred Cracknell with hideous, mocking obsequiousness. 'An honour, truly, to stand before the Buckle King himself. And this structure of yourswell, it is beyond words. The finest of its kind since the Crystal Palace. Not a patch on that particular building, of course, but then no one really expected it to be, did they? Not in Manchester.'

'Shall we eject them, Mr Norton?' asked the black-suit who had whispered in the labour-lord's ear; he was plainly their leader.

'Tell me, though,' Cracknell continued, his voice rising a little as one of the men holding him twisted his arm further across his back, 'why on earth was such a festival for the eye, such a sumptuous visual feast, placed next door to a blind asylum blind asylum? Are the Committee deliberately trying to incite distress amongst the unfortunate inmates?'

Norton drew himself up, obviously determined not to reward Cracknell's attempts at aggravation with any further loss of temper. 'You will no doubt be disappointed to learn that there were no deaths in the fire you started at the barracks, villain. All that was lost was a few outbuildings.' He turned to Kitson. 'And Major Wray lives on, despite your perverse conspiracy to finish him with your fake doctoring.'

Kitson grew exasperated. 'Again, sir, I do not understand your meaning. I am not involved in any conspiracy!'

'I will get nothing from either of you, I see.' Norton moved in a little closer. 'You're determined, I'll give you that much. But know thisany further attempt by either of you to interfere with my affairs or set my daughter against me will be met with a harsh penalty indeed.' He stepped back, nodding at the leader of the black-suits. 'Throw them out, Mr Twelves.'

To Mrs James' escalating protests, Mr Twelves took hold of Kitson's collar, twisting it hard, and began to drag him forcibly from the gallery.

The black-suits holding Cracknell attempted to do the same, but he dug his heels in. He had one more thing to say. 'All these men, Mr Norton, merely to guard against us two! Your silent partner must be arriving soon, I think! Have you set aside a guest apartment in Norton Hall, sir?'

Kitson, being marched out briskly to the nave, didn't catch Norton's response. Twelves was a large man with evident experience at moving people who didn't wish to be moved; any resistance, Kitson soon discovered, was useless. One of the constables appointed to the Exhibition approached them as they neared the turnstiles. Twelves informed him that Kitson and Cracknell were just a couple of drunks who had been hara.s.sing the party of his employer, Charles Norton. Upon hearing Norton's name, the policeman immediately seemed to lose interest, turning on his heel and strolling off in the opposite direction.

Once they were through the main doors, Twelves propelled Kitson down the steps and released him. He was about to go back inside when he hesitated, seeming to reconsider something; then he hooked a fast blow into the side of the street philosopher's chest. Twelves had clearly detected Kitson's old injury and now he deliberately targeted it, his knuckles striking squarely against the ridged scar.

Kitson fell into the dust of the turning circle like a curtain cut from its pole. It felt as if his fragile ribs had been staved inward, their splintered ends rending tissue and pressing hard against the tender organs beneath. He struggled up on to his hands and knees, blue sparks squirming behind his eyes, and spat out a long, glutinous rope of spittle, shot through with a vivid strand of blood. A barking cough forced itself out of him, followed by another. Somewhere close by, he heard Cracknell laughing.

'Chest still bothering you, Thomas? That's what happens, my friend, when a wound is not allowed to heal properly!'

Kitson looked up dizzily, blinking away tears. Cracknell was sitting on the bottom step of the Exhibition, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand. His cuffs were frayed, his boots scuffed, his elbows patched and shiny; he looked every inch the impoverished gentleman. Behind him, inside the Palace's gla.s.s doors, two black-suits were watching them both carefully.

'b.l.o.o.d.y well done with the widow, by the way. It would've been so easy for you to have overplayed your hand by now, but she's in a state of perfect readiness. I think she really trusts you, y'know.' He sucked on his cigarette. 'Absolutely perfect.'

Wrapping an arm tightly around his ribcage, Kitson managed to pull himself over to the step. An omnibus drew up before the facade, its pa.s.sengers staring at him in alarm as they disembarked. He told himself to disregard these remarks about Mrs James, which were intended to anger him and thus put him at a disadvantagea favoured tactic of Cracknell's. If he was to discover anything, he had to remain calm.

'You were waiting for a chance to catch me with Norton,' he said, hoa.r.s.e with pain. 'To make him think that we are in league with one another. You want him to be suspicious of me.'

Cracknell only laughed again, slightly harder this time, and promised that all would be made clear.

'And the partner you mentionedis it who I think?'

At this his former colleague gave a heavy sigh, and ground out his cigarette against the side of the step. 'It's in there, Thomas, in this oversized b.l.o.o.d.y greenhouse behind usthat blasted panel from the Crimea, for which good British soldiers were murdered.' He looked down at the crumpled b.u.t.t between his feet. 'Even now, I still cannot think of it without the blood boiling in my veins. It shows how little he fears us, does it not, that he feels he can now parade the thing before the Queen herself without danger of exposure. He has kicked me down, kicked me down with his many hideous crimes, and now he p.i.s.ses on me like a b.l.o.o.d.y great carthorse.'

Kitson summoned the last of his patience. 'Cracknell, what is it that you know about Charles Norton?'

This was not heard. Excitedly, Cracknell smacked a fist against his open palm. 'He imagines me helpless, but I am far, far from b.l.o.o.d.y helpless. My weapons of choice, as you well know, are the pen and the printing press, but these have been denied medenied me by him him, no less. So I am compelled to resort to other more imaginative means. And I need your a.s.sistance, old fellow. Your partnership. As things wereyou know.'

There was a disconcerting resolve in his eyes. He is mad, Kitson thought. His spectacular fall from grace has left him deranged. The street philosopher's equanimity, already straining, began to give way. 'I will not help you. How can you even ask ask? I will not collude in your stabbingsor your fires.'

Cracknell studied Kitson for a moment, strangely satisfied by this unequivocal refusal. Then he patted him on the shoulder, sprang up from the step and trotted off towards the city. 'Until later then, Thomas!'

Kitson tried to go after him, but the stinging complaints of his chest prevented him even from rising to his feet. 'What of Norton, Cracknell?' he croaked. 'Answer me, d.a.m.n you!'

4.

Charles Norton walked up the grand staircase of the Union Club, his shoes sinking into the thick carpet. The large circular window on the landing offered its usual barren view of the flank of the next building along; but that morning the expanse of neat brickwork was bisected by a diagonal shaft of summer sunshine, divided equally into the brightest light and the blackest shade. The effect was quite dazzling, and as Norton rounded the corner and completed his ascent to the coffee room, a greenish, semi-circular after-image floated across his sight.

The coffee room of the Union was s.p.a.cious, and decorated with a combination of stately oak panelling and ornate rococo plasterwork. There was even a modest fresco in an oval between the room's two chandeliers, depicting an allegory of Wisdom crowning Industry with laurels, enacted by blowsy ladies in flowing Grecian robes. Below this scene, high-backed leather chairs stood around low tables scattered with newspapers and periodicals. Infusing the room, as ever, were the rich, rea.s.suring smells of fine tobacco and fresh coffee.

A cart clattered by outside, the sound uncommonly loud. Charles saw that the tops of the Union's tall front windows had been drawn down to admit what little breeze there was. He caught a whiff of roasting meat, and realised that they must be starting lunch. It was almost noon, and other members were beginning to arrive from their offices and warehouses. The room was filling with conversation about the state of play at the Exchange, the price of this or that, the new contracts that had been put up for tendertalk in which the proprietor of the Norton Foundry would usually have taken a keen interest. That day, however, was different.

Charles was slightly disappointed to find the Brigadier-General in civilian clothes. He had expected to see the searing scarlet of the infantry coatee before anything else; but this, he supposed, would have attracted unwanted attention. They had not met since the winter of 1855, but he recognised his a.s.sociate straight away on account of that enormous moustache of his, so carefully pruned, the sharp tips now snowy white. The face behind, Norton noticed, was becoming jowled, and the features a little sunken. Nathaniel Boyce had aged.

The Brigadier-General had chosen a small corner alcove, tucked away from the main area of the coffee room. He greeted the labour-lord without enthusiasm, clearly regretting that circ.u.mstances had obliged them to see one another, and gestured towards the empty chair at the table with an immobile, gloved hand. As he lowered this hand, his right, it connected with the arm of his own chair with a dull crackthe sound of wood striking wood.

The third chair in the alcove, the one closest to its window, was occupied by a large young man of about twenty-two or -three, who was staring down into the street with open-mouthed, oafish fascination.

Norton regarded him uncertainly. 'I wasn't aware that anyone else would be present here this morning, Brigadier.'

Boyce clicked his tongue impatiently. 'Do not worry yourself, Norton. This is Captain Nunn, my ADC. You have nothing to fear from him.'

Nunn did not look around. Scarcely rea.s.sured, Norton squeezed into his seat. Both the soldiers were big men; there was only just enough room for the three of them, and Charles was obliged to sit sideways to keep his knees from brushing against Captain Nunn's.

'So who did it, Norton?' asked Boyce, sitting back. 'Who stabbed Archie Wray?'

Again, Norton glanced at Nunn. He still hadn't turned from the window. 'There is a rumour going about of an insane cripplea man with terrible deformations and an implacable loathing of all soldiers. We are certain, however, that Richard Cracknell is involved somehow. He is in Manchester, making an annoyance of himself in his usual manner.'

Boyce narrowed his eyes; and then, to Charles' surprise, he smiled languidly. 'Do you know, I was wondering if my submission to your little Exhibition would flush him out. After I cut him down to size in the Crimea, the pathetic fool seems to have devoted his entire existence to wreaking some kind of vengeance. Quite tragic. Stabbing, thoughthat's a new one. Perhaps he has finally found his backbone.'

A china coffee-pot stood at the centre of the table, with an empty cup set before each of the officers. Thinking that he would very much like some coffee, Norton turned in his seat, looking for a waiter who might bring them another cup. 'He has an accomplice, also, this time. A fellow named Thomas Kitson.'

Boyce raised his eyebrows without much interest. 'Kitson... yes, I believe he was the Courier' Courier's junior correspondent during the war. Very much second fiddle to our Mr Cracknell.'

There was a squeaking sound; Captain Nunn had pressed a fingertip against the window pane and was moving it across the gla.s.s as if following something down in the street.

Norton tried his best to ignore him. 'I'd a.s.sumed that their connection would be something of that nature. My own feeling is that they must be planning something together, for them both to be in the city at the time you have chosen to visit. This devil Kitson has already tried to strike at me through my daughter.' He lowered his voice. 'Dodo you wish us to do anything? I have men who will-'

'Colonel, I see him! I see him, Colonel!'

The words burst out of Nunn in a heavy spray of saliva. Norton started; the Captain was all but shouting. Boyce told him firmly to keep his voice down. The man gaped at his commander, his head lolling. The muscles in his long face were relaxed, like someone deep in sleep; his eyes were pale and soapy, entirely devoid of any reasoning intelligence.

'So-sorry, Colonel, but I see see him himCaptain Wray, sir, walk-walking in the street. Major Maynard, sir, is there, too, and Davy, sir, and Major Fairlie, and, and...'

'Really, Mr Nunn! Captain Wray, imagine that!' Boyce's tone was flat. 'Is Lord Raglan down there with them as well, perchance, or Major-General Codrington?'

The young officer turned back to window so quickly he almost put his head through it.

Boyce picked up his coffee cup with his left hand. 'The lad understands little and remembers lessand sometimes thinks he can see people who are not actually there. Our old comrades from the 99th Foot, in particular, make regular appearances in his daily life, Wray included.' He took a sip. 'One of several burdens placed upon me by my service in the Crimea.'

Norton nodded uneasily and then looked around again. Where were all the blessed waiters?

'And another, of course, is Richard Cracknell, the blunted Tomahawk. I fail to see how he could damage us, frankly. He'll probably just end up humiliating himself further.'

This seemed a little blase to Norton. With gathering agitation, he told Boyce about the Polygon ball and the unpleasant events in the Art Treasures Exhibition two days before. Both incidents, he said emphatically, were intended to show how vulnerable they were; to demonstrate Cracknell and Kitson's ability to interfere, should they choose to do so.

Unmoved, Boyce set down his cup. 'Keep up your watch, then, by all means. Perhaps have a limb or two broken.' He lifted his inert hand into his lap, smiling again as he made some adjustment to it. 'How amusing, though, to think of him in the Exhibition, standing before my Pilate Pilate. How dreadfully that must rile him.'

This notion, and the malicious relish with which it was expressed, caused Norton's disquiet to grow yet further, and he was relieved indeed when Boyce changed the subject to business. The Brigadier-General revealed that he had found a replacement for Wrayprobably on a permanent basis as it was deemed unlikely that the Major would make anything approaching a full recovery. Captain Rupert Morris, a distant cousin of Boyce's, was transferring to the 25th Manchesters before the end of June, and would thereafter be the Brigadier-General's man in the Cottonopolis, with whom Norton should conduct all his usual transactions.

Charles said that he understood, and then quickly ran through some of the Foundry's recent figures. Sales were healthy, he reported, due to a contract from Weller and Sons, the largest boot-maker in the North East. Boyce inquired about profits, and how much he could expect to see; and was well satisfied by what he was told.

Their business concluded, the Brigadier-General volunteered no further conversation. He looked absently around the room, drumming his fingers on his knee. Captain Nunn hadn't seen anyone else of note from his window, and was now talking to himself in a low monotone.

'How is it here?' Norton asked eventually. 'I'm told the Union has the finest rooms of any club in the city.'

Boyce frowned. 'Good G.o.d, I am not staying here here, man.' The Union Club, Norton realised, with its industrialists and financiers, was well beneath a gentleman such as the Brigadier-General. 'No, I am going to the country for a few days. After that, I shall be lodging at the Albion Hotel on Piccadilly.'

'Are you sure you will not stay at Norton Hall? We would be more than happy to accommodate you.'

Norton felt acutely self-conscious as he asked this. A part of him had long cherished the hope that an acquaintance might be built between himself and his well-born a.s.sociatethat he might yet manage to win the respect of this proud, difficult man. They had significant things in common, after all. Both had a keen interest in the fine arts, as his involvement in the Exhibition testified. And both knew the cold loneliness of the widower.

'No thank you, Norton,' Boyce replied with barely veiled distaste. 'The Albion Hotel will suffice. I will send word to you from there.'

A waiter, finally noticing Norton's presence, came over to his side. 'Can I bring you a cup, sir? The luncheon card?'

Embarra.s.sed by his partner's rebuff, Norton rose to his feet. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'I am leaving.'

5.