‘Shelled, I was! Bleedin’ shelled, by those bastard Russians! Shelled! Look at me legs, me face! All ’cos o’ that toff cunt back there! What you protectin’ ’im for?’
‘Stop your cursing, villain,’ ordered one of the constables as he attempted to grab hold of this indigent veteran’s thrashing legs, ‘or I shall make blessed short work of ye!’
At once, Kitson felt certain that this man was known to him. Ignoring the quickening rainfall, he walked over to get a better look. That distinctive pattern of injuries, with severe wounds to the face, hand and leg, coupled with the crowing, indignant whine of a voice, left no room for doubt. The scarred man being borne unceremoniously towards the station was the private he had treated as the Redan’s guns had roared all about; the same one he had met in the advance parallel in the last minutes before the assault, who had insisted that he knew Cracknell. Kitson also remembered that he had heard his name, a single syllable he couldn’t quite recollect, in the Belle Vue Gardens only two days previously, when a witness had identified him as the perpetrator of that brutal attack upon the factory operative.
The felon was hauled inside, still screaming; and a dark form lodged in the corner of Kitson’s eye as abruptly and painfully as a speck of grit. He turned slowly to see a short, swarthy man in a worn black suit, writing something in a notebook. This man was standing some twenty yards from him, on the corner of Cross Street–the most straightforward path back to Princess Street and Kitson’s tenement.
He cursed under his breath, deciding immediately to head towards Piccadilly and then double back down Fountain Street. Setting off at speed, he ran straight into a loud checked waistcoat, well filled by the person inside it. A thick arm wrapped around his shoulders and steered him into an alleyway.
‘They are watching your domicile as well, my friend,’ Cracknell imparted calmly, ‘They want us both, and not for a spot of earnest remonstration.’
Kitson ducked under his arm and leant heavily against the alley wall. He’d known that this encounter was inevitable. Cracknell was not yet finished in Manchester.
‘I think it’s time we had a proper jaw, don’t you? All we’ve managed so far have been snatched moments–the briefest of meetings under some rather unfortunate circumstances. You must agree that we owe one another a civil conversation, at least. We should drink a glass to our fallen friends. To James Maynard.’ Cracknell paused, eyeing Kitson slyly. ‘To Robert Styles.’
Kitson did not allow himself to react to this. It was surely significant that after several weeks of determined evasion, Cracknell was suddenly so keen for them to talk. Perhaps, he thought, this was at last a chance to draw some answers out of him. He looked around, refusing to meet his former senior’s questioning gaze. The black-suit at Cross Street appeared not to have seen them. ‘The police have your henchman.’
Cracknell shook his head with a rueful laugh. ‘Oh no, my association with Mr Cregg ended a good while ago. He developed a worrying taste for stabbing people, as you might well remember. I heard that he’s just tried to do in a certain Brigadier-General, in fact, over on Piccadilly, outside the Albion Hotel–that’s where they caught him.’
So Boyce was in Manchester. The second stage of Cracknell’s revenge was imminent.
‘No, that business at the Belle Vue–the distraction he caused–was purest serendipity. Good fortune has shone upon this little undertaking of mine. I am not a pious man, Thomas, but as I said to you at the Polygon, there is a higher agency at work here. Justice is being done.’
‘You’re just cutting that crippled soldier loose, then, without a backward glance? Leaving him to the Manchester police?’
Cracknell merely grinned, then tapped Kitson’s shoulder with the cane he was carrying. ‘I have a place in mind. Will you accompany me?’
Kitson nodded reluctantly, thinking that if nothing else Cracknell probably represented his best chance of evading Twelves and his minions.
They walked the length of the alley at some speed, soon coming to Market Street. Carts trundled past, bearing cargoes of banners, flags and poles, their wheels churning in deepening puddles. Kitson grimaced as cold raindrops splashed against his shoulders. Cracknell, however, was swinging his cane with complete nonchalance, entirely indifferent to the muddy rainwater that was saturating the cuffs of his ill-fitting trousers. He led them a short distance towards Piccadilly before weaving across the road and starting up the gentle hill on the other side.
Smithfield Market appeared between the buildings ahead of them. The iron-and-glass pavilion was lit against the premature darkness brought by the weather, and a great crowd was taking shelter beneath it. A group of mill-girls were screaming as they pushed each other out under the jets of water that cascaded from the market’s overflowing gutters.
Cracknell turned, craning his neck, peering back down the hill. ‘They’re following,’ he said. ‘Come, Thomas, this way.’
Kitson looked back also, and could see nothing but shops shutting up and people rushing to escape the downpour. Cracknell, meanwhile, had disappeared down a narrow lane across from the market. Kitson hurried after him.
The rainfall seemed to slacken off almost completely, reduced to the odd stray drip. Looking up, Kitson saw that this was not due to the passing of the storm, but to a multitude of decrepit balconies, strings of forgotten washing, and the lean of the subsiding tenements, all of which were blocking the water’s path to the ground below. The only illumination came from the occasional candle flickering forlornly on a window ledge. Infants played in the gutter, their tiny hands full of slopping sludge. The stench of faeces and urine mingled thickly in the air with the sweet reek of decay.
They turned, and turned again; Kitson grew uncomfortable. Despite a number of months’ residence in Manchester, he had seldom ventured so far into its darker regions. But Cracknell seemed perfectly at ease in the stinking alleys, the dilapidation and misery causing him no apparent concern. He was walking fast. Kitson was having to exert himself simply to keep up. Old memories returned to him, memories of trailing behind the senior correspondent as he pursued his pleasure amongst the dusty stones of Constantinople; and later as he chased the army across the battlefields of the Alma Valley and Inkerman Ridge. There it was, that same broad back, confidently leading the way, utterly convinced of its own imperviousness.
‘Ancoats,’ Cracknell declared, waving his cane around, ‘in all its tumbledown fury. Never mind that bloody Exhibition, this district is Manchester’s most notable achievement–although I think we can bet that on the morrow, the Royal nose will not be brought within a half-mile of its many distinctive smells. They say that Ancoats is to Manchester what Manchester is to England: the fundament of the fundament. D’you know, Thomas, I honestly think that the simple fact of this place, and the way the working people must live within it, is justification enough for the destruction of their masters, whatever else the grasping bastards might have done.’
‘Well, you have certainly destroyed Charles Norton,’ Kitson replied curtly. ‘You have destroyed his entire family.’
Cracknell chuckled. ‘Oho! Is that pique I hear there? If you are referring to your widow, Kitson, do please recall that I warned you quite explicitly that there would be trouble in that quarter. And I make no apologies for being a little ruthless. A cat in gloves, my dear fellow, catches no mice.’
‘She knew nothing of her father’s business. Neither did her brother, for that matter.’
‘But pain, Thomas, is purgative, and that family needed a bit of bloody purgation, did it not? Your widow has her charms, I’m sure, but she watched her father’s rise without questioning it for a moment. She took up her rooms in his mansion, and bought herself great wardrobes full of fine clothes, without a single second’s hesitation.’
Kitson formed tight fists inside his pockets, digging his nails into his palms. ‘She had just lost her husband, damn you. She was hardly—’ He stopped himself. There was absolutely no point continuing with this argument.
>
A dozen filthy faces were regarding them silently from a nearby cellar. After waiting with a sarcastic smile to see if Kitson had any more to say, Cracknell started off again. They came to an area of open ground–a small yard before the steep rise of a gigantic mill. Impassive brick walls stretched upwards, hard and featureless after the diseased jumble of the alleyways. Running along their tops, at least thirty feet above the ground, were the windows, thousands of small panes arranged in lines inside a leaden grid. The dirty glass glimmered weakly, offering only the very slightest suggestion of gas lighting within. A great droning, crashing noise issued from this austere building, drowning out the splashing and trickling of the rain. It ran on and on, a continuous three-second cycle of disastrous, unbearable sound, clattering away incessantly. This, the tireless rhythm of the power looms, was difficult enough to endure out in the yard; the effect on those confined inside, Kitson thought, must be of another order altogether. The two men crossed the cobbles hurriedly, eager to be away.
Cracknell led them on towards the Oldham Road, Ancoats’ great thoroughfare and the site of some of the city’s largest factories. Chimneys towered above the lanes, pumping out smoke that seemed to vanish shortly after it had left them. Kitson put a hand up to his face; there was wet, sooty dirt sliding across his cheek, driven on to it from the atmosphere by the pouring rain.
‘Cracknell, where the hell are we going?’
‘Somewhere close. You’ll like it, Thomas, I promise.’
A long row of pawn shops and pestilent-looking boarding houses brought them to a large junction lit by a single sputtering lime-light. Cracknell stopped under a tavern sign, checking the streets for black-suits. The symbols upon this sign had mostly been obscured by dirt, but Kitson could just make out a heraldic shield, some feathers, and a crude scroll on which had been painted The Trafford Arms. He recognised the name. It was a popular inn and concert-room, whose custom consisted entirely of the operatives from the mills found all around it. They stepped inside.
The sounds of a lazy jig, played on fiddle, drum and flute, drifted through a large room with a balcony and a low stage. It had been built in what could loosely be described as the Tudor style, with the uneven wooden beams left exposed, and it was packed to the rafters with working people of both sexes, each with a jar of ale in their hand. Many had pipes or cheroots also, and tobacco smoke filled the Trafford Arms as water fills a bucket. Animated conversations were underway, the music almost lost amidst the raised voices and bursts of laughter. It was warm; Kitson was suddenly aware of the cold drips that were running down his back and legs.
Cracknell skirted the long tables and took up a place in the middle of the bar, leaning against it like a regular. His faded gentleman’s garb, and especially his garish waistcoat, were conspicuous indeed amongst the drab caps, fustian jackets and plain cotton frocks of the rest of the Trafford’s clientele. He was behaving, also, with a notable swagger. The first thing he did was buy drinks for all those around him, filling the barmaid’s cupped hands with coppers. This magnanimous gesture was met with a decidedly ambiguous murmur and a couple of grudging nods of acknowledgement. Cracknell, entirely unconcerned by this response, handed Kitson a glass of spirit, knocking back one himself in a single swallow. This liquid, gin he supposed, had the appearance of old dishwater and smelled like burned rubber. Kitson drank it anyway.
Beer was next, a jar of dark porter. After making a healthy start on his, Cracknell lit a cigarette and scanned the Trafford’s balcony. He saluted a bald-headed man in a red neckerchief who sat gravely at the balcony’s edge with a company of roughs gathered around him. This fellow, Cracknell explained, was the Trafford’s landlord, a Mr Bairstowe–who, he’d discovered, had once clashed unpleasantly with Mr Twelves and his underlings, and would not now permit them inside his establishment. The Trafford was a haven; a place where they could catch their breath and consider their next move.
Putting a hand on the coarse, unpolished bar, Kitson took in the tavern, working out the best escape route and thinking about how long he would need to get back to Princess Street. Something was going on, he was sure of it; this all felt rehearsed. Cracknell had another reason for bringing him here. I will wait for half an hour, he thought, let him have his civil conversation, and then I will leave.
The Tomahawk looked at Kitson and grinned. His former junior was practically a visual definition of unease–ideal for his purposes. They stood out like goats in a sheep pen, and were drawing a good deal of attention. He puffed on his cigarette and took a cool swig of porter. It was time to get back to the business of the evening.
‘No,’ he announced after a few seconds’ silence, ‘there was rot in the Norton family, and it needed to be gouged out. The railway, Thomas, the bloody railway! So many times I rode it, marvelling at its effectiveness, little suspecting that the very nails holding it together were the product of greed and wickedness! I had no notion of this whatsoever until I returned to England in the winter of fifty-five. Such a boon to the troops–and yet being exploited by Boyce for his own gain!’
‘So you have brought down his accomplice,’ Kitson said, reaching stiffly for his jar. ‘Boyce will have been damaged also. He must have an interest in Norton’s business.’
‘Undoubtedly, although I could find no trace of a formal connection between them. The Brigadier has protected himself with exceptional effectiveness, I must say. I haven’t even been able to discover where the brute has been living since he was invalided home from the war. But now I will finally get my vengeance. And by Christ, there’s a lot to avenge.’ Cracknell paused. ‘He took her from me, Thomas–stole her from me.’
‘You are referring to the late Mrs Boyce, I assume.’
‘Such a beautiful, spirited creature, cruelly cut down by that demon.’ The Tomahawk drew himself up. ‘I cannot accuse him directly, of course. The murder was covered up very nicely, blamed on a rogue Russian–Boyce produced a couple of witnesses from his regiment, as well as the body of the supposed killer. Neither can I get at him, in the Metropolis or elsewhere. The obstacles are simply too great.’ He fixed Kitson with a direct, resolute stare. ‘Up here, though–up here there is a real chance. And I must take it. I must do whatever I can to obtain justice for my poor Madeleine.’
Kitson banged his glass down impatiently on the bar. ‘Oh, come now, Cracknell!’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘You seem to forget that I was there. You would have me believe that you have come here as a vengeful lover–but I spoke to Annabel Wade on the day Madeleine Boyce died. You had deserted her, taken flight to escape the wrath of her husband and pen your vitriolic reports in safety. You had not seen her for months. Your affair was over.’
Cracknell dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it beneath his boot, somewhat wrong-footed by Kitson’s hard certainty. ‘She was killed, Kitson, because of her connection with me,’ he said quietly, ‘because of her love for me. You cannot deny this.’
‘Perhaps so, but it was a love you did not return. You knew the manner of man Boyce was. Did you not think, even once, of the danger you were placing her in with all that Tomahawk nonsense?’ Kitson made a disgusted sound. ‘This grand act of yours does not work on me, Cracknell. Stop pretending that you are in Manchester to avenge Mrs Boyce. You are here for yourself.’
A comic singer, wearing a drooping ruff and a pair of outsized pantaloons, ambled on to the stage of the Trafford Arms. His appearance was greeted by applause and raucous cheers from the audience, with a good number of those seated rising to their feet. Several even climbed up on top of benches and tables.
Drawing in an exaggerated breath, his arms open wide, the singer launched into an account of young Billy Taylor, pressed to sea. It was clearly a regular tune at the Trafford, as within the space of a bar or two the entire crowd, except the two newspapermen, were belting out its lines into the smoky air with considerable gusto. ‘Soon ’is true love followed after,’ they sang, ‘Under name o’ Richard Carr; and ’er lily-white ’and
s she rubbed all over, wi’ nasty pitch and tar!’
Cracknell finished his porter. A disconcertingly genuine anger had started to itch away inside him. He raised his hand, beckoning over a plain-featured, wide-hipped barmaid in a dirty apron. After ordering more beer, he turned back to Kitson.
‘I’ll admit that I have other reasons for hating him,’ he retorted sharply, raising his voice to be heard over the singing. ‘You must know what he did to me.’ It hurt Cracknell even to think of this matter; but, simultaneously, he found that he wanted desperately to drag it out into the open once more, to bask again in the toxic injustice of it all.
‘I have heard that letters were written to the Times,’ Kitson said carefully.
Immediately, Cracknell reached into his jacket and pulled out the clipping. It was heavily worn, and falling apart where it had been folded; he could have recited it by heart if requested. He laid it on the bar in front of Kitson.
The presence of certain civilian war correspondents, it read, has been a nagging irritation to all fighting on this campaign. One man in particular, an employee of the London Courier magazine, has made an active annoyance of himself from the day the expeditionary force set sail from England. He has cast his abuse about widely, selecting targets from the most senior generals through to the stalwart men of the line, doing considerable damage to morale. Recently, he named all British soldiery in the Crimea ‘fruit of a rotten tree’; here I use his own despicable expression.
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