Mr Kitson appeared at Jemima's side. He looked somewhat abashed at this mention of his departure from the ceremony, and was clearly uncomfortable in the grand surroundings of the Polygon. His evening suit, she saw, had shiny patches on the shoulders, and his features were a little drawn; but his eyes held the same arch intelligence they had done in her father's office on Mosley Street. Jemima felt her pulse quicken slightly, and a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. She adjusted her shawl and surrept.i.tiously checked the pin that was holding up her hair, no longer so thoroughly bored by the Fairbairns' ball.

Talking loudly over the orchestra, which had just struck up the robust rhythm of the gallop, he bade them all a good evening, then bowed to her. 'Nothing of note, thank you, Mr Norton. I only needed some air.'

'You missed little, sir, in truth,' proclaimed Keane loftily. 'The poor Prince's spirits were so depressed that he spoke in little more than a murmur throughout. And the othersthe bishop, the mayor and Mr Fairbairnall adopted the same tone so as not to seem like they were trying to out-speak him. As a result, almost nothing of the ceremonials could be heard beyond the dais. My feeling was-'

Bill pretended to recognise someone across the room, over the charging heads of the gallopers. He hooked his arm through Keane's and dragged his garrulous friend away.

Jemima and the Star' Star's street philosopher were alone once more. She suggested they move away from the commotion of the gallop to a quieter corner, over by the ballroom's long bank of French windows. Since their first meeting on Sat.u.r.day, Jemima had managed to learn something about the enigmatic Mr Kitson. Finding his work in her back-issues of the London Courier London Courier had been easy. Although most of that paper's articles were printed anonymously, enough pieces of art correspondence bore the initials 'TK' for her to be able to build up a clear idea of his style. And it was distinctive indeed, deeply knowledgeable yet br.i.m.m.i.n.g with savage wit; he had been unafraid both to champion unknowns, and to go up against the most established and respected figures. His contributions had ceased abruptly, however, in early 1854. If he had not come to Manchester until the winter of 1856, this left nearly two years unaccounted for. Mr Kitson's story, as she had been told it, lacked a chapter. had been easy. Although most of that paper's articles were printed anonymously, enough pieces of art correspondence bore the initials 'TK' for her to be able to build up a clear idea of his style. And it was distinctive indeed, deeply knowledgeable yet br.i.m.m.i.n.g with savage wit; he had been unafraid both to champion unknowns, and to go up against the most established and respected figures. His contributions had ceased abruptly, however, in early 1854. If he had not come to Manchester until the winter of 1856, this left nearly two years unaccounted for. Mr Kitson's story, as she had been told it, lacked a chapter.

She told him that she had not expected to see him there, and asked how he had managed to obtain an invitation. He replied that it had been done through Colonel Bennett, out of grat.i.tude for his having helped Major Wray; but that the Colonel, and indeed everyone else at the ball prior to her brother, now seemed markedly reluctant to have anything whatsoever to do with him.

'They have discovered your occupation, I'll wager,' Jemima said. 'They took you for a medical man, as I first did, but have since uncovered the truth.' She shook her head. 'But it is too latea street philosopher is present at a society ball, like a serpent that has slithered between the bars of the parrot cage.'

His eyebrow moved by the smallest fraction. 'I think you exaggerate their fear of the Manchester Evening Star Manchester Evening Star, Mrs James. Although I must say that my editor is certainly excited by the benefit he believes this experience will offer to my work.'

'And you are not, sir?'

'I did not come here with a complete absence of enthusiasm, I admit.' He paused. 'Knowing as I did who else would be in attendance.'

Jemima met his gaze for a second. They both smiled, a little shyly; and a clear, powerful understanding coursed between them. Unnerved by the strength of this silent connection, Jemima looked away suddenly, out through the French windows, across the Polygon's stone terrace to the moonlit lawns beyond.

'Therethere is much inspiration for your pen here tonight, I would imagine,' she managed to say, acutely aware of his grey eyes upon her and the beating of her heart beneath her ballgown.

Mr Kitson was quiet for a few seconds longer. 'Indeed, madam. The cravenness and vanity upon which the street philosopher thrives are here in abundance. Especially amusing is the spectacle of the n.o.bility being forced to ingratiate itself with the same industrialists it has disdained and denigrated for so many generations.'

Her composure recovered, Jemima turned back towards him. One side of his face was tinted silver by the moonlight, emphasising the line of his cheekbone; just beneath his jaw was a shaving cut, plainly inflicted by an unsteady hand. His lip curled slightly. 'Over there, for instance, by the fireplace.'

A tall man with a drawn, haughty face was smiling queasily as he listened to the vigorous extrapolations of Mr Gregory Simc.o.c.k, owner of a successful small-ware mill and an occasional dinner guest of Jemima's father.

'The Earl of Beeston,' Mr Kitson continued dryly, 'has lent a handful of mouldy Ruiysdaels to the Exhibition, and expects the Committee's boundless grat.i.tude for his generous contribution. Yet it is common knowledge that the good Earl is quite bankrupt, having thrown away the family fortune on the rouge-et-noirs rouge-et-noirs of various Metropolitan gaming housesand that he has only submitted his paintings because he needs to sell them as soon as possible.' of various Metropolitan gaming housesand that he has only submitted his paintings because he needs to sell them as soon as possible.'

Jemima feigned dismay. 'Surely not! What of the stated goals of the Exhibition, Mr Kitsonwhat of the art education of the poor?'

The street philosopher grinned. 'For the Earl, Mrs James, these are strictly secondary to drumming up a purchaser. And if that wealthy looking fellow he speaks with so superciliously were to offer a half-decent sum, our n.o.ble friend would kiss those plebeian chops in sheer relief.'

Jemima's laugh caught her by surprise, causing her to spill what was left of her champagne on Mr Kitson's shoes. She apologised profusely, and attempted to sweep away the droplets on the shining black leather with the hem of her skirts. Her naked elbow brushed briefly against the sleeve of his evening jacket; he took a polite step backwards, a.s.suring her of his unconcern.

They talked on for another minute or so, sharing acerbic observations about a number of the Fairbairns' guests. Mr Kitson's easy articulacy made Jemima remember the scheme she had devised during the slower pa.s.sages of the opening ceremony. She revealed in a confidential tone that her father, in order to demonstrate his dedication to the Art Treasures Exhibition as both a Committee member and an employer of labour, had recently announced that he intended to pay for a grand expedition of the entire Norton Foundry to the building at Old Trafford. Jemima had learned that there were to be no lecturers or guides present in the Exhibition; it had been a.s.sumed that the paintings on display would somehow explain themselves to their unschooled viewers without the need for intermediaries. Pondering this obvious oversight in relation to the Foundry visit, it had occurred to Jemima that she was acquainted with an authority on matters of art.

'The strong belief in the potential of the Exhibition that you expressed when we last spoke surely makes you the ideal person to address my father's workforce. A short talk in the modern galleries is all that will be required, I should thinkmerely to cast some basic illumination on their contents.'

Mr Kitson nodded; he had divined her plan. He knew that she was trying to engineer a situation where her father was in his debt, and obliged to overlook his humble, slightly disreputable post at the Star. Some form of courtesy would have to be extendedperhaps even an invitation to dine at Norton Hallwhich would open the way for the two of them to commence a proper a.s.sociation.

'And will you be in attendance, madam, during this visit?'

'I will,' Jemima answered, her smile broadening.

'Then I would consider it an honour.' He glanced down at her empty gla.s.s, and reached forward to take it. 'Allow me to fetch you another, Mrs James. Will you wait for me here?'

The dancers were embarking on the first movement of a quadrille. Their numbers had swelled significantly, and Kitson had to push himself up against the wall to pa.s.s by the whirling ma.s.s of coat-tails and flounces. He barely noticed them. All he saw was her face as she laughed; the thick, loose coils of her hair; the soft curve of her neck, exposed to the Polygon's orange glow.

Kitson had spent the afternoon locked away in his attic. Pacing across the rug, aiming the occasional kick at his desk or divan, he had forced himself to relive those few seconds on the balcony a hundred times over, striving to recall exactly what he had seenand to determine whether Cracknell had been real or the product of his diseased imagination. Black doubt crept insidiously into any solid conclusion he reached, though, rotting it away and leaving him floundering once again in miserable confusion. Gripped by a fierce headache, he had lain down upon the floor; and, curled up by the grate, had finally fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, waking only half an hour before the commencement of the ball.

Yet now, less than two hours later, he could hardly recognise this behaviour as his own. They were the actions of a madmannot of the charming, self-possessed lover of the widow Jemima James. The travails of the past few days now seemed trifling. His run-in with Wray was an unfortunate coincidence, best forgotten. The incident at the opening ceremony was the last delusion of a mind now firmly on the mend. All he wanted on Earth was to find a waiter, obtain two gla.s.ses, and get back to her as quickly as possible.

Mrs James' a.s.sessment of his status at the Polygon ball, however, was woefully correct. Away from the dancing, the street philosopher found himself caught in a great shoal of disapproving faces. A waiter approached, cruising like a clipper through the a.s.sembly, his tray aloft. Kitson's attempt to hail him was utterly ignored; the man simply altered his course, cutting towards the Polygon's main hall. At that moment, Kitson was so full of light-hearted hope that he decided to give chase, repeating his hail as he did so. This attracted further opprobrium, with someone clucking 'disgraceful' as he pa.s.sed them. Neither did it halt the waiter; indeed, he seemed to pick up speed. He left the ballroom, bending away into a servant's corridor, vanishing from sight.

Kitson took four steps into this corridor and stopped. There was no sign of the man he pursued. Away from the orchestra, the hush was striking; a pungent smell of beeswax had replaced the many mingled perfumes of the ballroom, and the dim lambency of candlelight seemed almost like darkness after the gas chandeliers. He wondered what he was to do now.

A hand clapped on Kitson's shoulder, seizing hold of his collar. His first thought was that he was to be ejected from the Polygon by a footman, and separated from Mrs James; but he was shoved instead into a corner beneath the twist of a back staircase and held hard against the wall. It was far worse than that.

'Well I never,' hissed his a.s.sailant, his heavy beard scratching against Kitson's ear, 'if it isn't the fellow who saved Archie b.l.o.o.d.y Wray. Why would he do such a thing, I wonder, knowing what he does?'

'Cracknell,' Kitson gasped. 'Release me, d.a.m.n it. What do you'

'Is he on a divinely ordained mission to heal the afflicted, like Saint Elizabeth of Hungary? Does he hold an honest belief in the ultimate b.l.o.o.d.y goodness within every man?' The grip on Kitson's collar tightened. 'Or has he perhaps forgotten what exactly our Archie is a party to?'

Despite painful protests from his chest, Kitson managed to turn himself around and push the other man back. And there it was, that same face he had glimpsed from the northern balcony, now only an arm's length away. It had gained a few lines, and the black beard was flecked with greybut it was indisputably the face of Richard Cracknell. Something was different, though; there was a bitterness beneath the old bombastic swagger that both reduced him and made him seem yet more volatile. He grabbed Kitson's lapel, bunching it up in his hairy, tobacco-stained fist.

As his initial shock receded, Kitson felt a rush of fury. His detestation of this man, he discovered, was quite undiminished by the time that had pa.s.sed. 'Do you suppose I knew knew?' he spat. 'It was dark. I could see nothing. Do you honestly think I would have helped Wray if-' He tried to free himself, but could not. Cracknell was still the stronger. 'What the devil are you doing here? What do you want want?'

Cracknell's grin was chillingly familiar. 'Let's begin with Mrs James, shall we?'

Kitson frowned uncomprehendingly. He stopped struggling. A cold, deadening heaviness was gathering in his midriff; his fingers were suddenly numb. 'Whatwhat of her?'

Seeing that restraint was no longer necessary, Cracknell released him. 'The hand of fate is at work here, Thomas. Can you not feel it? I arrive in Manchester to hear of a stabbing, and discover first that it's Wrayand second that a fellow named Kitson was responsible for saving him. So I root around, as I am wont to do, and I find out that my dear old comrade Thomas Kitson is on the most favourable terms with none other than Charles Norton's daughter. Is this chance? I think not! A higher agency is at work, my friend!'

'What are you talking about?' Kitson could hear the tense uncertainty in his voice. 'You are drunk.'

With a throaty chuckle, Cracknell took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it on a nearby candle. 'I've been watching you two this eveningall that delightful awkwardness and secretive simpering. For what it's worth, I'd say your feet are well parked under that particular table. The grat.i.tude of widows, eh? Still, a good piece of workalmost a shame to think of what must be done.'

Now Kitson was growing properly afraid. 'What is your meaning?'

Cracknell laughed. 'Charles b.l.o.o.d.y Norton, Thomas!' he said, as if this was an explanation in itself; then he looked at his former junior incredulously. 'Christ's b.a.l.l.s, d'ye really not know? Is that not why you are here, living in this G.o.dforsaken cesspool of a city? And cosying up to his daughter?' He hesitated, taking the cigarette from his lips. 'Haven't you looked around the Exhibition yet?'

This caught Kitson off-guard. 'No one has, bar the Committee. It opens to the public tomorrow. Why do you ask?'

Cracknell put a hand on his shoulder, rather more gently than before. 'Introduce me to Mrs James.'

Jolted to his senses, Kitson knocked away Cracknell's hand. 'I will not. I don't know what your purpose is in Manchester, despite all your insinuations, but I will have nothing to do with it.'

Cracknell smiled indulgently, a clear threat in his eyes. 'Introduce me to her, Thomas,' he murmured, 'or by G.o.d I will go over there and introduce myself.'

4.

It was immediately clear that something was amiss.

When Mr Kitson eventually reappeared, he brought not flutes of champagne but the black-bearded man who had winked at Jemima earlier. The street philosopher's entire demeanour had altered. All peace and good humour had left him; his expression contained the same mixture of anger and shame that it had done on Mosley Street whilst in the proximity of Major Wray. He was stooping slightly, a hand lingering at the side of his chestclutching at the ribs, Jemima could not help but think, as if it was holding them together.

The bearded man was the obvious reason for Mr Kitson's discomfort, and Jemima found herself disliking him for this alone, before he had even opened his mouth to speak. As they approached the French windows, she saw that this odd person was not in proper evening dress. His jacket and trousers belonged to two different suits, and his puce waistcoat was stained with a variety of unidentifiable substances. He was attracting a good deal of attention, none of it favourable. Jemima wondered who he must know in order to have been invited.

Then, sustaining a neutral tone with evident effort, Mr Kitson introduced him. Jemima recognised the name at once. 'Were you not the Crimean correspondent for the London Courier London Courier, Mr Cracknell? "The Tomahawk of the Courier Courier", didn't they call you, in the later stages of the campaign?'

Mr Cracknell laughed condescendingly. 'Yes, madam, my editor at the time decided to adorn me with that colourful t.i.tle.'

A brisk polka began, the dancers greeting it with giddy hurrahs. Jemima looked at the two men. The London Courier London Courier linked them, but the relationship was palpably not that of correspondents working in different branches of a publication who happened to have become acquainted. Their demeanour spoke of something weightier, darker; something that had gone terribly wrong. linked them, but the relationship was palpably not that of correspondents working in different branches of a publication who happened to have become acquainted. Their demeanour spoke of something weightier, darker; something that had gone terribly wrong.

'Much as Punch Punch recently saw fit to call your father the Buckle King,' Mr Cracknell continued, his voice becoming more loaded. 'It is a silly habit of the press. I rather prefer mine, I must say.' He lifted up his hand, drawing on the cigarette concealed within, and turned to Mr Kitson, who was staring down impa.s.sively at the floor. 'Which is not to belittle Mr Norton's accomplishmentsHeaven forbid it! How could I, a lowly grubber scorned by the world, possibly cast aspersion on a man who has risen so high, and in such an astonishingly short s.p.a.ce of time?' recently saw fit to call your father the Buckle King,' Mr Cracknell continued, his voice becoming more loaded. 'It is a silly habit of the press. I rather prefer mine, I must say.' He lifted up his hand, drawing on the cigarette concealed within, and turned to Mr Kitson, who was staring down impa.s.sively at the floor. 'Which is not to belittle Mr Norton's accomplishmentsHeaven forbid it! How could I, a lowly grubber scorned by the world, possibly cast aspersion on a man who has risen so high, and in such an astonishingly short s.p.a.ce of time?'

'His ascent has indeed been remarkable,' Jemima replied carefully.

Tapping ash on to the Fairbairns' carpet, Cracknell shook his head in sardonic amazement. 'What connections the fellow must have.'

With some irritation, Jemima sensed that she was being used by Mr Cracknell to make a point for Mr Kitson's benefitnot that he seemed any wiser than she about what the Tomahawk of the Courier Courier was implying. That her father had somehow attracted Mr Cracknell's disapproval did not surprise her; this jaded eccentric appeared to define himself by being antagonistic. She would not, however, simply stand and listen to him pontificate unchallenged. was implying. That her father had somehow attracted Mr Cracknell's disapproval did not surprise her; this jaded eccentric appeared to define himself by being antagonistic. She would not, however, simply stand and listen to him pontificate unchallenged.

'So tell me, sir,' she broke in, 'why is the Tomahawk not in India? I have read that the Sepoys are close to open revolt. Is your rightful place not out there?'

The overbearing smirk that had been playing across Mr Cracknell's florid cheeks since their introduction grew forced and mirthless. He did not wish to discuss the Indian mutiny and his great distance from it, and tried to divert their talk back to Charles Norton.

Jemima persisted. 'The Courier Courier, I see, has sent someone else. Could it be that you have lost favour with the magazine's proprietorsthat the controversy caused by your behaviour during the Russian War has prevented them from appointing you?'

Mr Kitson shifted his weight from one foot to the other, raising his head to watch Mr Cracknell's reaction to Jemima's question.

'It was a complicated situation, madam.' He sighed, as if summoning his patience. 'The war ended badly, as I'm sure you'll recall, with the enemy undefeated and things generally rather unsatisfactory. None were pleased by that spineless treaty drawn up in Paris. The neutralisation of the Black Sea! What the deuce is that?' There was a quick anger in his voice. He leant in towards her, so close that she could see the broken veins in his cheeks. 'The truth is that we gained next to nothing for our staggering losses. The Russians laughed at us laughed at us, Mrs Jameswe took their port city from them only to give it back a few months later and sail away.' He dropped the end of his cigarette on the floor, and trod on it emphatically. 'Few reputations escaped from that dreadful mess unscathedmy own included.'

A neat enough piece of evasion, but it did not satisfy Jemima for an instant. More blatant provocation was needed if she was to learn anything worthwhile. 'Forgive me, sir, but I was referring to the specific allegations made against you alone. I greatly admired your work in the first months of the war. I must confess that the invasion seemed gratuitous to me from the start, but I had no idea that it was being done so thoughtlessly, with so little regard on the part of the commanders for the lives of those beneath them. You helped to raise awareness of this.'

Mr Cracknell nodded in wary acknowledgement, knowing that a qualification was coming. Mr Kitson had withdrawn into himself once more. Jemima could not tell if he was even listening.

'It is regrettable, though, that you grew so vindictive. There was that one officer with whom you became quite obsessed, that colonel...'

He snorted. 'It was warranted, madam, I a.s.sure you.'

'But it enabled your opponents to depict you as a mere provocateur, whose views stemmed only from personal animosity. And then there were those letters in the Times Times, accusing you of opportunism and worse-'

'As I think I said, Mrs James, it was most complicated; and, I might add, entirely beyond female comprehension.' Mr Cracknell's tolerant smile now contained a distinct seam of malice. 'I can a.s.sure you, also, that there were far more opportunistic people on that Peninsula than I. Compared with some I could name, I was a beginner, a b.u.mbling amateur! If you do not believe me,' he added casually, narrowing his eyes, 'you can ask Kitson here.'

And suddenly Jemima saw it. Her street philosopher had been in the Crimea with Cracknell of the Courier Courier. This was the missing episode from Mr Kitson's life.

The orchestra brought the dancing to a close and stopped playing, setting down their instruments. After a round of applause, the flushed partic.i.p.ants dispersed throughout the ballroom, adding appreciably to the hum of conversation. The Fairbairns must have returned from Bank Top station, after escorting the Prince to the Royal train; they would be making their entrance at any moment. Someone cleared their throat close behind her. She turned to see Bill, looking at her apologetically.

'Sorry, Jem,' he mumbled, 'but Father insists that you join us. He wants to offer his congratulations to our hosts with his family around him. Or so he says.'

Jemima acquiesced absently, without a fight, her mind trying to a.s.similate this discovery into what she already knew. It was about the Crimea. It was about these two newspapermen and what had happened between them there; but it was also somehow about her father and the Norton Foundry, and that expedition to Balaclava where her husband had perished. There could be little doubt that Mr Cracknell had a reason for being in Manchester. What precisely it was, however, and what he planned to do, she could only speculate.

Mr Kitson bade her farewell. She looked up, setting her troubling reflections aside. They shared a despondent glance, realising that they would not see each other again that evening. Both knew that their friendship, which had seemed such a gloriously simple thing not half an hour before, was now beset with difficulty; but neither was deterred.

Mr Cracknell was busy introducing himself to a bemused Bill. Jemima took the street philosopher's hand in hers. 'Do not forget, Mr Kitson,' she said evenly. 'Three weeks' time. The Foundry's visit to the Exhibition.' Their fingers locked; she pressed her gloved thumb hard against the side of his hand.

Mr Cracknell, releasing Bill, moved himself back between them. 'Goodbye, Mrs James,' he said, his tone both jolly and dismissive. 'A real pleasure to talk with you, madam.'

Charles Norton watched his children cross the ballroom, wishing they would move faster and put more distance between themselves and the two miscreants at the French windows.

Mr Twelves had made his first report the previous night. The investigator had revealed that this Kitson was a street philosopher with the Evening Star Evening Star, resident in the city for under a year, his previous whereabouts uncertain. Despite the social character of his work, he had few acquaintances or contacts, preferring to treat his topic in more general terms. He was highly regarded by his peers, though, and appreciated by the Star' Star's readers; circulation had doubled since his addition to its staff.

'I've read 'im myself, from time to time,' Twelves had commented slyly. 'All flash and banter, but a good deal better than the rest o' that miserable organ.'

More pertinently, it transpired that Kitson had not been Wray's attacker on Sat.u.r.day night, as the Major's note had suggested, but rather the opposite. And afterwards, apparently, the fellow had sat in Norton's own office as Wray was taken up to the Infirmary, drinking his brandy at the invitation of his meddlesome daughter; she had not, of course, thought to mention any of this to him herself. Norton had listened with growing confusion, none the wiser as to what it was about Kitson that had prompted such panic in Wray.

Then, at the opening ceremony, he had been talking with Colonel Bennettthe 25th had just taken a consignment of undress belts made with Norton bucklesand had learned that the Colonel had obtained Kitson an invitation to the Fairbairns' ball. It had brought him no little pleasure to inform Bennett that he had asked a street philosopher from a notorious local rag into the house of the most powerful family in Manchester. The Colonel had turned quite pale.

At the Polygon, he had kept his eyes peeled for this person, confident that so modest a character would be easy to spot. He had cursed when he located the man deep in conversation with his daughter. They were doubtlessly building on the acquaintance they had formed in his Mosley Street office. It was typical of Jemima to form a.s.sociations that would cause him the utmost inconvenience or embarra.s.sment. Charles remembered her marriage, how she hadon purpose, it seemed to himselected the most argumentative and b.l.o.o.d.y minded of his managers to be her husband; and how much more outspoken Anthony James had become after their union. James and his forthright opinions had almost cost Norton the greatest chance of his life, in fact. Fortune, thankfully, had intervened.

This Kitson did not look like much of a menace, though. He had the bearing of an impoverished scholar, or a poet perhaps; Norton had expected someone a little more rascally. It was hard to think of this cerebral sort as one who necessitated the attentions of Mr Twelves.

But then the Irishman had joined them and the true nature of the situation was revealed. Everything suddenly made sense. Despite his innocuous appearance, this Kitson was an accomplice of Richard Cracknell, formerly of the London London Courier Courier, a disgraced and very dangerous man. Norton knew Cracknell well; earlier in the year, he had made a desperate nuisance of himself at the Foundry's London sales office. It had taken the intervention of the police to deter him from his activities. He was an undoubted enemy of the company, and could only be in Manchester to make further trouble. Mr Twelves would have to be informedNorton's visitor was arriving in a matter of weeks, and this disturbance had to be resolved by then.

After dispatching Bill to reclaim Jemima from these undesirables, Norton summoned a pair of footmen from the hall, and voiced a suspicion that the bearded man by the French windows was present without an invitation. They bowed, and went to consult with the butler.

His offspring arrived before him. Bill, as usual, looked ridiculous, his waistcoat patterned with golden oriental dragons, his necktie an ostentatious shade of plum. The lad imagines that he is a new Lord Byron, Norton thought ill-temperedlya Regency buck in search of profligate adventure. Did he not realise that this was a different age, an age of industry and pious discipline? Well, no matter, the labour-lord told himself; he will be made to see it soon enough.

Jemima's brow was furrowed, as if she was deep in thought of a disquieting nature. Charles felt his responsibility towards his widowed daughter keenly, but she made it impossible for him to behave as a kind father should. She was so fractious and deceptive, concealing so much and doing whatever she could to undermine him; and now she was openly fraternising with his enemies. It would stop. He dreaded to think what that deranged rogue Cracknell might have told her.

'You and I will speak, Jemima,' he said sternly.

Before she could respond, Thomas Fairbairn was announced. Everyone turned towards the main doors that led out into the hall; and the chairman entered in the most lordly manner, graciously accepting the congratulations that erupted all around him. Norton beamed, his fears momentarily forgotten, and raised his applauding hands.

'We are being scrutinised,' Cracknell shouted over the uproar, indicating a huddle of conferring servants. 'I propose we go outside.'

They left through the French windows. The night was cool and quiet after the hot crush of the ballroom. Cracknell strolled towards the bal.u.s.trade, his shoes clacking on the stone terrace, looking out at the stand of silvery oak trees that bordered the garden.

'Well, that was most amusing, wasn't it?' he declared. 'Did you notice how I guessed that you had not told her about your time in the Crimea, Thomas? Perspicacious, no?'

Kitson strode over to Cracknell and grasped hold of his arm. 'You stabbed Wray, didn't you? Deliberately close to my lodgings, so I would hear?'

Cracknell grinned as he shook Kitson off. 'Is that what you were brooding over in there, whilst your she-lion mauled me so savagely? I salute your courage, my friend; these northern fillies have a flintiness about them that is rather frightening.' He lit a cigarette. 'I think she got a taste though, don't you? Something to chew on, at least. She seems the chewing type, does the widow.'

Kitson glared at him, still barely able to believe that he was being forced to battle against this person once more. 'Where is this leading, Cracknell? What is this all-consuming interest in Charles Norton?'

The cigarette made Cracknell cough hard. 'Ye G.o.ds,' he wheezed, 'all these b.l.o.o.d.y questions, Thomas. I had no idea that you were so d.a.m.ned ignorant. All will be revealed in time, don't you worry. Just be sure to visit the Exhibition as soon as you are able, and know this.' He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and then said offhandedly, 'Boyce is coming.'

'Boyce? To Manchester?' To Manchester?'