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 blasé 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. 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 Wray–probably 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 God, I am not staying 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 associate–that 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?’
Embarrassed by his partner’s rebuff, Norton rose to his feet. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘I am leaving.’
5
Cracknell lay on his bed in the Model Lodging House, listening to the assortment of mechanics and junior clerks who also resided there maligning him through the thin partition walls. They complained about his airs; they moaned about how long he spent in the Model’s bathtub; they wondered what exactly he did all day, since he didn’t seem to have any manner of gainful employment. The Tomahawk sighed. Such a cruel descent mine has been, he thought. If only these blockheads knew who they maligned so freely! If only I could afford to be where I deserve!
Ten minutes later, with his usual sense of relief, he was heading across the Model’s fly-blown hallway towards the front door, brushing at his old hat as if the touch of his hand might magically restore the faded fabric. Nodding to the ghoul behind the