The Street Philosopher (35 page)

‘Quite,’ Pierce agreed loyally. ‘Someone should publish the details of how
he
conducts himself. See how his precious reputation looks then.’

The determination to act was setting hard in Boyce’s mind. ‘Does anyone know where he is?’

His officers glanced at each other. ‘Balaclava’s our best guess,’ said Pierce. ‘He didn’t show at the Quarries for some reason, but today’s action might draw him out.’

Boyce looked around at the hundreds hurrying through the camp of the Light Division to their appointed posts. He straightened his jacket; the sketches rustled slightly against his chest.

‘Go to the men,’ he ordered. ‘I will join you shortly. There is something that requires my attention.’

Madeleine could not sleep. Pulling her sheets around her, she had moved to the chair by the window, and was watching the columns of soldiers trudging along the murky road outside the farmhouse. This movement of troops had been going on for some time now; she knew that the Guardsmen that were then filing past were part of the reserve force. Those unfortunate enough to be at the front of the attack would already be in place. She prayed ardently that the sun would stay down, that the day would not arrive, that the great assault would not begin, that hundreds of those men who had marched past her window would not soon be sent out to meet horrible deaths. But the light of the coming morning could just be made out, colouring the clear sky along the very edge of the horizon.

Annabel would be at the door of the Boyces’ farmhouse at five o’clock, ready to head towards the battlefield. Madeleine was dreading the purposeful knocks that would summon her forth to the hospital tents of the Middle Ravine. Since the supply lines had improved, and the provision of food and clothing to the soldiers had ceased to be such a serious issue, her indefatigable companion had decided that it was best that they redirect their energies towards providing medical assistance. Madeleine had grown accustomed to dishing out soup, or woollen hats, or cheese; but she was certainly not accustomed to nursing writhing, sweating, bleeding men, some torn open or missing limbs, who forced
out their last words in terrifying, frenzied barks, and grabbed at her with all their strength. It was too much for her to bear. She often had to excuse herself and return to her bed. Weeping between the cold sheets, she would imagine Richard being brought to her in the Ravine, his innards unwinding bloodily into her arms, and there being nothing that she could do to save him.

It was the uncertainty that particularly tormented her. The weeks since he had departed were slowly mounting up into months. No word was sent as to his new location. Desolation crept into Madeleine; a dark part of her began to believe that he would never return, that she was stranded with no hope of release. Her last sight of him had been from this very window. It had been early morning. Nathaniel, returning from the trenches, had just slammed the front door behind him. Richard had been racing from the farmyard, as he had done so many times before, half-dressed with his arms full of clothing, leaving a trail of frosty breath behind him in the chill February air. What had happened to him after this, after he had vanished behind the yard’s dry-stone wall, she could not say.

He was still the
Courier’s
Crimean correspondent, of course. Nathaniel would not allow the journal in the house, but on her wanderings with Annabel she occasionally came across a copy. Annabel, reading it, would shake her head, and say a few curt words about the recklessness and arrogance of this ‘Tomahawk’s’ style. Madeleine would at first give ardent thanks that he was still alive, that he did not lie in a mass grave somewhere. A moment later she would succumb to misery as her morose confusion at his absence deepened yet further. Seeing her distress, Annabel would pat her arm with rough sympathy and tell her that the scapegrace was supremely unworthy of her affections. This did not help.

It was an impossible mystery. Madeleine had no option but to go on, avoiding her husband and his tortures as best she could, moping along beside Annabel, longing for Richard. Since his disappearance, she found that many aspects of the war that she had previously been able to endure had become
quite overwhelming. Every stuttering of rifle fire, every stray shot from the Russian artillery, made her want to cry aloud with despair as she imagined, with startling clarity, bullets cutting into her lover’s body, and the ground exploding under him–casting him into a ditch, where he would perish in agony, her name upon his lips.

Madeleine’s surprise, therefore, when Richard Cracknell suddenly came into view, trotting alongside the column of Guardsmen, was so great that she felt as if it might stop her heart where she sat. She blinked and stared, her mouth falling open.

He looked well, very different from the half-starved, mud-splattered, mortally injured hero of her desolate fancy; he looked prosperous, in fact, well dressed in a new overcoat, peaked cap and boots, and even a little plumper than he had been in the Spring. Wherever he had been, he had taken good care of himself. Madeleine leapt joyfully to her feet, the bed-sheets falling around her. He was coming back. They were going to Spain at last, as he had promised. At any moment, he would leave the column and head towards the farmhouse door, towards a blissful reunion after a lengthy, dismal separation. She clutched her hands before her breast, tense with anticipation.

But he kept on going. She watched the striding figure in absolute disbelief. He was not coming to meet her, to take her in his arms and rescue her from this place. He was going on to the front, to risk his life needlessly once again, for the sake of his magazine.

Madeleine went cold, her hands falling slowly to her sides. Thoughts she had never dared even to entertain dropped into her mind with the awful, leaden certainty of truth. Richard had deliberately chosen to stay away for all this time. He had most probably been nearby, lying low, avoiding her. He had cut her loose without a word–discarded her as one might leave an unwanted newspaper on the seat of an omnibus.

She was not aware of having left the farmhouse or crossing the yard. The next sensation she registered was the coarse weave of Richard’s new coat between her fingertips as she
took hold of its sleeve and pulled him off to the side of the road. Together, they lurched down a gentle slope. She dragged him behind a ruined outhouse. Some of the Guardsmen, seeing this, let out lewd whistles.

They did not kiss, or embrace, or even touch. She released his sleeve as soon as she could. Richard did not seem particularly surprised at her sudden appearance. For a moment, his face was expressionless; then he smiled, and reached out a hand towards her.

She dodged it as if it were a bayonet. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked coldly.

‘Look at you, Maddy,’ he murmured softly. ‘Out here in your petticoats.’

Madeleine ignored this. She repeated her question. Three feet of empty space gaped between them. The sound of tramping boots drifted over from the road.

Richard let out a condescending sigh, as if her behaviour was somehow irrational. ‘Over in Balaclava, that’s all. Writing my reports.’

She glared at him in astonishment, feeling her tenuous composure slipping away. ‘Writing your reports,’ she echoed flatly. ‘What about me, Richard? What about our love?’

He seemed to be considering reaching out for her again; but the violent anger gathering in her eyes deterred him. ‘Maddy, it was growing dangerous for both of us. You must admit this. Your husband was poised to act. There was talk—’

‘
Talk
?’ she spluttered incredulously. ‘You said–you said you would risk anything to be with me–that you
loved me
. You said it many times, Richard. What is Nathaniel, next to that?
Il
n’est
rien–rien de tout
!’

‘Calm yourself, for God’s sake.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I–I would have come for you, when the time was right. Taken you to Andalusia. I still will.’ And then, after a pause, he smiled at her again, an expression clearly intended to convey rueful longing. ‘I missed you, Maddy. By God, how I bloody missed you.’

Glowering, Madeleine looked back at him, studying his face. It had changed; something was deeply, deeply wrong.
Her Richard was gone. This person before her was a charlatan, an impostor, playing his part with a terrible lack of conviction.

‘You are
lying
,’ she said, her voice trembling with fury and anguish. ‘You are a liar, a wretched liar. How could you leave me in this place for so long, without a word? Have you no notion of what I have endured in these past months?’

‘Maddy, come now…’

The first sob almost doubled her up; she thought she might be sick, so tight and hard was the convulsion. ‘I have been deserted,’ she managed to cry, gulping for air, ‘oh, I have been cast aside!’

Her defences down, Richard managed to take hold of her. ‘Maddy, my girl,’ he said firmly. ‘You have grown overexcited. Go back to the cottage, this instant. I must continue on to the front now, but I will come to you after the battle. We can discuss this then.’

She writhed with all her strength, trying to free herself from his arms. ‘I do not believe you! You are a
liar
!’ Realising that she could not escape, she clutched his coat tightly, sinking her nails into the fabric. ‘I stayed out here for you,’ she hissed, their faces close. ‘Out here in
hell
. I risked my life. Did this mean nothing to you
at all
?’

Overbalancing in this desperate clinch, they staggered to one side. Madeleine’s bare foot caught on a root; she stumbled, losing her grip and collapsing to the ground.

Richard managed to remain upright. His cheeks were flushed. ‘Return to the cottage, Madeleine,’ he instructed tersely. ‘We will talk later.’

Then he turned back in the direction of the advancing columns, rounding the corner of the outhouse, leaving her sight for ever.

For a while, she lay where she had fallen, in a pool of splayed petticoats, looking up at the fading stars, feeling the tears dry on her face. Then she rose and walked back numbly to the farmhouse, drawing curious stares from the trickle of soldiers that still moved along the road to the front. She passed the glowing window where, only ten minutes earlier, she had sat dreaming fretfully of the
chance of being reunited with her lost love; not knowing then that he was not lost at all but false, false to his very core.

Nathaniel was standing by the hearth in his trench uniform. He held some worn sheets of paper in his hands.

Kitson opened the flap of the
Courier
tent and peered inside. It was empty, but the smoking wood-pile at its centre and a strong odour of fresh sweat suggested that it had recently been occupied. He entered carefully.

Miss Wade followed a moment later, her lips pursed and her fists clenched, as if ready to help with the restraining of a writhing madman–ready to bind him with stout rope and have him hauled off to Bedlam. She was visibly disappointed to discover that such assistance was not necessary. Kitson quickly checked the shadowy corners of the tent, soon moving back into the light of the guttering fire.

‘Heavens above, would you look at this place!’ the Scotswoman muttered. ‘If ever proof of derangement were needed, Mr Kitson, this clammy den would certainly suffice.’

Kitson walked to the desk and surveyed the drawings that covered it. ‘Styles has certainly been busy,’ he said quietly. ‘It would seem that he has—’ He stopped dead. There was an old hip-flask at the edge of the smouldering fire-pit, standing in the dust like a tiny gravestone. ‘Cracknell was here. This night.’

Miss Wade shook her head. ‘No, that scoundrel’s been gone for almost as long as yourself, sir–as I told you. He’s still writing his grand-standing nonsense for the
Courier
, but he’s departed from the front.’

Kitson looked at her. ‘I’m afraid I must disagree, Miss Wade. He has returned, for this great assault I suspect. And
despite everything, it would appear that he’s come to claim Styles as a companion for his mission.’ This scenario, although terrible to consider, was the only one he could entertain. ‘They must be stopped. I have to find them.’

Kitson’s hard conviction was causing Miss Wade to doubt herself. He could tell that her thoughts were turning to Madeleine Boyce–to the new threat that the return of Cracknell posed to her young friend. ‘I shall go to the Boyces’ farmhouse,’ she declared, starting for the tent flaps. ‘This very minute.’

As Kitson made to follow, a ferocious din started up outside, from the direction of Sebastopol–an enormous clamour of voices backed with the crackle of musketry. Emerging into the crisp dawn air, he saw Mrs Seacole standing in her stirrups, her blue feather bobbing as she strained to make herself as tall as possible in order to see over the surrounding tent-tops. The next second, there was a sequence of loud blasts, issuing from the Allied lines. The battle was starting, but they all knew at once that the plan had gone seriously awry.

‘Good Lord, my dears,’ proclaimed Mrs Seacole, ‘I do believe that the Russians are attacking
us
.’

There were no lights at any of the farmhouse’s windows. Annabel reached into her bag of supplies and drew out the clasp-knife she had secured there some weeks earlier for the purpose of protection. It occurred to her that Cracknell might be inside with Madeleine right now, leading her into further sin, subjecting her to his foul usage. She lifted her knife, thinking that maybe, if this was indeed the case, she would permit herself to cut him a little for the good of his soul.

The front door was ajar. She eased it open with her palm, the hinges squealing as it swung back to reveal a scene of disorder. Several chairs had been smashed, and the parlour table knocked on to its side. Annabel caught her breath.

It had to be Styles. Mr Kitson was wrong–he was not at the front at all. He must have forced his way in, and embarked on an orgy of destruction. Perhaps Madeleine had chased him off, and then gone for help; or perhaps she lay
hidden and trembling beneath a bed, whilst the madman stalked the house searching for her with evil mischief in mind. Annabel gripped her blade, asking God for courage.

‘Madeleine?’ she called out, her voice strong and clear. ‘Madeleine? It’s me. Don’t be alarmed. It’s just Annabel.’

No one answered. Annabel edged forward through the gloomy room, knife first, her feet dragging through fragments of chair and pieces of broken crockery, expecting at any moment that a stooped form would lunge at her from the shadows, a savage cry on its foaming, poisonous lips. She cursed the choices she had made. Why had she gone to the British Hotel? Why had she wasted so much time listening to that strange Mrs Seacole witter on? Madeleine had needed help–and where had she been?

‘Styles,’ she said, putting some steel into her tone, ‘Styles, if you’re in here, you show yourself right this minute. Styles, you demon, if you’ve hurt her…’

Outside, in the distance, the sounds of battle were escalating, but the small farmhouse seemed quiet and empty. Annabel advanced into its narrow hall.
In God I trust
, she mouthed silently, her heart thumping;
I will not be afraid.
What can man do to me
? Only one door was open, the doorway seeming bright in the surrounding darkness. It was the door to Madeleine’s bedroom.

Through the bedroom window, as she approached, Annabel could see a deep blue sky, still tinted by night, flashing with shell-fire and signal rockets. The room itself was neat and orderly, at least compared with the parlour. Indeed, the only possible sign of any discord was the stripped bed, its sheets piled loosely on a chair by the window. Annabel almost relaxed, her knife lowering a little.

Then she saw the foot.

It was naked, waxy white and quite lifeless, sticking out from underneath a brown woollen blanket, just past the end of the bedstead. Annabel’s clasp-knife clattered to the floorboards as she rushed, staggering, into the room. Dark stains dappled the blanket; Annabel felt the dragging weight of wet cloth as she tore it back. Madeleine lay on the floor, her arms folded neatly in her lap. She was staring blankly towards
the window. Blood saturated her petticoats, and pooled over the boards around her. Into it were pressed several sheets of sketching paper, entirely soaked and crumbling apart, whatever had once been drawn upon them obliterated.

Annabel dropped down into the blood, slipping in it a little as she lifted Madeleine up, trying vainly to support her lolling head, and whispering her name frantically; then, after only a couple of seconds, her desperate hope suddenly disappeared, and she abandoned her friend to death. A ragged, sobbing sigh burst out of her lips. She hugged Madeleine with all her strength, the dead girl’s arms poking out stiffly from her tight embrace.

A moment later, Annabel looked around her with savage fury, half-expecting the murderer still to be in the room, hiding behind the door or lurking over by the wash-stand. No one was there. She was quite alone. Her anger faltered; she tried to make herself search for some definite indication of who had done this–to study Madeleine’s wounds and the area where she lay. But her dear young friend, cradled in her arms, was so terribly cold. She could not think.

Bowing her head, Annabel attempted to pray, to beg Almighty God for strength and understanding. This too, however, was utterly beyond her. There was no consolation to be had on that bloody bedroom floor. Her Madeleine, her beautiful, precious Madeleine, was lost.