Ashes and Ink | eBook

Birmingham, September 1904

A nicotine-stained finger jabbed accusingly at Felix. ‘You lied to me, Stoner.’

This was what bothered John Cracknell most, Felix Stoner realised as he stared morosely at a dark knothole in a floorboard while the editor paced the room. Cracknell was upset not because The Mercury’s reputation had been damaged, that the story he had been persuaded to run had lacked integrity. He was upset because after nearly four decades of believing himself the shrewdest newspaperman in the city, he had fallen for Felix’s bluff.

‘You had proof, you said,’ Cracknell went on, slamming his hand down on a stack of newspapers, making the scraps of paper on the front-page mock-up on his desk flutter off and land on the floor. ‘“I can back it all up, boss.” That’s what you told me.’

‘And I could have done,’ Felix said, ‘if my informants had kept their word and gone on the record.’

‘You get them on the record before you come to me. You know that, Stoner.’

‘There wasn’t time. Everyone was losing interest and Carmichael and Wolfe would have got away with it.’ Felix snorted in frustration. Why was he using the past tense? Would have? They had got away with it!

‘Admit it, Stoner,’ Cracknell said. ‘There was no story, just a lot of talk. You had no proof those two were guilty of anything.’

Felix held up his left hand, fingers splayed and counted off the digits. Forefinger. ‘Unsanitary waste conditions, endangering the health of their workers and the public at large.’ Middle finger. ‘Children forced to go in between the machines to clean while they were still running.’ Third finger. ‘Dangerous parts of the machinery not fenced in to be made safe.’ Fourth finger. ‘Inadequate ventilation injurious to—’

‘All right, all right.’ Cracknell waved at him to shut up. ‘You’ve made your point. But I’ve made mine, I hope. You had no proof. It doesn’t matter what you think you know. We’re not a scandal sheet. We’re a respectable newspaper.’ He returned to his chair. It squeaked as his body sank into the leather, polished to a shine by his ample backside over many years. ‘Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve caused?’ He picked out The Birmingham Times from the pile of newspapers and tossed it across the desk to Felix. ‘That,’ he said, pointing at an article that took up a quarter of the page, ‘is an open letter Councillor Hutchison has written to every one of our competitors urging people to boycott this newspaper. Our circulation’s already down.’

Felix pushed the newspaper aside. ‘Councillor Hutchison is one of Carmichael’s cronies. He’s doing what Carmichael told him to do.’

Cracknell sighed. ‘You just won’t admit you got it wrong, will you?’

‘I didn’t get it wrong,’ Felix insisted. ‘Carmichael is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. I dug into his background, right back to his childhood, and—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. I listened to you before and look where it got me.’ Cracknell leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ‘You know what’s coming next, don’t you?’

Felix knew, but he wasn’t about to make it easy for the editor. He said nothing.

‘I have to let you go,’ Cracknell said. ‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’

Yes, there it was. Felix’s fists clenched on his knees. ‘I’ve been at this newspaper for twenty-three years,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I gave up Fleet Street for here. I’ve given this ’paper the best years of my life.’

Cracknell held up his hand. ‘This comes from above, Stoner. It’s not my decision.’

‘Did you voice a protest? Or did you just say, “Yes sir. Three bags full, sir? Glad to get rid of him, sir. He’s been a thorn in my side for years.”’

‘Enough!’ Cracknell yelled. ‘Now, you’re pushing your luck with me.’

‘What luck?’ Felix scoffed. ‘I’m out on my arse, thanks to you.’

‘No. Thanks to you. You did this, Stoner. No one else.’

Felix shook his head. ‘Carmichael did this. This is him getting back at me. What are the odds our beloved proprietor and Carmichael are members of the same club?’

Cracknell gave an exasperated snort. ‘If you could hear yourself! If they did club together, do you think I would have been allowed to run the story in the first place?’

Felix’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m a good reporter,’ he insisted.

‘You were a good reporter,’ Cracknell corrected. ‘You haven’t had a scoop in years.’

Oh, you sod, Felix thought, even though he knew Cracknell was right. But that was why the Carmichael and Wolfe story had been so important. The story would have turned everything around, put him back at the top of the tree, made him the reporter other journalists wanted to be like, just as it had been in the good old days before Kate had left and everything went wrong.

‘You never know, this might be for the best,’ Cracknell went on. ‘A change is as good as a rest, so they say. You could try your hand at something else.’

‘At what? I only know how to be a reporter.’

‘Not in this town,’ Cracknell said with a shake of his head. ‘Word’s gone round. None of the city ’papers will touch you with a barge pole. Unless it’s to put you on Obituaries.’ He grinned, but the smirk dropped off his face as he caught Felix’s eye. Clearing his throat, Cracknell waved his hand at the door. ‘Clear your desk, Stoner, and get out of here. I’m busy. I’ve got to write an apology and retraction for the evening edition.’

Felix swallowed down the sick feeling and rose, heading for the door. His hand rested on the doorknob, unable to turn it until he’d said one last word. Turning back to Cracknell and addressing the bald spot on the editor’s head, he said, ‘I am right about Carmichael. He’s rotten to the core.’

‘So what if you are?’ Cracknell said, not even bothering to look up. ‘No one cares, Stoner. No one but you.’