‘Someone was saying last night that he’s sent a letter to the newspapers.’

  ‘He did.’ Simon handed it to her and waited as she read.

  ‘We both understand his idea of justice.’

  ‘Then I need to find him before he dispenses it. He had influential friends before, you remember?’

  ‘Of course. But even they couldn’t stop his transportation.’

  ‘Seven years was the lowest sentence the judge could give.’

  Her expression hardened. ‘What are you trying to say, Mr Westow? Spit it out.’

  ‘I believe it was arranged. Money probably changed hands to make sure White had an easy time over there. He had someone looking after his affairs while he was gone.’

  That made her pay attention. ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Crookshank’s name hadn’t been on the list of clients she’d given him. ‘But that doesn’t sound like someone who never expects to return, does it?’

  ‘No,’ she agreed.

  ‘And he’s visited this man a few times since he’s been back in Leeds. His important friends didn’t all desert him after his arrest.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Why?’

  ‘He has a hold over them.’

  ‘Then you’d think they’d be glad to see him go.’

  ‘Maybe they were,’ Simon said. ‘But he’s back now and he’s staying with one of them, out of sight.’

  ‘I see.’ She began to pace about the room, arms folded tightly around herself. ‘Then what do we do now?’

  ‘I need you to ask the men who come here if they’ve seen him, if they know where he might be.’

  ‘You’ve no idea at all?’

  ‘I’d hardly have come otherwise,’ he said quietly.

  She stopped and stared at him. ‘What will you do when you find him?’

  ‘I’ll see that he hangs.’

  ‘It would be better to kill him. Make sure there’s no escape.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘He’s a kidnapper and an extortionist. That’s enough to see him on the gallows.’

  ‘Has he done that?’ she asked in surprise, then pursed her lips. ‘It’s strange I never heard about it. Was that why you wanted my list?’

  ‘Yes. Before I knew who was behind it.’

  ‘But you won’t kill him.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not unless I have to.’

  She gave a bitter smile. ‘Principles and morals. They don’t seem to belong in your profession.’

  ‘That’s who I am.’

  ‘If ever he comes here, I’ll murder him myself.’ She nodded towards the fields beyond the window. ‘Bury him out there.’

  ‘You’ll ask your clients about him?’

  She nodded. ‘I will.’

  Simon heard the servant bolt the door behind him. Lizzie Henry was a woman terrified for her life.

  There was one other person to see while he was dressed in his good clothes. The constable. It was a name rather than a job. A position. All the ceremony and the money that went with the post, but none of the work. Cecil Freeman had been part of the council long enough to earn the sop, a nest to gild his retirement. He supervised the watch, old men who covered the different wards of Leeds and hobbled a mile rather than risk a fight. It was no wonder a thief-taker could make a good living.

  He found Freeman in his office at the Moot Hall, dictating to a clerk.

  ‘Go,’ he said as Simon entered. ‘Write that up in a good hand and leave it for me to sign.’ Once they were alone, he said, ‘What brings the honour of a visit from Mr Westow? It must be something important if he’s deigning to see the law.’

  ‘Julius White.’

  The constable leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. He was an old man, a face of sagging jowls with fine, wild hair on his head, more sprouting from his ears and his eyebrows.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s back in Leeds.’

  ‘What of it? As long as he received a full pardon in Australia for his crimes, there’s no reason he shouldn’t return.’

  Simon placed the letter on the desk. ‘Read that.’

  Freeman looked at the letter. ‘I’ll ask you again, Mr Westow, what about it? From anything in here, he might well be starting proceedings in court.’

  ‘You know better than that.’

  ‘I know what I can see.’ His voice was cold. ‘If you have a complaint against Mr White, swear it out with a magistrate. If you don’t, I have more pressing business than talking to a thief-taker. Good day to you.’

  There’d never been any love lost between them. Freeman loved his title and the small trappings of office. He was pleased to serve out his time and pocket the bribes and offerings that came his way. Weak, venal and useless.

  Outside, on the street, he gazed around. People going about their business, a pickpocket moving slyly among the crowds and trying his luck. As he passed the Leadenhall abattoir off Vicar Lane, he heard the rhythmic thud of cleavers and smelled the iron stink of blood. A butcher’s boy came out, weighed down by a flank of beef.

  Time to go home and into his proper clothes. He wasn’t made to be a dandy.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘You have another note,’ Rosie said as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. She lifted the lid on a pan. Steam rose in a cloud around her. ‘Milner’s man brought it.’

  Simon broke the seal. It was terse, written in a firm, sure hand, the signature an illegible scrawl.

  To date, I’ve heard nothing from you about White or my money. I had higher hopes of you after your initial failure, but you have let me down once more. Time is running out for you to achieve a result that satisfies me.

  ‘He’s not pleased with my work,’ Simon said.

  Rosie wiped her hand on her apron and pushed a strand of hair off her face. Her skin was pink and shining from the heat.

  ‘Let me see.’ He heard the anger bubble in her face. ‘A result that satisfies him? Who does he think he is? We haven’t made a penny off him.’

  ‘He believes it’s my fault he lost his thousand.’

  ‘Next thing, he’ll be blaming you if it rains.’ She tossed the letter on the table. ‘I notice he didn’t mention his daughter.’

  ‘Did you honestly think he would? She’s a commodity. People only bother about them if they’re damaged.’

  ‘He’d better not show his face round here.’

  Simon laughed. ‘I don’t think you need to worry. He’d never lower himself.’

  ‘He threatened to destroy you. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s just words. What can he do? Things will always be stolen, and people are going to pay to have them back.’

  ‘I daresay.’ She pressed herself against him and sighed. ‘I’ll still feel better about everything when White’s on the gibbet.’

  ‘So will I.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘We’ll see if Jane’s friend has a good word tomorrow. I need to be out again tonight.’

  ‘Mam,’ a voice called from the yard. ‘Richard’s got his foot stuck in something.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘If I were you, I’d go now.’

  Jane caught the smell of roasting meat as she entered the old blacking factory. Whatever they’d caught sizzled in small strips on the fire.

  ‘You were here the other day,’ a woman said, looking up. ‘I remember you. You were looking for someone.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She sat next to the woman, feeling the cold ground beneath her. Soon enough it would penetrate her flesh and leave her chilled. But at least there was a roof of sorts here. A covering, even with some of the tiles missing. When Jane glanced up she could see tiny squares of night sky.

  ‘Did you ever find him?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m after someone else now.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ The woman wore a dazed look, as if she saw the world through a veil. When she turned her head to ask the question, Jane smelled the gin on her breath.

  ‘Someone who might have been here. He was looking to hire people.’

  The woman snorted. ‘Don’t be daft. No one’s going to come here to do that.’

  ‘Maybe someone did.’

  The woman shrugged and licked grease from her fingers. Jane wandered around the fire, asking her questions. The people were tired and dulled. Hunger did that. Scrabbling to hold on to life wore you out. Existence drained you.

  Finally she found an old man with milky eyes who nodded at her question.

  ‘I remember.’ He scratched what remained of his hair. ‘A man came. A few nights back. Three? Four? I don’t remember.’

  She pounced on his reply. ‘What was he like? Did you see him?’

  ‘I don’t see anything too well these days, luv.’ He offered a gentle smile. ‘Not like I did. Used to be I could pick out a hawk on a hill a mile away … I heard him, though. He had a strange voice.’

  ‘Strange?’

  The man thought before he answered. ‘It were like he were from Leeds but there was something else in it, too. Summat I didn’t know.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He were looking for that lad as looks like a weasel. Seemed to know he was often here.’

  ‘Did he ask for him by name?’

  ‘He did. But the lad weren’t around. Sorry, luv, that’s it.’

  ‘Never mind.’ She pressed a penny into his palm and wrapped his fingers around it.

  ‘There was summat else,’ he added slowly. ‘It’s just come back into me head. He said the boy could leave a message for him at the Old George. To talk to the landlord.’

  Another two pennies in his palm, and it was worth it.

  ‘Find yourself a bed for the night,’ Jane told him. ‘Somewhere warmer than this.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, lass,’ he said. ‘I’ll be reet. But thank you.’

  She had a link. Jane smiled to herself as she walked. From the Calls, she turned up Briggate. The whores stood at the entrances to the courts, looking bored behind their fans. The Old George stood halfway up the hill, windows brightly lit, voices and laughter spilling like a stream on to the street.

  She paused at the door then walked on. The landlord would take one look and order her out. Better if Simon talked to him. It would wait for the morning.

  By the time she turned on Boar Lane she knew someone was behind her. He was trying to tread lightly, but she could tell. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her skirt, fingers tight around the knife hilt.

  She heard him speed up, drawing closer as she reached Alfred Street. She vanished round the corner, then turned to face him, the blade hidden in her hand.

  He was dark-haired, wild-eyed and dirty. A big man in a tattered coat.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s dangerous for a girl to be out on her own at this time.’ His voice was low, the menace lurking behind his words. ‘You need someone to walk you home.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘You ought to be careful. Bad things might happen.’

  ‘You’ve said your piece. Now you can go.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He reached out and gripped her arm. Jane’s hand darted forward and suddenly he let go, as if his skin was burning. His fingers moved to his cheek, staring at her in horror as he felt the warm blood.

  ‘What d’you want to do that for?’

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll kill you.’ No anger in her voice; it was a statement of fact. He started to back away, still holding the flapping skin on his face.

  ‘Bitch,’ he shouted. ‘Whore.’ His boots echoed off the buildings as he ran.

  Maybe he’d think twice in future. But probably not. There were too many men who believed every girl owed them pleasure. She wiped the blade on her skirt and slid it back into her pocket.

  Simon saw her face in the light from the lamp. Pale, full of something he didn’t quite understand.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just tired,’ Jane answered as she sat on the bench. Rosie took brandy from a cupboard and poured a small glass.

  ‘Drink that,’ she ordered, and stood over her, hand on hips, until it was gone. ‘Better. There’s a little more colour in your cheeks now.’

  ‘I found something.’

  Simon listened, nodding his appreciation.

  ‘You’ve had a good day,’ he said when she finished. ‘Better than mine. It’s Zack Cartwright who runs the George. I’ll go and see him tomorrow.’

  ‘I want to go with you,’ Jane insisted.

  ‘After you’ve been up to that farm?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll get an early start.’

  ‘Something’s wrong with her,’ Simon said. He could hear Jane’s footsteps on the stairs to the attic.

  ‘Shock,’ Rosie replied. ‘That’s why I gave her brandy.’

  ‘Shock? Why? What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s not much we can do if she doesn’t want to tell us.’

  ‘By now, you’d think—’

  ‘No, Simon. It’s up to her. You know what she’s like. You can’t force it.’

  He sighed and nodded. ‘Come on, we might as well go to bed, too.’

  But first he made sure the doors and shutters were properly barred.

  Rain had swept through during the night, and the wind felt more like February than April. Her hair whipped around her head. Jane had goose pimples on her arms as she climbed the hill, hugging the shawl close. Mud from the path clung to her boots.

  It was warmer in the stable. Josh was sitting in the corner, close to a small brazier, eating something from a steaming bowl.

  ‘You look perished.’

  ‘Chilly outside,’ she said. ‘Worse up here.’

  ‘Sit down.’ He pushed the bowl at her. ‘Eat this, it’ll warm you up.’

  The small warmth of the fire began to seep into her bones and the porridge filled her belly.

  ‘Did you talk to your farm girl?’

  ‘I told you I would. I rode over.’ He glanced towards the horses. ‘They needed exercising, anyway. She said the master had someone staying, but he left the day before yesterday.’

  ‘What he was like?’

  ‘Emily only saw him twice. Just in passing. But he had dark skin, like he’d been in the sun for a long time. Years, maybe.’

  White. It had to be. She felt a quickening in her blood.

  ‘Where was he going? Did she say?’

  ‘Emily said he rode down towards Leeds.’ He looked at her, his gaze serious. ‘You need to watch yourself. She said there was something about him. It scared her.’

  ‘No need to worry about me.’

  ‘I know, but …’ He stared down at his feet.

  ‘And there’s Simon.’

  Before she left, he took an old riding coat from a peg.

  ‘Take this,’ Josh said. ‘It’ll keep you warm. You might as well have it. No one wears it, anyway.’

  The coat was big, far too large for her, and smelled of horses and straw. There were rips and patches, the hem swept close to her ankles and she needed to turn the sleeves back twice over her wrists. As she walked back to town, at least the wind didn’t cut through to her skin. Better than before, she thought with a smile.

  ‘So White’s probably back in town after staying with that farmer – what did you say his name was?’

  They walked down Swinegate towards Leeds Bridge.

  ‘Hawley.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll go and have a word with him later.’ Simon turned the corner and they strode up Briggate, crossing the street to the Old George Hotel. Around them, the town was alive with shouts and cries, the carts and coaches that pushed relentlessly along the roads, and the perfume of soot in the air. ‘Pay attention in here. You need to watch Cartwright. He’s as oily as they come.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked at her. The new coat Jane had found was little better than a rag, still with the strong stink of a stable. It hung down near her feet and she was almost lost in it, but she wore it proudly.

  ‘He’ll tell anyone what he thinks they want to hear. Don’t believe a word he says unless he can prove it.’

  The kitchen was noisy, a clatter of pans, steam rising from a pan. A patch of grease shone on the floor. Simon talked to a sweating man in a shirt covered with stains. He pointed down a corridor.

  Zack Cartwright was in his office, a ledger open on the desk. It was a barren room, in need of a scrubbing, a dirty window showing the yard behind. Everything looked worn and weary, as if only habit held it all together. But the entire hotel had seen better days.

  ‘Mr Westow,’ the man said, smiling as he put down his pen and carefully closed the book in front of him. A doubtful nod to Jane. ‘Miss. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You keep messages for people here.’

  ‘We do,’ Cartwright said. ‘Show me a hotel that doesn’t. You know that.’

  ‘I hear Julius White has been using this place to receive mail.’

  ‘Julius White?’ The man’s face clouded. ‘Wasn’t he transported years ago?’

  Simon’s voice was filled with disappointment. ‘Zack, I can see the lie in your eyes.’ He shook his head. ‘I know you can do better than that. You’ve got to be capable of a few honest answers.’ He slammed his hand down hard on the desk. The pen and ledger jumped. ‘Even if I have to drag them out of you.’

  Cartwright flinched. Simon had dealt with him before. He was a weak man, a coward, too ready to please everyone, to find some favour. A show of force and he wilted.

  ‘He came in here two months ago and said he needed a place people could leave messages for him. I was surprised to see him.’

  ‘How much did he offer you?’

  ‘Two shillings a week.’

  ‘Zack …’ Simon warned.

  ‘Three shillings.’ The man corrected himself quickly. ‘That’s what I meant. And he warned me that if I told anyone he was in Leeds, he’d come and slit my throat.’

  That sounded closer to the truth.

  ‘Has he received many notes?’

  ‘A few.’ Simon said nothing, staring at him. ‘Honest, Mr Westow. Not many.’

  ‘When was the last one?’

  ‘Two days back. He collected it that afternoon. Nothing since then.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you happened to read the contents of those notes?’