‘How’s Mrs Shields?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Much better.’ Jane smiled.

  ‘I’ll come to the house later.’

  ‘I told two of the children they could visit and see her,’ Jane said. ‘Seeing them might help her remember.’

  ‘I was out asking questions last night, too,’ Simon began, and told them about the few seconds the fight had lasted, the second man’s hesitation, watching the emotions cross Rosie’s face.

  ‘That stick was worth whatever you paid for it,’ he told her. ‘But I don’t know why they did it. Nobody had anything to tell me.’

  ‘They’re scared someone will talk,’ his wife said. ‘You have a reputation.’

  Once, perhaps. But that was before the stabbing almost killed him. Had it lingered? Was that why the other man had chosen not to fight?

  ‘I’ll try to find out who’s suddenly damaged his knee,’ he said. ‘If I can discover a name …’

  It would be their way into this.

  ‘Which knee was it?’ Jane asked.

  He thought for a second. ‘The left.’

  ‘I’ll ask the children to keep their eyes open for anyone limping badly,’ Jane said.

  It could be something. But there had to be hundreds like that in Leeds, he thought, from accidents in the factories and the streets.

  ‘How were they dressed?’ she asked.

  Simon tried to picture them in his mind. It was dark, he hadn’t been watching their clothes. Still … ‘Quite well, I think. Definitely not rags. The one who spoke had some education in his voice.’

  ‘Maybe Sally will recall some of her attackers’ faces when I ask. One of the boys thought he heard four men, maybe more.’

  ‘If she tells you anything …’ he began.

  ‘I’ll make sure you know.’ Then she was gone. Just Rosie sitting across from him, the boys beginning to stir upstairs.

  ‘Last night,’ she said.

  ‘I was lucky. I know that.’

  They went through it moment by moment, the quick blow, his gamble, everything he’d relived all through the night.

  ‘Luck runs out, Simon. You can’t rely on it forever,’ she said when his voice trailed away.

  ‘I know,’ he replied with a snort. ‘Believe me, I know that all too well. What else can I do? The only other option is to give it all up. Stop being a thief-taker. And what then?’

  They’d gone over that time and again during his long months of his recovery.

  Catherine Shields had been up early, eyes sparkling, still using her sticks but barely needing them, moving around the cottage quite steadily. Recovered, Jane thought with relief.

  Sally woke before the children appeared, blinking in the light. By the time they arrived, she’d eaten a little porridge, and Jane had gently washed the girl’s face and combed her tangle of hair.

  Hannah began to speak as soon as she was standing by the bed. Wilfred stayed a pace behind her, bashful and silent, eyes taking in everything in the room. Jane sat in the corner and watched carefully. Five minutes later she herded them outside again.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hannah gazed down at the ground. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘Now you can go and tell the others that Sally’s healing,’ she said. ‘You remember what I need you to do?’

  ‘We do,’ Wilfred replied.

  ‘There’s something more. A particular man.’ She gazed into their eyes as she described the injury, needing to be certain they understood. ‘His left knee. If you see him, follow him and send someone to fetch me.’

  She gave them a handful of coins, everything she had in her pocket. The children would eat today. Maybe it would make a difference. But this was only one day. What about all the others that stretched out ahead? She wasn’t Sally, she couldn’t look after them all.

  Inside, the girl had pushed herself up. Jane rushed to support her, to take the strain.

  ‘Are you sure you feel ready to sit up?’

  Readiness had nothing to do with it. Sally needed to prove something to herself. She breathed slowly, forcing everything down. ‘I have to.’

  ‘You don’t. Not yet. It’s going to take time …’

  ‘I have to find them.’

  ‘No.’ She surprised herself with the firmness of her voice. ‘You can’t even stand yet. We don’t know when you’ll be able to walk. You’re not ready.’

  ‘Soon,’ Sally promised. ‘Very soon. I want to find them.’

  Them. A perfect time for the question: ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Four.’ Suddenly, she frowned, looking doubtful. ‘I think it was four. There might have been another, too. It’s blurred.’

  ‘Can you remember any of it?’

  ‘Just …’ The silence stretched out before Sally quietly shook her head in frustration. ‘No. Only glimpses. Little flashes.’

  But that was a start. She remembered something. Jane had expected an emptiness, something pushed down too deep ever to return.

  ‘What about faces? Can you see any of them?’

  Sally’s eyes snapped wide, astonished by the memory. ‘Yes.’ She turned her head to look at Jane. ‘One of them. He was in the group that attacked. The one who vanished.’

  ‘Barton’s son?’ Jane asked in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word hissed out of her. Definite. Defiant. Her fingers began to explore her face. ‘I want to see what it looks like.’

  For a moment Jane considered refusing. Then she brought a small looking glass from the dresser and handed it to the girl. Sally stared for a long time; her expression showed nothing.

  ‘My nose. Did you …’

  ‘I put it back in place.’

  A nod, and she traced the cut on her cheek, up and down, up and down, before she returned the mirror.

  ‘That’s never going to disappear, is it?’

  What could she say? The girl already knew the truth.

  Suddenly Sally looked drained, as if her determination had been stolen away. Jane lowered her on to the pillow and Sally closed her eyes. She’d carry that scar for the rest of her days.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jane worked in the garden, the front door propped open with a brick to hear everything inside. Mrs Shields was busy in the kitchen, preparing a rabbit for the oven, as if she wanted to prove she’d completely shaken off her brief illness.

  She cut flowers and placed them in a basket, letting her thoughts linger on Andrew Barton. Had Sally really seen him or was it that the face remained in her mind from an earlier time?

  She’d find him and make sure of the truth. If he’d been involved, he’d hand her the other names. Jane wouldn’t give him the chance to refuse.

  As soon as Rosie arrived, she’d hurry away and tell Simon. He was searching too; he needed to know.

  She heard the footsteps on the other side of the wall, coming along Green Dragon Yard. Her hand slid to her pocket, curling around the handle of the knife. Old habits returning.

  But this was no danger. She raised the hand in greeting as Rosie appeared, looking like a grand lady paying her social visits in a dove-grey gown set off by a pale-yellow shawl and plumed hat.

  A moment to tell her everything and see her settled by the bed, then Jane asked, ‘Do you know where Simon was going?’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘Out asking questions. That’s all he told me.’

  She’d have to trust her senses, to see how sharp they were these days.

  It took Jane more than half an hour of prowling the streets, the sultry closeness in the air leaving her skin damp and prickly.

  She finally caught up with him on Boar Lane, heading towards the courthouse. With his limp and his stick, he was easy to spot. She weaved through the crowd on the pavement, sliding and ducking until she was next to him.

  ‘Has something—’ he began, but she shook her head.

  ‘I might have a name.’

  His mouth hardened as she told him.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Talk to him in a place where he can’t run. He’ll give me the names of the others.’ She felt his stare burning into her. ‘After we have those, Sally can decide what she wants to do.’ Jane lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. ‘That’s her right.’

  ‘Do you want my help?’

  ‘You can go and talk to his father.’

  They walked up Briggate together. A coach came roaring out of the Talbot yard, not even pausing as it hit a woman and sent her spinning to the pavement.

  Some people began to scream and shout as others rushed to help. Jane slipped between them and knelt by the woman. She was dazed, crying from the pain. Blood was smeared across the flagstones where she’d hit her head, and her right leg splayed out at an impossible angle.

  ‘Help her inside.’ She looked around, pointing at one strong man, then another. ‘You and you. Be very gentle.’ She pointed. ‘Her leg’s broken.’

  The woman shuddered with fear. Jane stroked her hair.

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll find a doctor for you. He’ll take care of you.’

  The woman blinked, fearful. ‘Am I … Will they …?’

  ‘No,’ she assured the woman. ‘Your leg will stay, it will all be fine again.’

  Someone gathered the parcels that had scattered when the coach hit her. Jane stood as the men returned with an old door and eased the woman on to it. The crowd parted to make way for them as they disappeared into the inn. A few more moments and everyone had dispersed.

  Simon watched her: the easy way she took charge, how the others had listened when she gave orders. How she’d gently assured the woman. So different from the person she’d been only two years before. Back then, she’d burned with fury at him when he’d stopped her taking revenge on a man. He’d had to; it would have killed her. The anger had ebbed away, but she’d kept a distance between them ever since, a reserve. Seeing her now, he realised she’d grown and spread her wings and left the child in her behind. She’d been calm, in control. A woman.

  As they continued up Briggate, they agreed on their approach. He’d see Barton and ask to talk to the son. Andrew would deny everything, and the father would be indignant. Jane would hide outside, ready to confront the son when he hurried out to talk to the other men who’d taken pleasure in hurting Sally.

  The same ones who’d come after him; he’d have put good money on it.

  She drifted away among the trees and bushes, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Simon walked down the short drive to hammer on the door.

  James Barton took his time, apologising as he entered the sitting room.

  ‘Business, I’m afraid, Mr Westow.’ He cocked his head, a curious glint in his eye. ‘Have you heard some news about Fox?’

  ‘No.’ That seemed like another age. ‘This is different. I’d like to speak to your son.’

  The gaze grew suspicious. ‘What about? Last time you accused him of things he denied.’

  Simon dipped his head. ‘He might be able to help. A girl who works for me was attacked by a group of young men a few nights ago. They damaged her.’

  Before Barton could speak, Simon plunged on.

  ‘Late last night, on my way home from asking questions about it, two young men found me on a quiet street and told me to stop. They both had knives and tried to use them.’

  He took a breath. ‘I see. Why do you believe this has anything to do with Andrew?’

  ‘I don’t know that it does,’ Simon replied. ‘I’m hoping he might be able to help me identify the men responsible.’ He paused. ‘One of them might never walk properly again.’

  Barton ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘You and your … people live in a violent world, Mr Westow.’

  He nodded; if it left the man a little fearful, that could be useful. ‘That’s part of the trade. Believe me, I’m not suggesting your son had anything to do with this. Simply that I’d appreciate anything he can do. There are times we need help, too.’

  The only sound in the room was the slow tick of the clock standing against the wall as the men stared at each other. Would Barton refuse? Simon felt the balance beginning to tip that way. Then a curt, decisive nod.

  ‘Let’s have him down here and see if he can answer any of your questions, shall we?’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’ Even if there wasn’t likely to be much, whatever the young man said, that wasn’t the point. He was here to plant some doubts and fears.

  ‘I haven’t heard him moving around this morning.’ A shake of his head. ‘I don’t remember what time he came home last night.’ He called for the servant and sent him to wake Andrew.

  ‘You asked about Fox. Nobody’s heard anything about him. He’s long gone from Leeds, if he’s still alive,’ Simon said.

  ‘Do you understand what happened?’

  ‘No.’ How could he, when he only had half the pieces of the puzzle?

  The servant’s shoes clattered on the treads as he ran down the stairs and pulled the door wide.

  ‘He’s not there, sir. His bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  Barton didn’t try to keep the fear from his face. His son had gone again.

  ‘You know where his friends live,’ he ordered the servant. ‘Go and see if he’s with any of them.’ As the man disappeared, Barton turned to Simon, his desperation clear. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on, Mr Westow.’

  He listened, but his head kept turning at every small sound.

  ‘Do you believe this girl?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to speak to your son.’ It wasn’t an answer to his question, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I see.’ Barton gave a bitter sigh. ‘My son likes his drink. That’s hardly a secret. He’s a sot, but since he returned after he went missing, it’s been worse. Out with his friends every night, coming home later. My wife and I have talked to him.’

  ‘Did he listen?’

  ‘No,’ he replied slowly. ‘He’s …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve seen his face sometimes, when he doesn’t realise I’m looking, and he seems …’ Barton weighed his words. ‘Sad. Angry. Lost.’

  A volatile mix. ‘Has he said more about the time he was gone? Anything about the woman he was with, where they were?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Nothing at all. We tried, but he became so furious that we decided to stop.’

  ‘Did he still deny meeting Fox?’

  ‘You were here when he gave his answer to that. I believed my son, Mr Westow. Wouldn’t you believe yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. But he’d make damned sure Richard or Amos was telling the truth. He glanced at the man’s face. Life was crumbling all around Barton. He needed to hold on to something.

  They waited, time creeping past until they heard a door close. Barton flinched, as if he already expected the worst. The servant came in, panting, his face slick with sweat after dashing around town.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No, sir. He wasn’t with any of them. None of them saw him last night.’

  ‘I see.’ A nod and the man was dismissed. Barton closed his eyes for a second, then turned to Simon. ‘It seems we both want to find Andrew. I’ll pay you to do it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him or what he’s done, Mr Westow, but it has to be something bad. Find him for us.’

  He left with the names and addresses of Andrew Barton’s friends. He’d take Jane with him. She could see their faces, remember them. If Sally’s recollection was true, and Andrew Barton had been one of her attackers, some of these others could have been with him.

  If one of them had a damaged knee … He stopped himself. This wasn’t the time for indulgence and settling scores. He’d just been hired to trace a missing young man who’d been gone overnight, and every hour was vital.

  Outside, he whistled a short call and began to hobble towards the street. A quick salute as he passed Mudie’s printing shop, then Jane was beside him, pulling her shawl over her hair.

  He explained as they walked. She listened carefully, her face showing nothing.

  ‘Last time he vanished with a woman,’ she pointed out. ‘He might have gone back to her.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Simon agreed. But it didn’t feel right. ‘We don’t know her name. Or if she ever existed. The only proof he was with anyone is what Andrew Barton himself said, and we already know he’s a liar.’

  Five names, five addresses. Maybe they could tease something out of them.

  He talked to the men while Jane stood back, a ghost disappearing in the room. They all carried the sleek shell of money, but she could see how the news about Barton’s disappearance shook them.

  Jane had seen two of them before; they’d been among the men who attacked the children’s camp. One glanced at her as if she might be familiar, then looked away without recognition. She paid close attention, setting them aside for the future.

  The first three had little to offer. They were the ones Simon had talked to the last time Andrew vanished. The only insight was that Andrew had always drunk a great deal, but it had become heavier after his return; that confirmed what his father had said. Each night he’d go stumbling home, awash in rum and brandy. A sad, desperate man, she thought. But one who liked violence too, as long as nobody fought back.

  ‘Why did he change?’ Simon asked, but the young men didn’t seem to know.

  The fourth was different, a quieter, more thoughtful young man. Malcolm Ridley possessed none of the brashness that characterised the others. Like them, he came from a good family, no need to work all the hours God sent to put food on the table and a roof over his head. His fingernails were clean, his hands soft, and his voice was quietly musical when he spoke.