They’d covered a mile before he spoke. He sounded dazed, trying to make sense of something beyond comprehension.

  ‘He never mentioned that place to us. Not once.’

  She knew the man didn’t want to hear her voice. He was speaking to himself, searching for a way to let his sorrow to find its way to the dead. Jane glanced at the emptiness on his face. He was a man whose soul was shattered.

  ‘Andrew liked to sleep late, but there were days he’d wake very early, the same time as the servants. He’d leave the house and he wouldn’t return until well after dark. When I asked him about it, all he ever said was that he’d been out. Nothing more than that.’

  The silence fell again.

  ‘I should have …’ he began, then ended again as words failed him. They passed through Aberford without anyone giving them a second glance. Just another vehicle on the road. Barton kept the horse at a swift trot towards home, guiding it without thought, his hands and eyes working while his mind roamed through other places and times.

  He never glanced over his shoulder at the body. The smell of water from the stagnant pool filled the chaise. The scent of death.

  Barton lapsed into his silence and regrets. Eventually Jane looked up and saw the haze over Leeds. The darkening of the sky that meant they were close to home. All around them, dusk was gathering.

  Barton drew up outside his house. For the first time, he turned to look into her face.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and took a shallow breath. ‘I …’ he started, then shook his head. He was lost inside, trapped in a place that terrified him. ‘Can you ask Mr Westow to call on me tomorrow?’

  He called for a servant and she slipped away, first to Swinegate to tell Rosie what had happened, then hurrying through the streets until she reached Green Dragon Yard, through the gap in the wall and into the house.

  NINETEEN

  Andrew Barton’s death hadn’t become public property yet. Nobody mentioned it at the coffee cart outside the Bull and Mouth on Sunday morning. No hum of gossip in the air as Simon made his way up Albion Street.

  Another warm day, with enough of a threat of rain to make his skin prickle; he was happy to step into the coolness of Mrs Shields’s cottage.

  Sally was awake, sitting up and eating porridge. Bruised and damaged, but her eyes were bright. Really on the mend, he thought with relief.

  ‘I’m on my way to see Barton,’ he said to Jane. ‘Rosie told me what you said to her last night, but I’d like to hear it all from you.’

  The words came hesitantly; she was reluctant to live it all again, to see everything gone from the young man’s face. He listened attentively, watching Sally and wondering what she made of the death. Justice? Her expression gave nothing away.

  ‘Did he kill himself?’ Simon asked.

  Jane raised her head to stare at him. One sorrowful word: ‘Yes.’

  He glanced again; there was no triumph in Sally’s eyes. No pleasure at hearing the fate of one of her attackers.

  ‘I know there are no words for what you and your wife must be feeling.’

  What could you say to a man who’d lost his son? How would he feel if Richard or Amos had been pulled from the river?

  Barton looked decades older than the man he’d seen just the day before.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. But it was nothing more than formality, as if he hadn’t really heard the words at all.

  ‘You wanted me to come and see you.’

  The bells at St John’s Church had been pealing as he walked past, loud enough to drive all the thoughts from his head. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, Simon decided as he stood in the silent room. It had stopped him brooding too hard.

  ‘Yes.’ The man blinked. ‘I did. I want to employ you again, Mr Westow.’

  Simon frowned. There’d been no crime, nothing for a thief-taker. ‘Employ me? What do you think I can do?’

  Barton drew in two long breaths before he found the answer. ‘I’d like you to find out why it happened. I accepted the things my son told me, even though I knew they were lies. I need you to discover the truth.’

  He didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t expected anything like this.

  ‘I’ve never …’ he began, then stopped as he wondered if it was possible. Barton needed to understand what had happened. But … ‘I don’t know if I can,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if anyone can.’

  ‘Would you be willing to try?’ Barton asked. The pain showed in his voice. ‘I’ll pay you well.’

  Simon took a long time to make his decision. ‘I’m willing to try. But you have to understand that I can’t promise more than that.’

  People were spilling out of the parish church as Simon passed. He’d been walking for an hour, trying to see how they might discover the reasons behind Andrew Barton’s death. He’d just come from Grey’s Court, standing in the stink of the night soil and staring up at the room where Daniel Shackleton had been murdered. Somehow or other, he had a part to play in all this. What was it? The same with the Foxes; they might be gone, but their shadows loomed large over Andrew’s death.

  The last time he tried he’d had no luck trying to untangle this case. Maybe this time would be different. Perhaps a search would uncover the pair who attacked him. The ones who beat Sally, too; very likely he’d already talked to some of them when he questioned Andrew’s friends.

  Jane sat on the edge of the bed, perching close to Sally in the warmth of a Sunday afternoon.

  Simon and Rosie were standing, filling the room. Together, the four of them discussed how they could find out about Andrew Barton’s death.

  ‘I need to talk to his friends again,’ Simon said. ‘Dale, the one who told us about the church, he might have some ideas. Or Bradley.’

  ‘Was he courting?’ Sally asked. ‘Sweet on anyone?’

  ‘Nobody ever mentioned anything like that,’ he told her. ‘There might be someone in the past.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Talk to his mother. She might know, he could have talked to her about it.’

  ‘Not today,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to give her time, Simon, she’s just lost her son. You know,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘his friends all claimed he liked to drink. Were there places he favoured, ones where he might have had credit?’

  Jane listened. So far, this was work for Simon and Rosie. Nothing for her. But there were things she could do. She could discover exactly who’d inflicted the beating on Sally.

  She had her eye on two of the young men Simon had questioned. One of them had definitely been among the four who attacked the children. Another might have been there. Andrew Barton too, she thought, but he was dead now.

  They were going to answer her questions and give her the truth. If they hadn’t done the damage to Sally, they knew who did. They’d tell her; she’d give them no choice.

  The silence grew in the room. Sally broke it.

  ‘Fox.’ She gave a small, dry cough and tried to reach for the cup of cordial by the bed.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Rosie said, handing her the cup. ‘We have no idea if he’s dead or alive.’

  ‘Andrew was involved with him.’ The girl sipped, and her voice grew clearer. ‘Jane saw them.’

  ‘The only one who can tell us about that is Fox.’

  ‘Can we find out what happened to him?’

  Jane smiled to herself. Porter and the watch had looked and spread the word from town to town, but the man had vanished. What chance did they have?

  ‘We can try,’ Rosie said. ‘We have to follow up on everything. I don’t believe we’ll succeed, but …’

  But, Jane thought. Such a small word to say so much.

  She needed to be out there, doing something, anything, instead of all the talk.

  John Dale had just returned from church when Simon knocked on his door. It was a prosperous house, set out along Woodhouse Lane, beyond Queen Square, with a view over Leeds and its hazy sky.

  ‘My parents said we’re welcome to use this room,’ Dale said as he entered the parlour. ‘I heard a rumour about Andrew before the service this morning. Someone saw his father coming back into town yesterday with a terrible look on his face. Is it true?’

  ‘He was by that church you told me about. His father pulled him from the beck.’

  He saw the young man flinch at the thought. His skin grew pale.

  ‘He drowned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, that water always fascinated him. He said that the blood from the battlefield at Towton must have run along it. He called it the death stream.’

  What could he make of that?

  ‘Did he ever talk about killing himself?’

  Dale shook his head. ‘Not to me. He never revealed that much about his thoughts. But I know he had his dark moods.’ A moment’s reflection. ‘I suppose that was usually when he wanted to walk. As if the miles could get rid of the feeling.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ He pushed his lips together and sighed. ‘Forgive me. The news has shaken me, Mr Westow. It really has. I can’t believe Andrew’s not here.’

  ‘Do you have any idea at all why he might have done it?’

  ‘No,’ Dale answered after a long, thoughtful pause. ‘If he told anyone what he was thinking, it wasn’t me. I can’t imagine Andrew confiding in anyone. He kept his feelings to himself. But there had to be something, what with his drinking growing heavier. But this …’ He shook his head. ‘I never saw this in him.’

  Simon had more questions, looking for reasons, anything the young man might have said about what tormented him so badly. Some clue to take him further.

  ‘There was one thing,’ Dale began hesitantly as Simon pushed himself up from the chair and leaned on his stick.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something Andrew said. It was months ago. Probably about the time his father had that man arrested.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘That he’d felt as if he’d betrayed his family.’

  ‘Did he explain what he meant?’

  ‘No, that was it. I asked, but he moved on to something else as if it didn’t really matter. I’d forgotten about it.’ He looked up. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s something. Thank you.’

  ‘As I said, Andrew was very good at keeping secrets. There were times during the spring when a few of us wondered if he had a woman. But when we asked, he’d never say.’

  This could be something. Any small clue at all … ‘Was there ever an indication who she might be?’

  ‘None. It wasn’t anyone from one of the local families, I’m sure of that. She probably never existed. None of us ever saw him with anyone.’

  One more mystery about Andrew Barton, Simon thought as he trudged along the road, and no nearer to finding any answers.

  She knew where the young men lived; she’d been in their houses when Simon asked his questions. Jane was waiting when Charles Ibbotson came out and strode off into the darkness. The night was deep black, only the lamps on the passing coaches and the light leaking through windows to show the way.

  She was still there in the deep shadows when he emerged from the Rose and Crown two hours later. He was swaying a little, walking beside another man who shuffled awkwardly on crutches, his left leg heavily bound.

  They stopped at a house on the Head Row, talking quietly for a minute before the injured man went inside and Ibbotson moved on. Jane noted the door as she passed; information to give to Simon in the morning.

  She caught Ibbotson by Rockley Hall Yard. Hurrying, letting her footsteps ring loud so he turned and saw the knife she was holding.

  ‘In there,’ she ordered.

  He raised his hands, eyes never leaving the blade. ‘You can have my money.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  His body stiffened. ‘Then—’

  ‘You were there tormenting the homeless children.’

  He stayed silent.

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was a husk, terrified. All his bravado fled when he was on his own.

  ‘There was another attack. A young girl.’ She brought the knife closer to his face, sliding the flat of the blade along his skin.

  He pulled back.

  ‘Was that you?’

  She smelled the acrid scent of urine. He’d pissed himself with fear. Good.

  ‘Well?’

  An age seemed to pass before he hung his head. ‘Yes.’

  She’d expected him to beg, to plead. But he stayed quiet.

  ‘There were others with you. Who were they?’

  He was quick to give her the three names, as if he hoped that might save him. One she didn’t recognise, then Henry Harrison, and finally Andrew Barton.

  Ibbotson still had his eyes on the ground. ‘What are you going to do? Are you going to kill me?’

  ‘No,’ she told him and he raised his head in surprise.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I’m not here to pass sentence on you. You know who gets to decide that. But you’d better warn the others that her judgement is going to come. Tell them that she knows who you are. First, though …’

  ‘What?’ It was a frightened cry.

  She looked at Ibbotson, seeing if she could summon up the smallest trace of sympathy for him. No. He believed money let him do whatever he pleased. It meant he imagined he could torment feral children and drag them through hell. That beating a girl turned him into an important man.

  Suddenly he was learning that money gave no protection at all. It was just an illusion.

  Almost like a caress, she slid the edge of the blade along his cheek. She’d honed it so fine that he wouldn’t feel it until the blood began to run. Now he would carry the same scar as Sally.

  ‘That’s the beginning of what she owes you.’

  Jane turned and walked away. No hurry. Ibbotson was a broken man. He wasn’t about to come after her.

  ‘So those are the names,’ Sally said. But the girl had no light of revenge shining in her eyes. Her hand, a series of scabs, moved to rest on Jane’s arm. ‘I don’t know how I can thank you.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  A grateful nod and then worry filled her face. ‘Who’s looking after the children?’

  Wilfred and Hannah had been waiting outside the cottage when Jane went out early that morning, eager for news they could carry to the others.

  ‘She’s still asleep,’ Jane told them. ‘But she’s mending, I promise you that. It takes time.’ Jane had emptied out her pocket, all the coins she’d taken from their hiding place in the house to go shopping. ‘Take it. Buy some food for everyone.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  ‘I’m trying to help them,’ she said now, and saw relief pour over Sally’s face.

  TWENTY

  Simon stood on the Head Row, gazing at the house Jane had described to him earlier that morning.

  He’d slept poorly, no more than fits and starts, one of those nights when the heat snatched rest away. Up before light, he’d been the first customer at the coffee cart on Briggate, lingering long enough to feel the town come awake around him. Boilers were fed in the factories, machines began to thump and grind, smoke poured from chimneys all over Leeds. Another few minutes and the first tiny smuts began to fall. Soon enough he could taste them in the coffee, and hobbled back to Swinegate.

  Now he was standing here, wondering whether to hammer on the door or leave it until later. He’d escorted Rosie to talk to Mrs Barton and see what she might learn about Andrew.

  There were things he ought to be doing, work to earn the money Barton was paying him. More important things than this. Finally, he forced himself to leave, glancing back over his shoulder as he walked. He’d return.

  For now, it was time to talk to all the fences who handled stolen goods. Some remembered Fox’s name because he’d been pardoned, but hadn’t done business with him; like Henry Longdon, they were astonished that he’d come back to Leeds. By the start of the stifling afternoon he’d grown weary of asking questions and hearing the same answers.

  Mrs Marsh squinted in the dusty light of her shop. The air was musty, nothing had been cleaned in all the years Simon had known the woman. Her trade was mostly honest, always busy on Monday morning as the wives around Holbeck pledged what they could for money to last the week, in again to redeem everything on a Saturday night after their husbands were paid. Sometimes, though, she dealt in stolen items. Jewellery, mostly.

  She seemed ageless, a heavy, shapeless woman, but sharp-eyed, with a keen sense of what things were worth and the profit she might make.

  ‘Was it a man and wife?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ All the tiredness left him and he felt a prickle of hope. ‘Why, were they ever in here?’

  ‘They were,’ she told him. ‘I remember them clear as day. He acted like he was the one in charge, all very superior.’

  Simon smiled; that sounded like Fox.

  ‘What name did they use? What were they trying to sell?’

  She snorted. ‘They called themselves Fox. The first time they were here, they brought me cheap stuff. I told him that, too. Not worth my time.’ The woman took a pinch of snuff from a small tin on the counter. ‘He was annoyed, but she seemed amused.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Some time in June,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know exactly when.’

  That was when Barton had hired him again, after he’d spotted Fox following him around Leeds.

  ‘You said the first time. How many others were they here?’