‘The lychgate,’ Simon said, wondering what was coming.

  ‘I’m sure I saw Fox standing there, watching us.’

  ‘Fox?’ How? The man had to be dead or gone. Nobody had seen him since he’d left Leeds.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Rosie said softly.

  ‘No.’ Barton kept his voice low, as if the event was some strange wonder. ‘I’m not. Seeing him was the last thing I expected. It took me by complete surprise. He held my gaze for a second. I closed my eyes and when I looked again, there was nobody there.’ He swallowed, then raised his head to look at them, unsure of everything. ‘I don’t see how it can be. But it certainly seemed like him.’

  Simon was quiet. He didn’t know what to say. Had Barton experienced a moment of madness, some vision conjured out of grief, or had it been real? Could Fox have returned? It didn’t seem possible … but they’d never found any trace of him.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I want you to search for him, Mr Westow.’ Barton was pleading, the ache a weight in his voice. ‘Believe me, I know what this must sound like to you, but I honestly believe I saw him. I’m not a stupid man. I spent all last night asking myself questions. I’m convinced Fox is here again.’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘He’s the one who knows what happened. He can tell me why Andrew killed himself. I need those answers. My wife and … we both need them. Please, Mr Westow.’

  How could he promise to find someone who might be a ghost? What if the man had returned? Barton wanted to believe that. What would he do if they found nothing? Could he accept that as the truth?

  Simon glanced across at Rosie. Her face showed nothing, but she gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Tell me what you remember about it. What was he wearing?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Porter sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling of his office and rubbing the bristles on his chin. Not much more than an hour and a half since the rain had lashed down and the refreshing coolness had already vanished, a stifling heat returning; the windows were open wide to try and catch a thin breeze.

  ‘It sounds like grief to me, Westow.’ He shifted his gaze to stare out at the sky. ‘Or imagination. How likely does it seem to you?’

  ‘Not very,’ Simon admitted. ‘But we never did find a trace of Fox. You sent letters to the constables of the towns around Yorkshire.’

  ‘And I heard nothing back. If you want my guess, Fox is dead somewhere and the animals have feasted on him. Good luck to them. Barton wants someone to blame for his son committing suicide.’

  That was very likely the truth of it, and the man had seen a phantom constructed of desperation and sorrow. But Simon had agreed to search; Barton would be paying his fee … and there was the small chance that Fox had really been standing by the lychgate to watch the burial.

  ‘Can you ask your men to keep their eyes open for him?’

  A nod and a small chuckle. ‘Don’t expect too much. None of them are that good at raising the dead.’

  Jane frowned as she listened to Simon. How could Fox have simply reappeared, completely unnoticed? It didn’t seem possible.

  ‘Do you believe it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I truly don’t. Barton does. That’s enough.’

  Sally was standing, wearing a cotton dress and old woollen stockings. Mrs Shields had brushed the girl’s hair, patiently working through all the tangles to leave it shining. The bruises and cuts were beginning to fade on her face, though the black eyes and nose were still swollen.

  Jane glanced at her. The strain was showing on the girl’s face, knuckles white where she held on to a chest of drawers to keep herself upright.

  ‘Did anyone else see him?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Barton says not, and when he looked again, there was nothing. He’s not a fool; he knows it might have been his imagination. But he wants us to search. You saw him, you’d recognise him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you help?’

  She hesitated. There was probably nobody to find. She glanced at Sally, seeing the girl’s encouraging smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said. ‘I will.’

  Simon hurried around the town, searching out the petty thieves, the fences, anyone who might be able to help. Describing Fox, offering money for solid information on the man. The chance of a few easy coins caught their attention, but nobody had seen Fox.

  It had to be Barton’s fevered dream, his wishful thinking. Simon knew that, but now he’d agreed, he was going to pursue it all until he was certain there was nothing left to find.

  There was little more he could do during the day. Pass the word and hope. Tonight would be different, once the drinkers and the dangerous were out on the streets.

  He walked up the Head Row and stopped outside the injured man’s front door again, leaning on his stick. Simon stood and gazed for a full minute, then hobbled away again. If the man was there, what did he hope to find? The name of the one who’d decided not to fight? Maybe it would be better to let it lie. He’d done some damage; perhaps that was enough.

  Sally was improving, maybe the world was starting to look brighter again, returning to the way it ought to be. He sighed and turned for home, ready to rest until darkness came.

  The morning’s downpour felt like a memory. Rain had scoured the streets clean, but a few hours later the cobbles were covered in horse dung once more as Jane picked her way across Albion Street. She stayed alert, eyes always moving. She didn’t expect to see Fox, but there was always the small chance.

  Very few whores out during the day. Their real trade arrived with the night. But two or three could still spread the word, and the promise of money would make them eager. On Vicar Lane, she squatted beside Dodson the beggar and talked to him for a few minutes, hearing about this and that, telling him about the books she’d read, then putting coins in his old cup as she left.

  Jane passed the word to the people she knew. The more who were looking for Fox, the greater the chance of finding him. Was he here at all? Since the day Simon found the body at Grey’s Court, she’d had no sense of the man in Leeds, never felt a trace that he was in town. Two people had been strangled. He couldn’t be stupid enough to return, could he?

  She saw three of the children standing on a corner, looking for a likely purse to cut. If they were caught, they’d be crammed into a ship and sent to the other side of the world. No mercy from the courts. They spotted her and stepped back. She told them about Fox, what he looked like, how he moved. A coin each and she sent them on their way to tell the others to begin looking.

  Nothing more to do until evening. Three pies from Kate, one for each of them, sitting outside the cottage in the warmth. Sally walked before she ate. The steps were still slow, but growing stronger and she managed five full minutes before she sat and tore into the food with a deep hunger.

  ‘You were going to read to me yesterday,’ she said as she took a drink of cordial.

  ‘The children came.’

  She turned a curious eye to Jane. ‘Would you do it now?’

  The girl was quiet, keeping still as she listened. Her eyes closed, but she wasn’t sleeping. Jane kept glancing over at Sally, watching the expression on her face change with the turns in the story.

  After an hour her throat was dry, her voice growing scratchy. She closed the book.

  ‘I liked that,’ Sally said. She had a note of wonder in her voice. ‘Is there really somewhere like that?’

  ‘America? Yes.’

  ‘He makes it all seem real.’

  Jane smiled. ‘A good book can do that. Mrs Shields taught me to read.’

  ‘I’d like to learn. I don’t know if I can, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It seems like a lot. I don’t know if I can manage all that.’

  Jane smiled. ‘People do it all the time. Simon’s sons can read.’

  ‘Yes, but they were little when they started.’ Sally stared at the ground. ‘Maybe that makes a difference. Would you try to teach me?’

  The question caught her off-guard. The girl had always seemed content without knowing; she’d never seen the need for it. It wasn’t long since Jane had learned, then started to devour words. Maybe it took time for the appetite to develop.

  ‘I can try. I don’t know if I can teach anything.’

  A short lesson to start, dipping a toe in the water, until Sally began to look weary.

  ‘Can we do more tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Sally pushed herself up. She’d come back quickly from the broken, unconscious girl the children had found on the road. She was healing well. Another two or three days and she’d be ready to move back to Simon’s house. Once that happened, would she still want to learn to read?

  Jane sat on the bench, took out her knife and whetstone, and put a keen edge on the blade.

  At dusk, she slipped out through the hole in the wall, along Green Dragon Yard and through the courts and yards. Plenty of noise from the inns and beershops, but she kept moving.

  Alice Kearey. That was the woman she wanted. A mother of sorts to the whores. Out here longer than most. Strong, a survivor.

  It took time to find her, standing by the entrance to a court off Briggate, a sharp, wary look in her eyes.

  ‘Not seen you in a while.’ She was smoking a pipe with a short stem, her teeth stained and brown. Scrawny, with a lined face that made her look old before her time, a shawl covering curly dark hair that held the first streaks of grey. ‘You must want something.’

  Jane told her. ‘There’s money for good information.’

  A snort. ‘What do you call good, pet? Any of the women here could make up a convincing tale. We do it half a dozen times a night.’

  ‘He calls himself Fox.’

  ‘Names can change faster than the weather.’

  ‘He seems to keep to his.’ She placed three pennies in the woman’s hand. ‘Tell everyone. Please.’

  Other places, other groups of prostitutes. Down by the Hol Beck, back across the river to the bottom end of Mabgate where it met Quarry Hill.

  She made her way home in full darkness. Only light leaking from behind the shutters to guide her. Suddenly she was aware of something, a small sound on the edge of her hearing. She stopped; it continued for a moment. Someone was there. She could feel the heartbeat in her blood.

  Jane slid a hand into her pocket and grasped the knife handle. Drew it out and held it by her side, ready. Who was there? One of the men who’d attacked Sally? Someone who saw a woman alone as easy prey?

  Easy to slip off into a ginnel, to vanish as if she’d never existed. Jane breathed quietly, listening. Soft footsteps, someone trying to move quietly. She heard them go past. But even if they’d glanced down the entry, they’d never have seen her.

  Then she was out again, behind him. Now she was the hunter. A glimmer of light from an upstairs room captured the shape for a second; from the size, the way the figure moved, she was following a man.

  His shoe caught a pebble; it skittered down the street, loud enough to make him stop. She edged closer. He never turned, not aware of her at all.

  A few moments and he moved again. More cautious now, slower, pausing to cock his head and listen. But she was silent; all he heard were the sounds of the night: a voice off somewhere, bellowing and angry, a trace of song from behind a window, the hungry cry of a child.

  They were drawing closer to town, through the streets of Quarry Hill and down towards Timble Bridge. A chained dog barked and surged at the man. In a panic, he jumped two steps back.

  Her chance.

  She raised her knife and pricked the back of his neck. Suddenly he was completely still.

  ‘Keep walking.’ Her voice was a whisper close to his ear. ‘Round the corner.’

  The animal stopped its racket, its growls turning to a few angry snarls.

  ‘Drop your knife.’ He didn’t move. Another prod of the blade, enough to start a trickle of blood. Jane felt the last few days weigh heavy on her and suddenly she had no patience for this. All she wanted was to be at home, to fall into sleep. Finally, the quiet clatter of metal on the cobbles. She kicked it away, well out of reach and lost in the night.

  The fear came off him in waves. He was terrified, he didn’t understand how this could have happened. Bested by a woman.

  ‘What’s your name?’ At first, he didn’t reply. She sliced along the back of his neck. Felt him flinch and heard his gasp. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Young,’ he replied finally. ‘Carter Young.’

  She’d never heard it before.

  ‘Why were you following me?’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  Another cut, just enough to stop the lie before it could flower.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was hired.’

  Why would anyone pay to have someone go after her?

  ‘Who?’

  ‘All I know is his name is Fox. Never seen him before today.’

  Fox. She kept the surge of fury buried inside, breathing quietly and evenly.

  She forced him to tell it all. The chance meeting in a dram shop late in the afternoon. The promise of money to stop her or Simon. Young knew a prostitute who told him someone had been round offering money for the act. He’d found Fox up by Mabgate.

  ‘How did he want you to stop me?’ Even before she spoke, Jane knew the answer; she just wanted to hear him say it.

  ‘He didn’t care. Kill you if I could get away with it.’

  ‘How much did he offer you?’

  ‘A guinea.’

  That was what her life was worth. A single guinea.

  ‘Did he show you the money?’

  Young shook his head. ‘He told me to be in Brice’s beershop tomorrow morning after it was done and bring some proof. He said he’d come and pay me then.’ His voice quavered. ‘A guinea can buy a lot.’

  ‘You thought it would buy my death.’

  A hesitation, then: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me one reason why it shouldn’t buy yours.’

  She knew she was talking too much. Trying to stave off the moment when she’d need to decide. Killing him would prove nothing. All it would bring were questions she didn’t need. A disfigured enemy sent a loud message.

  Before he could pull away, she darted in. A deep cut down one palm, the blood welling up, then the same to the other. Finally, a slice with the sharp blade along his bottom lip until it was only attached at one end.

  Jane stepped back, out of his reach. But he was too busy, staring at his hands in horror even as he reached for his face. Trying to staunch all the blood and hold on to his flapping lip.

  ‘This was a lesson you won’t forget. Come after any of us again and we’ll kill you. Do you understand that? Do you?’

  She waited until he nodded, distracted by the blood and the pain. Then she turned and marched off into the darkness. Her heartbeat was racing, thudding so hard she felt it might break through her ribs.

  Fox.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Fox.’ Simon rolled the name around his tongue.

  Jane had found him at the coffee cart, listening to people wondering about a man called Fox. Not that any of them had seen him. Just his work was paying off. He’d been out the night before, back into the beershops and dramshops. Asking his questions and finally going home with nothing at all. Maybe the man had only existed in Barton’s grief, he thought.

  Now, listening to Jane tell him everything as they walked up Briggate, he knew it was real. Fox was back.

  ‘The man who came after you—’

  ‘He’ll be staying out of sight for a long time.’

  ‘Fox promised to pay him for killing either of us?’

  ‘A guinea.’ She spat out the words.

  ‘Did he show this man …’

  ‘… Carter Young …’

  ‘… the money?’

  ‘No. Told him where to be this morning and he’d pay him then.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Brice’s beershop. I already looked. He was never likely to appear.’

  By now, he imagined Fox would be lucky to still possess a guinea. He’d used words and promises. But why would the man offer to pay someone to kill them? What was the sense in that?

  ‘Do you understand it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Why wouldn’t he just get the man to kill Barton?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. ‘I really don’t know.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘The master’s down at the grave,’ Barton’s servant told them in a hushed voice. ‘He’s started going in the morning.’

  They found him in St John’s churchyard, standing by a pile of dirt that would gradually settle back into place.

  His head was bowed, hat grasped in his hands. The lines in his face had turned into valleys, with deep shadows under his eyes from sleep that refused to come. A voice like a low, rusted croak after Simon spoke his name.

  ‘Have you seen Fox?’

  ‘No. But you were right. He’s definitely in Leeds.’

  That made him pay attention. ‘He is? How do you know?’

  Simon looked at Jane. She gave a small shake of her head, so he told the story.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Barton frowned, confused. But no more than they were.

  ‘I wish I knew. But he might convince someone to try for you.’

  Barton shuffled, a few paces to his left, then back. Finally, he turned and exhaled.

  ‘Find Fox. Do that and it all stops. Find him and discover why my son took his own life.’

  ‘Are you going home from here?’

  ‘Yes.’