‘Yes, there’s a body,’ Constable Porter said when Simon had climbed the steps at the courthouse. ‘But it was Elias Cutler. You know him? Hadn’t been well for a while, according to the neighbours and went off in his sleep. I’d have sent a message if it was anything to do with Fox.’

  No closer to finding the man. He felt the frustration eating at him. Where else could he look?

  At home, Sally was eating a heel of bread in the kitchen, eyes bright. Rosie stood in the hall, adjusting a hat in the mirror. She was wearing her favourite plum gown; going visiting, he decided.

  ‘I’ll tell the women about Fox’s return,’ she told him. ‘He’s going to need money. He might be after some jewellery.’

  Simon nodded, feeling a flash of anger for not thinking of it himself. Work she could do that he couldn’t. Perhaps she’d discover something, some little thread they could pull.

  With a sigh, he settled on the bench. Sally was watching him.

  ‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked.

  He had no answer for her. Nobody else to ask. He’d been out again last night, caught in the rain as he moved between the beershops and the inns, stuck in the Talbot watching coaches come and go until the downpour eased and he could walk home. Nobody knew anything about Fox. He was here in Leeds, but he was invisible.

  Yet somebody knew where to find him. Who?

  ‘What do we know about Fox?’ he asked.

  ‘He knew that man Shackleton,’ Sally said. ‘The one who was strangled in Grey’s Court.’

  ‘Fox or his wife murdered him.’ But it was something. A woman had rented the room; that could only have been Mrs Fox. Why?

  Shackleton and Frederick Fox had met in York prison. What reason did they have for wanting him here? Why kill him when he came? They’d never discovered much about the man. It was time to dig for more.

  ‘Do you want me to help?’ Sally’s voice was hopeful. He smiled; she was eager to work again.

  ‘A few more days,’ he said, and saw disappointment flood her face. ‘You’ll be busy soon enough, I can promise you that.’

  Jane read for a while, then closed the book. She was close to the end of The Pioneers and she didn’t want it to finish. She’d become a part of that world, felt she was deep in America. The author made it all so real.

  There would be other books to carry her away and other places to visit, but she wasn’t ready to leave this one quite yet. She laced up her boots and raised the shawl over her hair.

  ‘A walk, child?’ Mrs Shields asked.

  ‘Some air.’

  She wandered wherever her feet led her, and let the thoughts play and jangle in her mind. Somewhere near Central Market, Davy Cassidy was playing his fiddle. She stayed clear of Kate the pie-seller, Dodson and any of the familiar faces. Lost inside her own head as she covered the streets on the other side of the bridge, following the canal towpath east as far as Thwaite’s Mill.

  The river rushed over a weir, loud and fast to power the water wheels and the machinery. A slick scent from the seeds crushed to make lighting oil. Set on an island between river and canal, it was a world apart. All round, the leaves were bright green, the underbrush ragged.

  Jane stood, absorbing it all, blocking out the heavy thunder of the wheels. After a long while she turned back, not even sure why she’d come out here. There was nothing she especially wanted to see. Only the pleasure of walking. Perhaps this was as close as she could imagine to the America of her book.

  The familiarity of Leeds grew around her. The chimneys and the dirt and the stink that felt oddly comforting. She bought a pie from Kate and wandered off to sit at the bottom of Pitfall, staring at the river and the people passing above her on the bridge.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  People remembered Shackleton as the man who’d been a murderer and been sentenced to hang. Others recalled the man who’d somehow managed to escape from York gaol. But the Shackleton who’d come back to Leeds only seemed to exist as a rumour to most.

  Simon knew it wasn’t just talk; he’d seen the body. Two hours of asking questions and finally a man said, ‘Go and see Silas James. He can tell you, if anyone can.’

  He knew the name, but he’d never met the man. He ran a small shop on St Ann’s Lane at the top end of Quarry Hill. The door stuck for a second, then creaked as he pushed it open.

  Half-empty sacks of flour and dried peas stood on the carefully swept floor. The windows were clean and shining. A carefully shaved shopkeeper in a long, starched apron smiled at him.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for Silas James.’

  The man gave a nod of his head. ‘At your service, Mr Westow.’

  Interesting; the man knew him. Simon chuckled. ‘I trust you’ll excuse me for not knowing you.’

  ‘You’re a familiar face in Leeds.’

  ‘I’m flattered. I was told you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I was wondering how long before you’d call.’ The man spread his arms in a gracious gesture. ‘You want to know about Daniel Shackleton.’

  Even more curious. ‘How well did you know him, Mr James?’

  ‘I’m married to his sister.’

  Now Simon understood why he’d been directed here. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘There was a time when we saw him often. That was long ago. He’d come to try and borrow money.’

  ‘Did you lend it to him?’

  James sighed. ‘At first. After I told him I wasn’t about to support him any longer, he started to threaten me.’ He cocked his head. ‘I threw him out. He stayed away. That was all before he killed that man.’

  ‘What about after his return to Leeds?’

  ‘Once. He came to see Noelia. My wife,’ he explained as Simon raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘He only stayed for a few minutes. She gave him a little money. Against my wishes, but he was family.’

  The tie of blood could run deep.

  ‘Had he come asking for help?’

  ‘He took what she offered,’ James said. ‘But he claimed he’d been invited back to Leeds by the man who’d been pardoned.’

  ‘Fox.’ That confirmed the connection. ‘Why? Did he say?’

  ‘No. Nothing more than sly little hints. That this man Fox had some plan in mind which would bring them money. I heard all this from her. I didn’t see him myself. He was careful to visit while I was working.’

  ‘Was he specific about this plan?’

  ‘Only that it couldn’t fail.’ He shook his head. ‘But nothing ever could, in Daniel’s eyes. At least, until it fell apart. One of life’s believers. Unfortunately, he always believed in the wrong things.’

  ‘When did he last come and see your wife?’

  ‘A week before he was found. He told us a room had been arranged, but he had to go to Wakefield and finish some business before he could take it.’

  ‘Anything more than that?’

  James pursed his lips. ‘No. As I said, he only came to see her once.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward after you heard he’d been murdered?’

  He kept a genial face, but there was a chill in his voice. ‘We’re respectable people, Mr Westow. My wife listened to me and we agreed to say nothing unless someone came to us, the way you have.’

  ‘You didn’t pay for his funeral.’

  ‘No.’ He drew out the word. ‘I believe that men like him are best forgotten.’

  All the memories would fade soon enough.

  ‘There’s nothing else at all?’

  ‘He never told us any names and he was never specific. That’s as far as I can help you, Mr Westow.’

  Another piece of the puzzle. James had given him the information readily enough, as if he’d rehearsed what he was going to say; he seemed to have been expecting the visit, glad to get the burden of family off his chest.

  Fox wanted Barton’s wealth. That would be revenge enough for coming so close to death. He had a plan of some sort that never happened. Why? What about the connection? The only possibility was Andrew, the son.

  Could that explain his suicide? Guilt was often a heavy burden for a man to carry. Too heavy, sometimes.

  There was one other thing in what he’d heard: Shackleton’s visit to Wakefield. That was something to pass on to Porter and the inspector.

  With a hand on the doorknob, Jane stood outside the cottage in Green Dragon Yard, hearing voices inside.

  She reached into her pocket and drew out her knife. The muffled conversation continued. One swift movement and she was past the threshold, staring at Mrs Shields reading with Sally.

  The girl offered a bashful smile. ‘Everyone had gone and I didn’t have anything to do on my own. I thought you might be able to give me another lesson. Mrs Shields is helping me.’

  She’d walked from Simon’s house, she explained, stopping a few times to rest and catch her breath.

  Mrs Shields turned to Jane and shook her head. ‘I told her she needs to be careful, to give herself time. But she’s as bad as you, child; she’s not going to listen to an old woman.’

  They sat outside, shaded by a wall, and Jane guided Sally through the start of the new book she’d borrowed from the circulating library: The Crusaders by Louisa Stanhope.

  ‘A woman wrote it?’ Sally asked in astonishment.

  ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘I never thought about it.’ She pointed to the title page. ‘I know The. What does that other word say?’

  Billy Harding was elusive. Gone to stay with an aunt, someone said. Off somewhere on business, another told him. One thing was certain: the man wasn’t in Leeds. So much for that idea.

  But there was one name left. The one who’d sent the pair after him. Charles Ibbotson. He remembered speaking to the man after Andrew Barton’s disappearance, coming away with the sense of a leader, one who could direct the others. A thinker. That made sense. He’d take his time before approaching Ibbotson.

  All of that was an indulgence. He was being paid to find Fox and he was still nowhere close.

  Jane walked back to Swinegate with Sally. The girl tried to hide it, but she was weary; the strain showed in the tightness on her face. Close to the bottom of Albion Street, they turned as they heard a shout. Hannah and Wilfred with three of the other children, all waving their hands with pleasure as they ran towards them.

  They crowded around Sally, filling the air with their chatter. The girl was beaming, her tiredness evaporated. As they all talked, Jane slipped away, disappearing into the crowd.

  How long would Sally’s sudden desire for words last once she was fully recovered and active again? How much of it sprang from boredom, the need to fill the hours? The girl still had so much of the child inside, flitting from one thing to another without realising it.

  Time would tell.

  ‘The women all know about him now,’ Rosie said as she unpinned her hat and examined her face in the mirror. ‘None of them will give him the time of day and the word will be all over Leeds tomorrow.’

  She turned, satisfied.

  ‘Have any of them seen him?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No. But if he’s hoping for a glad ear or to prise any jewellery from them, he’s out of luck now. I’m going to change.’

  One avenue cut off. But they were still no closer to finding him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The wind blew overnight, rattling tree branches and sending green leaves tumbling to the ground. By morning it had passed, leaving the weather cooler, offering a reminder that autumn would soon be on them.

  The coffee cart was doing brisk business, men happy to put something warm in their bellies to begin the day. Low murmurs of conversation but nothing to interest him until someone spoke quietly into his ear.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for someone.’

  Simon turned. A man he didn’t know with a squat, solid body. He was wearing clothes long out of fashion, but he carried himself well, back straight and proud. Grey hair spilled out from under his hat, and he had a heavily lined, weatherbeaten face with a cunning expression.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ There was something about the man, the type you wouldn’t trust an inch.

  ‘Around. People talk.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m Alexander Brady.’

  He spoke the name as if he expected it to be familiar. Simon smiled. ‘You seem to know who I am.’

  A nod. ‘As you can see, sir. If I said I’ve come down from Richmond, would that make things clearer?’

  ‘It might. It depends on why you’re here.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of a family named Driver. They live up around there.’

  He was sure he’d heard that name before. His mind began to race. Then it clicked. Mrs Fox. Born Harriet Amelia Driver.

  ‘Their daughter’s dead, if you’re looking for her.’

  ‘Dead and buried, murdered by her husband, as I understand.’

  ‘That’s not certain, but he’s the likely one,’ Simon agreed.

  ‘The family put up a reward for his capture,’ Brady said. ‘Enough to make it worth my while coming down on the coach to find him.’

  ‘A thief-taker.’

  The man gave a small bow. ‘Among other things. I make a living where I can.’

  The family must have been offering a fair sum to make the man travel across Yorkshire.

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the Bull and Mouth. ‘I’m staying there. Your name came up as soon as I began to ask questions.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I thought we might combine our talents and share the money once we find him.’

  ‘I already have a client, Mr Brady.’

  ‘There’s no need to tell him, Mr Westow. This could be our little secret, one that puts money in your pocket.’

  Simon smiled. He’d trust Brady no further than he could throw him.

  ‘I’ve given my word.’

  Brady snorted. ‘What does that mean? Men break their word all the time.’

  ‘Do that and you lose your reputation. If you’re really a thief-taker, you’ll know that’s important.’

  ‘All that matters is finding the man. I’m here for Fox and the reward.’

  Simon put the mug down on the trestle. ‘I wish you well of it. Good day to you.’

  Competition, Simon thought as he walked away. But Brady had no contacts in Leeds. He didn’t know the town or understand the people. He looked the type to blunder wildly through everything. One more problem among all the others.

  ‘I’ll have my men keep an eye on him,’ Constable Porter said. He sat in his office, windows open wide, the piles of paper weighted down on his desk. ‘The last thing we need is some stranger muddying the waters.’ He glanced up. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come up with anything, have you?’

  ‘Only that Shackleton had reason to go to Wakefield before he died. Interesting, perhaps, but nothing to do with Fox. He’s still here in Leeds, staying out of sight.’

  ‘We’ll find him, and sooner rather than later,’ the constable said. ‘You think this Brady has a chance of success?’

  ‘Not unless it’s blind luck.’

  ‘Never much chance of that in this place.’

  Jane had been out in the night, going round the whores again to ask if Fox had visited. Nothing. If he was out in the darkness, none of them had noticed him. Not a waste of time, she tried to tell herself as she started on her way home.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a shape moving. A sense of someone there. She brought the knife from her pocket and slipped into a deep pool of shade. A few moments and he’d edged into her vision.

  Wilfred. The boy from the camp. He held up his hands as Jane stepped forward, blade flashing in a glint of light.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  He nodded dumbly, never taking his eyes from the knife.

  ‘Do you have information?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen Fox?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was cracked and dry. Scared. ‘I …’

  ‘What?’

  He blurted it out. ‘I’ve seen you; I thought you could teach me what you do.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe I could learn to be a thief-taker.’

  She looked at the boy, so meek and retiring. He didn’t look the part. But that might be an advantage if he had some iron inside.

  ‘Why do you want to do that?’

  ‘I thought it might stop me being scared.’

  ‘You ought to talk to Simon Westow.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not him. I know you. I’d ask Sally, but I’m afraid she’d laugh at me.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘She learned from you. She said so. Will you teach me?’

  He sounded too earnest.

  ‘Be outside the cottage tomorrow morning,’ she told him. ‘I’ll show you what it’s like.’

  He was there, waiting in the early light, eager to learn. Jane looked him up and down. His clothes were rags.

  ‘First thing,’ she said. ‘You need clothes. Dark trousers, a coat. Boots. A knife to defend yourself.’

  ‘I have one.’ He produced a stub of a blade, only good for peeling apples.

  ‘We can do better than that.’

  She’d taken a little money from behind the loose stone in the wall for this. The stalls in Central Market provided most of what he needed. The blade came from the knifesmith on Kirkgate. He turned it over and over in his hand.

  ‘Now you’re ready to learn,’ she told him. ‘Just stay with me and listen.’

  No luck in her search during the morning, but she’d never expected much. They crossed the Wellington Bridge, over into Holbeck. Nobody there had seen anyone like Fox. She worked her way back towards Leeds on the south bank of the canal, Wilfred right behind her, listening intently as she asked more questions in the streets around Meadow Lane. This was the real grind of her work. Keeping going when you found no answers. It was what he needed to see, all the frustrations, always hoping for a word, a hint from someone; all too often that was enough to set her on the trail. None of that today.