Almost a year before, Simon had been stabbed in the thigh while trying to catch a thief. If it hadn’t been for Dr Hey’s delicate skill, he’d have lost the leg, possibly even his life. In the end luck had held himself close; he’d escaped with no more than a vicious scar and a bad limp for the rest of his days. It had left him cautious, aware how life could end in the space of a heartbeat. It had taken months to ease him back to full health; longer still to rediscover his will. He’d been forced to understand that there was so much he could never manage again. No running, no fighting. For a long time he’d felt defeated, overwhelmed and lost. Gradually, with help from Rosie and Amos and Richard, he’d come to terms with what he could do, to accept the limits. There were still plenty of days when fury roared inside. But as the weeks passed, he’d worked his way back into being a thief-taker, the only trade he’d known.

  Simon had always been good at his job. He was successful. People in Leeds knew him; he’d earned his reputation. But he understood full well that he could no longer manage the old ways. He’d spent hours talking about it with Rosie, sitting with Jane and Sally, the two young women who worked with him. If he was going to return to the business, he’d need their assistance more than ever.

  Simon would remain the public face. That was how it had to be. People expected a thief-taker to be a man. He would be the one they hired, who came to agreements. They could do business with him; and a man could do things that were impossible for women: talk to those in power or go to the inns and beershops and sit with criminals. Simon knew people; they’d learned to trust him.

  But for everything else, he’d have to rely on Rosie and Jane and Sally. His wife was no novice to the business; they’d worked together before their sons were born and she had the time and desire to do more. With the boys now growing towards manhood and flourishing at the grammar school, she had time to take on a full share of the load again.

  Jane had been with him for a long time. She’d grown up on the streets, thrown out by her mother when she was eight years old. She’d quickly learned how to survive, turning into a ruthless fighter who had an uncanny ability to follow without being noticed. More recently she’d drifted away into another, quieter life in the curious little house she shared with old Mrs Shields. Sometimes a fortnight or more would pass without him seeing her, yet she was ready when he needed help.

  It had been Jane who’d discovered Sally, another feral girl, a younger, deadlier version of herself, small enough to slip unnoticed in and out of crowds. She was sharp and observant, the most dangerous person with a knife he’d ever seen, an odd mix of fury and compassion. Now her home was in the attic of Simon’s house on Swinegate; she’d become a part of the family, almost a sister to the boys. Yet two, sometimes three nights a week, she’d slip out of the house to help the young ones who had nowhere to live. Money, food, someone who’d listen. It wasn’t an obligation she felt, he decided, more a vocation.

  The four of them made a curious, ragged crew. But a very effective one, Simon thought as he hobbled up Briggate. They’d done well together. He passed the place where the Moot Hall had stood for centuries in the middle of the street, until it was pulled down the year before. Now the cobbles on the road looked so sad and worn that it was hard to remember it had been any other way. He grimaced. Each step took effort; these days, every journey required thought. He’d dressed in his good clothes: the carefully brushed dark wool coat with the swallow tails, the trousers cut loosely to make movement easier. A top hat today. But always the work boots with the hobnails on the soles.

  George Mudie was busy in his printing shop; as soon as Simon opened the door he was assaulted by the heavy tang of ink. Mudie had edited a newspaper once, before he fell out with the owner. Now this business kept him alive. But his curiosity for gossip and news had never flagged.

  ‘Let me guess, Simon,’ he said as he stretched out his back and wiped his hands on a rag that was close to black. ‘Fox.’

  He grinned. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who reads the papers.’ He poured himself a small glass of brandy and sipped. ‘Besides, who wouldn’t have a few questions about a thing like that?’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Influential relations, perhaps. A good lawyer who has someone’s ear. But that costs money.’

  ‘I doubt Fox and his wife could afford it.’

  Mudie sighed. ‘Then who knows? Good fortune, perhaps. Someone has to have it, because God knows it’s certainly never visited me. If this Fox has any sense at all, he’ll never show himself in Leeds again.’

  Constable Porter shook his head. He looked strained, tired. ‘Nobody’s told me the reason and I haven’t asked. All I know is what was in the newspaper. I’ve been too busy to ask any questions. Have you heard about the troops from Chapeltown barracks and the feud with the drinkers at the Old King’s Head? They’re at it every night.’

  ‘People are taking bets on who’ll come out on top.’

  ‘None of the bastards if I have my way.’ His voice became grim. ‘If it carries on, we’ll end up with one or two dead. Fox is old business, Westow. It stopped being my concern when we shipped him off to the assizes.’

  FOUR

  Leeds, June 13, 1826

  The knock on the door disturbed a doze. Simon had developed the habit since his wounding, closing his eyes and slipping into a light sleep for a few minutes. The time of day didn’t seem to matter; just a few moments of rest. He pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Not even nine in the morning. For the love of God, he was becoming an old man.

  A man in dark, sober livery was standing on the step, a serious look on his face. Someone’s servant, Simon thought. He made a hasty bow and handed him a folded note.

  ‘Mr Barton said to bring you this, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He fumbled in his pocket, found a halfpenny and pressed it into his hand. With a smile and a thank you, the man drifted away.

  At the kitchen table, Simon broke the seal.

  Mr Westow,

  No doubt you saw the news that Fox was granted a reprieve from death. When that happened, I imagined he and his wife would go somewhere nobody knew them and find a new life.

  However, since last week, I believe I’ve seen him following me three times. At first, I decided it had to be my imagination. With the second instance, I was a little less sure. The third happened yesterday morning, and I’d swear an oath it was Fox. Always at a distance, with no attempt to speak to me or threaten me.

  I’m not a man easily given to fright, but this worries me, more for my wife than myself. I will gladly pay you to discover what’s happening and to keep us safe.

  Your servant,

  James Barton

  He read it through once again and began to plan.

  ‘It’s what you’ve always done best,’ Simon said. ‘Following people.’

  Jane sat by the empty hearth in the cottage behind the wall in Green Dragon Yard. Summer and the air was warm. With no need of a fire, she’d swept the grate clean then blackleaded it until it gleamed. Mrs Shields, the only person she really cared about, was busy in the kitchen.

  ‘How long will it take?’ she asked. She remembered Barton, the dark glint of revenge in his eyes when he said he wanted to prosecute Fox.

  ‘That’s up to him. As long as he’s willing to pay for it. It’ll have to be you and Sally. Fox barely saw the two of you. He knows Rosie, and I …’ He tapped his leg. ‘You’ve seen him.’

  She had, and still remembered his face when he learned he’d been trapped. Jane sighed, staring down at the book beside her chair. Woodstock, the new novel by Walter Scott. She’d borrowed it from the lending library the day before and the tale had been gripping her ever since. She was reluctant to do anything before she’d finished it. But she’d agreed to help when Simon needed it.

  ‘What if Fox tries for revenge?’

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ he said. She’d killed often enough in the past; she would again if it was needed. ‘I don’t know what’s in his mind. Fox didn’t seem violent. It should be easy enough, and Barton has money.’

  Jane nodded. She’d given her promise, but she preferred her quiet days and nights with Mrs Shields. They suited her spirit these days.

  She gazed out of the window, making up her mind. The sun was shining, as fine a June day as anyone could wish to see.

  The night before, the screaming girl had visited her dreams yet again, as she had so often in the past months. Crying, terrified. Enough to wake her, make her clutch hard at the sheet and weep small tears of her own.

  As she sat in bed, letting the beating of her heart slow, that day felt like something from a different life. If the girl had survived the infections after her leg was amputated, she’d still wonder how to live now she was unable to bring a wage home to the family.

  Maybe the dream had been an omen of some kind, she thought.

  ‘Tell me where he lives,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow until two o’clock. Sally can take over then.’

  The joy of Woodstock would have to wait. Jane laced up her stout work boots, gathered her shawl, kissed Mrs Shields farewell and followed Simon out of the cottage.

  She saw no sign of anyone following Barton as he strode here and there around Leeds during the morning. Calling on friends, dipping in and out of offices on business. A man with a very full day.

  They passed Dodson, the beggar who’d lost his leg fighting against Napoleon; she smiled at him and dropped a few coins in his mug.

  Barton never looked back. He had no idea she was there. Curious behaviour, Jane thought, if he really believed Fox was following him; she’d expect him to be constantly peering over his shoulder. At the corner of Boar Lane and Briggate she paused long enough to give Kate the Pie-Seller three pennies for two of her pies. All the time Jane was watching people move.

  Nothing suspicious at all. Certainly no sign of Fox.

  Barton arrived home for his dinner not long after noon. He lived in one of the old mansions tucked back from North Street, houses built for rich wool merchants a century before. Jane kept her distance, hidden away in the shadow of a wall, never stirring until she felt someone close.

  ‘Have you had any problems?’ Sally asked as the church clock struck two.

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Jane handed her one of the pies. ‘No sign of Fox.’

  ‘How do you think he managed a pardon?’ the girl asked. ‘He didn’t seem like anyone special, did he? Simon asked the constable, but he didn’t seem to know.’

  Jane didn’t care. It had happened, and the man had plenty of reason to return to Leeds for revenge.

  ‘It’s probably all to do with money. Everything is.’ She stretched. ‘I’ll come back at six.’

  She sat outside the cottage, quietly reading her book and relishing the warmth of the afternoon sun. Even through the fine layer of haze and smoke that always hung over the town, the heat was comforting.

  When the bell at the parish church pealed half past five, Jane set the book aside and brought a knife from her pocket, spending five minutes honing its sharpness. She knew this blade. It had saved her life and served her well. Readiness could mark the distance between life and death. Her attention had slipped once, and she’d paid for it with her little finger. Simon had let down his guard for a single moment and now he walked with the consequences.

  As she approached Barton’s house, she paused to study Sally. When they met, the girl had been a child of anger. It was fury that had kept her alive on the streets. But living with Simon and Rosie and their boys, she’d found a family who cared for her, and much of that hardness had blunted, tempered with compassion. She was growing, taller every month it seemed, and starting to fill out. How old was she? Thirteen, Jane decided. That, or perhaps a year older.

  Still a strange one, a child of two families, one with the Westows and the other with the homeless children who relied on each other. God help her if she was ever forced to choose between them, Jane thought.

  ‘Barton left about an hour after you,’ Sally said. ‘The servant brought a gig from the coach house. He and a woman went off in it. I decided to stay in case Fox came sniffing.’

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Her gaze slid around, but there was little to see. The house was quiet, nobody visible through the windows.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘I’ll stay for a few hours and come back again in the morning.’

  When she turned her head again, Sally had vanished.

  Toward eight, the light began to change, growing paler and thinner as dusk edged closer. Jane waited, but Barton and his wife didn’t return. Time seemed to slow, the minutes dragging by. Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a movement. A dress. A woman leaving a hiding place and slipping away. Before she was gone, Jane caught a brief flash of a face she’d last seen months earlier: Mrs Fox.

  How? She’d never sensed another soul there.

  Jane took out her knife and twisted the gold ring on her finger for luck. Her heart began to beat faster. Then she tucked the shawl over her hair and followed.

  FIVE

  ‘Are you certain it was her?’ Simon asked, and Jane saw him frown. Barton had only mentioned the man, not his wife.

  ‘It was. I remember her,’ Jane replied. ‘It was Mrs Fox.’

  Upstairs, Richard and Amos moved around noisily, a brief swell of raised voices that quickly died away again. She looked at the window. It was becoming darker outside; she’d come to tell them all what had happened.

  ‘I never felt anyone close when I was watching the house,’ Sally said.

  ‘I didn’t either. If I hadn’t seen her …’ That had worried and nagged at her all the way here. It had shaken her. She should have sensed something, an indication, a small tingling that something was wrong. Instead, there had been emptiness. Jane looked around the faces at the kitchen table. ‘She might be good at this.’

  ‘Where did she go after she left Barton’s house?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I followed her to Middle Fold.’ It lay on the far side of Mabgate, a ragged street petering out towards the back of Burmantofts Hall. ‘She never realised I was there. I’m positive of that, but I kept my distance. I couldn’t see which house she went into, but there aren’t too many of them.’

  Simon nodded. It was well over a year since he’d been around there, but he could picture it clearly in his mind. Still plenty of green all around, but buildings were encroaching – there were already a few new ones on Skinner Lane, only a stone’s throw from the Sheepscar mill pond.

  ‘The question is, what do the Foxes intend to do to the Bartons?’ He paused for a second. ‘Is there anywhere to stay out of sight near where they’re living?’

  ‘A few places.’

  ‘I’d like you and Sally to start there in the morning.’ Simon told them. ‘Follow them when they leave.’

  ‘What if they go in different directions?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Split up. One of them will probably watch Barton.’

  Frederick Fox had felt the noose around his neck before he’d been given back his life. He was bigger, stronger than his wife. He had to be brimming over with hatred. What else but revenge could have brought him back to Leeds?

  The coffee cart outside the Bull and Mouth always opened before first light. A coach arrived, the sweating horses pulling under the high arch and into the yard as Simon took a sip from the mug and gazed at the people who’d gathered. Familiar voices, and many of the same faces he’d seen for years, always a good place to catch the early gossip. But nobody had any worthwhile gems today.

  He’d heard Sally slip away from the house in darkness. Off to Middle Fold.

  There was little he could do until the Foxes acted. Nothing but wait. That had always been the most frustrating part of this business, even more so these days. He liked to be out, beating at the bushes and stirring things up to see what followed. That was much harder to do now. He needed to rely on others and it could never be the same.

  ‘You’re miles away, Westow. Not woken up yet?’

  He turned at the sound of Constable Porter’s voice, the inspector a few feet behind.

  ‘Don’t often see you here.’

  Porter looked at the tin cup with disgust. ‘I don’t know how you can stand the taste of that muck.’

  ‘Sometimes I hear useful things.’

  ‘Anything on Fox?’

  Simon felt a ripple of panic up his spine. ‘Why? Should there be?’

  ‘I saw Mr Barton yesterday. He told me all about it.’

  ‘Fox and his wife are living in Middle Fold.’ He gave the man the rest, the precious little he knew.

  ‘What do you think? Are they likely to try anything?’

  ‘We only started yesterday. It’s too early to tell.’

  ‘There’s something about this …’ Porter took off his hat and scratched his scalp. ‘It bothers me. Why have they come back?’

  ‘I doubt they’re here to apologise.’

  That brought a flicker of a smile. ‘Are those two lasses doing the following?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope they’re as good as you’ve always claimed.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Right. I need to go to the barracks and try to calm this problem with the soldiers and the town once and for all. Damned thing seems like it doesn’t want to end.’

  Sally and Jane squatted deep in the shadows, two faint outlines in dark cotton dresses, shawls covering their hair. They’d arrived early, moving quietly through the streets well before dawn peered over the horizon. A hundred yards away, carts trundled slowly along the road to the turnpike. A single passenger coach rushed past in a welter of noise, the driver cracking his whip above the horses.