The knock roused him. He opened the door with the knife in his hand. Milner’s servant once again, his face drawn, in his hand a folded piece of paper, sealed with wax.

  ‘The master wanted me to deliver this. You asked for an introduction to Mr Fairfax.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Thank you. How is Miss Milner?’

  ‘Safe,’ the man replied after a moment. ‘Her mother is still dosing her with laudanum. It helps.’

  ‘The house?’

  ‘I’ll see it’s cleaned from top to bottom before the family comes back from York. Was it Mr White?’

  ‘Yes,’ Simon answered.

  The servant stared him in the eye. ‘Then I hope you’ll kill him for what he’s done to Miss Hannah. He’s destroyed her.’

  ‘I’ll make sure that he hangs,’ Simon said. ‘I can promise you that.’

  The same road, the same walk. Through Chapel Allerton and on to the gates of the house. This time he pushed one open and continued down the drive.

  Milner’s letter of introduction helped him past the front door, into a place far grander than any he’d ever seen. It made Emma Hart’s small mansion look like a pauper’s hovel. Wealth of a kind he could never imagine. Large rooms with expensive decoration, the soft hush that only money could buy.

  He could hear the guns outside, on the far side of a hill. A flurry of them, then silence. As he waited, Simon began to have doubts about coming here. What kind of power could White have over someone like Fairfax? Men like this were untouchable; they created the justice they wanted with a quiet word. They could buy and sell souls without effort. Back in town, White could be someone. In a house like this one, he’d be nobody. A nuisance.

  Half an hour later, Fairfax appeared in the drawing room, still wearing his shooting clothes. A leather jerkin over a white shirt. Black smears of gunpowder on his cheek and the stench of cordite clinging to his body. A large dog followed, lying down as soon as he made a small gesture. As obedient as everything in this house, Simon thought.

  He was a handsome man, with thick dark hair and frank blue eyes, a bemused stare on his face.

  ‘You wanted to see me.’ He had the lazy drawl of the wealthy.

  Simon needed to be direct. A few brief moments were all he’d have with a man like this. An indulgence.

  ‘I’m looking for a man called Julius White. A magistrate illegally released him from custody on Sunday morning. Someone suggested he might be staying here.’

  Fairfax listened as Simon talked, an elbow resting on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Whoever said that is wrong,’ he answered. ‘I have no idea who Julius White is. Did anyone say why I should know him?’

  Simon took a breath. ‘Because you’re a powerful man who can make things happen. You can have the guilty freed.’

  Fairfax raised an eyebrow. He selected a cheroot from a box and lit it with a taper.

  ‘People seem to believe a great deal of me. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘You’re rich. And from what I can gather, nobody knows you. A little mystery goes a long way.’

  The man smiled. ‘Perhaps that’s it. But whatever power people imagine I have, it doesn’t extend to the law. I wouldn’t want it to.’ His gaze changed. ‘What’s your interest in this White, anyway?’

  ‘I’m a thief-taker. He’s stolen and he’s murdered. He’s free again, and he wants to kill me and my family.’

  ‘That’s quite a list of accusations, Mr—’

  ‘Westow.’

  ‘Do you have proof?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is there anything to suggest my involvement?’

  ‘No. I’m here because three people mentioned your name, that’s all.’

  ‘Flattered as I am that people think of me as someone exalted, I can assure you that all this has nothing to do with me. As I told you, the first time I heard the man’s name was when you just mentioned it. I’ve given you what time I have. I wish you good day.’

  He walked out. The audience was over. A few seconds later, a servant appeared to escort Simon to the door, out of the rarefied world and back to the road.

  He believed Fairfax. White’s name really meant nothing at all to him. But not every road had a destination. He’d go back to Leeds and try again. Keep trying until he discovered the answer.

  Jane turned the ring on her finger. The gold felt warm to her touch. Soothing.

  She spotted someone walking along the street. The boy, bareheaded, lost in the coat she’d given to him. His eyes were wide, frantic as he dodged between people, avoiding the cuffs they tried to give him as he pushed past them. He came to a stop by her.

  ‘He’s there. In the churchyard again. With that man.’ The words rushed out. The boy turned, starting back up the street, then looked back. ‘Are you coming?’

  The ring rubbed against the knife hilt in her pocket.

  St John’s churchyard was empty. Only the gravestones kept watch.

  ‘Where were they?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed to the porch.

  ‘You stay here,’ she told him and saw his mouth turn down. ‘It’s safer.’ She hesitated, and said, ‘If anything happens to me, go and tell Simon Westow on Swinegate.’

  The boy nodded, his face solemn.

  Jane walked around the church. She heard the noise from the small school in the corner of the yard and saw the almshouses in the distance. She halted at every corner, listening, waiting, ready.

  White wasn’t there. She stepped into the porch, then turned the handle on the heavy door and entered the church. Her footsteps rang off the high ceiling. Dark, carved wood. Stained glass. The glowing smell of wax.

  Nobody inside. Nothing except the creak of time and the mustiness of age. She came back out, into the light. The boy pointed towards something in the distance.

  ‘That’s him. The one he met.’

  A figure on his own, almost a hundred yards away. Pale trousers, a dark coat, hat, a slow, thoughtful stroll.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glanced at the boy. He looked back, defiantly, daring her to call him a liar. Jane gave him a penny and began to walk after the man.

  Out along Woodhouse Lane, where the houses were grand, standing at a distance from each other. He turned, passing Queens Square, its buildings surrounding a trim, fenced lawn. Then another turn, on to Long Balk Lane.

  He’d never looked back. No one was behind her, she knew that. Jane hurried, reaching the corner just as he unlocked a door and vanished inside. She stood, counting the houses. Then she left again.

  The boy had vanished from the churchyard. She sat in the porch and thought. Simon would be able to discover the man’s name. But White couldn’t be far. Not all the way out in Chapel Allerton. He was much closer to Leeds. Without noticing, she turned the ring on her finger again.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Rosie said. ‘The boys are off and safe. There’s no need for me to stay at home.’

  Simon stared at her and pursed his lips. Then he nodded.

  ‘Make sure you’re armed.’

  A single, swift movement and she had a dagger in her hand.

  ‘See?’ she said with a dark smile.

  He turned to Jane. ‘Now let’s find out who lives there.’

  She led the way. Up through town, out along Woodhouse Lane and Queens Square once more, then stopping at the corner of Long Balk Lane.

  ‘Five houses along.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure it was that one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Where Arthur Standish lived. The man whose son had been turned away for Hannah Milner’s hand by her father. The first place he’d gone searching for Hannah. Simon felt as if events had turned in a circle.

  Standish, Madeley … had they worked together to destroy John Milner? How did Standish know Julius White?

  ‘Simon?’ Rosie said, and he turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know who lives there, don’t you?’

  He nodded. A faint memory stirred in his mind: Standish’s sister was married to Hardisty the magistrate.

  ‘You might as well go home,’ he said. ‘I may be a while.’

  At the back of the house, he knocked and waited for the word to enter. Martha the housekeeper looked him up and down.

  ‘Things must be bad if you’re here touting for business again.’

  ‘I need to see Mr Standish.’

  ‘Do you, now?’ She placed her hands on her hips. ‘And what if he doesn’t want to see you?’

  ‘He will,’ Simon told her. ‘Tell him it’s about Julius White.’

  She stared a little while longer, then waddled away.

  The kitchen smelt of roasting meat. Fat dripped and sizzled on the coals. A pan of vegetables simmered on the stove and a pudding rested on the table, enough to feed eight or more.

  His stomach rumbled; he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Simon poured a mug of ale and drank it down. At least he could wet his whistle.

  ‘Upstairs. In the library.’ The voice surprised him. He hadn’t heard Martha return. ‘You remember the way?’

  Arthur Standish sat surrounded by his books. Two walls filled with shelves that rose from floor to ceiling. More on his desk and on the lectern. The windows looked out on a garden starting to bloom.

  The man had a florid face, ruddy from years of drink, a map of red veins just under the skin. A full glass beside him on the table. His belly was too big for his waistcoat, pressing and threatening the buttons.

  ‘You told Martha you wanted to talk about Julius White, Mr Westow.’

  ‘That’s right. The man you met in the churchyard earlier today.’

  Standish raised thick, grey eyebrows.

  ‘Did I? I must have forgotten that appointment.’

  ‘How is your sister these days, Mr Standish?’

  The question caught him off guard. Standish fumbled for a reply.

  ‘Anne? Do you know her? She’s—’

  ‘She’s married to Magistrate Hardisty, isn’t she? Such a pity he had to leave Leeds so suddenly on Sunday morning. Right after a special court hearing, too.’

  The man’s red face turned darker, purple rising on his cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Westow—’

  ‘Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m saying.’

  The silence grew around them.

  ‘Why would I meet someone like White?’ Standish asked finally. His voice was cracked and dry.

  ‘You tell me that,’ Simon said.

  The man was beginning to waver. His gaze slipped from object to object. A vase, a volume open on a chair, the inkwell on the desk, never resting on anything.

  Simon could wait. The truth might take a little while yet, but it would come.

  Jane walked back beside Rosie. They didn’t speak. She could feel the woman’s disappointment; she wanted to be part of it, to do something. They passed through the crowds on Albion Street, more and more people around them as they neared Boar Lane. Carts swerved around each other. Draymen rolled a barrel of beer down to a cellar. A woman cried out, trying to sell last autumn’s lucky heather.

  ‘Your ring,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s new.’

  Jane pushed her hand into her pocket to hide it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From a young man?’ Rosie’s voice teased a little; her eyes twinkled.

  ‘No. A woman. An old woman.’

  ‘It’s safe to trust us, Jane. We won’t hurt you.’

  But the people who promised that were the ones who caused pain. She could rely on herself. Only herself. Catherine Shields would die. Mrs Rigton would die. They understood her without asking. They accepted her as she was. But a few more years and they’d both be in the ground.

  It was always safer never to let go, never to let anyone have any hold over you.

  No strange faces waiting on Swinegate. She saw Rosie looking round the empty house, hearing its silence. Missing her children.

  Jane closed the door quietly as she left.

  People walked through the churchyard at St John’s. Some hurried, desperately trying to catch up with life. Others moved in twos and threes. She saw an old man stoop awkwardly and brush the dirt from a gravestone with his handkerchief. He stayed a minute, hands clasped and head bowed, then walked slowly away, wrapped tight in his memories. A cat found a patch of sunlight and curled up to sleep.

  She sat for an hour, off in the corner, under an old oak. Sooner or later White would be here again. Jane could wait. She was so still, nobody would notice her. The shawl over her head. The invisible girl.

  Standish wavered but he didn’t break.

  ‘I told you, Westow. I don’t know White. I’ve never met him.’

  He gripped the arms of his chair and stared.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Simon said.

  ‘You can either leave now, or I’ll send Martha to bring the constable.’

  He’d come so close. The man had been on the edge. But the admission had never arrived. Perhaps Standish had looked ahead and seen himself in the dock while a judge handed down the verdict. Maybe he’d felt the noose tightening around his neck.

  ‘I’d enjoy this place if I were you,’ Simon told him. ‘You might be exchanging it for a cell very soon.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The world changed as the daylight faded.

  The cat had long since padded away. The footsteps vanished from the churchyard. The only sounds were urgent, whispered voices. People moved unseen in the darkness. A shriek of laughter from a whore and her john; they were finished and gone almost as soon as they arrived.

  Jane sat by a tree. Her belly was empty, but she’d known too many days like that for it to bother her. Her eyes grew used to the night. She could make out the shapes as they passed softly.

  A soft, waning moon, enough to cast a faint glow. Thousands of stars, faint pinpricks in the blackness.

  White would return. She knew it. She would wait.

  Jane must have slept. She woke to feel the dew on her dress, cool against her skin. The grey light before dawn. She stretched out her legs and arched her back. All around there was silence, as if Leeds was holding its breath as it waited for day to begin.

  She touched the knife in her pocket, then turned the ring on her finger, as if that might summon the man she wanted to see. He’d be here today. She knew it inside.

  A clear night; a sunny morning. Soon a haze of factory smoke would leave the sky as hazy as gossamer.

  She waited. Not long now.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Rosie said. ‘There are plenty of times she doesn’t come home.’

  Simon breathed and tried to calm his mind.

  ‘I know. But White’s after us. He could have her again. She could be lying dead somewhere.’

  ‘Simon.’ She took hold of his hand. ‘Do you honestly think either of us could ever stop her going where she likes?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then there’s no point in worrying. If anything’s happened, people will let us know. Jane has her own mind. She goes her own way. Whatever she’s doing, you won’t find her until she’s ready.’

  ‘But if she’s dead—’

  ‘We’d better hope she’s not.’ Her voice rose over his, her voice hard. She wasn’t going to let herself think that, he could tell. ‘Jane can take good care of herself. You know, in some ways she’s older than either you or me.’

  She was right. Neither of them knew what Jane’s life had been like. She’d never told them. She’d hardly said anything about herself. She locked everyone out, she used silence as her defence against the world.

  He valued her. Jane was the best he’d ever known. She had a keen gift for the work they did. Sometimes she did seem older than them, that was true. But at other times she was so young. She didn’t understand people. She pushed them too far away ever to see what lay in their heads and their hearts.

  ‘I’m going out to look.’

  ‘Find White,’ Rosie told him. ‘That’s what she’s doing.’

  People came. People went. No one glanced in her direction. The cat arrived, purred, turned three times and settled close to her.

  Soon, she thought. Very soon.

  The first to arrive was the man from Long Balk Lane. The same coat and trousers as the day before. He stood on a patch of grass, removed his hat and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  He had the look of a man who’d been kept awake by nightmares. Anxious, pacing, taking the watch from his pocket and checking it. A few breaths and he’d pull it out again.

  Five minutes passed, ten. And then White appeared, walking as if he didn’t have a thing to worry him, the lord of the world. The pair talked in whispers.

  The man from Long Balk Lane kept gesturing, arms moving. Fear, she decided. He was scared. White listened, nodded, spoke a little.

  People passed by, lost in their own lives, everyone hurrying today. They kept talking. Finally, White reached out and placed his hand on the other’s shoulders, squeezing hard, not letting go. Then a nod and he was gone, striding away.

  Jane rose. The cat stirred and settled again. No one saw her leave.

  Simon could walk around Leeds all day and never spot Jane. Find White, Rosie had said. Easy words but impossible to do. He went to the people who might hear: the upright and the criminal. Nobody knew. Still no one had seen him since the appearance in court.

  He was here, though. He was definitely here.

  At the top of Briggate, Simon turned and gazed back down the street. A throng of faces. Carts parked, men unloading their goods as others edged by. A coach tried to make time with the crack of a whip.

  How many people could he see? Hundreds? A thousand? More? And how many filling all the other streets, the manufactories and mills, the houses?

  How much sorrow did they all carry? What memories did they push away, never welcoming their return?

  He’d learned to live with his past, to make it his own. To turn it into anger.

  He kept looking. What chance was there of picking out one face among so many?

  His job was a game of seek and find.

  But this … this game was deadly. It was one where he had no control.

  White plunged into the crowd on Briggate. Jane stayed close enough to follow and watch as he slid between people. They passed the Moot Hall, where the butchers’ shops all clustered together with their stink of meat.