‘Have you had enough?’ she asked as they finished.

  ‘No, miss.’ He sounded determined.

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  Jane shook her head as they all sat at Simon’s kitchen table. He could see the frustration on her face.

  ‘He’s got to be somewhere,’ Rosie said, frustration cracking her voice.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Simon said, then told them about Brady.

  Sally sat thoughtfully, watching their faces. The bruises on her face were fading, the scabs starting to peel from the cuts on her cheeks and hands.

  She still had the hunger in her eyes. ‘How does he think he’ll be able to find Fox if you can’t?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s cunning,’ Simon replied. ‘Or he thinks he is. He doesn’t know Leeds, but …’

  All it took was one stroke of luck.

  ‘I could follow him,’ Sally offered. ‘I’m well enough for that.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Could you manage a whole day?’

  The girl opened her mouth to speak, then exhaled.

  ‘Very soon,’ he promised her. ‘Very.’

  Tonight the darkness felt like a friend. Simon stood in Bay Horse Yards talking to Big Jake, the man everyone called the Robber. He lived up to his nickname, big and intimidating and violent when he needed to be. Somehow, he’d escaped a sentence of transportation twice, but it hadn’t changed his ways. They were outside the circle of light cast by a lamp, nothing more than faint shapes, hidden a few yards from all the inn’s laughter and noise.

  ‘I haven’t spotted Fox,’ Jake said. He had a hard man’s rasping voice, full of suspicion. ‘Are you sure he’s back?’

  ‘There’s no doubt.’ He thought of the man Fox had sent after Jane.

  The Robber nodded as he took in the information.

  ‘What’s in it for me if I find him?’

  ‘A cut of what I make for it. Easy money.’

  The man chuckled. ‘I’m always wary when someone mentions easy money. There’s something about it. It’s never easy and it’s never much.’

  Simon laughed; true words. But Jake knew people who’d never talk to him.

  ‘Just keep your ears open.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s another man looking. His name’s Brady. Not local.’

  ‘Fox is popular. Must be more to it than I thought.’

  ‘Let me know if you come up with anything.’

  He slipped away into the night.

  All through town. Speaking to one man here, another there, the same thing he’d done for the last few nights. Hoping one of these seeds would flower. He didn’t trust Jake, but he was out of choices.

  By the time bells started to peal for Sunday services, Simon had been up and working for hours. He’d started at the coffee cart. Brady wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and the harassed clerk in the Bull and Mouth said he’d left the day before. Curious. Had he realised Leeds held nothing for him, or moved somewhere cheaper?

  Simon walked slowly around town. He’d had a disjointed night, pain from his leg stabbing through him almost as soon as he settled down to sleep.

  No reports from the men who’d been watching for Fox. With a sigh, he crossed the Head Row, along North Street and up the drive to Barton’s house. The man was almost ready to leave for church, a solemn look on his face, a Bible cradled in his hand.

  ‘Have you found him, Mr Westow?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied, and saw Barton grimace. ‘Have you seen him again?’

  ‘All the time. In here,’ he said and tapped his head. ‘Whatever he was trying to do to me, he’s succeeded. He’ll never let me go until he’s caught.’

  Barton pushed back his jacket to reveal a knife in its sheath.

  ‘My wife’s nerves are in tatters. The doctor has given her something, but it hasn’t helped.’ He glanced at the walls around him. ‘She hasn’t left the house since Andrew’s funeral. This man hasn’t just taken Andrew, he’s robbing us of our lives, too.’

  ‘I’m searching for him.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Nobody knows where he is. Plenty are looking.’

  He escorted Barton down to St John’s, the bells too loud for conversation. Perhaps that was just as well, Simon thought; he had nothing to comfort the man.

  Jane stayed fifty yards behind them, Wilfred following her. She’d been hidden outside Barton’s house long before Simon arrived.

  She imagined the man would go to church; that was the reason she’d come. Fox wanted Barton. Why else would he risk returning to Leeds? He was after some kind of revenge. If she watched Barton, she could keep him safe.

  Once Barton and Simon were safely inside the church, she checked the area all around. No sign. As the service ended, she trailed them to Barton’s home. Still no sense of Fox, but she stayed for another hour, alert for the smallest indication of the man.

  He’d come, sooner or later. Deep inside, she knew it.

  Finally she left, following the Head Row past the entrance to Green Dragon Yard, down to Swinegate and Simon’s house.

  ‘You were behind us? I never felt you there,’ Simon said.

  He saw Jane smile.

  ‘We need to watch over him. You said so.’

  She was right. It was time. But the problem was the same as the last time he’d considered it.

  ‘There aren’t enough of us.’

  ‘I can help,’ Sally said. ‘I can sit and watch his house.’

  ‘What if he leaves?’

  She bristled. ‘I could still manage.’

  Could she? he wondered.

  ‘I can be there, too,’ Rosie said quickly. Simon knew she’d had too little to do lately.

  The idea could work. Sally was eager for something to do. She ought to be well enough to sit and keep watch. If she and Rosie were up at Barton’s house, then he and Jane were free to search for Fox. They were circling; he felt they were slowly coming closer, but still so far to go.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  People in their good Sunday clothes left the late service at the parish church by East Bar at the bottom of Kirkgate. The beggars sat with their pots where the families would pass, feeling full of Christian charity.

  Jane waited off in the shadows with Wilfred tucked close by her. From somewhere near the top of Kirkgate she heard Davy Cassidy’s fiddle, a lilt played sweetly enough to bring tears. It should be a good day for him, too.

  The air was comfortable, the cloying stickiness vanished on the only day in the week when factory chimneys weren’t throwing out smoke.

  ‘It’s time,’ Jane said quietly, and the two of them crossed the street to see Dodson, the old soldier with the wooden leg. He was sitting on a scrap of blanket, the false leg stretched out in front of him, counting out the coins in his cup. Jane added three more and he looked up to thank her.

  ‘People are generous,’ he said, and she heard the gratitude in his voice. He was a good man; she’d known him a long time. He cocked his head towards Wilfred. ‘You’ve brought someone to meet me.’

  An introduction. The boy was confused, not knowing what to do, so he lowered his head and made a small bow.

  ‘Any word on Fox?’

  ‘I’ve heard one or two talking as they pass,’ he replied, and she felt a small surge of hope. Dodson shook his head. ‘I think it was because someone’s been asking questions.’

  The possibility crumbled. ‘That must have been Simon.’ She described Fox; she’d seen him, she remembered him well.

  ‘There are so many men like that,’ he told her as he shook his head.

  Jane knew it was true. Dozens, hundreds who were similar, and no marks to distinguish him.

  ‘If you …’ she began and he nodded.

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell the others, too.’

  The beggars saw people. They relied on them, they developed a sense, a wariness that could keep them alive. They remembered faces and the way men walked, the snippets of conversation of passers-by.

  ‘I’ve seen that man before. Does he help you much?’ Wilfred asked as they moved up Kirkgate.

  ‘Sometimes. He used to be a soldier, lost his leg fighting the French.’

  ‘How?’

  Jane smiled. ‘You should ask him. He likes to talk.’

  A crowd had gathered around Davy Cassidy, worshippers on their way home, caught by the blind fiddler’s music. For two minutes he let the melody sing and fly before softening the notes to a gradual silence.

  Some left. Others moved forward to put money in the hat and thank him for the beauty of the music. He nodded, said a word or two as he made tiny adjustments to the tuning of the violin.

  ‘That’s still a little bit high,’ Wilfred told him as he pointed to one of the strings.

  ‘You heard that too, did you?’ He laughed, turning his head as if he could see the boy. ‘It should be an A, but it’s a wee bit sharp.’ A turn of a small screw and he plucked the string. ‘That’s better. Do you play, then?’

  ‘Me?’ Wilfred sounded horrified. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Just a good ear, then. And I’d say you were here with Miss Jane.’

  She didn’t know how he managed it; maybe she had a scent about her that he recognised.

  ‘He’s helping me,’ she said. ‘We’re still hunting for Fox.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve been hearing the name a time or two lately.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Someone said it not one hour ago.’

  Jane was suddenly alert. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Someone called another man Fox. They stopped for half a minute to listen, then moved on.’

  She felt as if someone was squeezing her tight; she could hardly breathe.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘The man who spoke had a deep voice.’ He thought for a second. ‘A heavy tread when he walked away. He must smoke cheroots, I could smell it on him. I don’t know about the man who was with him. He didn’t say a word.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ She heard the eagerness in her question.

  ‘It might have been an hour. Probably no more than that.’

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  He pointed with his bow. Up Vicar Lane.

  Six pennies in the hat; worth it to have heard all that. There must be other men named Fox in Leeds, but this was the right one. She knew it.

  They were so close.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Wilfred asked.

  ‘That it won’t be long now.’

  Simon walked with his wife and Sally. He could see the girl still hurt, the grim, determined set of her face and her silence as they moved through town. None of her usual curiosity; she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Before they came out, she’d spent ten minutes sharpening her knife on a whetstone.

  Her expression eased as she settled on the ground from where she could watch the house, and he turned to Rosie.

  ‘When I saw him back from church he said he’d be home the rest of the day. But if he leaves …’

  ‘We’ll follow,’ she told him. ‘If Fox shows himself, we’ll stop him.’

  He caught sight of Brady on Call Lane, talking to a man with a pony and cart who kept pointing. Asking directions.

  He raised his hat. ‘Searching for something, Mr Brady?’

  The man turned, a sharp look of annoyance on his face. The man in the cart flicked the reins and moved on.

  ‘Where’s Hunslet?’

  ‘At the end of this street, turn to your right and go across the bridge. Everything to your left on the other side is Hunslet,’ Simon told him. ‘If you go the other way, you’ll be in Holbeck.’

  The man nodded. ‘I thank you. Do you know Bowman Lane?’

  ‘Keep going straight from the bridge for a hundred yards and you’ll see it.’

  Someone must have told him about Joe Rawlings. The man who boasted he knew all about crime in Leeds and ran most of it from his ironmonger’s shop on Bowman Lane. All in his head, but his fancies didn’t trouble anyone.

  As Brady ambled away, Simon called, ‘Rawlings won’t have his shop open on the Sabbath. But he lives upstairs. The door is to the side.’

  The man’s footsteps hesitated for a fragment of a second, then began again. Simon allowed himself a smile. Whatever information Brady was seeking, Rawlings wouldn’t have it. Let him find that out for himself.

  Matty Harker’s house was tucked away off Beck Street, where Timble Beck came down to join the river.

  ‘Mr Westow,’ he said in surprise as he opened the door. It was a shabby place, slowly falling down around him but Harker didn’t seem to notice. Or he simply didn’t care.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Matty.’

  The man nodded. ‘Since before you were attacked. I heard you were working again.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. What about you? Still in the same line of business?’

  ‘This and that.’ He gathered small crumbs of information, keeping them close until someone was willing to pay a price. It wasn’t much of a living, but his needs were few.

  ‘I’m after a man named Fox. Does it mean anything?’

  Harker frowned. ‘Didn’t he leave Leeds? I know the constable was looking for him. You must be aware of that.’

  ‘He’s returned,’ Simon said. But if the man didn’t know, he had no information worth buying.

  ‘He killed Shackleton, didn’t he? Him or his wife. That’s the rumour.’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘Did you know Shackleton had a friend here? A woman.’

  ‘No.’ Was it true? The man had kept that quiet. When he’d been out asking questions, nobody had mentioned any woman. But Harker had often been right in the past. ‘When was this? Before or after he came back? Who is she?’

  He knew the urgency of his voice was betraying him, but he didn’t care. This could be important.

  Harker gave a slow smile and rubbed a thumb across his fingertips.

  Her name was Betsy Watling and she lived in a little court off Workhouse Row. That was all Harker knew. A couple of scraps, but if it was true, worth the money Simon had just given him.

  The old workhouse stood on the corner of Vicar Lane and Lady Lane. God only knew how old, but it was still in use, even with large gaps in the mortar between the stones, and roof slates that seemed to be held on with prayer.

  He knew the place very well. His eye picked out the window that had been closest to his bed when he was a boy. He’d spent hours staring out it, dreaming of a world that had to be better than living inside those four walls.

  He’d walked out when he was thirteen, ready to find his own way. Ever since then, he’d been expecting the building to collapse or be torn down. Once a year, someone raised the idea of demolition, but every time it faded to silence.

  Workhouse Row ran by the side of the grounds, facing a high brick wall. A couple of questions and Simon knew exactly where Watling lived.

  Better to use a woman’s touch to start her revealing about Shackleton and Fox. Rosie would be perfect. Jane was too blunt, not an ounce of subtlety about her, and Sally was too young.

  ‘We’ll go down together,’ he said as he slipped in beside her and Sally to watch Barton’s house. ‘I’ll talk a little and let you ask the questions. You know what we need to find out.’

  Rosie nodded then looked around. ‘What about once we’re there?’

  ‘As soon as you start talking to her, I’ll leave and come back here.’

  Sally was still a shadow of herself; he was slow. Together, they weren’t likely to scare a soul. But they’d keep guard.

  But there was little for them to do. Twice he saw Barton behind the window, shuffling around like an old man, head bowed. But the man never came out, and no sign of anyone else lurking and waiting.

  When Rosie returned, moving with quiet grace, he stood and stretched.

  ‘I can stay,’ Sally offered, but he shook his head.

  ‘Tomorrow. There won’t be anything else today.’

  She took a few stumbling paces, reaching for a tree branch to steady herself, before she began to walk a little more easily. Simon watched her carefully. Healing swiftly, but she was impatient; none of it could be quick enough for her. At the Head Row she left them, going to visit Jane, she said.

  ‘Do you think she’s ready?’ Rosie asked, watching the girl move away from them.

  ‘Probably not, but she’ll go her own way,’ he told her. ‘You know what she’s like.’

  Would Sally be safe enough alone? That was what Rosie had meant. But it was the tail end of a late summer Sunday afternoon and couples were still parading around town. Trouble didn’t look likely.

  He took his wife’s arm and they began to stroll home. ‘Now, what did Betsy Watling have to say? Was it worth a few pennies?’

  She heard the fires crackle and roar and saw the smoke rising from the tops of the chimneys. Monday, and the mills and factories woke from their Sunday sleep.

  Jane had risen early. The terrifying dream had come again, the girl’s scream tearing the night apart as if it was never going to leave her. She’d lit the lamp and sat for half an hour, reading more of The Crusaders. But it didn’t pull her in the way the stories about America had done. It felt like a makeweight. Something to ease the tendrils of a bad dream away.

  Sally had surprised her yesterday, arriving to ask for another reading lesson. She’d expected the urge to pass very quickly. Jane did what she could; she was no teacher, but the girl had been attentive, quick to grasp things and recognise more words, as if she’d made a decision that she was going to master this. Why, Jane didn’t know, and Sally said nothing. Meanwhile, Mrs Shields had watched, nodding her approval.