At Wood Street, he turned. She paused. There were too many ways out; he could go straight through to Vicar Lane or slide into a network of yards. But somewhere like this offered her the chance to end everything.

  She moved carefully, listening for the ring of his footsteps on stone and keeping a safe distance. There were fewer people back here; all the noise from the road grew muffled by the buildings that rose up around her.

  Her hand was tight on the knife as she moved. Jane heard him turn into one of the courts, walking without a care on his mind.

  Jane knew exactly how dangerous he was. The way he could appear out of nowhere. And if White had a blade to her throat back here, she knew she would die.

  At the corner, she stopped, drawing in her breath before she looked. There he was, pausing, then kneeling to tie his bootlace.

  Jane ran. He turned his head as he heard her. Too late. Her knife sliced through his coat and his shirt, biting deep into the flesh on his back. She pulled it out, seeing the blood start to boil and stain. A second blow and he was lying on the ground, huddled down in the piss and the night soil, fingers scrabbling for a weapon.

  Jane raised the knife and brought it down. Again and again. On his arms, on his body, anywhere she could reach. With her left hand she turned White’s head, holding it, forcing him to look. She wanted him to see who’d done this to him, to know. To understand. The invisible girl made flesh. He was still breathing, a thin, whistling wheeze through his teeth. His eyes were filled with hate. Jane stood and smiled down at him. She had her arm raised for the final slash across his throat when she heard voices. Men, just around the corner. Too close.

  A last look and she was gone.

  Jane burst into the house and through to the kitchen. She was weightless. She felt as if she could laugh. As if she could dance.

  Rosie turned, a metal pan in her hands. Her eyes widened. ‘What’s happened to you? There’s blood—’

  ‘He’s dead. White’s dead. I killed him.’

  ‘He’s dead?’ She let the pan fall on the table. ‘How? Where?’

  ‘In the court just off Wood Street.’ She pulled out her knife. The blade was still red and dripping.

  ‘Listen,’ Rosie told her. ‘You need to take that dress off. Now. All that blood on it. I’ll give you one of mine. And take a bath. It’s all over your hands and your face.’

  Jane nodded. She couldn’t understand. Rosie should be happy. They were free. White was gone from their lives. Why was she like this? So frantic, so worried.

  ‘I’ll bring you something to wear and I’ll burn this. Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No. Why—’

  ‘Good.’ Rosie bit her lip. ‘If we don’t mention it outside the house, no one will ever know. We’ll be safe.’ She pinned Jane by the wrists. ‘No one can know you killed him. We can’t let you hang for murder. Do you understand?’

  Jane nodded again. She looked into Rosie’s face. ‘But he’s dead.’

  ‘And I’m glad.’ She squeezed the girl’s flesh lightly. ‘You did well. I just want to make sure that you don’t join him.’

  An hour later, hair still wet and dripping, Jane sat in the kitchen, wearing a clean brown dress that was too big for her, a leather belt cinched tight around her waist. The knife lay in its sheath. She’d cleaned the knife, oiled and sharpened it even before she took her bath.

  The exhilaration had faded. Now she felt nothing at all. She could remember everything, each blow, relive it in her mind. But it didn’t mean a thing. It might have been someone else who struck White. It was already the past, something she was slowly leaving behind her.

  Simon had heard the rumours on Briggate. A man knifed. He’d dashed into the court, pushing through the press of people eager to see. All that remained were a few dark, wet stains soaking into the flagstones.

  Nobody knew the truth, just the gossip that swirled. It was White. It wasn’t. He was dead. He was alive and walked away, barely wounded. Badly wounded. Almost a corpse. One man claimed to have seen him. Two questions and Simon made him for a liar.

  No body. No facts.

  He looked from his wife to Jane and saw something in their eyes.

  ‘You know,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him,’ Rosie told Jane.

  She did. Each moment of it. But this was the last time she’d talk about it. The final time to think about it before she locked the thoughts away.

  Silence filled the room as her voice faded.

  ‘Was he dead when you left?’ Simon asked finally.

  Jane shook her head. ‘No. But he was close. He must have been. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know who’d done it.’

  ‘He vanished. You didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Simon …’ Rosie began, but he held up his hand.

  ‘How badly did you hurt him?’

  ‘Enough,’ Jane answered. ‘I stabbed him seven times. He couldn’t stand up. His throat … it sounded like a death rattle.’ She stared. ‘He can’t have survived.’

  But men did. They lived through that and much worse. Simon breathed slowly. There was nothing he could say.

  His face softened. ‘How about you? How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her face showed nothing. Every trace of expression had disappeared.

  ‘We’d better go and discover the truth.’ He smiled at her. ‘White’s badly wounded, at least. We know that much.’ Jane said nothing. ‘Don’t ever tell anyone what you did.’

  ‘I warned her,’ Rosie said. ‘When we thought he was dead.’

  ‘Alive or a corpse, keep silent,’ Simon warned. ‘And let’s all hope he’s supping with the devil by now.’

  She should have finished the job. All it would have taken was one more cut. But she’d heard the men approaching … another second and she could have made certain. Given White his last farewell to the world.

  And now …

  From place to place and no one knew the truth. All she heard was a tangle of words. Jane stayed out long after darkness had fallen. She needed the certainty, one way or the other. In the old blacking factory the voices spoke in whispers, but it was all vapour. At Mrs Rigton’s, men talked about it. She listened. Nothing.

  Finally, up in the attic on Swinegate, she took out her knife and pulled back the sleeve of her dress. Cutting the flesh where it had begun to heal. To make herself bleed, to make herself burn. Make herself pay.

  Simon found no certainty. A few who swore they’d seen it happen. But he knew it was boasting. White’s body hadn’t been found. That was what mattered.

  He wanted the man dead. But he wanted to be there when it happened, to see the end, to watch as his soul left his body at the end of a noose. After that, hell could keep Julius White for eternity.

  He walked down Briggate in the darkness. All the way to the bridge. It was so old that the stone on the parapets was beginning to crumble. Simon picked off a few fragments and dropped them into the water.

  Seven blows, Jane had said. She’d hurt him badly. He believed her. Yet somehow, he’d managed to vanish once again, as if he was made of smoke.

  A wounded animal was the most dangerous. That was what people said.

  He locked the door behind himself. A lamp was burning in the kitchen. Rosie sat with her head in her hands, staring at the table. She looked up hopefully as he came in. But all he could do was shake his head.

  ‘I need it to be over, Simon. I want my children back here. Where they belong.’

  ‘I know.’ He stroked her hair. ‘So do I.’

  The place felt empty without them. They made life worthwhile. He missed the noise and the chaos they brought.

  ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘Soon.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Simon slipped out while Rosie slept. Into the faint light just before dawn. Already people were hurrying towards the factories. He heard the rhythm of clogs on the cobbles, the swish of a dress as a woman walked by.

  He followed the path by the river, all the way downstream from Gott’s mill at Bean Ing to Fearn’s Island, eyes searching the water for White’s body. All he could see were streaks of red and black on the surface from the dyeworks, the bobbing corpses of cats and dogs. A tree limb caught in an eddy near the far bank. And everywhere, the stench of waste.

  No matter; it was worth looking.

  He saw Barnaby Wade through the window of the coffee house. He had his head down, reading a newspaper, only glancing up as Simon slid on to the seat across the table.

  ‘People have been talking about someone we know.’

  ‘Talk and talk and talk,’ Simon said. ‘About the only thing I haven’t heard yet is the truth.’

  Wade lowered the newspaper and sipped from a china cup. ‘I don’t know more than anyone else.’

  ‘He’s very badly hurt.’

  ‘Is he?’ Wade cocked his head. ‘You’re sure?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘And you want to see if he lasted through the night?’

  ‘I want to know. He’s not in the river.’

  Wade nodded. ‘I can ask. But if there was something definite, you can wager it would be all over Leeds by now. If I were you, I’d stay armed.’

  ‘I am.’ He smiled. ‘Always.’

  ‘I did hear one curious thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A man claimed he heard someone running near the place where White was attacked. He said it could have been a girl.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘You know what White looks like. He’s big. Do you think a girl could get the better of him?’

  ‘I’d say that depends on the girl, wouldn’t you?’ He closed the newspaper and pushed it away, gathering up his hat. ‘Business calls. I’ll tell you if I hear anything. And look after yourself, Simon.’

  Standing by the attic window, Jane watched him leave. She made out the silhouettes of roofs and chimneys, smoke and slates against the sky.

  She’d wrapped a piece of cloth around her arm. The pain remained, fading slowly. She wanted to keep it, to hold it, to cherish it, to be reminded. One more cut …

  Rosie’s dress rubbed and chafed against her skin. She gathered the shawl around her shoulders, laced her boots and followed Simon out into the beginning of the day.

  Today she’d finish things. Today she wouldn’t fail.

  A few stalls were set up for the early workers, selling coffee, pea soup, bread and butter. There was no need to call out their wares; people knew where they were. Only a few stragglers remained, too late for the start of their shifts. One or two more whose lives were on the streets. A man on the tramp, asking hopefully about jobs in the town.

  Jane moved by without being seen.

  She returned to the court off Wood Street. It was empty now. In the half-light she could see White on the ground, bloody and helpless. Fury on his face as he waited for the last blow.

  How could he have vanished?

  The day was coming alive as she emerged on to Briggate. The Newcastle coach sped out of the Talbot yard in a flurry of noise, a crooked smile on the driver’s face. Down by the White Cloth Hall, the door to Mrs Rigton’s beershop was unlocked.

  A pair of early drinkers had claimed a corner. They sat, sullen, quiet.

  ‘You’ve got a new dress,’ Mrs Rigton said, raising an eyebrow.

  Jane shook her head. ‘It’s someone else’s old dress.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It looks like new. They could have sold it and made some money.’

  ‘I should be glad it was free, then.’ She paused. ‘Have you heard anything more about White?’

  ‘Just the rumours that he was attacked.’

  ‘He was,’ Jane said. ‘And he was close to dead.’

  Mrs Rigton chewed her lip and stared. ‘Then you know more than I do. No mention of anyone finding a body.’ She saw the cloth around Jane’s arm. ‘What have you been up to, girl?’

  ‘I cut myself. An accident.’ It was as much as she was going to tell anyone. It was her business and hers alone. ‘I need to find White.’

  ‘If there’s any hint, I’ll tell you. Just watch out.’

  ‘I will.’

  How had he disappeared? Simon worried at the question. But really, it didn’t matter. White was nowhere to be found. That was the important fact.

  People had plenty to say about it, but the words were like sand, trickling through his fingers.

  What would he do if he found the man? Finish the job that Jane had begun? Could he kill in cold blood? He knew himself well enough: no. What, though? Drag the man to the magistrate and swear out a warrant?

  White could counter with his own warrant against Jane. Even without witnesses, she’d be arrested and stand trial. Could she survive in a gaol?

  All those questions could wait. First he had to find the man.

  By evening the frustration had built inside him and his temper was short. He clenched and unclenched his hands, itching for a fight. It was time to go home before he let it all spill out.

  He strode down Briggate, caught in his thoughts. Close to the turning on to Swinegate he glanced up and saw a figure against the wall. Jane.

  ‘Someone’s watching the house,’ she whispered.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the shadows.’

  ‘Who is it? White?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too tall. The wrong shape.’

  ‘We’ll take this one and find out who sent him,’ Simon said. ‘Give me two minutes to slip through the courts to the other end then start to walk.’

  He hurried through the darkness. Simon knew every step here. Inside him, the fire was roaring. He was ready for this. He needed it.

  At the corner, Simon waited for a moment, letting his breath steady. He took one knife from his belt, another from his boot. He waited until he heard Jane’s footsteps. Then he began to run.

  The man was in the middle of the street, waiting for Jane to come close. He was leering at her, licking his lips. She knew she looked like a girl who’d be easy to kill, so small and thin and helpless. Then he heard movement behind and whipped his head around, mouth falling open in surprise.

  Simon was hungry for violence. It glittered in his eyes. Fists and boots. Jane stood, ready to strike. But this was his fight. As the man’s knife clattered away on the cobbles, she gathered it up, alert.

  It was over almost as soon as it began. One final kick to the man’s side and she watched as Simon took a pace back, breathing hard.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The man rolled on to his side and retched. The answer came out as a croak: ‘Hawley.’

  Simon looked at her. Jane nodded. She knew that name.

  ‘Why?’ He squatted and took hold of the man’s shirt, dragging his head off the ground.

  ‘I don’t know. He promised me a guinea if I killed the girl.’

  ‘You won’t be going back to get your money from Mr Hawley.’ He spoke in a quiet, even voice. ‘You won’t be going anywhere near him. The only thing you’ll be doing is leaving Leeds.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’d better remember – I know what you look like now.’ Jane kept silent as Simon stared into the man’s face. ‘If either of us ever sees you again, we’ll kill you. Do you understand that?’

  The man nodded. Simon let him go. He tried to rise, steadying himself against the wall. He kept one hand pressed against his ribs.

  ‘Go. We know your face now. And we won’t forget.’

  Jane waited as he hobbled along, until he turned the corner, out of sight.

  ‘Hawley’s the farmer that White stayed with,’ she said. ‘You were going to talk to him.’

  ‘We’ll visit first thing in the morning. White might still be out there.’

  They left just before dawn, the light just enough to guide them up the cart track towards the farms.

  ‘Which one is it?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Over there.’ Jane pointed.

  On the hilltop, with a view down over Leeds and along the valley. It would be easy to spot anyone coming. A heavy gust of wind rocked them.

  ‘Let’s cut across,’ he said. ‘That way they’ll only see us if they look.’

  It was a sharp climb, holding on to tufts of scrubby grass and stunted bushes to steady them and stop them from falling. Poor land for farming, Simon thought. Closer to the top there was pasture, a dip in the land and a worn path that ran to the farm.

  It was a bleak, lonely house. Battered and worn, with a plain stone front, a barn and stable behind.

  ‘You take the other buildings,’ Simon said. She slipped away, her brown dress soon blending in with the ground.

  The paint had worn off the front door, the wood turned pale grey with age and weather. He knocked and waited until a hard-faced man answered. Thick hands, a face that had been battered by years of sun and rain. The man wore a padded jerkin over an old shirt, a spotted kerchief tied at his neck, heavy breeches and gaiters covering his legs. His hair hung thick and wild, starting to turn grey at the temples.

  ‘Yes?’ A curt voice.

  ‘Mr Hawley?’

  ‘Aye. Who are you?’

  Simon pulled out his knife. ‘I’m Simon Westow. You offered a guinea to have my assistant killed. We’re going to have a talk.’

  The milkmaid was guiding the cattle towards a field, a switch moving in her hand to keep them from straying. She turned as Jane approached, curious.

  ‘Road don’t go through here,’ she called. ‘You want to go back. Hundred yards or so.’ She used the stick to indicate.

  ‘I want to talk to you, if you’re Emily.’

  That was the name Josh had said. She wondered if he was standing at his stable door, watching all this.

  ‘I am.’ Her voice was suspicious. She kept working with the cows, ushering the last of them through to the grass. One or two of the beasts turned to look. The young woman pushed the gate closed and looped a rope over the post to secure it. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Jane. I knew Josh a long time ago.’

  A quick nod. ‘He’s talked about you. He gave you a coat last time you were out.’