Finally she’d walked back to Swinegate beside her, seeing the drawn face as the mask slipped and the weariness and pain showed.

  Good sleep hadn’t returned; she was just waiting for the first hint of dawn as an excuse to be up and out. Wilfred would come around later, but first she’d find Simon at the coffee cart.

  He didn’t realise Jane was there until she was standing at his side. That invisibility was her skill, her weapon.

  ‘Matty Harker told me about someone who knew Shackleton,’ he said quietly as they walked down Briggate. ‘A woman. Rosie saw her yesterday.’ He waited for a reaction, but she stayed quiet. ‘You remember he and Fox were in prison together in York.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. He escaped.’

  ‘This woman claimed that Fox told him to come to Leeds at the start of the summer if he read about a pardon. He had a plan to make them both some money, if Shackleton didn’t mind murder.’

  ‘But …’ She blurted out the word, frowning.

  ‘Yes. That meant he must have thought one was coming. Or hoped it would.’

  He’d scarcely been able to believe it when Rosie told him. Was this some fanciful story? Could it really all have been arranged? Who had the money and the power to take care of that? Why would they do it for someone like Fox?

  ‘Do you believe it?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know,’ he said after a few moments. He’d kept turning the words over during the night, still no closer to an answer than when he’d first heard it. ‘But it’s all we have.’

  ‘Fox’s plan must have involved Barton,’ she said with a frown. ‘Why didn’t he act on it though? All he did was follow him.’

  ‘You saw him with Andrew Barton. They probably had a scheme of some kind.’

  She nodded. The son must have been a part of it, but now he’d never be able to give them answers. The only one who knew all the answers was Fox.

  ‘How do we find him?’

  He still couldn’t answer her question, and they both knew it.

  ‘I’d like you to watch Barton today.’

  He had other plans for Rosie and Sally.

  ‘If Fox comes?’

  ‘Take him alive if you can. But make sure you stop him.’

  Another nod and she vanished as silently as she’d arrived.

  At home, Simon sat at the kitchen table. Richard and Amos had been up early and bustled out, off to walk in the country for the day with four of their friends. They were old enough, and a group of six would deter trouble, Simon decided when he gave his permission. Let them enjoy themselves; soon enough they’d be back to their lessons at the grammar school.

  The air was thick with flour and the room had the sweet, domestic perfume of bread baking in the oven.

  ‘I need you to go back and talk to the women,’ he told Rosie. ‘Find out who they believe might have had the influence to promise a pardon and what it might have cost.’

  ‘If the Watling woman’s story is true, do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think? Is it?’

  ‘She believed it. But even if we manage to come up with a name or two,’ Rosie asked him, ‘what does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t. Until we know, we can’t say.’

  ‘What about me?’ Sally asked hopefully. The damage to her face was healing, but still obvious when anyone looked.

  ‘Go and talk to the children.’

  Her movements were stiff; she’d done too much yesterday. Today would tax her, too, but she was the only one who could do this.

  ‘To ask them to look for Fox?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Remind them.’ He understood that they all needed to find food, their first thought was survival. But they could be the best chance. Eyes open, the ones nobody noticed … Simon brought a small purse from his pocket. Coins jingled. Barton would cover the cost. ‘Pay them.’ Not much, but enough to ensure nobody would go hungry today. ‘Tell them there’s a reward for whoever spots him.’

  Sally weighed the purse in her hand. ‘What do you want them to do if they see him?’

  ‘Stay close and send someone to find you. They need to keep their distance and out of sight.’

  ‘They know how to do that.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘The devil you say.’ Porter looked stunned.

  ‘That’s what the woman told me.’

  ‘I don’t believe there’s an ounce of truth in it. There’s nobody here who could arrange a pardon from the gallows.’ He snorted. ‘He must have been hoping. Condemned men all do that. That’s what I’ve read – they hope and pray a lot. Think they’ll be chosen.’ He gave a slow shake of his head. ‘No, I don’t buy a word of it. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He had to agree, though; it seemed impossible.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Westow.’

  ‘I’m trying to find the truth.’

  ‘Truth?’ The constable barked out a laugh. ‘The only way you’ll manage that is getting hold of Fox, and none of my men have seen hide nor hair of him. I wish you well with the search.’

  ‘Someone’s coming out,’ Wilfred said softly.

  Jane stirred. She’d been sitting, lost in thought about Fox. She rose, watching Barton close the front door of the house before shuffling down the drive. The death of his son had turned him into a man who had become old long before his time. All the confidence and pleasure had gone from his stride.

  The boy gave her a questioning look, but Jane shook her head. Not yet; Barton was moving slowly. Finally she pulled the shawl over her hair and slipped out and on to the noise and bustle of the road, with carts and coaches and people hurrying past.

  Barton was twenty yards ahead. Jane glanced around. No sense of Fox. Nobody looked at them. A woman and a boy were invisible in the throng.

  He turned through the lychgate at St John’s Church, halting for a moment to look around, then on to his son’s grave. It was the most important place in the world to him; Jane remembered the look on his face as he waded into the water to pull out the body. That was the moment his world had cracked apart.

  ‘What should we do?’ Wilfred asked.

  ‘We go in and keep watch. Stand over by the wall, out of sight.’

  She led the way and they stayed in the shadows. A few yards away, the life of the town continued. In the churchyard, things were quiet. Jane kept glancing around. A feeling had begun to rise in her: something was going to happen.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something by the gate. Someone. A man, standing and looking before turning away. Fox. She felt a spark through her body.

  ‘You stay with Barton,’ she ordered Wilfred hurriedly. ‘He’ll go home from here. Follow him.’

  ‘Where—’

  But she’d gone, the figure of Fox sharp and clear in her mind.

  She saw him again, standing by the Head Row, shifting his weight from foot to foot, impatient as he waited for a line of carts to pass so he could cross.

  Jane stayed a few yards behind, shielded from his view by a large man and his wife. She kept her hand close to the pocket in the dress, ready to grip her knife. As soon as people began to surge across the road, she moved. Keeping to the other side of Briggate, ten yards behind Fox now. She was giving him some distance, but staying close enough to follow every turn and catch him in a moment.

  Jane swallowed. Suddenly the day felt hot. Her heart was beating a tattoo in her chest and a flutter of fear ran through her body. This was definitely Fox; she remembered his gait from the times she’d followed him, almost rolling from one foot to the other.

  He turned down Wood Street. She crossed Briggate and cautiously followed. It was darker down here, blackened bricks rising up to cut off the light. Quieter, too; every noise carried.

  Jane stayed close to the wall, creeping along, while Fox let his footsteps ring. He’d done nothing to disguise himself. Perhaps the crowd was enough, she thought.

  He turned down a small ginnel that had no name. It led to a tiny court, a place she knew, but this was the only way in or out. If she tried to enter, he’d be able to see her. If she waited here, Fox would spot her as soon as he came out.

  Just a moment to decide. She didn’t panic, mind working quickly, weighing everything, before she walked on, down the rest of Wood Street to Vicar Lane. At the corner, she stopped and looked back.

  Had Fox realised she was following him and led her there deliberately? He’d shown no sign of it, but that meant nothing. She could stay; he’d have to come out sometime. If Fox was here, Barton was safe. The man would go straight home, she felt sure of that. Wilfred could watch him there; she’d shown him what to do.

  Not many people passed along Wood Street. Jane stood on Vicar Lane, peering down it. A few of those who cut through gave her curious looks; most ignored her. An hour passed, then most of a second, and her imagination began to work: had she missed him somehow? Had he really turned down that ginnel? Had the figure even been Fox?

  Then he was there again, striding towards her. With a jerk she pulled back, scarcely daring to breathe as she turned away.

  He walked past her, so close that she could smell him, sour and sweaty. If he was aware of her, he hid it well.

  Her heart was thudding, fear roaring through her veins and making every nerve sharp. She gave him five yards and began to walk. Slowly, enough to let him pull a little farther ahead yet still keeping him in sight.

  Jane tried to swallow. She paused at the horse trough, splashing water over her face. When she looked up again, Fox had vanished.

  A sudden panic. Disbelief. Her eyes were lying; this wasn’t possible. She’d glanced down for no more than two seconds. How could he disappear? She must have missed something.

  But as she peered frantically around, there was no sign of him. Jane dashed down the street.

  There was a tall, scarred door where she’d last seen him. She tried the handle. Locked. Jane looked up. The building stood three storeys tall. Nothing to show if it was offices, or if people lived there.

  Jane stood on the other side of Vicar Lane, keeping to the shadow of a doorway. People jostled her as they passed, carts and coaches rattled and banged up and down the road. She stared up at the windows. No movement, no sign of life behind them.

  Fox must have gone in there. That had to be it. It was the only place.

  She almost missed Hannah, the girl from the homeless camp, as she passed. A short whistle and Hannah turned in surprise; she’d never spotted Jane. A few quick instructions and Hannah scurried away.

  She came running headlong towards him, her hair wild, eyes wide. No weapon in her hands; that was the first thing Simon noticed. He braced himself, but the child stopped herself, bent over, panting and gasping.

  ‘It’s Jane.’ She could barely speak, drawing in a breath before she could carry on.

  ‘What?’ A thin line of terror ran through him. ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘She’s seen Fox.’ Another pause. ‘On Vicar Lane. He went in somewhere. She’s there.’

  Simon fumbled a penny from his pocket and passed it to the girl.

  At first he didn’t notice Jane; she seemed to blend with the stonework. Then she gave a small wave and he realised she was just three yards away.

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  He watched her nod towards a brick building. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Is it definitely him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She explained how she’d seen him and followed, the ginnel off Wood Street.

  ‘Who’s watching Barton?’

  ‘Wilfred, the boy who was with me. But we know Fox is the danger.’

  He nodded; she was right. Simon gazed at the building. No idea what was inside. Nobody had come or gone, Jane had said. He could try the lock picks, but not in the middle of the day on a busy street.

  He needed Porter and his men.

  ‘Stay here until I come back,’ he said. ‘If he leaves, keep with him.’

  Constable Porter shook his head as he stared at the door.

  ‘We’ve no idea who’s behind there,’ he said. ‘Ready to find out, Westow?’

  Jane had been in the same spot when Simon returned with Porter. He glanced around now and saw she’d faded away.

  Porter hammered on the door, stood back and waited. He tried again and they heard footsteps inside and a woman was facing them. Somewhere close to fifty, well dressed, with sharp, raw features and an educated voice.

  ‘These are lodgings for gentlemen,’ she explained, when Porter told her about Fox. ‘They all have keys to the door.’ She pursed her lips, the wrinkles clear around her mouth. ‘But I have nobody who looks like the man you described. He couldn’t have come in here. You saw I keep the door locked.’

  ‘Have any of them lost his key lately?’ Simon asked.

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes. Mr Perkins. Why?’

  Simon looked at Porter.

  ‘Is there a yard behind your house?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Of course there is,’ she replied, as if he’d asked a stupid question. ‘There’s a gate that leads into a court. Why?’

  They had their answer. Fox must have realised Jane was behind him. He’d been too clever for them. Very well prepared. What other tricks did the damned man have up his sleeve?

  ‘Have you had any problems?’ Jane asked as she slipped into the undergrowth beside Wilfred.

  The boy turned quickly, wide-eyed and startled. The knife wavered in his hand. Jane raised her arms.

  ‘No need to worry,’ she told him. ‘It’s only me.’

  A sigh and a terrified smile. ‘I was frightened when you didn’t come back.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. Wilfred was shaking a little, and the blade looked heavy and unwieldy in his thin fingers. ‘What about Barton?’

  ‘He stayed in the churchyard for a long time and then he came home.’ The words erupted in a childish rush.

  ‘Did he speak to anyone?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘He hasn’t come out again.’

  Barton was probably inside for the rest of the day. But she’d wait and watch.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Wilfred asked.

  She told the story and wondered how it had ended. Fox had slipped through a locked door. He’d never seemed to realise she was behind him.

  They must have caught him.

  Wilfred stayed quiet. Jane let her thoughts and imaginings rise.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise and rose, the blade ready in her hand. Simon. Never as quiet as he liked to believe, she thought with a smile.

  ‘We didn’t find him.’

  As he told her, she understood. Fox had played with her, led her on. When had he first known she was there? In Wood Street? Or was it earlier, as soon as she left the church?

  He possessed more cunning than she imagined. She remembered the first day she’d come to watch Barton and the way Mrs Fox had appeared from nowhere. She’d had no sense the woman was there. Now the man … Had she lost some of her skill? He was better than her; he’d proved that. Played with her in the same way she’d seen fishermen ease in the fish they’d hooked.

  ‘Fox won’t be back today,’ Simon said. ‘He won’t take a risk like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her voice was empty. He’d beaten her, without even trying.

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  Jane nodded, but she couldn’t find any comfort in the words.

  She hadn’t been good enough.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Simon watched Jane’s face. She was brooding, even quieter than usual. After all this time, he knew her well. She’d feel as if she’d failed; she’d probably spent the night going over each and every detail.

  But she’d brought them a little closer to Fox. Now Porter was convinced he was here. That would help; he could light a fire under his men to make them search.

  The children were searching, Sally had told him when he returned last night. The bruises on her face were gradually fading, the scabs mostly gone. Her eyes were clearer and brighter, but her movements were still stiff and pained as she walked.

  He’d noticed her talking quietly to Jane at the far end of the kitchen table. No more than a few words, but they’d seemed satisfied.

  ‘If we see Fox again, we’re not going to follow him,’ Simon announced. He saw the shock on their faces. He hadn’t even told Rosie about this. ‘We’re going to stop him.’

  ‘Stop him?’ Sally spoke into the silence. ‘Do you mean kill him?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not that. He still has too many questions to answer.’

  ‘What if he won’t give up?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Wound him.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Don’t kill unless there’s absolutely no choice …’

  He’d said it. The death sentence.

  Jane took three pennies from her pocket.

  ‘Do you know Kate the pie-seller?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Wilfred told her.

  ‘Go and buy two of her pies.’ The boy was listless, unable to keep still, feeling cramped by the quiet routine of keeping watch.

  Once he’d gone, Jane walked around, checking that nobody else had an eye on Barton. After yesterday, she couldn’t trust her senses. She had to see.

  Not a soul. She was satisfied now. Yesterday evening, she’d tormented herself with failure. How had it happened? Why? Was Fox really better than her?

  Sleep had finally arrived last night, but it only brought the screaming girl back to tear through the darkness. Each time she managed to slip towards rest, the girl would arrive. Again and again, until Jane slid out of bed and into the yard, trying to shake off the tendrils of the nightmare.