‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘You work for Mr Hawley. Why did he send someone to kill me last night?’

  ‘I’ve got nowt to say to you.’ He started to push the door closed, but Simon kept his weight against it. He placed the tip of his blade against the farmer’s belly.

  ‘No, Mr Hawley, you’ve got plenty to say. We’ll go inside and talk about it.’

  The rooms were plain and spare, smelling of the fields. Flagstone floors, hearths empty. A big, battered table in the kitchen, the only room with any warmth.

  Hawley stood, hands resting on the back of a wooden chair. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything,’ Simon told him. ‘But let’s start with why, shall we? And you needn’t worry; the man you sent won’t be coming to collect his fee. Jane’s outside. I made her wait there. She’d be quite happy to slit your throat, though. She reckons you deserve it. You’d better convince me that you don’t.’

  Panic on his face, Hawley half-turned. ‘He sent me a message. Told me what to do.’

  ‘Who did? White?’

  The farmer nodded.

  The man was still alive. That was beyond doubt now.

  ‘Let me see it,’ Simon told him. Maybe the writing would tell him something. Weak, shaky?

  ‘I burned it. He said I should.’

  ‘And why are you doing favours for him? I know he stayed here for a few days.’

  Hawley stared down at the table and said nothing.

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked again. He tapped the knife lightly against the wood. ‘Why?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘If it involves White, it’s my business.’

  He stood over the man, waiting. A log dropped in the fire and sparks rushed up in a hiss.

  ‘Years back, he did something for me. Before he were sent away.’ He looked up, defiant.

  ‘What?’ He let the knife blade hit the wood a few times. An aid to the man’s memory.

  ‘I owed some money. From a card game. I’d had a few drinks in one of the inns and started playing.’ He looked up, eyes angry. ‘They cheated me.’

  ‘What does this have to do with Julius White?’

  ‘I knew him a little. I’d met him here and there. I told him and he said he’d take care of it. Next thing I knew, I had a note saying the debt was cancelled.’

  ‘How much did that cost you?’

  ‘Not much.’ He paused. ‘Not then, anyway.’

  ‘What happened to the card players?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hawley replied. ‘I never saw them again.’

  And what you didn’t know, you could ignore. For a while, at least. Too many people owed White favours. Since his return, he’d been calling them all in.

  ‘He stayed here for a few days, didn’t he? A little while ago.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ And suddenly Simon’s knife was at his throat, pressing tenderly against the sagging flesh. Hawley’s eyes were wide, arms flailing.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘I don’t know. I told you. I don’t.’

  ‘Then how were you supposed to let him know if your man had succeeded?’

  ‘He said he’d hear about it.’

  Simon pulled the blade away. The explanation made sense. The farmer felt at his neck for blood.

  ‘Who brought you the message?’

  ‘Just a lad. Didn’t know his way around out here from the look of him.’

  ‘What if you needed to send word to White about something?’

  Hawley shook his head. ‘That’s not his way. He orders, and people obey.’

  ‘Not you,’ Simon told him. ‘Not any more. Whatever you owed him, that debt has all been paid. And right now, you’d do well to believe you’re lucky that your heart’s still beating.’ He paused to let the man reflect for a moment. ‘It’s easy enough to commit a murder up here. Keep that thought at the front of your mind.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t do something like that,’ Emily said.

  ‘He did.’ Jane stood, arms by her sides. The wind whipped at her hair. ‘You had a man staying here.’

  ‘Josh asked me about that. I never really saw him.’

  ‘He’s the one who wanted me dead.’

  ‘Why? Why would someone do that?’

  ‘Because I tried to kill him. He’s a murderer, a kidnapper.’

  The girl didn’t understand. How could she? Her life up here was straightforward. Milk the cows, tend to them. Each day ordered by the seasons. Jane couldn’t explain her world to someone like that. They were close to the same age, but there was a gulf as wide as the world between them.

  ‘I haven’t seen him since the day he left,’ Emily said. ‘He hasn’t been back.’

  Jane nodded and began to walk away. After three paces, she turned. ‘Be kind to Josh. He has a good heart.’

  ‘I like him,’ Emily answered with a soft smile. ‘I wouldn’t hurt him.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The wind was shaking the young leaves on the branches, making them dance and fly. A sudden gust caught a crow and pushed it across the sky.

  Enough to clear the smoke from Leeds, Simon thought. For a while. A few drops of rain fell and he raised his head, letting them splash on his skin.

  They found shelter in the entrance to a court off New Causeway, watching the drops bounce off the road outside.

  ‘Hawley won’t help White again,’ Simon said.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That you’d cut his throat.’

  Jane nodded, staring out at the street. She wore the shawl pulled over her head and he couldn’t see her face. But how often did she let anything show? Anger? Fear? They stayed hidden inside. Even her eyes gave nothing away, always watching, assessing.

  The shower passed and he stepped out, breathing deep. Clean air and a clear sky over the town. It wouldn’t last long. But he couldn’t enjoy it. They had too much to do. They needed to finish this.

  She sensed him long before she could see him. On Kirkgate, just up from the church. Jane glanced in the shop windows, but there were too many people to pick out a single face. She darted across the road in front of a cart, hearing the driver curse her and flick his whip above her head.

  He’d have to follow. She saw him in a reflection, hurrying through a gap in the traffic, one hand holding on to his hat. A big man, muscled and broad, sober in his dark coat and trousers, determination in his eyes.

  Stocks. That was his name. She’d noticed him around Leeds before, lurking in the dram shops and the cheap coffee houses. And she knew what he did. Pay him enough and he’d maim or murder.

  Jane slid her hand into the pocket of her dress and gripped the knife hilt. He was much taller than her, far heavier. Men like Stocks survived by being good at their work. By being ruthless.

  She would be better.

  Jane slipped around the corner and up the stone steps to Wellington Court. Stocks knew Leeds well; he’d follow.

  Through the cramped passageway and another ginnel that brought her out beside the White Cloth Hall. He was too big to move quickly through here. Stocks would be wary that she’d be waiting for him at the other end.

  Let him worry. Jane had another plan.

  She paused at the far end of the building, watching as he emerged cautiously with a blade in his fist, looking around.

  A flash of her dress and she was gone again. She heard him running, knew he’d seen her. A turn to the right, another to the left, and she was in the space behind Mrs Rigton’s beershop.

  Empty barrels filled one end, waiting for the drayman. There was enough of a brick wall at the entrance to hide behind. She was small, she was fast. A place like this would favour her. Stocks’s bulk would work against him.

  Jane heard him come closer. One footstep, a hesitation, another, and a third. She was ready, hardly breathing, reading the shadows near her feet.

  He took a pace inside, turning his head. But she was deep in the shade, the invisible girl. Her left arm moved, and her shawl floated in the air towards his face. Stocks lunged. It was instinct.

  Jane darted forward, beneath his arms, easing her knife under his ribs. She felt the flesh give and pushed harder. Deeper. All the way, until the hilt jammed against his skin, then she drew it out again.

  His eyes were wide. He stared at her. Surprise, shock. His hand reached for the wound, as if he might be able to stop the blood streaming out. Stocks opened his mouth, but no words came as he slumped to his knees.

  Jane held the edge of her knife against his throat. ‘Where is he?’

  Only pale pink foam bubbled from his lips as he tried to speak. Stocks was blinking, fighting to stay in the world. But he knew this was one battle he couldn’t win. His life was leaking away.

  Then he toppled to the ground. Jane stood, waiting until the last breath shuddered from his body. She wiped her knife on his coat, sheathed it, took a final look and walked into the beershop.

  ‘There’s a body behind the building.’

  Mary Rigton looked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Stocks,’ Jane said. Her voice was flat, no trace of emotion. ‘He was coming after me.’

  The old woman sighed. ‘I wish you’d done it somewhere else.’ Jane shrugged and said nothing. She didn’t want to bring trouble here. But needs must. Her life or his, and she was going to take her advantages where she found them. Mrs Rigton would understand that. ‘You go. I’ll take care of it. There won’t be a soul in Leeds who’ll miss him. Who was paying him? Do you know?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Then you’d best kill him, too. Or there’ll be more coming.’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  She walked back along the street and washed the blood from her hands in a horse trough. Mrs Rigton would clean out Stocks’s pockets. The coins would pay the men who dumped his corpse in the river once darkness fell.

  Jane felt nothing. No regret. No guilt. He would have killed her and gone on with his day. All he wanted was to earn his fee. She was young, a girl. He’d seen her as a few minutes’ work and money in his pocket.

  But she was alive and he was dead.

  Near the bottom of Briggate, Big Kate was selling pies from a tray. She bought one, wandering out along the water. The grass was still damp from the rain, but she sat and ate. Smoke had closed over the town again; she could taste it in every bite.

  The food was just something to warm her belly and keep her until supper.

  Mrs Rigton was right: she needed to find White, to kill him. Until that happened, there’d be another man after her, then another. Too many in Leeds were willing to murder for a few coins.

  She stood, brushing the crumbs off her lap. Stocks was put away in her mind, the door to that room closed. She wouldn’t let herself relive it. She wouldn’t feel anything.

  ‘You killed Stocks?’ Simon asked in disbelief. God Almighty. The man was twice her size. How had she managed it, and not a scratch on her?

  ‘I had to. He was going to kill me.’ She sat quietly, tearing a piece of bread into tiny crumbs.

  ‘Where is he now?’ He glanced at his wife. She was standing by the table, her arms folded.

  Jane shrugged. ‘Probably in the river.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rosie asked. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No. I never gave him the chance.’ No pride in her voice, Simon thought. Nothing at all.

  Simon was thinking aloud. ‘White wants his revenge for what you did to him.’

  ‘I tried to ask where White was, but he couldn’t speak.’

  Stocks. He knew the man’s reputation. A killer, a vicious man who took joy in his work. Brutal, deadly. And she’d beaten him.

  ‘Who else knows?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Mrs Rigton. She won’t say a word.’ Jane gathered the crumbs between her fingers and put them in her mouth.

  He nodded and stayed silent. As soon as someone discovered the body, the news would be all over town. Maybe they’d be lucky and the corpse would float far down the Aire before he was found. Somewhere he wasn’t known.

  Two had come after Jane now. But White would send more. He’d keep men coming. And sooner or later, one would slip past her guard.

  Simon didn’t want to kill. But he wondered if he still had the luxury of choice.

  He spent the evening haunting the inns. As the clock struck ten he walked into the Old George Hotel on Briggate, through to the office at the back of the building. The stench of boiled cabbage filled the air and stuck in his throat.

  The door was closed. He didn’t knock, just turned the handle and entered. Cartwright was there, pressed against a whore with her back to the wall and her skirts raised, a look of weariness on her face.

  ‘Time for you to go, miss,’ Simon said.

  Cartwright turned with a snarl that became a smile as he saw Simon. He pulled away, tucking himself into his trousers and buttoning them.

  ‘Pay her, Zack.’

  ‘I’ve already—’

  ‘Pay her.’

  He took out a couple of coins and tossed them at her feet. She picked them up and left without another look at the men.

  All evening, Simon had gnawed at a thought. How was White contacting people? He was badly hurt, that was certain. He couldn’t be walking around. But if someone was doing the job for him …

  ‘You owe me fourpence,’ Cartwright said.

  ‘Take it from the money White sent you.’

  Simon stood near the door, waiting. He felt his heart thudding in his chest. Cartwright would break quickly. He always did. This time he’d keep him broken.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him.’

  ‘You might as well stop lying, Zack.’

  ‘I’m not, Mr Westow.’

  Simon took a pace forward. A movement, and a knife was in his hand. ‘You are.’

  He could smell it on the man. The lies, the terror. But truth would cleanse him.

  Jane sat on her bed and sharpened the knife with a whetstone. Stroke after stroke, for five full minutes, until the edge was keener than it had ever been. Gently, she wiped the dust off the blade and held it up to the lamp light.

  She’d be ready.

  Simon strode along Kirkgate, moving so quickly that she could barely keep pace with him.

  ‘Zack Cartwright was arranging everything for White,’ he said. ‘Tempt him with a few shillings and he’d murder his own mother.’ He gave a wolfish smile. ‘The good thing is he crumbles so easily.’

  ‘Where’s White now?’

  ‘Mrs Pascoe’s lodging house on the Calls.’

  He’d been there often enough in the past. The place was riddled with thieves. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d found them in the rooms, the goods they’d stolen in a pack or bag by their beds. Just waiting for him to arrive and return them to their owners. As long as White paid each day, Mrs Pascoe wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t ask questions.

  Simon had dragged it all from Cartwright. The note he’d received, the demand that he visit. A weak, infirm hand that struggled to make the letters, but definitely from White. He’d gone to see him at the lodging house.

  ‘He looked close to dead, Mr Westow. Honest to God, I swear it. It hurt him to move, I could see that.’ Cartwright rubbed his wrist. ‘But he still had a grip on him.’

  And still something in his purse.

  ‘He told me to send word to Hawley. What he wanted to do. Said he was a friend he could trust. Then when that lass of yours was still around, he told me to hire Stocks.’

  ‘How much did he pay?’

  ‘Two guineas. That’s what Stocks charges for a job like that.’

  ‘Then he wasted it.’

  ‘What do you mean? Stocks is dead?’ he asked, as if it was impossible.

  ‘No one’s ever going to see him again.’ He let the words sink in. ‘If you help White again, the same thing is going to happen to you.’

  Promises. Desperate, begging promises. None of them worth the breath the man had used to make them. But he’d reminded Zack about fear. And he knew where White was now.

  There was still a chill in the early air, enough to make him wish he’d worn a cape over his jacket. Jane didn’t seem to feel it. He wondered what had happened to the coat she’d worn for a few days; he thought he’d seen a boy in it up near St John’s Church.

  The door had been painted, but it had peeled in long, curling strips. Mortar was crumbling between the bricks. It was an old house, lost among the new warehouses and the chandlers and the dram shops of the Calls that took money from the barge men. A farthing a night for a bed, tuppence if you wanted it to yourself.

  He hammered on the wood for two minutes before Mrs Pascoe turned the key. She was pinch-faced, cheeks sunk where her teeth had been drawn. Hard-eyed, her arms all sinew and bone.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Julius White.’

  She snorted. ‘Gone, ’ent he?’ Her stare was triumphant. ‘Go in and tek a look if you don’t believe me.’

  Simon nodded to Jane. She slipped by Mrs Pascoe.

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘He din’t. They carried him out. Dead, wan’t he? Stiffer than that doorpost. I found him first thing. Had the coroner round and they took his body.’

  He wanted to believe it. He hated to believe it. It was too easy. Simon felt cheated. It was wrong. White couldn’t die that way, beyond justice. He needed to be there when it happened, to see it all with his own eyes. To know beyond doubt.

  ‘How much money did he have on him?’

  ‘Nowt.’ Mrs Pascoe stared, defying him to call her a liar. ‘Not even anything to pay his bill. They took him off and they’ll be burying him for a pauper.’

  He heard Jane coming down the stairs. She shook her head.

  He saw the gravediggers working at the far end of the churchyard. Already a yard down into the soft ground, shovels moving, a pile of earth beside the hole.

  Simon hurried between the headstones, Jane on his heels, to the open ground where the bodies lay without markers or memorials. Too poor to be worth remembering. Gone without names. The men put up their spades as they approached, arms resting on the handles.

  ‘Help you?’ one said.