The corpse lay on the grass, hidden inside the twisted winding sheet.

  Simon took out a silver sixpence, held it up and tossed it to the man.

  ‘Must be thirsty work. Why don’t you go and get yourselves a drink?’

  The gravedigger stared, suspicious as he clutched the coin in his fist.

  ‘Why? What do you want here? You can’t—’

  Jane was already on her knees, knife slicing through the old canvas of the shroud. She tore it away until she could see the face.

  ‘It’s not him,’ she said.

  Simon looked. It was a man. Old, withered, hairless and pale.

  But it wasn’t Julius White.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Who else have you buried this morning?’

  ‘Just this one.’ The man turned his head and spat.

  ‘Any more coming?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not as they’ve told us.’ He snorted. ‘Why, isn’t it who you were expecting?’

  Jane was stalking away. Simon caught up to her.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to see that woman.’

  He placed a hand on Jane’s arm. ‘Leave her to me.’

  She stared at him defiantly, then gave a short nod before walking off.

  Mrs Pascoe knew, Jane had no doubt. But Simon wouldn’t be able to persuade her to give up those secrets. That was one skill he didn’t possess. She’d visit later, when the woman didn’t expect it.

  No one behind her today. She kept checking as she moved swiftly through courts and ginnels, all the ways she knew without thinking. She finished up at St John’s Church. No patches of sunlight today, just grey, dull weather.

  She spotted the boy immediately, half-hidden behind a tree in the corner. He was still wearing the coat she’d given him. Quietly she approached, settling beside him before he realized anyone was there.

  In a panic, he started to rise, one small hand grabbing the food he’d found somewhere. Then he recognized her.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘You learn,’ Jane said.

  He took a bite from a small, withered apple and held it out to her. She shook her head.

  ‘Those men you told me about. Have you seen either of them again?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘People were saying one of them was dead.’

  ‘They’re wrong. He’s not.’

  He had a gaze far older than his years. She knew it. She understood it.

  ‘Did you hurt him?’ he asked.

  ‘Not enough,’ Jane answered. ‘He’s still breathing. Do you remember what to do if you see him? The one with the dark skin.’

  ‘I have to go to Simon Westow’s house on Swinegate.’ He closed his eyes as he recited the words, conjuring them from memory.

  ‘There’ll be money in it for you.’ She stood. ‘Just make sure it’s true.’

  ‘I wouldn’t lie to you.’

  Jane dropped two pennies on the grass before she left. He’d survive.

  ‘Where is he?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I told you.’ Mrs Pascoe folded her arms over her apron. She stood solid in the doorway. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘Trying to call me a liar now, are you?’ She raised her voice, wanting the neighbours to hear. But people passed without lifting their heads.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  She began to close the door. He put his hand against it. A big man appeared behind her. A dirty face, unshaved, his hair matted.

  ‘Is he giving you trouble, missus?’

  ‘He is,’ she said. The woman had a glint of triumph in her eye.

  ‘You,’ the man said slowly. ‘You’re going to leave now. Or we can fight. It’s your choice. And you won’t win, I’ll tell you that.’

  A brawl on the street might bring the watch. The constable would relish the chance to issue him a summons and have him fined in court. He grimaced and turned, hearing the door slam behind him.

  Early afternoon. Yesterday’s lodgers would all be gone. No more would arrive until dark, weary or drunk or too poor for anything better.

  Jane counted the backs of the houses, softly lifting the latch on the gate. A small yard, cluttered with rubbish. She climbed the steps, took out her knife, and banged her fist against the wood.

  The woman would never expect danger at the back door.

  ‘What do you—’ A hard, angry voice. Stopped in mid-sentence as she saw the blade.

  Jane forced her back into the scullery, out of sight. The house was silent. A scrawny cat slept on a rocking chair close to the stove.

  ‘Liars get themselves cut.’ She moved the knife in a small circle.

  ‘I told the truth.’ But the woman sounded weak and feeble now.

  ‘I opened the shroud,’ Jane said.

  Mrs Pascoe crossed herself. She stayed silent for a moment, lips pushed together.

  ‘One of the men staying here died. Natural. White said to tell the coroner it was him.’

  ‘How bad is he?’

  ‘Bad enough,’ Mrs Pascoe said. ‘He needs help to walk. I was giving him laudanum for the pain.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘He had me send for a carter. They left during the night.’

  ‘Which carter?’ Jane moved closer. The woman never took her eyes from the point of the knife. ‘Which?’

  ‘Joe. I don’t know his surname. He lives on Garden Street.’

  It was enough. Her hand was on the doorknob when the woman said, ‘I could have you killed for this. Only cost a florin.’

  Jane hesitated, thought about replying, then moved on. If Mrs Pascoe needed to salvage her pride with words, let her. The woman’s sharp tongue couldn’t hurt her.

  Rosie had left early for Kirkstall to visit the boys. He’d seen the longing on her face when she suggested it, knew she’d spent too long without them. She needed the chance to hold them and hear their voices. A hunger that had to be fed.

  ‘I won’t stay too long, Simon. I’ll be back this afternoon, I promise. I just want …’

  He understood. Still, he’d made her leave the back way, through the yards and ginnels, and to wear her old blue housedress, a shawl held over her head. Richard and Amos would know her, but no one else would.

  Jane looked questioningly around the kitchen as she entered. Simon explained. For a moment she looked ready to speak, then shook her head and cut a piece of cheese.

  ‘I went back to see that woman,’ she said.

  ‘So did I. Got nothing from her.’

  ‘She told me what happened to White.’

  He listened intently as she spoke.

  ‘This Joe will know where he is,’ Simon said.

  ‘I went to Garden Street,’ Jane said. ‘He’s not there now.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to wait for him to come home.’

  Four hours standing. Time crawled by. Simon found a sheltered place, hidden from the breeze, and waited.

  How had Jane persuaded Mrs Pascoe to talk? He hadn’t asked; she wouldn’t have told him, anyway. It was done. They had the information. Be grateful.

  He stirred as he heard the slow rumble of cart wheels over the cobbles. It halted outside one of the houses. The man unhitched the horse and led it to a small piece of empty ground. Some grass for it to crop, a bucket of water to drink. It was a scrawny, sorry beast, swaybacked and dull. The carter tethered it to a long rope, patted its neck and walked away.

  Before he could reach his door, Simon was there.

  ‘You’re Joe?’

  ‘I am.’ Alarm filled his eyes. He turned his head, as if he wanted to run. But Jane was close, her knife drawn. ‘I don’t have anything you can steal.’

  ‘I don’t want any of that.’ Relief flooded the carter’s face. ‘What I’m after is information about the man you picked up from the lodging house last night.’

  The carter looked relieved. But he kept a hand over the purse hanging from his belt.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Where did you take him?’

  ‘That’s all?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘A house on Long Balk Lane.’

  Simon knew exactly which house it would be. Standish’s home. The circle had closed once again.

  ‘I’ll tell you this for nowt,’ the man added. ‘He dun’t look long for this world.’

  ‘He isn’t. Not long at all.’

  The back door was unlocked. No Martha in the kitchen. No smell of cooking, not any sign that anyone had been in there recently. There was a dangerous silence to the place. Simon kept the knife in his hand. He took a second from his boot and moved quietly. Through to the empty dining room and parlour.

  He sensed Jane behind him, tense and ready.

  Nothing. Simon jerked his head towards the stairs. He tested each tread, stepping over two that gave a little too easily under his sole. At the top, he placed his mouth against Jane’s ear.

  ‘We stay together.’ It was barely a whisper.

  One bedroom belonged to Standish. The bed was unmade, clothes laid over a chair, the door to the wardrobe open. Another looked like his son’s, a few items on a table, everything musty; no one had slept there for weeks.

  And then there was one door left.

  He reached out for the handle and took a breath.

  A fire was burning in the hearth, the air close and stifling. Standish sat in a chair, his head jerking up as Simon entered. The room smelt of disease and the withering of death.

  Julius White lay in the bed, propped up on pillows. He was bandaged, bruised, drawn. One eye was swollen, almost closed. He turned his head slowly, trying to hide the pain.

  ‘Finally.’ His voice was ruined, little more than a harsh croak. The carter was right: Julius White wasn’t long for this life. ‘And the girl, too. That’s who I wanted.’ He nodded at Standish. ‘Tell them.’

  The man’s face was bland. His voice shook as he spoke.

  ‘Mr White is willing to make a bargain with you.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked. ‘He doesn’t look in a position to demand anything.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, Westow.’ White brought his hands from under the covers, each one holding a pistol. ‘They’re loaded.’ His glance flickered across the room. ‘Tell him,’ he ordered.

  Standish swallowed. ‘The life of the girl in exchange for your wife.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘You don’t have my wife.’

  Standish glanced at White, saw him nod once more, then continued: ‘She left your house this morning wearing a blue dress and a shawl. Someone took her while she was on the way to visit your children in Kirkstall.’

  The world stopped turning.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Does that convince you?’ White said. He had to fight for the breath to speak. ‘You kill the girl. Here and now. I’ll send word and your wife goes free.’

  Simon was desperate to think. To clutch on to anything at all. To find a way out. They had her. They had her. White was going to kill Rosie. He was going to kill all of them.

  Was he quick enough to take White first?

  ‘If you slice my throat, you’ll never find out where she is.’ The man’s laugh was a raw cackle. He started to cough and groped for a glass at the bedside. Standish hurried to help, holding it and letting him sip. Talking seemed a little easier after he swallowed. ‘It’s your choice. Who’s more important to you, Westow? The girl or your wife?’

  A choice that gave him no choice at all. The room was hot, but he felt bitterly cold. Jane stood utterly still beside him. Simon tried to breathe; his lungs hurt.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ White told him. ‘It’s written on your face. You believe every damned word.’

  It was true. They knew what she’d been wearing, where she was going.

  Rosie knew how to fight. She carried a knife, she could defend herself. But her mind would be full of the twins, easy enough to take her by surprise. He believed. His heart was falling through the air.

  He daren’t look at Jane.

  He couldn’t look at her. He knew what his decision had to be. But there had to be something they could do. A way to stop it. A way to make them all safe.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he repeated. The words sounded empty even as he spoke them.

  White’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘Why don’t you go and see for yourself?’ The sense of power seemed to bring some life to his face. ‘I’ll give you an hour. No more than that. After all, your little wife should be home by now, shouldn’t she? Go to that house of yours and you’ll see she isn’t there. It’ll give you time to make your decision.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t kill Jane while I’m gone?’

  ‘Because I want the satisfaction of seeing you do it as I watch. You won’t be late and you won’t bring anyone back with you.’ He let the words dangle. ‘Not if you want your wife to live.’

  ‘You’re going to kill all of us anyway.’

  ‘Maybe I am. Maybe I’ll be satisfied with seeing her dead for the damage she gave me.’ He waved his pistol towards Jane. ‘I might have found a little mercy. It’s your wager, and you’ve got that sliver of hope in your eye. Try holding on to it while you can.’

  Still Simon didn’t move. He was frozen, paralysed. But he couldn’t let the man win. Not when he had come so close. There had to be a way, something he could do.

  ‘The girl won’t give me any trouble while we wait,’ White said. ‘You have to learn to shoot if you try to farm Bayside. A few kangaroos meant meat on the table. Put your knife on the floor,’ he ordered Jane, and waited until she did it. He turned back to Simon. ‘Go. Your time’s already started. Not a second more than an hour.’

  Jane wouldn’t let herself feel. She wouldn’t let herself see the men watching her. And she couldn’t think about what Simon would have to do when he returned. No hope, no fear. Nothing. She left them all behind, leaning against the wall and remembering afternoons with Catherine Shields at the house behind Green Dragon Yard.

  She closed her eyes. Shut it all out. For the last hour of life she’d feel free.

  A longclock ticked in the corner. Jane refused to hear it. She breathed slowly. She could wait. She had patience.

  White didn’t speak. Standish shuffled on his chair. After a few minutes she barely knew they were in the same room. She’d vanished inside herself. The invisible girl once again. All they saw was the shell, still unmoving.

  Simon ran. He barged people aside. He didn’t care. If he knocked them over, they could stand up again. A few people called his name, but he ignored them. He needed to be home. He had to see for himself.

  Panic scalded him. He gulped for breath, as if his heart might explode in his chest. He ran along Woodhouse Lane, down the long hill on Albion Street. He dodged between the carts and the coaches backed up on Boar Lane.

  He could abandon Jane and go searching for Rosie. But the thought evaporated as soon as it came. He couldn’t do that to her. He needed to find a way out of this. His mind raced. Idea after idea. And none of them would work.

  Just the smallest chance. That was all he needed. A fragment. Nothing’s impossible. That was what the man who taught him to use a knife had said. You just need to think.

  He tried, but all he found was terror pressing on his throat.

  His wife or Jane. Soon enough White would force him to make the devil’s bargain. And even then he’d probably kill them all.

  A fragment. A crumb. That was all he needed.

  But where? Where was it? Something, just something.

  Simon ducked into Byrd’s Court, cut through the passageway and into the ginnel that led behind the house. His fingers fumbled with the key, trying to make it fit in the lock, then turn it.

  He closed his eyes and opened the door.

  ‘You’d better hope Westow is running,’ White said.

  Jane heard the sound of his voice, but not the words. Her fingertips rubbed the cuts she’d made on her arm. The old scars felt smooth, the new ones still rough. She felt an odd comfort in them. She’d done each one to make herself feel. To make herself pay. They made her real.

  Each one made her a little freer. Of pain. Of life. Every one was a memory.

  White would never understand it.

  In the corner, the longclock kept ticking.

  She was there. Rosie was there.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, head in her hands, weeping. Next to her, a knife dripped blood on to the wood.

  For a moment, Simon stood, not daring to believe his eyes. It couldn’t be. She was a ghost. A phantom. He was seeing what he hoped to see. Then she turned, and he knew it was real.

  She was here.

  He drew her close against his chest, feeling her body shudder, wanting to have her by him forever. Simon kissed her, closing his eyes as he tasted his lips and smelled her skin.

  ‘Thank God.’

  He pulled back to look at her. There was blood on her hands, on her dress, a smear of it across her cheek. He felt her skin, her hair. She was alive.

  ‘Are you …’ He tried to speak, but his throat swallowed the words.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘It’s not my blood.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  He took a breath. She was real. She was alive. She was here, with him.

  ‘We need to go. Both of us.’ She looked at him, not understanding. He grabbed Rosie’s hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘Bring the knife. We have to hurry. I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘This was pushed under the door when I came home.’ She took a folded note from her pocket. Quickly, he broke open the seal.

  I finally tracked down the name of the man who had White cover up the murder he’d committed. It was Arthur Standish.

  Mudie

  And the final piece of the puzzle tumbled into place. That was White’s grip on Standish.

  Rosie had her arm through his, the shawl hiding her head as they moved through the streets. Walking, not running. Quick enough to draw a glance, but not alarm.

  ‘What is it, Simon? What’s happening? Where are we going?’

  He tried to push it all into a few short sentences. Her eyes widened in horror as she understood.

  ‘White said that? Me or Jane?’