By noon she could see that Sally was growing restless, needing to be off. Jane sent her with Wilfred to buy food. A sound in the distance caught her ear. Davy Cassidy’s fiddle playing a tune. Jane half-listened, sitting up as a female voice joined the melody. She wondered who he’d found; they sounded natural together.

  The others returned. They hadn’t finished eating before Barton came out, breathed deep and began to walk.

  ‘You and Wilfred follow him,’ she told Sally. ‘He’ll be going to see his son’s grave.’ That should be simple enough. ‘If you see Fox …’

  ‘We’ll stop him,’ Sally said. Her eyes were as hard as her voice.

  Once they’d gone, Jane checked around the house. Nobody. She caught a glimpse of Barton’s wife through a window. Standing, staring at nothing. Life must be empty inside those walls, she thought. A place without hope or future. Time standing still, as though a clock had stopped ticking.

  Simon asked at the hotels. Fox wasn’t there. Too many lodging houses in Leeds for him to check every one of them.

  ‘He wouldn’t go to one, anyway,’ George Mudie said when Simon told him. ‘Not if he’s been used to somewhere grander. The Western isn’t luxurious, but …’

  Still a big step above a common lodging house; Simon understood that. Fox wanted to believe he was still somebody. He couldn’t stoop that low; it would be an admission of defeat.

  Then where was he?

  Someone came blundering through the undergrowth. As soon as she heard the noise, Jane was ready, standing with a knife in her hand. For the first time in a while, she felt her missing finger.

  Sally stood, pulling out her blade, eyes wary. Wilfred followed, the fear showing on his face.

  It was a boy, nine or ten years old. Lean as a whip, skin weathered and raw from months of living outside. He came to a sudden, terrified halt as he saw the weapons and held up his hands, looking from one face to the other. Sally’s blade slid out of sight. Jane was the last to put hers away.

  ‘Have you found something, Danny?’ Sally asked, smiling at the boy to put him at ease.

  Still scared, the words came hesitantly. ‘That man. The one you want. Anna saw him.’

  Jane opened her mouth, but Sally gestured with her hand. Let her take care of it.

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘By St Mary’s Church.’

  It stood at the bottom end of Mabgate, close to where it joined with Quarry Hill, not too far from where the Foxes had lived on Middle Fold. Back where they’d originally found him, and the last place anyone would look now.

  ‘Why did Anna think it was him?’ Sally asked. She kept her voice low and gentle, coaxing the words out of the boy.

  ‘She said he looked like the man you told us about.’

  ‘Where was he going? Did she see?’

  ‘She said he started to walk up Mabgate. Then she ran off. She knew we needed to tell you.’

  Jane took out a silver sixpence and handed it to him.

  ‘You’ve done well, Danny,’ Sally assured him and took out another coin. ‘Give that to Anna.’

  He crashed away, beaming wide.

  ‘We have to tell Simon,’ Jane said.

  ‘She might have been wrong. Remember last time?’

  She did. The chances were that it wasn’t Fox; even the best description would seem vague to a child. But it felt right. Her heart was thumping at the idea, a tingling in her fingers. This was it. Nothing she could explain, but somehow she was certain that this was it.

  ‘What about Barton?’

  Time to decide. ‘He won’t come out again today.’

  Even if Fox appeared, he wouldn’t get into the house. It was safe to leave.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Simon agreed. They’d found him close to the courthouse, on his way to see Porter. He was rubbing the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief; the afternoon heat had turned thick and oppressive. ‘He could be up there.’

  It would be clever. Mabgate was by Middle Fold. Nobody would expect him to return there. But the man was taking a chance.

  Still, this was the best they had for now. It wasn’t much. Nothing more than a guess built up from a child’s belief. He wouldn’t wager everything on it. But …

  ‘Go up and watch. It might not be the same house. Maybe not the same street. Ask people if they recognise his description.’

  Or it might be nothing at all. But they knew that as well as he did.

  Her head was filled with anticipation as she marched through town. Looking straight ahead, aware of Sally to one side, Wilfred to the other. She twisted the lucky gold ring that Mrs Shields had given her.

  As they passed Seaton’s old mill at Millgarth, Jane remembered the screaming girl who’d been carried from there was where all this began. The one who still visited her dreams. Maybe she’d managed to stay alive and find some sort of peace.

  Over Sheepscar Beck at Lady Bridge and into the chaos of workshops and small factories that had grown up along Mabgate. The houses that she recalled along here had gone. It was all industry now. Making money.

  She stood at the top of Middle Fold, staring down the street.

  ‘What can we do?’ Sally asked. Possibilities shone in her eyes. She wasn’t drained; her eyes were shining, thrilled by the chase. Jane turned her head and glanced at Wilfred. Scared, looking very young, but not backing down.

  ‘Ask people we see.’ She nodded towards a woman walking towards them. ‘If we don’t find anything, we’ll have a look further along.’ They’d just passed New Church Place and the corner of Ward’s Fold stood a dozen more yards along Mabgate. ‘Porter will be coming with his men. They’ll need information.’

  Jane was never comfortable talking to strangers. She noticed how they moved away and eyed her with suspicion. It was no surprise; in her work clothes, she might have been a beggar asking for money. People shook their heads as she asked about Fox.

  An hour of patience and persistence with the background music of machines and hammers from the big Hope Foundry. Suddenly she picked out the sound of someone running, reaching for her knife as she turned. Wilfred, dashing over the dirt road and waving his arms.

  ‘The houses down the other end.’

  ‘Has someone seen him?’

  The boy nodded as he caught his breath.

  Sally was out of sight, deep in the shade of an old tree. Her face was drawn with exhaustion as she watched a group of four houses that trailed down towards St Mary’s Place. Farther along Middle Fold than the house the Foxes had taken before.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The man I asked didn’t know, but he seemed sure it was Fox.’

  ‘The last time was nothing, Westow,’ the constable said. ‘I’d thought you’d have learned not to trust a gaggle of children. All they’re after is your money.’

  ‘If they help us find him, they’re welcome to some of it.’

  Porter’s men had still been asking about Fox around Eye Bright Place.

  ‘If.’ Porter snorted. ‘Chances are he’s nowhere near here, and you know it.’

  ‘Do we have anything else?’

  The constable was right; it would probably turn out to be nothing, but for some reason he felt a small surge of hope. He’d sent a note to Rosie, asking her to go and keep watch over Barton’s house. The constable had left his inspector in charge and brought one man with him, a veteran of the watch named Tom. With Simon and the others, it ought to be enough.

  If Fox was there.

  Jane was waiting by the graveyard in front of St Mary’s Church. Simon watched Porter’s face as she explained what they’d discovered.

  ‘Let’s say for a moment that he really is like a dog returning to its own vomit and he’s back in Middle Fold.’ Porter considered the possibilities. ‘It’s easy enough for him to run from there.’ He pointed. ‘That open ground to the north, it goes right through Sheepscar, up to the turnpike and the barracks. Over to the east, Burmantofts Hall. We have to be able to stop any escape that way.’

  He was right. If Fox came out, the man would be running hard. With his bad leg and stick, Simon knew he had no chance of moving quickly. Had Sally recovered enough to run and fight? Maybe if she was with the new boy who’d been following Jane like a puppy …

  ‘Why don’t you two take that stretch of ground up there?’ he said, pointing north. ‘You know what to do if you see him.’

  Sally nodded. He could see it in her eyes. She was ready for this.

  ‘What about me?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Down towards Burmantofts Hall,’ he told her. ‘In case he tries to get out that way.’

  He watched them leave and turned to Porter.

  ‘How are we going to do this?’

  ‘We go from house to house.’ A row of four of them together. ‘I’d bet good money we’re wasting our time. But since we’re here, we’re going to look thoroughly.’

  ‘If he’s there?’

  ‘I’d prefer him alive.’ A snort. ‘Don’t take any chances.’ The constable turned to the night watchman standing beside him. He had a jutting chin and an expression that looked eager for violence. ‘You understand, Tom?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came reluctantly.

  Porter stood in front of the first door, Tom at his shoulder, hand on his knife. Simon stayed a yard behind them, ready in case he was needed. But Fox was wanted for murder; this was the constable’s business.

  The rap of knuckles on wood and the door was pulled open. Before they could breathe, Fox was standing there, no panic on his face, a pistol in each hand.

  THIRTY-ONE

  He fired. No hatred, no emotion on his face as he pulled the trigger and the watchman fell with a scream, clutching his belly. Porter had begun to turn his head to stare at him as the second shot exploded in his face.

  He crashed backwards, already dead as he toppled against Simon, landing heavily on top of him. His skull was shattered, blood and gore running over his flesh.

  Simon was pinned, the weight heavy on his chest. He struggled to move, to push himself from under the body. He squirmed, yelling out, tearing and pulling at the ground to try and squeeze his way out. All the while he wondered if Fox was waiting, reloading, ready to kill him, too.

  The air was heavy with the smells of blood and death. Tom was moaning, screaming in agony and crying, but Simon couldn’t help him.

  Then someone was there, hands dragging Porter away, putting his stick in his hand and helping him rise to his feet. A pain like fire shot through his leg as soon as he tried to put weight on it. He staggered, but held.

  He saw Jane gazing at him in horror, looked down and realised he was covered in blood.

  ‘It’s not mine.’ The words were a croak, hard to believe. He was too stunned to be scared. As Simon stared at what remained of Porter’s face, none of it seemed real. Only the watchman’s screams had any substance. Porter couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. It … dear God, he didn’t know. How had he survived?

  He didn’t want to speak the name, but he had to know. ‘Fox?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘Gone.’

  ‘We need …’ He turned at the sound of people running.

  ‘We heard shots …’ Sally began, then stopped when she saw what Fox had done. She was out of breath, panting hard. The boy with her was on his knees beside Tom, holding his hand as he talked gently to him, trying to soothe him.

  The thoughts arrived clear and calm. Things that had to be done. Some order.

  ‘The inspector’s down near Eye Bright Place,’ Simon said. ‘Tell him what’s happened, that we need someone to take charge. A surgeon too, someone to take him to the infirmary.’

  Without another word, Sally nodded, gathered the boy and left. Simon looked around. He couldn’t take it in. He’d never be able to accept, to understand. He tried to walk. A couple of stumbling, painful steps; he must have twisted his knee when Porter landed on him.

  ‘Go to Barton’s house,’ he told Jane. ‘Rosie’s there.’

  ‘You think Fox is on his way?’

  ‘He has to be.’ The man had run out of time and choices now. He needed to finish his business in Leeds, then try to run. It was the only course.

  ‘What about …’ Jane asked. ‘Will you be all right?’

  He took a breath and kept the truth hidden inside. Rosie could hear it later. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll stay here and tell them.’ Simon tapped his leg and tried to smile. ‘I can’t help you chase, anyway.’ Another glance at Porter. ‘He has pistols.’

  Jane ran, not caring if anyone turned and stared. The scene kept playing in her mind. Dead, wounded, Simon trapped under a corpse. So much blood that she’d believed he was dying, too, her heart desperate.

  Fox had a good start on her. She forced herself to move faster, twisting the gold ring on her finger again for luck.

  She ducked between carts and behind horses, feeling the rushed breath of a coach a few inches away.

  Finally she reached Barton’s house. She felt as if it had taken her an age to arrive.

  Moving quietly through the bushes until Rosie was standing in front of her, tall and dangerous with her knife ready to cut.

  Her expression changed as she listened, shifting from disbelief to shock to anxiety.

  ‘Simon?’ she asked as soon as Jane finished. ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fox hasn’t come yet.’

  ‘He will. We need to be ready for him.’

  He’d be here; she knew it.

  Simon began to shake again, the third time since Fox pulled the trigger. He couldn’t stop it. The shuddering took over for a minute before gradually subsiding again.

  Inspector Fry had arrived, bringing more men. He glared, filled with rage, then stared at the body on the ground. Simon knew there was nothing he could have done to stop things. No one could have guessed what Fox would do. There hadn’t even been time to try and push the constable out of the way. It had been over before he could blink.

  A neighbour had brought out a piece of sacking to cover Porter, but blood had soaked through the material and a crowd of flies had gathered to feast on it.

  At least Tom the watchman had been taken to the infirmary. He looked bad. But he was still alive. More than the constable.

  ‘Where’s the bastard gone?’ Fry yelled, pacing up and down the street, smashing one fist into the other.

  ‘Barton,’ Simon told him as soon as the shaking passed.

  ‘You saw him.’ A glance down at the ground. Pure fury in his voice. ‘Murder.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox would go to the gallows for this, and everything else he’d done. No reprieve this time. But he’d never live long enough to climb on to the scaffold.

  ‘I’m going up there. Jameson, Ford,’ he called. ‘You’re with me. Turner, stay and look after the body. They’ll come and collect it soon.’

  The sun was still bright and the air thick with dust. It didn’t seem like a day for death. The door to Fox’s house still hung open. Simon took a step, then two, testing his leg. Painful, but he could still walk.

  A little cooler inside. All the shutters were closed; it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  Simon poured water into a bowl and tried to wash his hands and face. It took the worst of the stink off him, but the water quickly turned the colour of rust. His clothes were ruined, only good for burning.

  He still felt as if he was moving through a dream. That he’d wake with Porter and the watchman standing and talking. Then the shots would echo in his ears again.

  He searched the rooms. Habit. But there was little to find. A pipe and a twist of tobacco. A half-read newspaper. No spare clothes: Fox was wearing everything he owned.

  Simon came out again, blinking under the sharp sunlight, and began to hobble away. He needed to be at Barton’s house. Thank God for the stick.

  Jane stood out of sight against the tree, hidden by its shade. Rosie was on the other side of the drive. They’d be able to take Fox as he entered.

  She closed her eyes for a second and saw the dead and destroyed on Middle Fold; she had to shake her head to force it away.

  He should have arrived by now.

  A faint sound and she was alert. Fingers tight around the hilt of her knife. She sensed something and turned. Sally, sliding in behind her.

  ‘I sent Wilfred away. He’s not made for this.’

  A nod. No need for words.

  Jane turned her head. The scuff of a shoe on the ground. She pressed herself against the tree and pulled the shawl tight over her hair before she looked.

  Fox. Crouching, moving cautiously, trying to keep out of sight.

  She let him pass, then crept from the undergrowth. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rosie emerge, silent, dangerous.

  Sally would be moving between the bushes. Ready when the time came.

  When he was five yards from the door, Rosie called out: ‘Stop.’

  The man turned. No pistols in his hands. Not even a knife. His face showed nothing at all. No anger, no fear. Empty.

  ‘This isn’t your business.’

  Jane took two paces to the side. A better angle to attack him. She saw Sally ease into view behind Fox, carrying a small, stout branch along with her knife.

  ‘You’ve murdered,’ Rosie told him. ‘You’re going to stand trial.’

  ‘I’ve come to finish things.’

  ‘Finish them, then.’ A man’s voice.

  Jane hadn’t seen the front door open. Barton stood there. The withered husk she’d followed to the churchyard and back had vanished. The man she saw now wasn’t stooped and old. He had a fire about him, the hope of finally discovering the truth. Finding some redemption.