‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to talk about it. No time. But now he wouldn’t have to decide. His wife was with him, at his side. They could beat him. Julius White had lost after all.

  She stayed silent for a long time. Just the noise of people all around them. Albion Street. Starting out along Woodhouse Lane.

  ‘I could hear someone behind me,’ Rosie began. ‘I didn’t even think about it at first. I was looking forward to seeing Richard and Amos again. But the footsteps didn’t go away.’

  ‘What did you do?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘We were out past Drony Laith. You know it’s all country there.’ He nodded. Fields and copses. ‘Hardly any carts went by. The footsteps were still there. I couldn’t even make myself look.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave her the assurance of his voice.

  ‘I turned into the woods. Out of sight so he’d think … you know. He waited just long enough. I was ready for him. He must have imagined it would be simple.’ She gave a bleak smile.

  ‘How badly did you hurt him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ There was emptiness in her words. ‘I left him there and I ran all the way home.’ Rosie shook her head and the tears began again. ‘I’ve never killed anyone before, Simon.’

  He held her and wiped her cheeks clean. But they had to go. The minutes were passing too quickly.

  ‘It’ll all be over very soon,’ he promised.

  At the door to Standish’s house he put a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Follow me. Stay outside the room until I tell you.’

  Jane came alert as the door handle began to turn. It was time. She didn’t need this world any more.

  Propped on his pillows, White tightened the grip on his pistols. From his seat, Standish looked up, trying to hide the fear on his face.

  Simon appeared, knife in his hand. His eyes showed nothing as he stepped into the room.

  Jane felt her heart thudding.

  ‘I’m not going to kill anyone,’ Simon said.

  ‘But you are,’ White told him. ‘If you want to dream of seeing your wife again.’

  ‘No.’

  White was distracted; Simon had all his attention. Jane began to shuffle forward, unnoticed, inching closer to the knife she’d let fall. This time there would be one cut. This time she’d make certain.

  ‘You’ll be in mourning. Is that what you want?’

  Another movement, a tiny piece closer. Jane glanced down. Close enough to duck and grab the knife. All she needed was the opportunity.

  ‘She won’t have the chance to watch your boys grow. Or maybe you’d rather they asked you what happened to their mama. How you got her killed,’ White snorted.

  Simon took a pace forward as White raised the pistol.

  ‘Now!’ he shouted.

  That was all she needed. Jane let herself crumple to the floor, landing on the thick rug. As she fell, her hand was already reaching for the knife.

  The shot was deafening.

  But she wasn’t hurt. Her skin wasn’t burning. No pain. Her fingers tightened on the knife as she pushed herself back to her feet and launched herself at the bed.

  One pistol lay on top of the covers, smoke still rising from the empty barrel.

  And suddenly Rosie was there, out of nowhere, back from death, holding her knife to White’s throat, her lips curled in a snarl. Jane placed the flat of her blade along the side of White’s neck and stroked it lovingly against his skin, relishing the touch.

  A single moment and all his fortunes had fallen.

  ‘You’ve lost,’ Simon said. White still had one loaded pistol in his fist. Simon tried to force his arm down. It was like pushing iron. For someone dying, White had the devil’s strength. ‘Your man wasn’t as good as you thought. Rosie killed him. Give up. It’s over.’

  He stared into the man’s eyes. White was looking straight ahead, at some place beyond the far wall. His jaw was set, lips pushed firmly together. He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch.

  By his side, Simon could feel the warmth of Rosie’s breath close to his ear. White’s face was his world now. He wanted to see his fear.

  It seemed to last an age. The first sheen of sweat appeared on White’s forehead as he resisted. The muscles were taut in his neck, veins standing out. Christ Almighty, the man was strong. Simon squeezed White’s forearm, pressing down hard, nails digging into the flesh. The skin felt tough as leather, slowly turning white under his fingertips.

  He couldn’t pry White’s fingers away from the trigger. There was only one thing left to do.

  Instead he pushed down. He’d force the man to fire. One second. Two.

  Then everything exploded.

  Simon couldn’t hear. The smoke rose and blinded him.

  He let go. The gun tumbled to the floor.

  Behind him, he felt something falling and turned.

  Standish. He’d been cowering on his chair against the wall.

  ‘Sweet God.’ His voice, yelling, but it sounded as though the words came from a hundred miles away.

  Simon knelt over Standish. He was sprawled on the floor, half his face gone, blood and gore sprayed across the wall and the rug. The jagged remains of his skull showed clean and white. One eye stared emptily at the ceiling. The other was gone.

  Simon felt for a pulse on the man’s wrist, hoping to God he wouldn’t find one.

  Jane never moved. The light caught the gold ring Catherine Shields had given her. And finally she saw it: defeat on White’s face. His muscles slackened and he lay back on the pillow.

  She felt Rosie shift. Simon was shouting. Jane breathed out. She had the ghost of a smile on her face.

  ‘Standish is dead.’

  The longclock ticked.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Simon stood slowly. Moving seemed to take too much effort.

  ‘We need the constable,’ he said to Rosie. ‘And the coroner.’

  With a glance at White, she was gone.

  He lay still, his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. Impossible to imagine what he was thinking. Jane kept her knife an inch from his face. Simon placed his hand on her arm. A light touch, nothing to disturb her.

  ‘Enough.’ He said the word softly. ‘It’s done.’ She moved away to the wall, the blade still ready in her hands.

  Simon knelt once again, taking time to examine Standish properly. The ball must have entered just below his left eye. No damage to the man’s mouth. It was open wide, caught in a scream that never had a chance to be heard.

  He felt no pity; the man had brought it on himself. He’d helped when he could have turned White away. Standish had washed his hands in death and guilt, and now it had visited itself on him. Life was brutal. It took joy in cruelty. But he’d been wealthy for too long. Money had made him forget the tricks life played.

  They had something no judge dare deny. Murder was a capital crime. Three witnesses who’d seen it happen. White would hang for this.

  Simon stood by the window, staring out but not really seeing. His thoughts flickered, dark and terrifying. It was over, but wouldn’t end until they tightened the noose around White’s neck and no reprieve came from the king.

  Jane didn’t need words. She didn’t need to think, only watch. The pistols were spent, empty. Expensive pieces of metal and wood that were useless now.

  She saw White’s right hand start to move, burrowing slowly under the cover.

  He had a weapon there.

  ‘Simon!’ She screamed out his name. From the corner of her eye she saw him turn, just as White’s hand came out, holding a knife by its long, shining blade.

  The man wasn’t quick enough. As he drew his arm back, ready to throw it, she was already there, bringing her dagger down.

  She was swift. A clean cut. The edge she’d honed every night sliced through skin and bone on White’s thumb. A short screech of pain as the blood bloomed. His knife fell to the ground.

  Jane was panting, the breath bursting out of her. Why? she wondered. She’d hardly done a thing. One stroke, that was all. One simple stroke.

  White’s face was contorted. He was biting his lip, trying to keep the pain inside. He pressed his good hand over the wound.

  All the colour had left Simon’s face. He took a pace, reached out and pulled back the bedclothes. No more weapons. Nothing more than an empty man with his skin turned brown by years of Australian sun. A man who’d believed the world owed him everything. Bandages covered all his wounds, brown and dried where the blood had leaked.

  ‘You’ve no more cards to play, Julius.’

  The longclock kept ticking.

  And Jane smiled.

  Simon felt as if a year had gone by before he heard feet coming up the stairs. Then Constable Freeman was in the room. He stopped short as he saw Standish’s body.

  ‘My God.’ He looked around the faces. ‘What happened? Westow?’

  It was straightforward enough to explain, to watch the disbelief and horror grow on the man’s face as he listened.

  ‘Murder.’ Simon let the word hang as he finished the tale. ‘You know what that means.’ He waited as the constable nodded. ‘There’s a cart down in the yard. Your men can take him to the jail in that. You’d better let a doctor examine him. We don’t want him dying before he’s in court tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ Freeman stepped aside so two of the night watch could enter. The best pair he had, dishevelled and dirty, but still young enough to carry a load. White said nothing. His face was pinched with pain, the creases and scars deep and worn on his cheeks. His eyes moved. To Jane first, then he stared at Simon and spat.

  ‘I’ll stay for the coroner,’ the constable said. Simon nodded.

  ‘And no Hardisty on the bench tomorrow,’ he said quietly. ‘Make sure it’s an honest judge.’

  No need to look back. He’d spent long enough in the room. He’d never forget it. He’d felt its heat, smelled his death. On the landing, he took Rosie’s hand and squeezed it. Behind him, he could hear Jane’s light tread.

  The longclock ticked the minutes away.

  Simon gave his evidence to the magistrate the next morning. He heard the eager gasps as he described the choice White had given him: kill Jane or his wife would die. The struggle for the pistol, the shot. Standish’s body.

  In the dock, White was silent. His hands gripped tight against the rail to keep himself upright. His head was bowed as he listened, staring at the floor, not letting anyone see his face.

  The room was full. Simon looked around as he spoke. Mudie, noting everything down in his quick hand. Barnaby Wade, listening thoughtfully. Hawley and Madeley, their faces pale and worried in case Simon should name them. And Milner, with a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips.

  White’s lawyer rose to ask his questions, but his heart wasn’t in them; he knew the cause was already lost.

  And it was; the magistrate committed the prisoner to the Assizes in York. He’d stand trial there on the tenth of May.

  The afternoon before, Simon had borrowed Enoch’s cart and driven down to Kirkstall to bring the boys home. Suddenly the house was full of noise again.

  Jane stayed in her attic, away from it all as they celebrated.

  The courthouse in York lay close to the old ruin of Clifford’s Tower, standing on top of its hill. A faded reminder of royal pasts, glory and death. Pomp and glory. The procession of judges in robes and wigs marched from their lodgings to the Assizes to begin their season.

  A trial full of formality and grand phrases.

  Simon waited to give his evidence again. More statements, more questions, but he knew there was never any doubt about the verdict. Dismissed, he withdrew to his seat and waited.

  As the jury retired, the crowd were already making bets on how long they’d be gone. Ten minutes and they returned. Two of them were laughing and joking. The others kept sober faces.

  The word was passed to the judge in a whisper. A short nod. Slowly, he drew on a pair of black gloves and placed the dark cloth over his wig. The room was silent, expectant.

  ‘Julius White, the law is that thou shalt return to the place whence thou camest and thence to a place of execution where thou shalt hang by the neck ’til the body be dead. Dead. Dead. And the Lord have mercy upon thy soul. Amen.’

  The court officers took hold of White’s arms. For the first time, he raised his head and stared at Simon. His gaze burned. His voice rang out like a preacher.

  ‘Don’t believe you’re safe. Not you, not your wife, those brats of yours or the girl who works for you. Don’t you ever believe you’re safe.’

  They dragged him away.

  THIRTY

  A grey morning, dull and windless. Not warm, not cold.

  Jane kept her hand in the pocket of her dress. She felt the press of people around her as she stood next to Simon and his family. A city she didn’t know. Too many strange faces.

  She stood, eyes fixed on the gallows.

  She’d travelled up on the coach with Rosie and the twins; the first time she’d ever been a passenger. It disturbed her to be so high off the ground, to fly along so quickly, with the constant drumming of hooves and the squeak of the wheels. She stared out of the window, watching it all pass: the fields and the farms, the villages that were here and gone in a blink.

  And finally, York. The towers of a big church someone called the Minster looming in the distance. Ancient walls around the city and stone entrances to guard it. An overwhelming pressure of history every way she turned her eyes.

  A hanging always drew a crowd. She saw old soldiers with missing limbs and the faded tatters of Waterloo uniforms. Children, legs bowed with disease, skittered and ran and laughed. The pickpockets moved slowly, hands sly as they dipped into pockets and purses. Prostitutes with torn, fluttering fans covering rotten mouths looked for custom. Good folk and bad.

  The first people must have arrived early, she thought, to claim their place close to the scaffold. They were eager to see every detail of White’s face as the trapdoor opened and he plunged.

  But all she needed was to see the end of Julius White. That would be satisfaction enough.

  She could see the heavy wooden beams and the rope with its noose. The executioner was testing the knots to be certain they’d hold.

  A stir of noise. She heard Simon tell the boys, ‘They’re bringing him now.’

  Two men helped him up the stairs as the cheers rose, and they showed him off, forcing him to march around the platform. White was dressed in good clothes, hair trimmed and combed, a fresh shave to his face.

  His right hand was bound where Jane had taken his thumb. He seemed to wince with pain at every step. The executioner whispered something to him, offering a blindfold, and White shook his head. He was standing without aid now, legs already beginning to sag.

  Then the noose was in place around his neck.

  She watched as the parson moved forward. In an instant, people were quiet. Even here, fifty yards back, she could hear every word of the hanging psalm.

  ‘“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.

  Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

  For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.

  Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest. Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.

  Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.

  Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

  Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.

  Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.”’

  Jane kept her gaze on White. She felt Simon and Rosie lift the boys to watch.

  ‘That’s the man who wanted to kill your mother and father,’ he told them. ‘You’ll see what happens to him.’

  Like a conjurer in the market, the executioner let the anticipation grow. A final moment, the last chance for a pardon. But no mercy came.

  Then, in one movement, he slipped the bolt and White made the drop.

  Noise rained down on her. People shouting, people cheering. Some clapped their hands. A wave of sound that rose and slowly faded.

  It had happened. It was done. Some began to turn away. Time to get on with their lives. Others tried to press closer, clamouring to buy a piece of the rope for good luck. She stayed still, letting them all wash around her. She’d stand in this place until she was certain White’s breath was gone, that he hadn’t managed to cheat death again.

  It took five minutes before the word passed, flying from mouth to mouth. Julius White was dead. Then Simon placed a hand on her shoulder. Time to leave.

  He woke and stretched. Next to him, Rosie slept on, her hair a thick, dark tangle on the pillow. He slipped out of bed, dressed, then gazed at the boys curled under their blankets before he crept downstairs.

  Julius White. Soon enough his name would slide away into memory. A year from now, people would barely remember who he was. Simon knew he should be glad. But he felt nothing at all. No satisfaction, no pride.

  The note lay on the kitchen table. He’d found it pushed under the door when they returned from York. From Martin Holden, the Radical who was campaigning for children to work fewer hours: Please meet me at eight in the morning outside the Moot Hall. It is important. Dress well.

  When his business was done; that was what Simon had promised. Now it was finished. They’d returned to Leeds on the last coach, crammed in with five other people, the land dark around them. Then a walk home from the Bull and Mouth, Amos fast asleep in his arms, Rosie carrying Richard.

  Home.

  He’d held Rosie close in bed. No need for words, just love and the warmth of her body. They’d won.

  In the distance the clock was striking eight as he reached the Moot Hall. Along the street, boys were selling broadsides, calling out White’s execution as the story to draw in their buyers.