‘Half the Radicals in town would probably love it. They’d be able to print up their pamphlets.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Mudie sighed. ‘What can I do for you, Simon? The only thing that’s been stolen here is my livelihood, and you can’t get that back for me. I couldn’t afford your fee, anyway.’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘My stock-in-trade.’ He gave a wry smile and poured another glass. ‘If I still had a trade, of course.’

  ‘I want to know about John Milner.’

  ‘Do you have a reason?’ Mudie asked, and it was Simon’s turn to grin.

  ‘Nothing you can print.’

  ‘Touché.’ He drained the last of the bottle into the glass and stared at it. ‘He and his brothers inherited from their father. There are four of them, I think. Milner sold his share of the estate to the others and put his capital to work in town. Bought a few houses, good ones, and rented them out. He invested in Park Square; that’s probably paid off well. I know he has interests in two manufactories and those might as well print money these days.’ He lifted the rum to his lips and sipped. ‘What else do you want?’

  ‘Family?’

  Mudie grimaced and drank a little more.

  ‘Married, of course, although the rumour is that it was never happy. His wife seems to have faded into the woodwork. About the only time you see her these days is at the balls and assemblies. I know for a fact he’s had a mistress for years; installed her in a place he owns just up the street from his house and visits twice a week like clockwork. Had five—’ He paused for a moment and corrected himself. ‘No, six children, but only one survived. A daughter.’ Mudie cocked his head. ‘Why the interest? It must be something important.’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘The only time you’re curious is when money’s involved.’

  ‘Money’s involved in everything these days, George. You ought to have learned that by now. What about his enemies?’ Simon asked. ‘Who hates him?’

  Mudie had a question of his own: ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Yes.’ No need for details.

  ‘Then you can probably guess the answer to that.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Easy enough. Arthur Standish. Last year he was keen on a match between his oldest son and Milner’s daughter. Milner told the boy to come back when he was worth more. Standish cursed him up and down. Swore he’d ruin him.’

  Simon never paid attention to feuds between the wealthy. Words didn’t pay his bills. But he’d done a little work for Standish, retrieved some plate a servant had stolen. The man had chosen to prosecute; the thief had been transported to Australia for fourteen years.

  ‘Standish is cheap.’ He’d tried to haggle on the reward.

  ‘They all are, Simon. It’s why they stay rich and the rest of us are poor.’ Mudie stood. ‘I’m going to buy another bottle and go home.’

  ‘I wish you good luck.’

  He sighed. ‘So would I, if I knew what it was.’

  THREE

  Standish? It sounded very plausible, especially if the man had his heart set on revenge.

  Still, it was good news of a sort. When he was pursuing the thief, he’d spent time cultivating the housekeeper. The shank end of the afternoon would be a quiet time for her. Just right for a visit.

  The house lay out along Long Balk Lane, half a mile beyond town. Coaches and carriages passed, a straggle of people on foot, every one of them heading to Leeds, bent under the possessions loaded on their backs. Coming to search for their fortunes.

  He breathed in the clearer air, saw plants starting to grow in the fields, young leaves fluttering on the branches and the early flowers of spring waving their colours. Not like town, where hardly a tree still stood. Nature there was stone and brick and slate.

  The house was impressive, graceful and pleasing to the eye. But Simon knew better than to present himself at the big double doors in front. It was the tradesman’s entrance at the back for him, standing inside a cobbled courtyard. He pushed the door wide and walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.’

  Martha was sitting in her rocking chair by the fire, a pipe clenched between her teeth, knitting on her lap. She was larger than ever, a mob cap over her hair and an apron wrapped around her bulging waist. A jug of ale sat on the floor beside her.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a drop of that,’ Simon said.

  ‘I daresay you wouldn’t.’ But she didn’t move. ‘Is that your idea of a greeting? I don’t see you for a year or more, then you stroll in like you own the place, demanding a drink. Forgotten your manners, have you, Mister Westow?’

  That was him told. He needed her sweet and talkative.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs Dawson.’

  She eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘You’re a lying beggar, Simon Westow. You’ve not walked out here to pass the time of day with me.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’m hoping to learn a few things.’

  Her eyes glittered. ‘Is that right? And might these things be worth a little?’

  ‘They might.’ He opened his hand and a silver coin shimmered in the light. ‘Like this?’

  He flicked it with his thumb. It turned over and over in the air and landed in her lap.

  ‘Aye, that’d be the ticket. Get yourself a mug and wet your whistle.’

  He knew he needed to phrase his questions carefully, not to give anything away. Martha Dawson was sharp; she’d pounce on any crumb.

  ‘Has the master lost any more things lately?’

  She laughed. ‘Touting for business now, are you? Things must be bad.’

  ‘Never hurts to ask. I’ve been hearing a few things about his son, the eldest one—’

  ‘William?’ She looked at him sharply. ‘What about him?’

  ‘That he’s been getting loud around town.’ He knew nothing about the lad, but it would make her talk.

  Martha snorted. ‘Someone’s been having you on. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose, that one. Anyway, he’s not even in Leeds. He’s in London. His father sent him down there months ago to stop him mooning over that lass as turned him down.’

  ‘The Milner girl?’

  ‘That’s the one. A right baggage, she is, too. Came here for dinner with her parents once, and spent the evening staring at everything as if she was weighing its worth.’ She shook her head in disgust at the memory. ‘If you ask me, young Will’s better off without her. Him so studious and her with nowt but feathers in her head. But the master was furious when old Milner said no to the marriage, mind. You’d think the sky had fallen in.’ She moved in her chair, slowly easing her bulk around until she gave a small sigh of comfort. ‘Why do you want to know about William, anyway?’

  ‘Something I overheard,’ Simon replied with a shrug. ‘Like you said, they must have been wrong.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said doubtfully. ‘They must.’

  She was suspicious now. He could see it in the set of her mouth. But he hadn’t given her a sniff of anything worthwhile. She could worry at it all night and never discover the truth. He set his mug on the table.

  ‘I’d better be on my way.’

  ‘Value for money, was it?’

  ‘No,’ he told her bluntly. ‘But that’s how it goes sometimes. You can’t always find a winner.’

  He knew better than to ask Martha about Standish. The son was one thing, the father quite another. She was fiercely loyal to her employer; questions would just cause her hackles to rise. He left certain of one thing, though: Hannah Milner wasn’t there.

  Outside, the light had shifted. Evening was close. Somewhere nearby, birds were singing, their trills and warbles filling the air. He gathered his coat around himself and set off back to Leeds.

  Tonight he’d be in the taverns and dram shops, asking more questions, listening for anything out of the ordinary. That was where he did most of his work. First, though, an hour or so at home.

  ‘And her friends believed the story about York?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Jane told him. They leaned against the battered kitchen table and talked while Rosie cut bread and cheese and sliced the cold remains of the beef as the twins played a game of some kind around their feet. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Go on.’ He’d learned to listen to her ideas.

  ‘I don’t believe it’s anyone wealthy who’s taken her.’

  He was surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘Servants,’ she replied, and it was explanation enough. They saw everything in a house. If one didn’t talk, another would; by now it would be common knowledge.

  Simon nodded. ‘Then who is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But he must have enough space to keep her quiet,’ Jane said. ‘Someone who lives alone.’

  ‘Maybe he has an accomplice,’ Rosie suggested. ‘Or perhaps he owns somewhere lonely.’ She put the food on plates and handed them around. ‘You two,’ she told the boys. ‘Sit and eat. Now.’

  They knew her tone well enough to obey.

  ‘And it can’t be too far from Leeds.’ Simon let his thoughts roam. ‘Still, there are enough who live alone. He’d need a reason for taking her, though.’

  ‘I’d say a thousand pounds is a very good reason, wouldn’t you?’ Rosie said. ‘It’s a lifetime’s wealth. If we had money like that—’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.’

  She looked at him and arched an eyebrow. ‘Living like a lord and lady? I’m sure I’d find a few amusements.’

  Simon pursed his lips. ‘This feels personal to me. The kidnapper picked her out for something more than money.’

  Most thieves were stupid, greedy. They saw a chance, grabbed anything of value and ran. They had no plan. That was why it rarely took him more than a few hours to retrieve stolen property. A question or two dropped in the right ears, the clink of coins changing hands, and he was knocking on the door.

  But this was different. A person wasn’t an object that anyone could snatch. This took care and thought.

  ‘What is it?’ Rosie asked him.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He believed he was groping his way towards something. Some understanding. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

  ‘Eat,’ she told him. ‘Maybe that will help.’

  The night was quieter than the day. Shops were shuttered. Lamps flickered in the houses. People safe behind locked doors.

  But another Leeds arose in the darkness. A different population that came to life with the shadows. Simon had known them for years, people like Colonel Warburton, the former soldier who always wore the tattered French officer’s coat he claimed to have stripped from a corpse on the battlefield at Waterloo. He held court in a back room of the Boot and Shoe, a bottle of good brandy on the table, quietly buying and selling stolen bonds.

  Or Hetty Marcombe. She looked like a harmless, vacant old woman wandering forlornly around the yards of the coaching inns. But she had quiet cunning behind the empty eyes, ready to make off with any case that passengers didn’t keep close. Josh Hartley, Silver Dexter, all the flash men and burglars, and the whores who strutted up and down Briggate. Once the daylight faded, Leeds belonged to them.

  Simon was at ease in their company. He talked a little and listened as they spoke. With a word or a nod, one person often led him to another. He learned who’d stolen what, if it had been sold and for how much. Information he’d be able to use in the coming weeks. But tonight his eyes were open for a particular man.

  At the Cross Keys, just across the river in Holbeck, he stood inside the door and watched the crowd. Almost every face was young, drinking with the grim determination that dashed headlong towards oblivion. A few more years and most of them would be gone. Violence, disease, the gallows, a ship to the other side of the world. Something would carry them away. And deep inside, they knew it. So they forced out their pleasures like duty.

  Strange, Simon thought, Harry Smith didn’t seem to be anywhere tonight. People called him the Vulture. He’d earned the name; he relished it like an honour. Smith fed himself on the weak, the gang of young boys who worked for him, picking pockets and robbing shops.

  But Harry heard things that didn’t reach other ears. He was sly, he understood that knowledge brought a good price. And he always knew who’d be willing to pay.

  Simon moved on. By the time the clock struck ten he’d gone all round the town. No word of anyone anticipating a fortune soon. Finally, close to midnight, he turned his key in the lock and climbed up to bed.

  ‘You’re a pretty thing. How much do you charge?’

  Jane turned away and the man laughed.

  ‘Don’t play coy, luv. Tuppence and you’ll get the bargain. You might even like it for once.’

  She began to walk down Kirkgate, but he staggered along behind, drunk, cursing her. She’d survived the nights out here for too long. She knew the men who populated them. This one was harmless, all drink and bluster and noise. Still, she reached into the pocket of her dress and curled her fingers around the handle of her knife.

  The voice faded and she forgot he’d ever been there. No one behind her now. With the shawl over her head, she slipped in and out of the shadows. People passed without a glance. The only light came from gaps in the shutters, but she knew her way around in the darkness.

  Lizzie Henry lived out on Black Flags Lane, the far side of Quarry Hill. The building stood alone, looking as if it had once been a large farmhouse. Now, as she entered, she saw a series of rooms off a long hallway. The lamps had been lit and trimmed, the floorboards swept, paintings on the walls; everything was clean and tidy. The faint sound of talk leaked from behind closed doors. But she had no sense of joy from the place.

  Jane had heard tales. This was a house that catered to the worst things men desired, anything at all if the fee was right. From somewhere upstairs there was a stifled scream, then silence. She paused for a second, feeling the beat of her heart and the breath in her lungs, then walked on to the open door ahead. Beyond it, a neat, ordered parlour and Lizzie herself sitting in an armchair, close to the blazing fire.

  Jane had always pictured the woman as a hag. Instead, she was slim, darkly attractive, dressed in an elegant, fashionable gown whose material shimmered and sparkled in the light. She had power and wealth, and wore them easily, a woman who held her secrets close – the names of the men who came here, what they did, those who went too far.

  She’d never have difficulty finding girls to serve in the house. Too many were desperate. All it took was the promise of a meal and a bed. And then enough gin and laudanum to dull the pain of living and the agony men inflicted. If a few died, there was ample land for the burials. Girls without names, without pasts; no one would ever ask questions.

  Lizzie Henry looked up and her mouth curled into a frown.

  ‘Who are you? How did you get in?’ Her voice had a harsh rasp. But there was no trace of worry or fear on her face. Beside her, a decanter, a glass and a bell sat on a small wooden table.

  ‘It wasn’t locked.’ Jane could feel the heat from the grate.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Jane shrugged. The handle had turned under her touch. No one had come to stop her.

  ‘What do you want? I don’t need more girls at the moment.’ She cocked her head a little. Jane knew exactly what the woman would see: a ragged, scrawny thing. A pauper who looked as if she was clinging to the edge of life. ‘Still, I suppose one or two might prefer your type. What’s your name?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who I am.’ She kept her grip tight on the knife. ‘I’ve come looking for something.’

  Lizzie raised an eyebrow and moved on the seat. She filled the glass, the liquid the deep colour of rubies, and took a small sip.

  ‘And what’s this something you’re after?’ The words mocked quietly.

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Truth, is it?’ She stretched in the chair. ‘What sort of truth would a girl like you want?’

  ‘The names of the men who come here.’

  Lizzie began to laugh.

  ‘For God’s sake, child, don’t be so stupid. Do you honestly believe you can breeze in here like Lady Muck and demand something like that? Get out. Run off and play before something bad happens to you. Be grateful I’m feeling generous tonight.’ She gave a cold smile. And edged her hand closer to the bell. ‘It would be so easy. And nobody would ever know.’

  For a second they stared at each other. Then Jane turned, feeling the chill wrap around her as she stepped into hall, and listened, expecting the tinkle of the bell.

  Outside, she took a breath, trying not to shiver. For a moment, she’d felt death at her shoulder. It could happen so easily, the woman had said. Not a threat; a purr of anticipation.

  ‘You went to see Lizzie Henry?’ Simon asked in disbelief. ‘On your own?’

  ‘You know the type of men that go there.’

  ‘Of course we do. Everybody knows. Pious and proper until their trousers are down,’ Rosie said. The boys had been fed; now they were playing in the small yard behind the house. She placed her fingertips on the back of Jane’s hand. ‘Simon’s right. You shouldn’t have gone by yourself.’

  ‘I thought she might talk to a girl.’ She sat, and tore a piece of bread into crumbs, eyes stinging as she stared down at the kitchen table.

  ‘What did you want to know?’ He was struggling to contain his temper. Christ Almighty, how could she do something so idiotic? She ought to know better. The girls who walked through that door rarely came out again, and none of them dared enter with demands.

  ‘The names of the men who go there.’

  Simon glanced at his wife for a moment, then he pushed his plate away, stood, and stalked out of the room.

  ‘I thought it might help,’ Jane said. She looked at his empty chair.

  ‘He worries about you,’ Rosie told her. ‘We both do. We don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all. You’re family. And you’re too valuable to him.’

  Jane said nothing. Her fingers swirled through the breadcrumbs.

  ‘Lizzie Henry’s very dangerous,’ Rosie said.