Slowly, Jane stood. Her chair groaned on the floorboards. In the doorway she turned.

  ‘She told me to get out. She called me a child.’

  ‘Then you were lucky. She’s murdered people before. And that’s not just a tale.’

  ‘She said nobody would ever know if she did.’

  ‘No,’ Rosie answered, ‘she’s wrong there. Simon would have found out, and he’d have had to kill her.’

  ‘Should I say sorry to him?’

  ‘There’s no need. He knows.’

  Halfway up Swinegate he stopped, slapping his palm against the wall and slowly exhaling. Anything to rid himself of the anger. In some ways Jane was still very young. She was so good at what she did that he often forgot that. She showed a blank face to the world, she kept everything at bay. But somewhere down in her core, there was some little piece of innocence that life hadn’t torn away yet.

  Going to Lizzie Henry, wanting information like that … and in her own home, for the love of God. It was asking to be murdered. Jane had been luckier than she’d ever know. At least four girls had died out there. Probably more. But Lizzie would never see the inside of a courtroom. She knew too much about the people who ran Leeds. As long as she lived, she was free and clear.

  Damn it, he should have thought of going to her himself. She’d talk to him.

  Nine years before, Lizzie had sent him a note. A locket she owned had gone missing, vanished with one of the servants. The jewellery wasn’t valuable, but she wanted it back. It was important to her. Less than a day later he appeared at Black Flags Lane.

  He’d found the piece. And the man who claimed he’d bought it from another fellow who’d mysteriously vanished. The servant who’d stolen the locket was dead, raped before she’d been murdered, her body tossed on a piece of waste ground.

  Lizzie had prosecuted the man for theft.

  The shutters were closed as Simon banged on the door. A dull, grey morning with a hint of rain in the air. He slammed his fist on the wood again until finally a man drew back the bolts, his face angry, still puffy with sleep.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell your mistress that Simon Westow is here.’

  A contemptuous look, and the door closed again, the key turning in the lock. Two minutes by his pocket watch until it opened once more.

  ‘Come in.’

  Nothing had changed in the years since he’d been here. Still the only room that seemed alive belonged to Lizzie. She was dressed, perfumed and coiffed, smiling as he entered.

  ‘Mr Westow.’ A tiny curtsey. ‘It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your company.’

  He smiled. ‘There’s been no need, has there?’

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed. ‘But you’re always a welcome visitor.’

  He’d never taken the reward for returning the locket. Lizzie Henry was someone he preferred to have in his debt. Information she could give was worth far more than money.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that.’

  She gestured at a chair and they sat. The formalities were over.

  ‘So you’ve come for payment at last. What is it?’

  ‘I want a list of the men who come here.’

  She remained silent so long that he wondered if she’d ever reply.

  ‘A girl was here last night, looking for the same thing,’ Lizzie said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why everyone suddenly wants to know.’

  ‘The girl’s name is Jane. She works for me.’

  Lizzie gave a small nod. ‘She should have told me.’

  ‘I had no idea that she was coming.’

  ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it important to know the names?’

  ‘It is,’ Simon said.

  ‘It would go no further than you?’

  ‘My word on it,’ he told her. ‘I’ll destroy it afterwards.’

  Yet still it took time.

  ‘All right. I’ll send it to your house,’ she agreed. ‘Before noon. We keep different hours here. I haven’t even breakfasted yet.’ He saw a faint blush cross her face.

  ‘Thank you.’ He stood, extending a hand for her to shake. ‘One more thing: nothing happens to Jane. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Agreed. You expect a high price for your services, Mr Westow.’

  He’d never doubted she would give him the names. Before he returned the locket, Simon had examined it. It was made of cheap plate, not real gold, and well-worn; third-rate work. He’d found the catch and opened it. A lock of dark hair, and a miniature of a young man dressed in the colours of the Thirty-Third. At the bottom, a date: 1795.

  No value, perhaps, but worth the world to her. Now the debt was paid.

  FOUR

  Simon stood on Black Flags Lane and looked down towards Leeds. A thin haze of smoke hung over the town. Hannah Milner was there. Somewhere. Alive, he was certain of that. But terrified. Alone.

  He was aware of every minute that passed. The man who’d taken her would send another letter today. He’d want to arrange quick delivery of his money. A threat in the note to keep the girl’s father alert and compliant. That was what someone with intelligence would do. And whoever took her had a brain.

  Jane tried not to think. As she left the house, she blinked back tears. She should never have told Simon. It would have been better to keep it inside, her quiet, private humiliation. She’d seen the fury in his look, the way he glared at her as if she was an ignorant little girl.

  She didn’t need to go back there. She could walk away from it all. The money she had saved was enough to keep her for a long time. Start walking and keep going until she was in a new town. Somewhere far away, where no one knew a thing about her. An invisible girl.

  Standing on the bridge, not even noticing the water moving under her feet, Jane knew they were empty ideas. She’d never go anywhere. However hard she tried to push them away, Simon and Rosie and the twins cared about her. Working with him, for the first time in her life she believed she had a use. Until last night.

  Maybe she really was as stupid as that woman said. Maybe she’d never learn.

  Jane scraped her knuckles against the stone parapet until the skin was raw and burning. Then more, harder, enough to make her wince with the pain. The blood came, dripping on to the dark grit. She wanted to punish herself. She needed to hurt. She deserved it.

  Eventually it was enough. She took out her handkerchief and wrapped it around her hand, satisfied as the red stain grew on the linen.

  The town was alive, so many people jostling and bumping along Commercial Street. She stood in a shop doorway, eyes watching the pickpockets as they worked. At least three sets that she could see, quick fingers that slid out a wallet or a purse and passed it to an accomplice before darting away.

  She’d never done that, her hands were always too clumsy; she didn’t possess the light touch the trade needed. But she’d stolen: pieces of fruit when a shopkeeper’s back was turned, anything she could sell to keep herself alive. No need of that any longer. There was food on the table every day. A room of her own with a bed. If Simon still wanted her after this.

  She stopped suddenly in the middle of the pavement. She’d find the Vulture. He heard things, and she knew exactly where he’d be at this hour. As she began to move, Jane felt the faint trail of small fingers edging towards her pocket. She grabbed the wrist and turned. A girl stood, scared, bewildered, the way Jane must have always looked during that first year on the street.

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Get out of here. Now.’

  Market morning and Leeds was loud. People cried their wares, one voice drowning out another like waves. Stalls lined both sides of Briggate, the road so cramped that coaches could barely pass.

  People shoved and pushed by each other as they tried to see the displays – terrified chickens crammed into wooden cages, sacks of onions and potatoes, thick blocks of pale butter. At the entrance to a court an old woman sat slumped with her back against the wall. In her lap she held a box with the broken remnants of her life. A penny each, she croaked. Just a penny, sir, nice for your wife or sweetheart. No one even heard her.

  It took Simon five minutes to squeeze his way through. Finally he was beyond the crush, exhaling the stink of bodies. The noise dulled as he slid between carts and barrows and turned on to Kirkgate.

  Charles Press was standing behind the bar in the Wellington, a piece of rag tossed over his heavy leather apron. His curly hair was beginning to recede, showing a ruddy forehead and a broad, smiling face.

  He’d fought with the Duke’s army across Portugal and Spain, survived three wounds, and been with the troops as they took Paris. He’d been clever with the loot he gathered, keeping enough back to buy this tavern and name it for his commander.

  Press kept his sharpshooter’s rifle in easy reach, a bayonet and club on his belt. The Wellington was an orderly place.

  ‘Early to see you, Simon.’ He picked up a mug, ready to pour from the barrel.

  ‘Not this morning, Charley. I’m looking for Harry Smith. Has he been in yet today?’

  Press shook his head. ‘No.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘Didn’t see him yesterday, now I think about it.’

  Not in the Cross Keys last night or the Wellington today. That was strange; Harry Smith was a man of habit.

  ‘Is he dying?’ the boy asked. His eyes moved around, trying to look at anything but the man lying on his bed of rags.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jane lied. ‘Is there any water down in the court?’

  He shook his head. ‘We use the pump on Kirkgate.’

  She found a cracked jug in the corner.

  ‘Go and fill this.’

  Alone, she looked down at the Vulture. His skin burned when she touched it, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. But he was shivering with cold. Jane laid a torn coat on top of him. It wouldn’t help, but it was one thing she could do.

  The boy returned, moving awkwardly as he tried to balance the jug. He looked nine, perhaps ten, his body hewn away to flesh and bone, no shoes or stockings, dressed in tattered breeches and a shirt made for a man.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Jane asked.

  ‘They left,’ he replied. ‘They all went when he took like this yesterday morning.’ The Vulture’s crew had abandoned him to die; there was nothing here to keep them. Jane picked a piece of cloth from the floor, wetted it and washed the man’s face. His lips twitched into a brief smile.

  ‘Why did you stay?’ She turned her head to watch the boy, surprised by his loyalty.

  ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘You’d better find somewhere. He probably won’t be alive much longer.’

  It wouldn’t be the first death the boy had seen; she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Probably gentler than some. He gave a small, weary nod, then darted to two different corners of the room, digging around for something, before walking out without a backward glance.

  Jane stayed. It wouldn’t be long now. It didn’t matter what kind of man the Vulture been in life, he deserved someone with him when he died. She talked to him, asking questions, but he was beyond speech.

  She kept bathing his face until it was clean enough to meet his maker. The Vulture’s breathing became ragged, as if he was fighting for each gasp, then it stopped altogether. Quietly, Jane closed the door as she left.

  ‘He’s dead?’ Simon asked. ‘No one said anything. I was looking for him. Nobody’s seen him since the day before yesterday.’ Word of Harry Smith’s passing should have rolled around Leeds like thunder.

  ‘It only happened an hour or so ago.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I was there,’ Jane said. ‘It was quiet, in his bed. Fever.’

  He’d never been able to learn where Smith lived. The man had always held that very close, even in his drunkest nights. But she knew.

  ‘I don’t suppose he said anything?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he even knew I was there.’

  Twice she’d surprised him today. First with her naiveté, now with her cunning. How could someone possess both of those? But the Vulture’s death meant no information. Whatever Harry knew had gone with him to the devil. He sighed.

  Simon had come home to an empty house. A sealed letter, his name written on it in an elegant hand, waited on the kitchen table. Lizzie Henry had been as good as her word. Name after name, each with his particular taste. No John Milner, he noticed as he went through the list; a mistress must be enough for his needs. But many of the great and the good in Leeds. And one or two who might be willing to kidnap a girl to revive their flagging fortunes.

  He put the paper in the hidden place under the stairs. Only he and Rosie knew it existed. After they moved here, they’d agreed not to employ servants. It meant more work for her, on top of the boys and the cooking and the accounts, but it was safer – no one would be tempted to pry and sell their knowledge. Everything neat, secure, and in the family.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Jane interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘There are some we can try. Do you know Daniel Saville?’ His name had been among Lizzie Henry’s clients.

  ‘No.’ She cut a piece of cheese and tore off a hunk of fresh bread. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘One of a pair. He has a brother called Taylor. They live out on the far side of Woodhouse Moor. Their father left them well-off, but I know for a fact that they’ve spent their way through it all. Last year they sold off all the land they owned, so there’s no more income.’

  He was about to say more when the door crashed open and the boys roared through into the kitchen, shouting in their high voices, faces flushed with excitement. He could make out the tracks of tears through the dust caking Richard’s cheeks. Rosie followed, her arms weighed down with shopping from the market.

  ‘I swear, these two are going to be the death of me.’ With a grunt, she put everything on the table and rubbed her hands. She glared at the twins. ‘Richard decided to try and run out in front of a cart. If a man hadn’t grabbed him, he’d be dead now.’

  But he was alive, Simon thought gratefully. And unhurt. If they lasted until they were five, they’d grow to be men, that was what folk said. Survive past twenty and they might see old age.

  ‘I hope your mother taught you a lesson.’

  ‘Oh, I did,’ she said. ‘He won’t forget that in a hurry.’

  The lad nodded and hung his head. Simon turned to Amos.

  ‘And you’d better have learned it, too.’

  ‘Yes, Da.’ A quiet, composed reply. But that was his way. Never impulsive, always thinking everything through.

  ‘Go and wash,’ Rosie ordered. ‘You’ve both got enough dirt on you to make a field.’

  He waited until the boys had cleaned their hands and faces and run off up the stairs.

  ‘The Savilles aren’t much older than Hannah Milner,’ Simon continued. ‘They probably know her from the assemblies and balls.’

  ‘How many work for them?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Someone will talk.’

  ‘That was clever, finding Harry,’ Simon told her as she left.

  She shrugged. ‘I just followed him home once. I suppose there’ll be another Vulture soon enough.’

  ‘And another and another,’ he agreed.

  FIVE

  A mail coach rushed down the Woodhouse Turnpike, the driver cracking his whip above the horses. The sun peered through the clouds for a moment, long enough for Jane to see the sweat shining on the animals’ skin.

  A few cows and sheep grazed, barely raising their heads as she walked over the moor. All this space, the openness, left her feeling exposed. She was used to town, secure where she could blend into a crowd and be invisible. Out here there was nowhere to hide. Anyone could see her.

  A hundred yards further along, a few cottages clustered by the side of the road. A woman feeding her hens pointed out the Saville house. She eyed Jane and said, ‘I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, luv.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’re devils, them brothers. Reckon they can do as they please.’ She snorted. ‘Not even got two pennies to rub together any more but that dun’t stop them.’

  ‘I’ve walked out here, I might as well see. Do you think they need a kitchen maid?’

  She snorted in disgust.

  ‘They need everything but they pay for nowt. Still owe me for eggs.’ The woman twisted her mouth. ‘It’s on your own head. But I wouldn’t let any lass of mine near that place.’

  A few years ago it had been grand, Jane decided. But that had been when there was money to care for it. Now it looked worn at the edges, ignored. Barely spring but already plenty of weeds thriving by the drive. The house was forgotten, unloved. A few slates had gone from the roof, a window broken, rags stuffed where the glass had been.

  Yet she could still smell the memory of wealth here.

  A rutted track led to the back and a walled yard by a plain door. She knocked and entered a large kitchen with a flagstone floor, the open fire throwing out warmth. The fatty sizzle of roasting meat made her belly rumble.

  ‘What do you want?’ A thick-set woman bustled into the room, arms around a large bowl. Her face was pink with the heat.

  A woman, Jane thought. Women knew the secrets. She gave a hopeful smile.

  ‘I’m looking for work, missus. Someone said you needed staff here.’

  ‘Is that right? Aye, well, they’re not wrong.’ She hefted the bowl on to a long wooden table and straightened up, a scowl of pain passing over her face. Her fingertips pressed against the small of her back. ‘Are you experienced? Done all this before, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Jane stared down at the ground then raised her head again, eyes wide. ‘But I learn fast and I work hard. Honest, I do.’

  The cook snorted and eased herself on to a stool. ‘You look more like one of them mill lasses to me. You’re scraggy enough for one.’

  ‘I’ve worked in a mill.’ That was true enough, at least; two years as a doffing girl before the morning her life changed.

  She smiled, pleased to be right. ‘Thought so. I can always spot them a mile off. Always look like they’ve never seen daylight or a good scrubbing.’ Her gaze was sharp. ‘Why do you want to come here?’