NINE

  Jane passed Richard and Amos as they ran along Swinegate, scampering away on a Saturday morning. A nod, a quick ‘Good morning, miss,’ and they were gone again. Growing so fast, she thought, already taller than her. When she began working for Simon, they were only small boys.

  But the house remained exactly the same. They sat round the table in the kitchen, and she and Sally explained what they’d seen yesterday.

  Simon stared at the floor as he listened. First light had seen him haunting the coffee cart, craving some useful news and hearing nothing. Now the surprises had come into his own home and he had no idea what to make of them.

  ‘We need to tell the Bartons,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yes.’ They’d made it clear they didn’t have much regard for their son. This news that he’d been talking to Fox and attacking homeless children would destroy whatever was left. If he was conspiring against his parents … ‘The sooner the better.’

  He stood, leaning heavily on his stick. Every step hurt today; the journey in the cart had taken its toll; finding a comfortable position for sleep had been close to impossible. One more thing the injury had stolen from him.

  ‘You’d better come with me.’ To Jane and Sally: ‘Stay with the Foxes. Are you sure this problem with the young men and the children is really over?’

  A fleeting look between the pair. ‘Yes,’ Sally answered firmly.

  The groups of children were a familiar sight in town. Easy targets for any man with a temper or wanting to prove himself after a night fired by drink. He knew how much Sally cared for them. Of course she’d be their defender, too.

  ‘Mr Westow … Mrs …’ Barton looked confused as the servant showed them into the room. ‘This is a surprise. Have you discovered something?’

  ‘We have,’ Simon told him. He began with Temple Newsam, seeing anger flash across the man’s face at falling for a lie. That was the easy part. Barton’s expression grew darker as he learned about his son. First the children, then the meeting with Fox.

  ‘There’s no doubt?’

  ‘None.’

  The man reached across and took his wife’s hand and called for a servant.

  ‘Tell Andrew I want him down here in five minutes.’

  ‘He was—’

  ‘Five minutes.’ Barton didn’t raise his voice. No need; the tone was steel. He turned to Simon. ‘I’d like you to put it all to him, the way you did to me. I want to watch his face.’

  Andrew Barton wore a sullen expression as he came in, struggling into a jacket. No stock, hair uncombed and wild. Grazes on his cheek.

  ‘I came in late last night,’ he began. ‘I was still asleep—’ He stopped as he noticed Simon and Rosie.

  ‘This is Mr and Mrs Westow,’ Barton said. ‘They settled the business with Fox.’

  Simon saw the young man staring at him, uncertainty and desperation behind his gaze. He was taller than his father, shifting from foot to foot, not yet completely at home in his body.

  ‘What does that have to do with me?’

  ‘I believe you know Mr Fox,’ his father said.

  ‘No.’ The young man stepped back as if he’d been hit. ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘You met him yesterday afternoon, down by the canal,’ Simon said. ‘He left a message for you with the time.’

  He shook his head. ‘He’s lying to you.’ He turned to his parents. ‘I never did that.’

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Mrs Barton asked. ‘It wasn’t like that yesterday.’

  He rubbed his hand across his cheek. ‘Some roughhousing last night. That’s all.’

  ‘You and some of your friends attacked some children.’

  ‘I—’ He turned to Simon. ‘Why are you lying to them?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘What are you doing with Fox?’ Barton asked.

  ‘Nothing, I told you. I never saw him.’

  ‘Andrew, I’ve known when you’ve been lying since you learned to talk.’ His mother’s voice overflowed with sadness. ‘It’s time for the truth.’

  Frantic, Andrew looked around, hoping for … Simon didn’t know. Then he turned on his heel and ran from the room. All they could hear was the rush of his shoes on the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie said into the silence.

  ‘No need.’ Barton shook his head. ‘I’m grateful you told us. It’s better to know what we harbour in our own house. We’ll have it out of him later. I’ll send you a note.’

  He sounded weary at heart, Simon thought. The last few minutes had aged him, brought a new kind of pain into his life.

  ‘We still don’t know what the son was plotting with Fox,’ Rosie said as they strolled along Briggate. She kept turning her head to look at the enticing displays of fabrics and baubles in the shop windows. They’d dressed well for the meeting, Simon fashionable in his tight swallowtail coat and his best trousers. Rosie wore her favourite plum-coloured gown with a small hat and an Indian cotton shawl covering her shoulders. Clothes intended to impress.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But we’ve set things in motion. That’s a start.’

  Last night, the air had crackled around them with anticipation as they waited with the children. This morning felt lighter, Jane thought. The air was warm, sticky and close as they stood hidden in Middle Fold. But the tension had drained away.

  ‘They’re out,’ Sally warned.

  No rush; the couple were ambling arm-in-arm. This time they didn’t part as they reached Mabgate, but turned away from town, up the road, then on to Skinner Lane, following Long Balk Lane, into Cobourg Street to the tidy gentility of Queen Square.

  It was only a few years old, standing off Woodhouse Lane above the city to look down on the grime. Another desirable Leeds address for people with means. The Foxes knocked on a door and vanished inside.

  ‘Did you see which house they went into?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Sally was staring at the building. Thoughtfully, she said, ‘I followed someone to this square once before.’

  ‘The same house?’

  ‘I don’t know. They disappeared before I was close enough to see.’

  Leeds might be loud and bustling, but it was still small. They took advantage of the coolness of a tree, climbing into the low branches and out of sight, shaded by the leaves. Resting with her back against the trunk, Jane smiled to herself. Mrs Shields would chide her if she could see; young ladies didn’t climb trees. But young ladies wore delicate shoes and slippers, not sturdy boots with hobnails in the soles. They didn’t carry knives and know how to use them. They hadn’t come of age on the streets. They didn’t work for thief-takers and relish any comfort as they waited outside in all weathers.

  Almost an hour passed before the Foxes came out again, strolling back down Woodhouse Lane and into town. It was harder to follow out here; too few people around. But as soon as they were fully into Leeds, they’d be swallowed by the crowds. They needed to be ready.

  Sally slipped ahead, hurrying across the fields and sites marked out for new homes, down to wait by Wormald Place, while Jane lingered behind the couple. She crossed the road, shawl tucked around her hair, moving with her eyes down, but constantly flickering to see the man and his wife.

  Who had they been to see? What business had they done? She’d never seen either of them greet people or stop to talk, so it was unlikely to have been a social call.

  They needed to know much more. But this was a thread for Simon to tug.

  Sally slid in beside her just before they reached the Head Row. Not far away, Davy Cassidy was playing his fiddle. The quick notes of a jig lifted into the air and for a fleeting moment Jane wished she could stop and hold the music close. But the Foxes kept walking and so did she.

  Once the couple reached the main road, they parted.

  Jane stayed with the woman. Down Albion Street, past the elegant new buildings of Commercial Street, where dressmakers’ windows displayed expensive gowns few women could afford, past the subscription library and the jewellers. Mrs Fox kept a determined stride, her gaze straight ahead, not distracted by any of the items on display.

  She crossed Briggate, started down Kirkgate, and Jane began to suspect she was going to Grey’s Court again.

  She could keep following, but that would mean stopping when they reached the court. Or she could take a risk, rush along the back ways she knew, and be there first, able to spot exactly where Mrs Fox went.

  If the woman was going anywhere else, she’d lose her.

  Jane dashed through the ginnels to the far side of the court and in through one of the three entrances. The flagstones were smeared with the night waste people had tossed out, a burning stink to inhale as she stood close to the water pipe, head down, waiting, hoping she’d been right.

  A blink and Mrs Fox was there, eyes moving around, passing quickly over Jane. She was nothing, part of the landscape. Her gaze followed the woman as she climbed the steps, knocked on a door and entered without waiting for an answer.

  Later they could find out who lived there and the connection to whatever the Foxes were doing. Now it was time to leave before the woman came out again.

  Queen Square, then here. Who were the people behind the doors? What connected them to the Foxes?

  ‘Two, please,’ she said to Kate the pie-seller. Jane had first known her when she was still a girl living wild. Back then, the woman would sometimes give her a pie, often the only thing to keep her going that day. Kate was a big woman, a widow now the husband who beat her was dead. But she didn’t feel free, she said. She missed him.

  ‘Why?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I loved him.’ Her voice was a mix of sorrow and surprise. Kate gave a rueful smile and shook her head. ‘I know, it’s daft. But it’s how I am, I can’t help it. I was used to him.’

  Now she’d finally shed her grieving, smiling as she saw Jane.

  ‘Here you are, not long out of the oven, still warm as you please.’ She squinted. ‘You look … What is it? Are you puzzled by something?’

  ‘I am.’ The woman was right. Trying to understand this was like making out shapes in muddy water. ‘It’s work.’

  A few moments to talk before she moved through the crowds that thronged Briggate. Some had gathered around a juggler, a new face in town. He was skilful, keeping five balls in the air and a flow of patter as people darted towards him and placed coins in his hat. A coachman’s horn sounded as the vehicle emerged from Bay Horse Yard and started hell for leather towards Newcastle. Close by, a singer had an audience for the new ballad, selling at a penny a sheet.

  Plenty of diversions to tempt her. But she was going to Middle Fold. Sooner or later, Mrs Fox would return.

  ‘I’ll go to Grey’s Court,’ Simon said after Jane finished speaking. Outside, afternoon was easing into evening. He looked across the kitchen table at his wife. ‘Can you go up to Queen Square?’

  She gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I know a couple of women who live there. One of them should be able to tell me who’s in that house.’

  Sally opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, puzzled, before she said, ‘I don’t understand Fox. He didn’t do much. After he left his wife, he walked over to Barton’s house and spent a few hours watching it before he went home. There was no sign of Barton. He didn’t come back for his dinner, and he’d probably gone before Fox arrived. I don’t understand it. I can’t see what he’s trying to do.’

  ‘He worried Barton enough for him to employ us,’ Simon reminded her.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded and pushed her lips together. ‘But what has he done?’

  ‘He had that meeting with Barton’s son,’ Jane reminded her. ‘He left a note to arrange it, so they must have set that up as a way to keep in touch. That means they already knew each other.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Did Fox stop at that tree? You know the one?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She gazed at her hands. ‘I didn’t want to get too close and risk him seeing me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Simon said. ‘Stay with them again tomorrow.’ He needed to come up with something to lift the dour mood. ‘You’ve both been doing good work on this.’

  Quietly, Jane closed Woodstock and set it on the small table by her chair.

  ‘Did you enjoy it, child?’ Mrs Shields asked. The older woman was bright today, spirits lifted by the warmth and sun that lasted through the long evenings.

  She gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘I did. I felt I was right there with them.’

  ‘That was a bad time for the country, with the Cavaliers and the Roundheads, families split in two. Dangerous. I learned a little about it when I was a girl.’

  Jane thought about that. No war, no battles in the country now, but for plenty of people today held ample dangers, too. ‘I learned things I never knew about history.’

  ‘Books can always do that. What are you going to read next?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She’d make a trip to the circulating library as soon as this job allowed. It wasn’t that long since she’d learned to read, not even two years. As soon as she had, words consumed her, as if she needed to make up for all those years she’d lost. She read everything: books, newspapers, magazines, even the advertisements pasted to the walls. Anything printed caught her eye. She’d taught herself to write, and Rosie had shown her numbers. She’d discovered she had an endless thirst to know more.

  Finally, as darkness arrived, Jane laced up her work boots.

  ‘Again, child?’ Mrs Shields had worry in her voice.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about tonight.’ She gave a reassuring smile. ‘It’s just a precaution.’

  Sally was there with the children, listening to their prattle as they gathered by the fire. The talk slowly died away as the children began to settle.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll come back,’ she said, but there was a faint edge of fear running under the words.

  ‘They won’t,’ Jane said. Deep inside, she knew it. But she was here, anyway. Just in case. She’d become a part of this. The nights had brought too many memories of her own time living this way swimming back in to her mind.

  As the church clock struck one, they strolled home. Jane stayed alert, hand on her knife. She checked on Mrs Shields. The old woman was sleeping with a sweet, calm smile on her face.

  Simon nodded to the faces around the coffee cart. Sunday morning, and Leeds was quiet, but men were still out and about. Some had work to go to, others simply nowhere else to be. Faces he rarely saw anywhere else sharing a few quick minutes at the start of a day. All sorts of folk: clerks, men who owned businesses, a mechanic or engineer with burly arms and scarred hands.

  The busy and the lost: which was he?

  The pain from the cart trip was beginning to recede. He’d slept more easily last night, but the ache lingered, and he had to concentrate on each step as he walked. No more travelling that way, he decided; even with the pleasure of seeing Temple Newsam, the cost was too great.

  He felt as if the entire affair with Barton and Fox had slid away from him. When he first received the note to say the man had returned after his pardon, it had seemed straightforward. Now he wasn’t sure of anything. There had been no confrontation, no threats. Then he had to consider Fox meeting with Barton’s son. For the life of him he couldn’t work out what the devil it meant. But it was time to find some answers.

  Simon finished the coffee, handed back the ancient tin cup and started down Kirkgate. The bells from the parish church at the bottom of the street rang through his head.

  Grey’s Court. As he entered, he smelled the rot rising from the ground. Nobody was shouting or moving around. Simon looked up at the door Jane had described.

  A knock and … nothing. Empty rooms had their own sound. Hollow. He tried again. No answer, no footsteps shifting around inside. He tried the doorknob. Locked. A hurried glance around. Not a soul was watching as he drew out the small pack of lock picks from his waistcoat pocket. Only a few seconds before he felt the satisfaction of a click and turned the handle, holding his breath as he gently pushed the door open.

  Immediately, Simon knew.

  The room was alive with flies, thousands of them buzzing in the sticky heat. The air was heavy with the bitter stink of death. There was nothing else quite like it. Simon gripped the handle of his stick, ready to draw the sword inside. But he was the only living human here.

  A shape lay on a narrow bed, covered by a grubby sheet. He took a shallow breath through his mouth and drew back the cloth. Nobody he knew. A man who might have been thirty.

  A thin rope had cut deep into his neck and strangled him. Simon stepped back, eyes moving around the room. A table and chair, but no plates or knife. No clothes hanging from a nail, no shoes on the floor. This wasn’t a place where anyone had made a life.

  Simon glanced back at the corpse. He was wearing an old coat, dirty and dusty with just a scrap of paper in the pocket, this address scribbled on it in ink. No coins, nothing that could give him a name.

  He slipped the note back where he’d found it. A final inspection to be sure he’d missed nothing, then softly back to the door. Not a soul outside as the church bells finished summoning the faithful.

  He didn’t pause to lock the door behind him. Where now? Vanish quietly or report what he’d found?

  ‘A body?’ Inspector Fry tried to stare him down. He had the duty today, sitting at the constable’s desk in the courthouse with a copy of the Leeds Mercury and glaring as Simon gave him the news.

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  ‘What the hell have you done, Westow?’ But he was on his feet and hurrying towards the door, calling for a couple of members of the watch.

  By the time they arrived at the Grey’s Court, Simon’s leg ached fiercely from trying to keep pace with the angry strides.

  ‘How did you get in?’