‘It wasn’t locked,’ he lied.

  ‘Round here?’ For a moment the man looked ready to argue. Instead, he entered, keeping the men from the watch outside.

  The inspector threw back the sheet then seemed to stare at the corpse in disgust. He moved a finger over the rope, stroking it, before he turned.

  ‘Who is he, Westow?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ His eyes blazed. ‘You came here. You’re trying to tell me that you didn’t know who you were visiting?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Simon kept his voice low and steady as he explained and glanced at the body. ‘I have no idea who he is. But I can tell you he probably never rented this room himself or spent much time here.’

  Fry raised his eyebrows in astonishment, then looked around and nodded.

  ‘If you don’t know his name, let me tell you. He’s called Daniel Shackleton.’ He spat it out as he looked down at the bed again. ‘I wondered what happened to that bastard.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me,’ Simon said.

  ‘He used to live in Leeds. Killed a man in a fight.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘It must have been … close to a year ago, I suppose.’

  That would explain why Simon had never heard the name. It was just after he’d been knifed, when all he could think of was staying alive and not losing his leg.

  ‘They arrested him in Wakefield,’ the inspector continued. ‘Sentenced to hang, and they put him in prison in York. He escaped back in March. God only knows why he decided to make his way back here.’ He stared at the corpse again. ‘Strangled.’ The inspector snorted. ‘Some justice, at least. You say Fox’s wife came here?’

  ‘One of the women who works for me followed her.’

  ‘All the way to the door?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known where to look otherwise.’

  ‘Where do I find the Foxes?’

  ‘Middle Fold.’

  He reached out and touched the rope once more. ‘Remember, Westow, this is murder. It’s not your business any longer.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ Simon told him. ‘Something for you to think about, though. If he was in York prison until March, Fox was there, too.’

  The inspector considered the idea and nodded again. ‘That would explain the connection. But it doesn’t explain this room or how he came to be murdered. We’ll need to find out who paid for it.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll find you if I need to know more.’

  It was a dismissal.

  ‘The man’s name was Daniel Shackleton,’ he told Rosie. She’d been sitting with the boys, watching as they finished their homework at the kitchen table. Simon sent them upstairs to put on old clothes and collect the fishing sticks he’d cut for them from hazel branches. He explained everything while they were gone.

  Her mouth turned down. ‘Something’s wrong. None of this makes sense.’

  ‘I know, and it comes back to the Foxes again.’

  The four of them were sitting in their favourite fishing spot by the river when Sally dashed up, calling out his name. She was breathless, eyes wide. Painfully, Simon pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘We’ve been watching Fox’s house,’ she said. ‘The shutters are still closed. Nobody’s come out.’

  He felt a flutter of fear in his belly.

  Rosie put a hand on his arm. ‘Leave it to the watch, Simon.’

  He hesitated for a moment before he agreed.

  ‘I imagine the constable’s men will be there very soon,’ he told the girl. ‘I went to Grey’s Court this morning, the room Mrs Fox visited. There was a body. He’d been strangled. Someone who’d been in York prison the same time as Mr Fox.’

  TEN

  Jane lifted her head. The first footsteps she’d heard along Middle Fold in over an hour. She glanced from the shadows: Inspector Fry and two more she recognised from the watch. Nothing to do but keep still as they marched to the house where the Foxes lived and hammered on the door.

  No reply, nor a second time. She saw the inspector try the handle, then stand back in surprise when it turned under his hand. He drew his knife and edged inside, the others behind him.

  Time for her to leave, a figure who might have been there, although nobody would be able to recall with certainty. As she turned on to Mabgate, she found Sally hurrying back after seeing Simon.

  ‘I didn’t wait to see if the Foxes were still inside,’ Jane said. ‘I didn’t want to risk anyone spotting me.’ A murder, and something wrong in Middle Fold. The hairs rose on her arm. Much safer for them to keep as far from that as possible, she decided as she walked home. Nothing good could come of it.

  She worked outside the cottage, pricking out the weeds around the flowers and relishing the feel of the sun, forgetting death and problems in the scent of the honeysuckle that climbed up the wall. Mr Richardson’s Pamela waited for her on the bench, a book from Mrs Shields’s library that she’d never read. Sitting with it would be her reward for finishing the job.

  Afternoon had waned into a drowsy evening by the time Simon and Rosie arrived. As they sat together, drinking one of the old woman’s cordials, Simon looked at her and said, ‘Inspector Fry came to see me. He says it looks as if the Foxes left their house in a hurry.’

  ‘Was there anything to indicate why? Or where they were going?’ Jane asked.

  ‘No.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘We’re on our way to see Barton and tell him.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’d like to hear what happened when the watch turned up at the house.’

  What was there to tell? Very little; she’d only seen them arrive. It barely took a sentence. He listened and said, ‘I never told the constable about his son meeting Fox. Maybe it’s not important now.’

  ‘What do you want me to do tomorrow?’ she asked, although she knew the answer.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything for us at the moment,’ Rosie told her.

  She was happy with that. She treasured her time at this cottage, just her and Mrs Shields together. Soon Simon would pay her for the job, more money to hide behind the loose stone in the wall.

  Barton exhaled slowly and looked across at his wife after Simon finished speaking.

  ‘I have no idea what to make of all that.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘I don’t recall ever hearing of anyone named Shackleton. How does he come into this?’

  ‘He must have been in prison with Fox, but I can’t see how it has anything to do with you. Still, it looks as if the Foxes have vanished. You shouldn’t have any more problems with them.’

  The man gave a tentative nod and rubbed his chin. Off in the distance, the bells rang for evening service.

  ‘None of this makes a scrap of sense, does it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d still like someone following me for the next two days. It would make me feel safer. Just in case.’

  ‘Of course.’ Simon looked toward his Rosie and she nodded. That was work Sally could easily do on her own. ‘There is one other thing.’

  ‘I know. My son and Fox. I’ve talked to him and badgered him, but he still denies he ever met the man. I know he’s lying, but he refuses to budge on it. To tell you the truth, Mr Westow, I’m at the end of my patience with him. He announced this morning that he was going out with some friends to Kirkstall Abbey for the day and we were glad of the peace and quiet.’

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow. I need to talk to him.’ He paused, uncertain how to phrase the rest. ‘I’m going to have to squeeze him for the truth. After what’s happened today, it’s vital.’

  ‘Do whatever you have to do,’ Barton agreed. ‘Find your answers. You have my full backing. I’ll be interested to hear it all. In the meantime, if you hear anything more about the Foxes …’

  ‘I’ll make sure you know.’

  The coffee cart overflowed with Monday morning gossip about the dead man. He listened as someone recounted the murder Shackleton had committed. Another had ideas about how he’d managed his escape from the jail in York. But none of them could explain how he’d come to die in a shabby room in Leeds. Nobody mentioned Fox’s name.

  Simon walked to the courthouse and slowly took the stairs to the constable’s office. His leg was finally back to its usual, tolerable ache. Porter was at work, smoking his pipe as he read reports. He lifted his eyes from the paper.

  ‘You cause me more damned trouble than anyone else in Leeds, Westow.’

  ‘Have your men found anything more about Shackleton?’

  The constable snorted. ‘There’s nothing to find. No documents or papers, as I’m sure you know. You said his door was unlocked.’

  Simon smiled back at him, his gaze steady. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Very convenient. What took you there?’

  Five minutes for the tale; Porter listened intently. Simon told him everything except the meeting between Fox and Barton’s son.

  The constable sighed. ‘The Foxes have run. There’s no doubt about that. They didn’t buy tickets at any of the coaching offices, and they didn’t hire any type of carriage or cart. It doesn’t look too planned; they appear to have left much of what they owned at that house.’ He looked up. ‘Does that give you any ideas?’

  Just one, but it seemed ridiculous. ‘What if they’re dead, too?’

  He saw the disbelief cross Porter’s face, then he began to weigh the possibilities. ‘Maybe,’ he said with a small nod.

  ‘If not, they’re either walking along a road or hiding somewhere in Leeds.’

  ‘The inspector’s handling it. He has an interest; he’s the one who was originally hunting Shackleton. He’ll probably have some questions for Barton.’

  ‘There’s no connection, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Of course there is. The Foxes.’

  Simon nodded. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  He’d scarcely arrived at the house before Rosie ran out of the kitchen.

  ‘Barton sent a servant. He needs to see you. Urgent, he says.’

  ‘Did he know—’

  ‘No, but he said Barton and his wife are frantic.’

  The man paced while his wife sat and stared, hands clasped together in her lap. Through the powder on her face, Simon could see the dried tracks of her tears.

  James Barton’s voice was tight. He looked like an old, terrified man. ‘At first, we thought Andrew must have come home late again. But when the servant went in, his bed hadn’t been slept in.’ His eyes turned towards his wife but his head never moved. ‘A few times he’s spent the night with one of his friends after a picnic. The way things have been between us, I thought he perhaps decided not to tell us. I sent a servant to ask them earlier.’

  ‘Maybe …’ Simon began, but the man was shaking his head.

  ‘They said he slipped away not long after they arrived at the abbey. They thought he must have arranged to meet a girl and when he didn’t return, they left him to make his own way home.’

  Shackleton murdered, the Foxes vanished, and now this. Was there some pattern that he was missing? Something to tie all the threads together?

  The first thing was to talk to the friends.

  It took an hour to gather the three young men in Barton’s dining room. As he waited, Simon was aware of the time ticking away, and Andrew was still missing. A grown man, but one full of anger. The urgency pressed down on him.

  ‘We know he was at the abbey. We need to search out there as soon as possible,’ he told Barton.

  ‘Of course.’ The man nodded, fear bright in his eyes. ‘But do you think he’s still—?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is, or if something’s happened to him,’ Simon said. ‘We have to start somewhere, and that’s the last place he was seen. Lend me your gig and my wife and assistants can go.’

  ‘Yes. Anything you need,’ the man agreed without hesitation.

  ‘If you’ll have it brought round, I’ll tell them.’

  Standing in the warm sun, he breathed deep, then let out a low whistle and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Sally was in front of him, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘Find Jane and Rosie and bring them here. You’re going to be driving Barton’s gig out to Kirkstall Abbey and see if you can find anything to do with Andrew Barton out there.’

  Her eyes grew wide. ‘What do you mean? A body?’

  ‘I hope not.’ It had to be a possibility; it would fit with what they knew, but he didn’t want to think about that. Simon passed on what Barton had told him. ‘Rosie knows the way. I’m going to trust you to drive. Just be very careful.’

  She gave a quick girlish grin, turned on her heel and dashed away.

  ‘Did Simon say anything else about Andrew’s disappearance?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘No.’ Sally kept her attention on the horse and the road. ‘I don’t think he knows. Just that his friends thought he might have gone off with someone.’ She pulled lightly on a rein. ‘It all happened yesterday, so he’s not sure what we can find.’

  Everything was too vague, Jane thought. She was squeezed against the end of the seat, gripping the metal armrest with all her strength.

  ‘Did his friends search for him?’

  No answer to that.

  Jane had barely arrived home when Sally began hammering on the door. She’d returned from shopping and the circulating library, eager to start The Last of the Mohicans and read the strange tale about the Indians in America. For a moment she stood in the doorway of the little house in Green Dragon Yard, torn.

  ‘Go, child,’ Mrs Shields urged her. ‘The book will still be here when you get back.’ Her eyes shone with memories. ‘Perhaps you can find this young man. And you need to see Kirkstall Abbey. My husband and I often went on outings there.’ A light squeeze of the hand. ‘All that history.’

  Now she could see a part of it from half a mile away, the remains of a stone tower that rose up to the sky, as tall as any church steeple. Mrs Shields was right; it was magnificent. What must it have been like when it was whole? This was the kind of ruined beauty she loved.

  The road ran straight through the huge arch of a window, directly into the church. Just a few yards away, cattle ignored them as they happily grazed.

  Not a soul she could ask, nobody who might answer questions. What chance was there of discovering Barton out here?

  ‘Where do we start?’ Jane asked.

  Rosie looked around and shook her head. ‘We’ll have to look for anything at all. The smallest scrap. The river’s down there. Sally and I can search upstream. You go the other way.’

  Jane started with the remains of the buildings. Much of it was no more than mounds of old, dark stones, lifeless, some only foundations; everything usable had been scavenged over the centuries. There were still dark places to hide things, and she looked there; far more, she wanted a few brief minutes to revel in the place, to trace her fingertips over the stones and feel the past seep into her bones. She wondered about the monks who’d once lived there, who they’d been, what they were like. She stroked a column that had broken off above her head, caressing the weathered roughness of the stone, as if it might hold some echo of voices. High up in the ruined tower, an empty window looked out at the sky.

  Jane strode across the grass, trodden flat, somewhere to sit and eat and laze on a warm day; then went further, down the slope to the riverbank. It would be a fine spot to bathe. The water looked calm and safe. No corpse bobbing there. Off in the distance, she spotted Sally examining the ground as Rosie listened to a cowherd who was pointing at something.

  Jane followed a well-trodden track through some trees along the riverbank. Pale, dappled sunshine fell on the leaves. She trailed her arm through the tall grasses and flowers beside the path. At some other time, this could be a perfect place.

  The sound of the water grew louder with each step, until she could see it roaring over a weir. A sluice drew a strong flow off to the side, flowing down a mill race towards the building in the distance. Another building stood on the other side of a short stone bridge. She knocked and tried the door. Locked. Nobody inside.

  Jane stayed close to the river, scraping through bushes and briars, crouching as she passed under the old Kirkstall bridge, carefully watching the water for any small sign of Andrew Barton’s body.

  ‘You all know that Andrew hasn’t returned.’ Simon addressed the three young men who stood like awkward schoolboys. He watched their faces; they were all wary and fearful. ‘People are searching out at the abbey. It’s important to know exactly what happened, and when.’ He glanced at James Barton. ‘We need everything you can remember.’

  They could have been cut from a single pattern. Slim, with fashionable clothes, the same swallowtail coats and tight trousers, all with carefully brushed hair. Faces that hadn’t had time to settle into their final character yet. Another ten years and a couple of them would run to fat, he thought; they already had a faint hint of it around the neck.

  ‘I think it was about two o’clock when we arrived there,’ one said, glancing at the others for confirmation. Tim Cowley, the son of a factory owner.

  ‘Just the four of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ a second replied. He had a tentative, reedy voice. Charles Ibbotson. ‘We often do things together. Andrew suggested it and assembled the party. He arranged to hire that cart. It seemed like a good idea. Yesterday was warm, so the place was busy.’

  ‘What happened after you arrived?’ Simon asked. He studied them, alert for lies and hesitations.

  ‘We ate and drank.’ The third young man had a deep, sombre tone that matched his dark hair. He’d introduced himself as Henry Harrison. ‘We had a few bottles with us. Nothing outrageous. We weren’t there to get drunk. All we wanted to do was enjoy ourselves. After we finished, Andrew said he was going for a walk.’ He blinked, as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘I don’t think he invited any of us along, did he?’