‘What was Mrs Fox like?’ Rosie asked. ‘I never spoke to her.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ The old woman cocked her head and thought. ‘She was polite. Too polite, really. I think she knew more about jewellery than he did. She certainly admired the pieces.’ Mrs Curtis pursed her lips. ‘She simpered over them, and I have no time for that. As soon as I turned down his offer to take the pieces and show them to people he said he knew, they took their leave. They must have thought I was born yesterday.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘As soon as I saw them, I knew there was something not quite proper about that pair. They had an air. Once I remembered the name, I decided to enjoy myself at their expense for a few minutes. Was that terrible of me?’

  ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Rosie told her, and she reached across and squeezed the woman’s hand.

  ‘They won’t be back,’ Simon said.

  ‘No, but they brought me another set of visitors. I’m grateful for that.’

  Rosie looked over her shoulder as they walked away.

  ‘They never stood a chance. I hope I’m like her when I’m old.’

  ‘She doesn’t miss a trick.’ He smiled, then his expression turned sour. ‘I’m surprised at the Foxes. Expecting the same act to work.’

  ‘Why not? Barton fell for it,’ she said. ‘It’s months since the stories about the trial and the pardon were in the newspapers. People have short memories, especially for names.’

  That was true; the couple had expected easy prey and found someone too quick for them. What had happened after that? Somehow he found it hard to imagine that Mrs Fox had killed Shackleton. Strangling someone with a rope took plenty of strength; it didn’t feel like a woman’s crime. He’d only seen her once, the day Rosie played fence and Barton chose to prosecute Fox; that had been no more than a few moments and he’d paid little attention to her. In his hazy memory she was a small woman: could she have had the strength to choke away someone’s life?

  ‘Now we know where the Foxes were during some part of the day on Saturday.’ Rosie’s voice was thoughtful. ‘On Sunday there was no sign of them. Something happened.’

  ‘Frederick Fox is the only one who can tell us what it was,’ Simon replied. ‘All we have to do is find him. If he’s still alive,’ he added. ‘I need to go and talk to Porter. Find out what he’s learned.’

  ‘Don’t become constable,’ Porter warned, gesturing at the papers that littered his desk. He sat back and lit his pipe. ‘They’ll try to drown you in all this stuff. Life was easier when I was part of the watch.’

  ‘But it didn’t pay as well.’

  He gave a snort. ‘Maybe not. Anything more on these murders?’

  ‘I came to ask you the same question.’

  He shook his head. ‘Next to nothing. The room in Grey’s Court was rented to’ – he looked for the scrap of paper and pulled it from the floor – ‘to a woman called Smith. The landlord said she paid him for a month.’

  ‘Woman? Mrs Fox?’

  ‘He claims he doesn’t remember what she looked like.’ Porter raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t describe her.’

  ‘She paid him to forget.’

  ‘Very likely. There’s nothing more to be had from him. He says he never saw Shackleton, never even heard the name. I’m willing to believe him on that. He thought the woman was living there, since she paid for it.’

  ‘But he’s not sure.’

  ‘He claims he doesn’t remember. You said your lass saw her go into that room at Grey’s Court on Saturday. That could make Mrs Fox the murderer.’

  Simon looked doubtful. ‘It doesn’t feel right to me.’

  ‘It’s still the obvious answer, Westow. She kills him Saturday. Sunday she and her husband run off. Monday she turns up in the river at Kirkstall, murdered in exactly the same way as Shackleton. Fox probably did it and now he’s vanished.’

  ‘It’s full of holes. You know that as well as I do. I saw her. That woman didn’t look strong enough to strangle Shackleton. Why would Fox wait until they were out in Kirkstall to kill his wife? He could have done it in that house on Middle Fold and left the body.’

  Porter’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘How the devil am I supposed to know what was going through his mind? We can drag the truth out of him once we find him. I’ve sent letters to all the towns to arrest him.’

  Where did Andrew Barton fit into this tale? Was he dead, too? If he was still alive, where had he gone? Was he alone? Could he have killed Mrs Fox?

  Too many questions and not a prayer of an answer yet. As he made his way down the steps his heart was beating faster. How would he find the truth in all this?

  Simon stepped out of the courthouse, blinking in the light as he gazed up at the buildings along Park Row. All very proud and impressive, no doubt about that, but the grandeur was an illusion. Their stones were blackened by the factory smoke that filled the air and the lungs. It was impossible to escape in Leeds. There was dirt everywhere, horse dung covering the cobbles of the streets. Look around and it was a filthy city.

  A movement caught his eye. Sally, standing on the other corner, waving her arms. He waited for a gap between vehicles and hurried across to her as fast as his damaged leg would let him. What had happened? Had someone found Andrew’s body?

  ‘What is it?’ he asked as soon as he was beside her.

  ‘Rosie told me where to find you.’ She looked up into his face. ‘You need to come.’

  Simon’s chest was suddenly tight. He could barely speak. ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s Andrew Barton,’ Sally said. ‘He’s come home.’

  TWELVE

  For a second, he didn’t understand. Surely the young man was dead. So many questions started to flood into his head, but she carried on before he could begin to speak.

  ‘We were watching the house and he walked up, unlocked the door and entered.’ Simon opened his mouth; she continued, ‘It was definitely him. No mistake.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Tired. A little the worse for wear. His shoulders were low’ – she demonstrated for him – ‘and there was dust and dirt all over his clothes. But he didn’t seem to be injured. We couldn’t see him clearly, but there wasn’t any blood.’

  Rosie was waiting at home, a thin, colourful cotton shawl around her shoulders. Arm in arm, they hurried up Briggate to Barton’s house. By the time they arrived, Simon’s leg was sore and aching; a bad day for it. A glance around. Sally and Jane were out of sight.

  ‘You heard very quickly,’ Barton said. The tension that had clouded his face just an hour or two before had evaporated.

  ‘You wanted us to watch you.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Ah yes. Of course.’

  ‘Where has he been?’

  ‘Andrew hasn’t told us yet.’ Barton sighed, frowning with concern. ‘When he came in, he looked bone-weary, Mr Westow. I told him to go and wash, then sleep. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about everything once he’s awake. We’re just relieved that he’s alive and back with us. That’s enough. You know what we’d feared. For now, he needs to rest.’

  ‘There are—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Barton’s voice snapped. ‘This is my son. He’s just come home. I’ll ask him questions later. We’re grateful to God to have him safe.’ A smile. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

  He could. He’d have felt the same, protective towards his sons. However much Barton and his wife had hoped, inside they must have anticipated the worst news. It must have felt like a miracle to see him come through the door.

  ‘Does he have any injuries?’

  Barton shook his head. ‘Nothing that I saw.’

  ‘As soon as possible, I’d like to talk to him,’ Simon told him. ‘I imagine the constable would, too.’

  A flicker of worry shadowed the man’s eyes. ‘Why? Did you mention anything to him? I never reported him missing.’

  ‘I haven’t said a word. But we have two murders and your son might be able to cast some light on them.’

  ‘I’ll ask him once he’s slept, Mr Westow.’

  Pressing the man wasn’t going to help. Not now. He was too relieved to have his son home to think beyond that.

  ‘We’ll keep watch on you. The way you wanted.’

  A nod. ‘Now …’ Barton said, glancing at the front door.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ They shook hands. ‘I’m pleased he’s returned.’

  ‘What did Mrs Barton have to say?’ he asked Rosie as they slowly ambled home.

  ‘She kept breaking into tears. She’d hardened herself to hear the worst, I think.’

  Safe inside their four walls again, but where had Andrew been since Sunday evening? What had he done? A healthy young man like that could easily strangle Mrs Fox.

  It was a new world in every way. So different from anything Jane had known. A war was raging between Indians and colonists in the youthful America, the British and the French who’d arrived in the place. No cities, barely a town worthy of the name, nothing more than outposts quickly erected across the landscape. No manufactories with their chimneys to darken the skies.

  She kept stopping to think about the words she’d read, to imagine being a part of that landscape, out there in the wilderness with Hawk-Eye, Cora and the others.

  ‘What’s wrong, child? Don’t you like it?’ Mrs Shields asked. They were sitting outside the cottage, relishing the evening warmth. The old woman had a heavy shawl tucked around her shoulders; she felt the chill so easily these days.

  ‘I do,’ she answered slowly. ‘It’s the place … I’ve never dreamed of anywhere like it. It’s so … I don’t know.’

  ‘Nothing like Leeds.’

  Jane gave a soft laugh. The town felt tame in comparison. Too civilised. ‘What do you think it’s like to meet people who are so different?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you that when I was a girl, just very small, I remember seeing someone with a servant who had black skin,’ the old woman said thoughtfully. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. It happened a long time ago.’

  She didn’t understand. ‘Black? What do you mean? Rubbed with soot like a sweep?’

  ‘No. It was his proper skin colour, the way he was born. Black and smooth, like ebony.’ The wonder still filled her voice. ‘We all stared, we’d never seen anything like it. But the world is filled with all sorts of people. We’ve only experienced a tiny part of it.’

  Her eyes moved back to the page, but her thoughts were full of what she’d just heard. They had to be real, the Indians in the book, not pulled from a writer’s imagination. But it was all far beyond her comprehension. How was she ever going to learn about the things around her?

  What must it be like to travel and see all these different people and places? With all those different languages, how could they understand each other? Yet people had done it. They’d gone all over, even to the other side of the world, down to Australia, where they sent the convicts. She’d seen sailors, and men like Dodson the old soldier who’d gone overseas to war. Jane knew she could never do that. She’d been terrified enough on the bench of the gig. She could never set foot on a ship.

  The only way she could travel to those places would be in the pages of books.

  Her mind drifted, thinking back over the day outside Barton’s house. After Simon and Rosie, nobody visited, no one came out. The hours dragged by, each minute weighing heavy. Sally had stayed restless, slipping away several times to make sure they were still the only watchers.

  Finally, as the church bell rang five, they left.

  ‘Do you know what it all means?’ Sally asked.

  Jane shook her head. It was impossible to untangle the strands and make sense of everything. Too many pieces were still missing from the puzzle. The look on Simon’s face as he left Barton’s house made it clear he’d discovered nothing more. Maybe tomorrow they’d learn what had happened.

  ‘I think I’m going inside,’ Mrs Shields said. ‘I can feel a headache coming on and I’m beginning to feel very weary.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jane rose to help. She stayed alert to everything; the woman was so frail.

  ‘It’s nothing but old age, child,’ she said. ‘There’s no cure for that.’

  Once the old woman was settled in bed, she sat outside and idly ran her knife over the whetstone. A lazy, comforting rhythm. Sharp and deadly. How old was Catherine Shields, Jane asked herself as she let the darkness grow around her. Was she seventy, eighty? The woman refused to tell; a lady never reveals her age, she said. She’d never spoken much about her life when she was young. From a family with plenty of money; that was obvious. Exactly who she’d been, how she’d ended up in this small place … that was the story the woman had never told. Jane had tried to discover it, but all she’d received were little smiles and shards from the past, like the one she’d heard tonight. Some day, maybe … but she knew it wouldn’t happen.

  She checked the edge of her knife; satisfied, she slipped it into her pocket. When the men had come after the children, she’d barely needed to land a blow. At least they wouldn’t return; that was something. Sally would probably be with them now, trying to care for them all like a mother or an older sister. Or more like a shepherd, perhaps.

  ‘Watch Barton’s house again,’ Simon told them. ‘If anyone comes, follow them when they leave. The same with anyone from the family.’

  ‘Won’t he expect that?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Very likely,’ he admitted. What else could they do? Barton was paying for their presence. They were doing what he’d ordered.

  But this would be the final day, he decided. Yesterday he’d gone around the inns and beershops, asking for any news, any sightings, even faint rumours about Fox in Leeds. Nothing at all. That threat had gone.

  This morning he’d go and see Barton. Simon still wanted to know what had happened to Andrew, and whether it tied into the murder of Mrs Fox. Once he had that, he’d tell the man that his family appeared safe. Simon had no other work waiting, but this … what had seemed straightforward at the beginning had grown too twisted. Something was wrong, and his gut told him they’d be safer keeping their distance from it.

  ‘Nothing else on those murders?’ Simon asked Porter. The windows were open in the constable’s office, but no breeze stirred the warm, still air inside.

  ‘Not a damned thing.’ He cocked his head. ‘Why, have you heard something?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Fox?’

  ‘No reports at all. The best I can guess is that he’s changed his name and he’s far away by now.’

  ‘I’m going to tell Barton that since he’s gone, there’s no need for us to follow him any longer.’

  Suspicion flashed in the constable’s eyes. ‘It’s not like you to give up on some easy money, Westow. Something smell wrong about the job?’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘He doesn’t need the protection. There’s other work out there.’

  ‘Between you and me, I doubt we’ll find Fox. It’s not as if anybody’s grieving over the bodies.’ Porter grunted and gave a shrug. ‘Plenty to keep us busy without that. At least the damned feud with the soldiers seems to be over.’

  The day had warmed up quickly. Simon pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Not long after nine o’clock and already he was sweating as he made his way along the drive to Barton’s house.

  The servant let him in, and he was grateful for the dim coolness inside. Simon stood by the parlour window, gazing out at the tidy garden, until he heard Barton enter the room. He was in shirtsleeves, a stock very clean and white around his neck.

  ‘I hadn’t expected to see you yet, Mr Westow.’

  ‘Have you talked to your son?’

  The man nodded. ‘Last night, once he was awake. He bathed and we had a conversation as he ate.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He swears he knows nothing about any murders. He’s never heard of anyone called Shackleton, and he was shocked when I told him about Mrs Fox being found in Kirkstall. I made him place his hand on the Bible when he told me he wasn’t involved. Is that good enough for you?’

  ‘Where was he all that time he was missing?’

  Barton gave a small, wan smile. ‘It was exactly what his friends thought. He’d arranged to meet some girl, and went off with her.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘Until yesterday morning?’

  ‘She found out he had money and persuaded him to go drinking with her all of Monday. By the time he woke yesterday morning, he’d spent everything he had and she threw him out.’

  At least that part sounded plausible. He’d hardly be the first young man to be used that way.

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Andrew said her name was Martha. He didn’t know her surname.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘She had a room off Vicar Lane.’

  He’d rather be hearing this from Andrew, to look in his eyes and see if he was telling the truth. But that wasn’t likely to happen, certainly not for now. Barton was shielding his son from the world.

  ‘How was he when he returned?’

  ‘Full of regrets, of course.’ Barton gave a small shake of his head. ‘Feeling like a fool and head still thudding. I have hopes he might learn a lesson from it.’

  Maybe he would, Simon thought. But there was one other thing.

  ‘What about the meeting he had with Fox? A few days ago you told him he was lying about that. Do you believe him now?’

  Barton took a long time before he answered, then the words came haltingly. ‘I asked him again. He still denies it. He insists none of it happened.’

  ‘There was a message left for him with the time.’

  ‘Honestly, Mr Westow, I don’t know. I want to believe him, but something …’ Silence returned. ‘We prayed he’d come back. I’m so happy to have him here and safe that I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. I have to forgive him for any lies he might have told.’ The man’s stare grew fierce. ‘He’s adamant about it. Maybe your girl was mistaken. No note, and no meeting.’