A rage of souls, p.10
A Rage of Souls, page 10
Forgiveness was something for the church or a family. Simon needed truth. The young man had to be lying, but one look at Barton’s face and he knew not to say more about that for now.
Jane wasn’t wrong. He knew that. He trusted her with his life. But Barton had taken his position. No matter what, he was going to defend his son.
‘As you wish.’ Simon nodded. ‘I’ve been asking about Fox. He hasn’t been seen in Leeds since Saturday. The constable thinks he fled after he murdered his wife. I believe there’s no danger to your family now. With your son home, you’ve had a good ending. You don’t need us.’
Barton considered the idea for a few moments. ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘I agree. Send me your account and I’ll write a bank draft for you.’ He stuck out a hand and Simon shook it. ‘Thank you for your work.’
Back in the hazy daylight, he let out a low whistle and began to walk away. Within fifty yards, Jane and Sally were beside him.
‘No need to stay,’ he said. ‘The job’s done.’
Jane’s eyes were filled with questions, but she stayed silent. He was grateful; he had no answers for her, anyway.
‘What about those people who died?’ Sally asked.
‘That’s nothing to do with us. It’s work for the constable. We’ll see what turns up next.’
‘I didn’t make a mistake,’ Jane said as they sat around the kitchen table the next morning. ‘It was definitely Andrew Barton I saw talking to Fox by the canal.’
‘I know it was,’ Simon told her. For a moment the room was filled with noise as Richard and Amos burst in to say their goodbyes before rushing to school. A few seconds later the front door slammed behind them and calm returned. ‘I never doubted you. But he still denies it, his father is willing to accept the lie, and Fox isn’t here to tell us one way or the other.’
‘What do we do now?’ Sally asked.
‘Nothing,’ Rosie said quietly. ‘We did everything Barton paid us to do.’
‘But—’ the girl began.
Simon shook his head. ‘There is no but. If Fox turns up, maybe, or Barton wants something else, but that’s it. There’s nothing more we can do.’
Sally stared at him. After a long moment, the defiance faded from her face.
‘Another job will come along soon.’ Rosie’s voice sounded too bright.
Jane stood and left without a word. That had always been her way, he thought. No farewells. Back to Mrs Shields and the quiet life that seemed to nourish her. When he needed her, she’d come.
In the afternoon, he wrote out his bill and left it at Barton’s house. On the way home, he stopped to see George Mudie. He was sitting at his desk, shaking his head as he totted up the accounts.
‘Can’t believe how much money you’re making?’
Without raising his head, Mudie snorted and took a sip of brandy. ‘Wondering how I’ll stay in business next month, more like. What about you? No honest work to keep you off the streets?’
‘The job with Barton ended.’
‘There’s one guarantee with crime, it never stops. You know something else will come along soon.’
With a small grunt, Simon lowered himself into a chair, relieved to take the weight off his leg.
‘Probably. And you’ll have another client.’
‘Do you know how many printers there are in Leeds now, Simon? Six. Two of them have opened in the last year alone. God knows why; this isn’t a large town. Most of them have new equipment.’ He gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m too old to learn another trade.’
‘Maybe business will pick up.’
‘Maybe pigs will fly. I’m not the best company today.’ He refilled his glass. ‘Never mind, the world might look a little better after a few more of these.’
Simon glanced at shops as he passed along Briggate and raised his hat to a few couples he recognised. He knew the empty feeling of one job done with nothing else on the horizon. But he’d done the right thing. No sense in continuing when Barton didn’t want to know the truth.
THIRTEEN
Simon sat on an uncomfortable chair in Nathaniel Gordon’s parlour. He’d known the man for years, never particularly well, but the note had asked him to call. All the furniture in the house was made of old, heavy wood, the floors covered with expensive rugs that had grown threadbare and stained with age. Crooked windows with glass that needed polishing. It didn’t look like a rich man’s house. Gordon had the money for somewhere far better than a mean little home in Briggate below Boar Lane, but this place had been in his family for generations, and that history meant everything to him.
He was an old man now; seventy, possibly even a few years more, known throughout town for the way he dressed: always in the old fashions, as if he’d somehow stepped out of an earlier century: breeches and pristine hose, shoes with shining silver buckles, old-fashioned coats and long, elaborately decorated waistcoats. The only thing lacking was a wig. All of it was utterly natural; he’d been this way his entire life. For two years he’d been a widower and had looked bereft every day since his wife died. Thinner each time Simon saw him, as if he was withering away.
‘What’s been stolen, Mr Gordon?’ Simon asked after they’d talked for a few minutes.
‘Nothing,’ he answered, and Simon turned his head sharply.
‘I thought …’
Gordon gave a quick, nervous smile. ‘My apologies if I gave the impression I needed your services, Mr Westow. I just wanted a quiet word with you. You were doing some work for James Barton.’
‘We were.’ A full week had passed since that job had finished. He’d been paid, but he’d had no more contact with Barton or his family. The constable hadn’t found Fox or whoever had taken two lives. It didn’t matter; nothing to do with him now. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Simply to tell you something. I met the Foxes. I thought you might be curious.’
‘You met them? Constable Porter might like to hear what you have to say.’
Another fleeting, nervous smile. ‘Oh no, this is nothing to do with the present. It happened months ago, back in February. It must have been a week or so before Barton decided to prosecute.’
‘What happened?’ It couldn’t affect anything, but the man had piqued his interest.
‘The Foxes came calling on me. Someone must have told them I’d kept my wife’s jewellery.’
‘Let me guess: Mr Fox knew someone who might be interested in buying one or two of the more expensive pieces.’
‘That’s it, exactly.’ A broader grin this time. ‘I’m quite aware that people believe I’m not quite right in the head because of how I choose to dress. That’s never worried me.’
No reason it should. He didn’t have to please anyone. Gordon had inherited his money, with a grandfather who’d made a fortune as a wool merchant back when the trade roared and a father who’d added to the wealth. Nathaniel had always been happy to do nothing except invest, let the amount grow and live his small life, bothering no one.
‘The Foxes,’ Simon prompted.
‘Yes. He had plenty of charm on the surface, and she …’ He paused, considering his words. ‘She never said much, but she had eyes like a wolf. I wouldn’t have trusted her alone with anything valuable.’
‘You didn’t care for them?’
‘Not a jot. I sent them packing before they had a chance to try and weave their spell.’
‘I’m glad you did, but why are you telling me all this now?’
‘There didn’t seem to be any need once they were arrested. After he was pardoned, I wasn’t even aware they’d returned to Leeds until the cook told me about Mrs Fox’s body being discovered.’
‘What changed?’
‘Believe me, my dear Mr Westow, this is not an old man’s indulgence.’ He considered that for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps it is, but only a small one. The Foxes were here twice. A short visit the first time, an introduction, you might call it. The real business came when they returned. But Mrs Fox let something interesting slip in conversation. She said some distant cousin of hers lived in Leeds. A black sheep of the family, apparently. They were keeping clear of him because of his reputation.’
In spite of himself, he wanted to know. ‘Did she tell you his name?’
‘I was curious, so I prodded her a little.’ His eyes held a triumphant twinkle. ‘I can be persuasive, too. It’s Henry Longdon.’
Simon knew about Henry Longdon. A very careful man. He’d never tried to make a fortune from the stolen goods he fenced; that would have made him too noticeable. Instead, he was content to earn enough to live comfortably. Very thorough, excellent at covering any tracks he might have left. There was plenty of suspicion, but nobody had ever managed to trap him. A family connection to the Foxes … it might mean nothing, but it was certainly interesting.
‘You should tell the constable,’ Simon said.
‘No.’ Gordon was gentle but firm. ‘Call it a foible of mine, if you wish. I’m passing this on so you can tell him, but you’d have my gratitude if you set my name aside. Perhaps you can say it’s a rumour you heard somewhere.’
‘Why?’ The man was a good citizen. He was wealthy, a man with status in Leeds. Simon had never heard any whisper of trouble.
Gordon gave a tiny cough. ‘An uncle of mine had a run-in with a magistrate, shall we say. A very unhappy time, many years ago now. Because of that, I choose to keep my distance.’
Perhaps it was another eccentricity like his clothes. In the end, it didn’t matter. But the hint might offer the constable something for his investigation.
‘The name just came up in conversation with … someone?’
‘That’s right.’ It was right there on the man’s face; Porter didn’t believe a word, but Simon wasn’t saying anything more.
‘How reliable is this person?’
‘Very. I believe it’s true. The one who told me—’
‘Whose name you won’t pass on.’
‘—is honest. I have no reason to doubt it.’
‘I suppose it’s something,’ the constable grudgingly agreed after a few moments. ‘Not much, but a damned sight more than we had. It’s been a while since I paid Henry Longdon a visit. I’d like to see him off balance for once.’ He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and cocked his head at Simon. ‘You brought me the information. Do you want to come along?’
Jane relished the freedom of being unmoored. Working with Simon was an anchor, something solid. Without that, she was able to drift. Let the days blend into each other. There were still errands: to the market, the butcher, picking up things Mrs Shields wanted, a visit to the circulating library after she raced through The Last of the Mohicans. She found another by the same author, The Pioneers, with the same character.
She was sitting outside in the hazy sun, feeling the American wilderness grow around her, when Sally appeared. The girl was wearing her restless look; she needed to be doing something to fill all the empty hours. She grew bored all too quickly.
Today she wanted to walk. Jane had a thin cotton shawl over her shoulders, her boots lifting dust from the dry roads. Sally talked, thirsty for company and hardly pausing for breath; soon Jane shut the girl’s words out and let her thoughts roam.
They took the road away from town, heading north past Sheepscar and the Chapeltown barracks. Beyond the few scattered houses in Harehills and the hammering from the quarries near Gipton woods.
As they passed fields bordered by drystone walls the girl finally quieted, drinking it all in as she let the countryside wrap around her. By a stream, Jane cupped her hands and drank water so cold and refreshing that it came as a shock to her body.
She could never feel at ease out here. The land was too open, too wide. She stayed alert every moment; there was nothing here she knew, nothing she felt she could trust. Her urge was to bolt back to Leeds, where brick and stone were solid and familiar.
She turned her head and studied Sally’s face. Peaceful, as if this was exactly what she’d needed. Perhaps it was. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Jane stood and dusted off her skirts.
‘We should go back. It’s a long walk.’
As soon as she saw the haze over the town, Jane felt more settled; the tightness left her chest. Glad to be home. The small cottage in Green Dragon Yard held everything that was important in her life. She was safe there.
The noises of the town engulfed them, sharper now after a few hours away. The ramble seemed to have satisfied whatever urge was tugging at Sally. For now, at least.
The servant everyone knew as Bad-Eye, a disquieting man with one eye staring and intense and the other socket empty, escorted them through to the garden.
Henry Longdon was dressed in a shirt and brilliant white stock, with tight pale trousers and highly polished shoes. No jacket, but an apron to protect his clothes as he moved between the flowers, inspecting, cutting some stems to place in the basket on his arm.
He saw them, straightened and handed the basket to Bad-Eye.
‘Put those in water,’ he ordered, and untied the apron. ‘Well, well, the constable and the thief-taker together,’ he said, genial and smiling. ‘Should I be worried?’ He held out an arm, directing them back to the house. ‘We’ll be cooler in there.’
In the shadows of the room, Longdon sat and crossed his legs. His eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘I’m sure this isn’t a social call. You must suspect me of something.’
‘I heard something interesting,’ Simon told him. ‘About your family.’
‘Family?’ Sudden confusion clouded his face.
‘You had a cousin who married a man named Fox.’
‘Ah, that’s come out, has it?’ He sighed. The man had always been a good actor, but this seemed real, the words full of regret. ‘Everyone told her not to do it, but she was in love.’ He lifted his face to stare at them. ‘Besotted, just the way it happens in those terrible novels my wife loves. Now the poor woman’s dead. That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Murdered,’ Porter said, and the word hung in the air.
‘What was her name?’ Simon asked. ‘I don’t believe I ever knew.’
‘Harriet. She was born Harriet Amelia Driver, if you want it all. She grew up in Richmond. Her husband was from there, too.’
Fox had told Barton he came from Richmond. At least there was one glimmer of truth among his lies.
Longdon sighed. ‘She surprised everyone. She’d been a meek little girl, very studious, always reading and listening. You’d hardly know she was in the room. Fox … he brought out something in her. Her family had been honest enough. Not like him. He was a few years older than her, always had his eye on the next swindle.’
‘He claimed he was related to high families and knew people at court.’
Longdon barked out a laugh. ‘The only court he knew was where he was sentenced. His father was a crook, and Frederick Fox followed in the family trade. He and Harriet eloped. Vanished one night, and the next anyone knew, they claimed they’d run up to Gretna Green and been married.’ He shrugged. ‘It might have been true, who knows? After that, they drifted away.’
‘You must have been gone by then, too,’ Porter said.
Longdon nodded. ‘I heard in letters. Family gossip. I’d no idea what happened to them. Never gave it a thought. When I read that he’d been caught running one of his little games here, I was surprised. I had no idea they were in Leeds.’
The man sounded believable, Simon thought, and no guile lurked in his eyes.
‘They never asked you to sell on what they stole?’ Porter asked.
The man stared blandly at him. ‘Why would they do that? You know I’m not in the business.’
‘No?’ Porter said.
‘Let’s agree you’re not,’ Simon cut in hurriedly. ‘You didn’t like Frederick?’
‘Not from the first moment I met him. I didn’t like the way my cousin was with him, either. When she was little, she was sweet. He drained that from her. As I said, Mr Westow, I didn’t know they were here until they were arrested. Before you ask, I couldn’t tell you why they returned. I never saw them.’
‘Is anyone in her family still alive?’
‘A brother. I wrote to him after I heard what happened, but I haven’t had a reply. I don’t know if he was still in contact with her.’
‘She needs burying,’ Porter told him.
Longdon nodded. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘Do you know why Fox might have been pardoned?’
‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘The devil’s own luck is all I can think. Doesn’t the king occasionally select petitions from a pile to reprieve them?’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ Porter said.
As they were leaving, Simon turned back. ‘You’ll have heard Fox is missing. Do you know where he might have gone?’
A straight, candid stare. ‘To hell, I hope.’
‘At least we know a little more about their past,’ Simon said as they walked back down Briggate. Their grim expressions ensured people kept their distance.
‘For whatever it’s worth.’ Porter’s voice was weary. ‘What do you make of that reason for the pardon?’
‘It makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard.’
‘Nothing in what he said to help us find Fox, is there?’
‘He’s probably far away by now, if he’s still alive and has a grain of sense.’ Simon grew thoughtful. ‘But what Longdon said makes me keep on wondering why he came back after his pardon. He never went after Barton, just watched him.’
