A rage of souls, p.22
A Rage of Souls, page 22
Outside, the night was welcoming, warm and soft around her. Jane stood, letting the thoughts slowly vanish from her mind until she felt she could sleep without visitations.
A few hours. Enough. She sat again now, still and silent until Wilfred returned and the smell of pastry and warm beef filled the air.
Barton came out as they finished eating; they followed him to the churchyard. Jane kept glancing around, feeling her pulse race, but there was no Fox today. When the man finished, they trailed him home again.
‘There’s no need for you to be here,’ she told the boy. ‘He won’t come out again today.’
‘I want to stay.’
Jane studied him. ‘Are you sure? You’ve seen what I do for yourself. Most of it is hours of sitting or standing.’ She offered a kindly smile. ‘I can see it on your face – you don’t enjoy this.’
‘But yesterday you went after Fox—’
‘I did, and he must have known I was there.’ The admission hurt, but it was the truth.
‘He’d have seen me straight away, wouldn’t he?’
‘Very likely.’ She wasn’t going to lie to him; that wouldn’t help at all.
His face fell. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’
‘You’ve barely tried. It’s too early to know.’
‘What do you think?’
Jane gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Come to the cottage tomorrow morning.’
He nodded, then hurried away. A day, maybe two, and he’d give up. Some had the quality; others didn’t. In the meantime, she could use another body to help.
Alone, she settled back into the undergrowth. One more hour and she’d leave. Sally wanted to come by later for another reading lesson. The request as they sat in Simon’s kitchen that morning had taken her by surprise. The girl seemed determined to learn. Something had shifted inside her.
Simon sat in Mudie’s print shop, the scent of ink as familiar as breathing after all this time.
‘Everybody’s looking, but nobody’s caught him,’ George Mudie said. He sat down on the other side of the desk and poured himself a tot of brandy. The front window was smeared with dust and dirt, softening the light. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Simon admitted.
‘Sounds like he’s slippery.’
‘Very. Clever, too.’
‘You need to be ruthless, Simon.’
A nod and a sigh. He’d come hoping for a little sympathy, but there was none here. He stood, pushing himself up with his stick.
‘Are you going to find him?’
That was the question.
‘Yes.’ He had to believe it.
Jane walked back from Swinegate through the late evening light. She’d gone with Sally, a stroll that was an excuse to make sure the girl reached home safely. The lesson had bumped along. Jane had no faith in herself as a teacher; there was still so much she didn’t know.
Sally had spent the morning in the children’s camp, the rest of the day on some elaborate game with Richard and Amos.
‘I’m going to find the ones who beat me,’ the girl said as they moved down Albion Street.
She watched Sally’s face, her eyes and the set of her jaw. Her mind was ready, but she still needed a little longer for her body to heal before she went into any battle. ‘Very soon.’
On the way home, Jane kept one hand on her knife as she walked. Fox had left her doubting herself and kept the questions floating in her mind. Had her skills trickled away?
She was alert for any sound, pricking her ears at a soft scuffing of pebbles behind her. She drew out the blade, holding it down against her leg. For a long moment, the only sound was the swish of her skirts as she walked.
Then he came in a rush.
In an instant, Jane turned. Took a pace to the side, feet apart, braced.
He was slow and ungainly. She felt his arm slicing through the air, aiming for where she’d been and finding nothing.
She slammed her knife hilt into the back of his neck to send him sprawling. The fall jarred his weapon from his grasp, a tinkle of metal fading into the darkness.
Jane knelt on his back, one hand tight in his hair to pull his head back, the flat of the blade tight against his throat.
‘Who are you?’
He didn’t answer and she ground his face into the flagstone. He stank of rum, struggling to move underneath her.
‘Who are you?’ She repeated the question, tightening her grip on his greasy hair until he grunted.
‘Luke.’
Jane wasn’t breathing hard. This had felt like nothing, a simple moment’s work to take him down. Now the thing she needed to know: ‘Who sent you?’ Fox? Who else could it have been?
‘Who?’ he asked. He was quivering with fear.
‘Was it Fox?’
‘Nobody. I saw you …’ She heard the truth in his voice.
Nothing more than a drunk who thought he could rob and rape her. For a moment, all the frustrations and fears of the last day welled up inside. One simple slash across his throat and she could let him bleed and die. Not a soul would see. She’d be the only one to know when word of murder flew around in the morning.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ His voice was quivering.
Jane took a breath and looked down. She could see the terror in his eyes, wondering how he’d done this to himself and what was going to happen. Wondering how deep the anger ran inside her.
She stayed silent and kept him hoping for mercy until the feeling had passed through her. Just a man. Not somebody paid to kill her. Slowly, she lifted the knife from his neck and heard him exhale. Smelled the acrid odour where he’d pissed himself.
She was quick. A fast, single cut to mark him and make him pay. Some justice to remind him of his mistake.
She rose, slipped the knife into her pocket and away. At the corner she heard him start to wail as he reached around and discovered his ear gone.
Better than killing. Let him carry his shame forever.
The man didn’t visit her dreams. But the girl did; her screams rang out inside Jane’s skull. As they faded, they carried her somewhere. Deep into the woods she imagined from The Pioneers. Tangled and green, but with no way home.
No peace. Not yet.
A cooler Wednesday morning. Grey clouds hung over the haze from the smoke and machines as Simon stood near the coffee cart. Someone mentioned that the night watch had found an ear somewhere, but not its owner.
Nothing for him. Sally stood on the other side of the road, shawl pulled down over her hair, angled to hide her healing face. But the scar on her cheek would always stand out.
He saw her eyes dart around, keeping watch as he talked to a few men he knew. Soon enough he began to amble home and she arrived out of nowhere; her skills hadn’t rusted during her recovery. She answered his questioning look with a shake of her head. Nobody seeking him out. He hadn’t expected any trouble, and this made a good way to ease her back into things.
‘Barton sent his servant,’ Rosie said as soon as he came through the door. ‘He wants to see you as soon as possible.’
‘Fox?’ he asked. But what else could it be?
‘He’s frantic.’ She pinned a hat on his head. ‘I’ll come with you and talk to his wife.’
The man was pacing, walking a circle in the middle of the room. His face was panicked, exhausted and colourless. Barton had shrunk from being a vital man just six months ago to a shell of a human. Another reason to see this all ended soon.
‘He was here,’ Barton said without any preamble. He turned towards the window that looked over the front of the house. ‘Out there.’
‘When?’
‘In the middle of the night. I don’t sleep well. I was up and I glanced out. We had a good moon, and I saw him there. He was staring at me, plain as day.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure if it was real or in my mind. You have to catch him, Mr Westow.’
‘We will.’
‘I could make out his face. His eyes were laughing at me. I woke my wife, but when I brought her down, he’d gone.’
If he was ever truly there.
‘Have you ever seen him outside your house before?’
‘I think …’ he began, then stopped and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. A glimpse maybe, at the corner of my eye.’ He raised a hand to touch his temple. ‘I thought so, but I can’t be certain.’
Five more minutes of talking. The more Barton spoke, the more Simon knew it was all in his imagination. His son’s death was taking him apart, piece by piece. Would finding Fox and seeing him in court stop things? Impossible to know.
‘What did his wife have to say?’ Simon asked as he and Rosie made their way down Briggate. He’d tried to spot Jane keeping guard over Barton’s house, but she’d kept safely out of sight.
‘She’s terrified.’
‘Does she …’
‘Of course not. She knows it’s not real. Half the time, he does, too. That’s what she said. Last night was bad. She told me he seemed so certain about it.’
‘Has the doctor seen him?’
‘She’s asked, but he said he wouldn’t let a physician through the door because he can’t catch Fox for him.’
‘Let’s hope we can,’ he said.
‘They just left,’ Wilfred said. He moved back into the undergrowth, the way Jane had shown him.
‘We’ll check around the house.’
No sign anyone else had been there, everything the way it had been when they’d looked first thing in the morning. They’d seen the servant dash away and return, then Simon and Rosie arriving, worried looks on their faces.
If it had been anything important, Simon would have given her a sign.
Twice her thoughts had flickered over the man who’d attacked her last night. She felt no anguish, no regrets. Then she moved on and forgot him. He wasn’t worth more than that.
By late afternoon, Barton hadn’t emerged.
‘There’s nothing more for us here today,’ Jane said. ‘We might as well leave.’
Wilfred stood; he’d been chafing all day, bored by the lack of action. As they walked off, she asked him: ‘Do you still want to do this?’
His face reddened. ‘You spent money. The clothes. You bought me food.’
Jane smiled, suddenly feeling as old as Mrs Shields. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. You’re not under any obligation to me. You needed something better to wear, and you had to eat, didn’t you?’
‘Thank you. For all of it.’ He stared at her, then turned and ran off.
Would Wilfred come back? Tomorrow would tell. She should know better by now. The endings she read in books were rare in life.
The tapping on the door didn’t surprise her. Sally for her lesson. They worked together while Mrs Shields sat in her chair and read. From time to time, Jane’s eyes moved to her, glad to notice the quick smile or tiny nod of approval.
‘Can you walk back with me?’ the girl asked as they finished. The fierceness in her eyes that had been missing had returned.
‘If you want.’
‘I was with the children today.’ She kept her voice low, glancing around as she walked, as if she expected danger.
‘Have any of them seen Fox?’
‘No.’ She turned her head to look at Jane. ‘One of them saw you last night.’
Slowly, thinking, she drew a breath. ‘What did they say?’
‘He. A boy. I’m the only one he’s told. He watched the man come for you.’
‘Just someone who saw a woman on her own. Easy prey.’
‘What did you do? The boy ran off as soon as he heard the man cry out.’
‘Took his ear.’
Sally nodded; she understood. ‘I’m almost ready.’
‘I’ll be with you. You know that.’
‘There’s no need for Simon to know about it.’
Jane kept secrets well. There was so much she’d never told him, far more than the girl could ever guess. Things she’d done that he’d never wish to know about.
Simon was out in the night, asking his questions and learning nothing more about Fox. As he was leaving the Pack Horse, the glee club was singing loud in the room upstairs; as he headed towards the Turk’s Head on the other side of Commercial Street, a hand tugged at his sleeve.
A face he’d seen several times before, although he didn’t know the name. The man smiled, raising his hands to show they were empty.
‘You ought to go and see Henry Longdon,’ he said. All around, people were talking and laughing. No one paid them any attention.
‘I’ve already talked to him.’ Longdon. Mrs Fox’s cousin.
‘I know. I saw him earlier today. He said you should call tomorrow. Take Porter.’ He tipped his hat and moved into the throng.
Maybe things were finally moving, Simon thought as he made his way home. God knew they needed it.
THIRTY
‘It doesn’t sound likely, Westow.’ Constable Porter had been complaining ever since they left the courthouse. He had proper work to do, he said, none of this visiting. But he was here, intrigued when Simon told him what had happened in the Pack Horse. ‘Why couldn’t he just send you a note?’
It was definitely strange; he’d thought that during the night. But what was there to lose beyond a few minutes? Another cloudy day, with the air oppressive and stifling, thick with smoke and soot. Summer, but the only way to know was the heat.
When the servant showed them through, the fence was sitting at his desk, furiously writing. He held up a finger for them to wait and Simon saw Porter grimace with annoyance.
Another few seconds and the man put down his nib and smiled.
‘I’m glad my message reached you,’ he said.
‘Damned strange way to do it,’ the constable said.
‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘Why do you want to see us?’ Simon asked. It had to be Fox. No other possible reason.
‘I know where he was.’ Longdon pursed his lips.
‘Was?’
‘The night before last. The hotel down by Eye Bright Place.’
‘The Western?’ Porter asked and the man nodded.
‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’
‘I only found out yesterday. A gentleman mentioned it to me.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Someone who was here on business.’ He smiled. An honest enough answer that admitted nothing.
‘Is he still there?’ the constable said.
‘I’ve told you everything I know.’ He turned to face Simon. ‘If you hadn’t come first thing, I’d have sent word. I hope you find him.’
‘If he’d said something last night …’ Porter said as they hurried out along Boar Lane. ‘You keep watch on the place while I find some of my men.’
Simon stood, feeling the excitement rise in his chest. If Fox was still there, the chase was over. The hotel was a nondescript building, the painted sign over the door beginning to fade. There’d been a well there once, an old man had told him. A place where the water was supposed to be good for the eyes. Long since dried up or covered over. All that remained was the name.
A few people came and went from the Western, but no Fox. He smiled as he saw Brady, the thief-taker from Richmond, hurry past without giving the hotel a second look. He didn’t know. Simon stood on the opposite corner, eyes on the door, only starting to move when the constable appeared with the inspector and two men from the watch. He followed them into the building.
Clean inside, the floors swept, a pair of armchairs recently upholstered, and the smell of beeswax where the woodwork had been polished. An eminently respectable place. One that was housing a murderer.
‘Yes,’ the clerk said, flustered as the constable and inspector loomed over him. ‘Here, see?’ He stabbed an ink-stained finger at the ledger. ‘He arrived two days ago. I remember him. He looked dusty, as if he’d been travelling, and he had one small valise, that was all.’ He looked hopefully up at the faces and Simon felt his hopes of finding the man wither.
‘When did he leave?’
‘The next morning.’ He pointed at the page again. ‘You see the mark? That means he was all paid when he left.’
‘Did you talk to him?’ the inspector pressed the clerk. ‘Did he say anything?’
The man shook his head. ‘Just wanted the room then handed the key back the next day.’
Outside, Simon sighed. Close, but far too late. Porter was still questioning the clerk, but he knew the man had nothing to give them. He raised his head and looked around, close to laughing with frustration. Where was he hiding?
Jane sat patiently, wondering if Barton would come outside today. Wilfred had returned, looking abashed, waiting by the cottage behind Green Dragon Yard.
‘I want to try again,’ he said.
‘Come on, then.’
They’d barely settled in the spot that gave a good view of the house when the boy lifted his head and hissed: ‘Someone’s coming.’
Good; he’d heard it. Jane had caught the sound a few seconds before, already reaching for her knife. Another moment and she let go of the hilt.
Sally.
She kept the shawl around her face, so it covered the scar on her cheek. ‘The children are searching. They know where to find me.’ She stretched out her legs with a small wince of pain. ‘Simon had a tip on Fox.’
She’d noticed him as he came out of the hotel and he’d told her everything.
They were drawing closer, Jane thought. Only a jump or two behind the man. Fox had to make his move soon. He’d had so many opportunities, plenty when he and his wife were on Middle Fold. He must have made some sort of arrangement with Andrew Barton, but never tried to kill the father.
Why? That was the thing she didn’t understand. Perhaps it didn’t matter, as long as they caught him. The images of death came into her mind: Mrs Fox, lost and beyond help in the water. Barton pulling his son’s body from the beck.
