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He'd never asked her real age. Maybe she didn't know. Not much older than his boys, that was certain. The girl had never spoken about her past and he'd let it lie; if she wanted him to know, she'd say. She was still small, easily able to stay hidden in a crowd, but he knew she'd kill to survive without any conscience or regret. That was how she'd lasted on the street. But now she had somewhere safe to live, with Simon and Rosie, up in the attic room. The twins loved her; she'd quickly become a part of the family, helping with the chores and errands, playing her part in the games.

With Jane no longer working, he'd been able to give Sally all the small jobs, building to more responsibility and earning her share of the fees he made for returning stolen goods. Two or three times a week she would disappear for a few hours in the evening. He never said a word, but Simon knew where she went: the homeless camps where she'd once lived, giving money to keep the children alive. Her business, not his.

The girl was an odd mix. Occasionally flashes of furious darkness would explode, a dangerous, searing anger. At other times she revealed a gentle compassion. She had a quick intelligence and hard determination; deep under it all, usually carefully hidden, the angry fire that seemed to constantly burn inside her. Impossible to fathom. But he'd quickly come to trust her with his life.

Simon watched the workmen carting away more of the rubble from the Moot Hall and making their preparations to take down Middle Row. Leeds was changing.

Constable Porter was standing at the side of Briggate, talking to a man who gestured up at Middle Row with his cane. Simon had seen the fellow's face around Leeds but never paid him much attention. It was impossible to keep track of every soul when Leeds kept growing by thousands each year. He was older, with unruly grey hair and the stooped shoulders of someone who'd spent many years bent over a desk. Definitely not a clerk, though. Instead, a man who carried an air of genteel neglect with him; his jacket was elegantly cut but fraying at the cuffs, the trousers stylish ten years before, and his shoes were carelessly scuffed. The silver at the head of his cane was cloudy and tarnished.

'Westow.' Porter raised his hand in greeting. 'You should come and hear something interesting. This is Mr Armistead. He knows a little about Middle Row.'

What was there to know? Simon wondered. It had stood empty for months, decaying into a ruin of a building. The ground floor had once been the Shambles, home to all the butchers' shops until they'd been moved to new premises on Fleet Street and Cheapside. Their ghosts lingered in the stink of dead meat that had seeped into the wood and the stone. Above that, along a wooden gallery, lay the old workshops, scarcely holding together now. Good riddance to the whole damned thing.

'A pleasure, sir.' Simon lifted his hat.

 

'Mr Armistead claims there's something hidden inside one of those workshops.'

Hidden? What could be up there? Where?

'Your servant.' The man gave a small bow then pointed with his cane. 'That one, do you see it?' He turned to Sally. 'Miss. There's a secret room in there.'

Her eyes widened in astonishment. Simon glanced at the constable. His face showed nothing.

'It's all coming down on Thursday,' Porter said with relish. 'Can you imagine that, nothing standing in the middle of Briggate any longer?'

'I have permission to go and find this room before the demolition,' Armistead continued.

Sally frowned. 'If it's hidden, how do you know it's there?'

'Ah.' Armistead's face lit up. 'A fine question, miss. There's

testimony, you see, from a trial. The room was part of a workshop that belonged to a silversmith named Arthur Mangey. In his day he was highly regarded here; he made the Leeds mace that they still use in the official processions. Then someone accused him of coin clipping. It came out about the room when he was in court.'

Tales, Simon thought. 'What happened to him?'

Armistead shifted his gaze down towards the ground. 'He was found guilty. Coin clipping is treason, you see. He was hanged in York. It all happened over a hundred years ago,' he added.

'You're saying that nobody's managed to find this room since then?' Simon asked. It sounded unlikely. People would have been scrambling to see it.

'No, sir, not that I've ever read,' the man replied. 'Thursday will be the final chance to look for it.'

'You should come along, Westow,' Porter said. An invitation. It didn't seem too long since they'd been wary around each other. Things had changed. They were hardly friends, but amiable enough. The constable seemed to have accepted that they both stood on the same side of the law. 'It'll be quite something to tell your boys.'

'Maybe so.' It could prove interesting, if he wasn't busy working for Foley. He nodded and raised his hat again. 'Good day to you, gentlemen.'

 

'Do you believe him?' Sally asked as they strode away. He could hear her doubt.

'Not a word,' he told her. 'Probably all in his imagination.'