Emily, their younger daughter — their only daughter now — had lost her wilful ways with her sister’s death. She’d become eerily quiet and obedient, and even more withdrawn, as if Rose’s passing had also killed a spark in her. Her eyes, once so bold and lively, had become dull and lost. Where she’d loved to read, losing herself for hours in a book, now she’d close a volume after a few minutes and gaze emptily. At what he could only guess.

He crested the hill. Leeds lay spread before him, the buildings worming their way up from the river. In the past he’d always loved this sight, his home, his love. Now it simply made him feel that his life had been too long.

As dusk started to fall, John Sedgwick was close to finishing his afternoon rounds, checking on the men the Constable employed. The last two days had been quiet, with little more than the usual pitiful cases of drunkenness and injury. For the first time in months, no one had died. Tall and ungainly, he loped down Briggate towards Leeds Bridge with his long stride.

He loved being the Constable’s deputy, and even after three years he could barely believe a post with such responsibility was his. The hours were long, the pay poor and the job was rough and dangerous, but what in this life was any better? At least the work was steady; crime would never go away.

There’d been precious little warmth to the sun that had appeared during the day, but it had still felt good on his face after the murderous grip of winter. The worst since 1684, they called it, back when the Aire had frozen over and they’d held a winter fair on the ice. Men might have recalled the good fun of that time, but how many remembered the suffering that must have gone along with it?

Soon he’d be finished and back in his room. Lizzie would have stoked the fire, James would be playing at the table with the horse and figures Sedgwick had painstakingly carved for him. Sedgwick’s wife Annie had vanished with a soldier, no word behind her, and no desire for their son.