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Jimmy nodded, his mouth slackening, still shocked at the small fortune in his fist. ‘On my mother’s grave, sir.’ He stared back at Harry from a gaunt face.

‘You and I will never speak of this again,’ Harry added. ‘Eldon Street, Paynleys, please, driver.’

__________

The area of the neighbourhood known as Paynleys was networked by tiny streets that were too narrow for the carriage to enter but the driver pointed Harry in the right direction as he pocketed the fare.

‘Thank you, sir. Follow your nose but keep bearing left; can’t miss it.’

Harry nodded.

‘This whole area is believed to be built on the site of the Roman praetorium, you know,’ the man added with a misty look of awe. ‘City’s gates many centuries ago would have connected with this pathway.’

From the little he’d seen on the journey out of the walled city, the whole of York was laden with colourful history. The man who drove him to his guesthouse had been chattering about the Viking invasion of 866, which was deliberately chosen to clash with All Saints’ Day; York was a living museum and its folk were proud to share it.

He lifted a hand in farewell as he turned to face this new working-class enclave. It sat outside the city’s walls but not far from the Minster, within tightly knit rows of terraced red-brick houses. He was in no hurry and began a stroll. Some children running with a yapping dog at their heels passed him and he asked for directions; the eldest pointed over her shoulder. He kept walking, knowing he’d have to come to it sooner or later. He hadn’t rehearsed what to say to Rose, preferring to face her and simply be honest about his mission. It had not occurred to him until now as he found himself surrounded by long rows of identical houses with puffing chimneys and twitching net curtains that Rose might turn him away. Surely not? Then what? He checked his pockets to ensure he had a pen and pad on him.

Harry doubled back a few times, asking his way once more until he stood before a humble house, no front garden, no path. Its door opened onto the street but the step was freshly swept and blackened.

He tapped on the doorknocker and waited.

‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t sound frail but she did sound suspicious.

‘Is that Mrs Fletcher?’

‘I asked who you were. I don’t have to answer your questions.’

He stifled a smile. ‘I’m Harry Blake. I’m here about your son, Tom.’

The door opened a crack and Harry could see a woman with curlers covered by a hair net. She wore an apron, from what he could tell. Harry stepped back to show Rose that she was not under any threat from him. ‘I already know he’s dead. Got the telegram years back,’ she snapped. ‘They’re both dead – him and his brother. Never found either of them, though.’

He nodded. ‘I’m the soldier who has found your Tom, Mrs Fletcher.’

‘Found him? My boy’s alive?’ she quavered with awed wonder but then her gaze narrowed at his grave expression.

‘We found his remains,’ he qualified. There was no way to soften the news.

Her tone turned accusatory. ‘What d’you want with me, then? There’d be nothing left of my boy now.’

Harry admired her logic as much as her stoicism; here was a woman resigned to living out her days alone. ‘I realise this is unusual but I thought it might bring some comfort if you met me.’

‘Why?’ She’d become sullen.

She was making him earn it as he began to question the wisdom of his decision. ‘Well, I thought it might help if I brought you Tom’s things . . . er, the items that he carried on him,’ he said, holding up the pathetically small kerchief that represented her son. He watched the woman blink, sizing him up. Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Mrs Fletcher. I can hand these to you through the door and be on my way. It was not my intention to upset you. I wanted to do a good turn, that’s all.’

‘Guilty conscience?’

He looked back at her, astonished. ‘No, not really.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t feel guilt,’ he lied, ‘certainly embarrassment that this wasn’t such a good idea, and I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you.’

‘You sound like a southerner. Very posh too.’

‘I’m from London.’

The door widened slightly, as did her eyes. ‘You’ve come all the way from London to see me?’

He nodded. ‘And then I’ll go back,’ he replied.

‘Were you in Tom’s regiment?’