A rage of souls, p.1
A Rage of Souls, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Simon Westow Mysteries
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgements
Also by Chris Nickson from Severn House
The Simon Westow Mysteries
THE HANGING PSALM
THE HOCUS GIRL
TO THE DARK
THE BLOOD COVENANT
THE DEAD WILL RISE
THE SCREAM OF SINS
THEM WITHOUT PAIN
The Cathy Marsden Thrillers
NO PRECIOUS TRUTH
The Inspector Tom Harper Mysteries
GODS OF GOLD
TWO BRONZE PENNIES
SKIN LIKE SILVER
THE IRON WATER
ON COPPER STREET
THE TIN GOD
THE LEADEN HEART
THE MOLTEN CITY
BRASS LIVES
A DARK STEEL DEATH
RUSTED SOULS
The Richard Nottingham Mysteries
COLD CRUEL WINTER
THE CONSTANT LOVERS
COME THE FEAR
AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR
FAIR AND TENDER LADIES
FREE FROM ALL DANGER
A RAGE OF SOULS
Chris Nickson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2025
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2025 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Canongate Ltd
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Chris Nickson, 2025
Cover and jacket design by Piers Tilbury
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1629-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1616-8 (paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1683-0 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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Praise for the Simon Westow Mysteries
‘Brimming with Nickson’s trademark period details, memorable characters … but also filled with frightening twists, bloody violence, suspense, and danger’
Booklist on Them Without Pain
‘Well-drawn characters, plentiful historical details, and a real feeling for Leeds in all its gritty glory’
Kirkus Reviews on Them Without Pain
‘A riveting read’
Booklist on The Scream of Sins
‘This gritty and surprise-filled mystery will enthrall both newcomers and series fans’ Publishers Weekly Starred Review of The Dead Will Rise
‘Nickson’s richly authentic descriptions of life in … Britain combine with a grisly plot and characters who jump off the page’
Booklist on The Dead Will Rise
About the author
Chris Nickson is the author of eleven Tom Harper Mysteries, seven highly acclaimed novels in the Richard Nottingham series, eight Simon Westow books and the Cathy Marsden thriller series set during World War II. Born and raised in Leeds, he moved back there more than a decade ago.
www.chrisnickson.co.uk
To Candace Robb, such a good, true friend
Prologue
Leeds, February 1826
The scream sliced through the sky. Loud, clear, a cry of pure terror that crashed into her thoughts. Everyone near Seaton’s old mill turned to look. Carts halted, their drivers searching for the sound. Men and women walking together clutched each other’s arms.
All of them stopped except the couple Jane was following. Heads down, they kept moving steadily along, as if they hadn’t heard a thing.
A second scream, stronger, more awful than the first. Two men ran along the road, carrying a girl on a wooden hurdle. She was a small creature, no more than nine, clothes drenched in blood. Her dress was torn, showing a leg where the flesh hung ragged, ripped through to pale bone. Her fists were clenched, thrashing against the wood to try and stop the pain.
‘Be quiet,’ one of the men ordered in a harsh voice. ‘Surgeon will take care of it.’ They all knew what that meant: the leg would go. People shuddered and stepped back as the girl wailed no, no, no, no, the fear raw in her voice.
Only a few seconds and the sound began to fade. Like an exhalation, life began again. Most would have forgotten it all long before they arrived home. But the one who really needed to lose the memory never would. A single moment and her life was changed. An accident under the loom, some failure of the machine. For her, the cause didn’t matter.
Jane realised she’d been digging her nails hard into her palms. Pain arrived so suddenly; it could touch anyone. She knew; seeing the girl had brought back the torment of losing her own little finger. Hers had been a deliberate act of violence, but in some small way she understood. She was still for a moment, trying to push everything she’d just seen out of her mind. She knew it would return later. As soon as she closed her eyes that night.
ONE
‘My wife enjoyed playing cards,’ James Barton explained, and his expression turned rueful. ‘Unfortunately, she was never as skilled as she liked to believe. She acquired some debts. A number of them.’ He lowered his eyes, embarrassed by the admission. ‘She told me, and I offered to pay them, but she said she wished to cover the losses herself. Selling the gold bracelet was her idea. She’d inherited it from her mother, but she never cared for it.’ He gazed at nothing for a moment. ‘Now I think, I don’t recall ever seeing her wear it. It all had to be done quietly, of course. No hint of a scandal.’
Of course not, Simon thought. Everything quiet and discreet. ‘Would the sale have brought in enough to cover what she owed?’
‘Yes. The debts weren’t outrageous, and it was an expensive piece. What you have to understand is how difficult it was for her to admit the problem in the first place.’ A small sigh. ‘Especially to me.’
Simon Westow rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of bristles; he needed a shave. ‘How did you come to meet this man Fox?’
‘I didn’t. He met me.’ Bitterness and regret curled behind his words. ‘I’d never even heard his name before I received his letter. I have no idea how he discovered I was looking to sell the bracelet, but he said his name was Frederick Fox and he knew people who were in the market for items like that.’
‘Weren’t you suspicious at all?’
‘Of course I was.’ Barton g
The first step to gaining someone’s trust: getting inside their house. ‘What did you think when you met him?’
‘I realise it must sound stupid now, Mr Westow, but he impressed me. I liked him.’
Barton was hardly the first to be taken in by someone charming and plausible. He wouldn’t be the last; the ruse was probably as old as time. Fox claimed to be the youngest son of a landowner, one who’d never inherit, explained he existed on a small quarterly allowance from his family.
‘He dressed reasonably enough and gave me the names of people he said he knew,’ Barton continued. ‘Titled, connected to court. All of them with money. As soon as he saw the bracelet, he told me he was sure there was one man who’d snap it up as a gift for his mistress. He was convincing.’
‘His type always are,’ Simon said. ‘That’s part of their game. What else did he tell you about himself?’
Rage and frustration reddened the man’s face. ‘Not enough, and I didn’t ask questions. He said he was from North Yorkshire, somewhere around Richmond, but he was never exact.’ Barton sighed. ‘The truth is that he took me in, and I was foolish enough to allow him to do it.’
‘Was it just the bracelet you intended to sell?’
‘Yes.’ A single, terse word. ‘Two days after we first met, Fox came to see me again, saying the man he’d mentioned was definitely interested in buying the bracelet.’ He snorted. ‘Believe it or not, I felt grateful to him. My wife could settle her debt.’ A long pause as he tried to let his anger subside – at Fox, at himself for being gulled that way. He was a businessman who’d made his money building factories for manufacturers, a smart, canny person in a thriving market. ‘The buyer wanted to see it, and he asked permission to take it. He promised to return later that day with the bracelet or the money.’ He looked into Simon’s face. ‘One thing about Mr Fox, Mr Westow. He’s gently persuasive. I believed him. I liked him and I wanted to believe him. I trusted him. When he left, that was the last I saw of him or the bracelet. I never heard from him that day and I sent him a note the next morning.’
‘He’d never lived at the address he gave you,’ Simon suggested. It was a story he’d heard often enough before.
Barton nodded sadly. ‘They’d never heard of him. I asked and nobody seemed to know who he was, so I contacted you. Now, with all that, do you think you can retrieve the bracelet?’
Simon Westow was a thief-taker. Work like this was his trade.
‘If he’s still in Leeds, there’s a good chance I can. If he’s gone …’ Then it would be close to impossible. ‘I explained my terms to you.’
‘I agree. Worth every penny if you succeed.’
Fox hadn’t vanished from the town. It had taken less than two days to discover where he was living with his wife, putting on an honest, respectable appearance. He’d been brash, hadn’t even bothered to change his name. Another three days and Simon had woven a web around the man, planting word of a fence who might be willing to buy his bracelet. Lies to snare the liar. Easy enough to do; Fox needed to be rid of the jewellery that could hang him. Far more, he wanted the money so the couple could move on. A man who was eager to believe. In some ways, not a penny’s worth of difference between him and Barton.
Simon’s wife Rosie would be the fence.
The meeting at St John’s Church was set. That was where the trap would be sprung. Everything as smooth and straightforward as he could have hoped.
TWO
Looking up, Jane couldn’t spot the couple and began to hurry, alert, watching. She wasn’t worried; she knew exactly where they were going.
Soon enough, she spotted them on Briggate. Mr and Mrs Fox were promenading like honest citizens, laughing and smiling, taking their time as they paused to glance into shop windows, pointing to the things they might buy with the money they anticipated having in their purses very soon. On the far side of the Head Row, they passed Davy Cassidy, the blind fiddler, not even catching the sweetness of his music, then strolled through the entrance to St John’s churchyard.
Jane never worried they might notice her. With a shawl clutched over her hair, dressed in faded, dark colours, she was just another drab in the crowd, faceless and invisible to everyone. Following like this was her skill, her art. As the couple strolled along the path towards the church, she was a shadow behind them, bearing away to the side, over the grass.
It was a day of late winter sun, bright but with little warmth. Sally was there, kneeling by a gravestone and brushing away dirt and moss like a dutiful granddaughter. Jane caught a glimpse of the carved names: James Wood, John Wood and his wife Magdalene. The Foxes passed her by without a glance. Simon stood back in the shadow of the Bluecoat school at the far edge of the yard, dressed in the well-worn coat he used for work and a low crown hat.
The couple entered the church porch. Rosie was waiting. She was carefully overdressed in a plum-coloured gown, wearing cheap, glittering bangles and baubles. On Jane’s sign, Simon and Sally drew closer, cutting off any escape.
‘My wife,’ Fox said with a gesture to the woman beside him. He had a confident, melodious voice.
Rosie nodded at the woman. This was business; no need for more than that. ‘Did you bring it?’
‘As we agreed,’ Fox replied. ‘Provided you have the money, of course.’ The man produced a packet from his greatcoat, unwrapping it as Rosie watched, the greed gleaming in her eyes.
He held up a heavy gold bracelet set with rich red and blue stones.
‘It’s worth every penny,’ the man said.
‘I daresay it is,’ Rosie told him. In an instant her face changed, turning predatory and unforgiving. ‘A pity I won’t be giving you anything.’ Her hand darted out and snatched the bracelet from him.
He took a small step back. ‘What—’
The church door creaked open and James Barton stepped from the gloom. ‘Did you truly believe I’d let it all go so easily?’ He shook his head as Rosie handed him the piece of jewellery. ‘You can’t have been that stupid.’
‘Is this the bracelet?’ she asked.
‘It is.’
‘You’ve been caught by thief-takers,’ Simon told the couple. They turned quickly to see him standing with Sally and Jane beside him, knives drawn. He turned to Barton. ‘Do you want to prosecute?’
For a few seconds there was a heavy silence. The man stared at the couple. His gaze gave nothing away. ‘What will happen to them if I do?’
‘They’ll hang,’ Simon told him. No question about the sentence; the bracelet was easily worth fifty pounds.
‘Just him,’ Barton decided finally. ‘He’s the one who swindled me. I’ve never seen her before.’
THREE
Leeds, April 1826
Simon looked up from the Leeds Intelligencer. The house was quiet, their twin sons Richard and Amos off at their lessons at the grammar school.
‘Do you remember Frederick Fox?’ he asked.
Rosie was stirring a pot on the range. ‘Of course I do. What’s happened? Have they finally hanged him?’
‘He’s been pardoned.’
‘What?’ She let the spoon clatter against the pan. ‘Why?’
He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. ‘It doesn’t give the reason. All done at the last minute, apparently. He was standing on the scaffold in York when the message arrived.’
‘That’s probably an exaggeration. You know they always try to make it sound dramatic.’ Rosie pressed her lips together. ‘Still, I wonder what happened. Maybe he knows someone important.’
‘Perhaps he does. He did tell Barton he came from a good family; I suppose it could have been true and someone had a quiet word. I’ll have to ask the constable.’ He stood, leaning heavily on his walking stick, one where a twist of the handle let him pull out a blade as thin as a rapier.
