Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  He says, “And yet you accuse me of it.”

  My skin feels flushed and uncomfortable, stretched too tight over my bones. “It was my mistake. I’m sorry.”

  He laughs in disbelief. “A grand mistake to make. I saw you there on the cliffs, but you don’t see me accusing…” He brings a hand to his chest, across his heart, fingers curling inward. “I would never, in all my life, think so poorly of you.”

  Shame heats my face. “Jude—” I start, but I pause when something sounds from down the hall. I turn toward it. The noise is like scraping on wood, repetitive. Jude follows my gaze, his tear-filled eyes widening.

  And without looking back at me, he says, “I think it’s best you leave now, Moira.”

  I open my mouth, then shut it. His hurt expression scatters my thoughts, the ache in his voice pressing upon my heart. Turning away, I head for the door before he can show me out. I close my eyes as I step onto the path, taking a deep breath.

  Alone, I start across the moors in the direction of town.

  * * *

  The police station is a narrow brick building on Dunmore’s main road. Its lobby is stuffy, smelling of must and wood polish. A secretary sits behind an oak counter, her fingers tapping at a typewriter. My heels click against the floorboards as I walk over, but she doesn’t look up.

  “Pardon me,” I say. “I’d like to speak with Inspector Dale.”

  She stops typing. I know her as everyone knows one another on this island. A familiar face with an even more familiar family name. Catriona Finley is pale-skinned, freckled, and only a couple of years older than Jude. Over her shirtwaist blouse, she wears a silver locket. The teardrop shape of it is one I’ve seen before, a gift from sailors to their sweethearts prior to long voyages. Meeting my eye, she tells me, “He isn’t in today.”

  “Well,” I reply, a little clipped, “is there someone else in?”

  “Detective Thackery.” She gestures down the hall, doors to sectioned offices lining both sides of the dimly lit corridor. “If you’d like to speak with him instead.”

  “Which office is his?”

  “Second door on the left.”

  I nod my thanks. As I cross the lobby, Thackery’s door seems an ominous thing. I knock thrice on the polished wood, and a muffled voice calls, “Come in.”

  I open the door to find Thackery sitting at his desk, pen in hand. His head is bent over a slip of paper, and there’s a certain urgency to the speed of his writing, the page marked in quick, pointed scrawls.

  “Miss Alexander.” He offers me a fleeting glance and continues with his letter. “How may I be of service to you?”

  The indirect attention is somewhat off-putting. Folding my hands in front of me, I say, “I was hoping to have a word with Inspector Dale—”

  “Who is currently away,” interrupts Thackery. “So I say again, how may I be of service to you?”

  “It’s about Connor Sheahan, sir. About his death.”

  Thackery leans back in his chair to appraise me, setting down his pen in the same motion. “Oh? And what about it troubles you?”

  Every single thing about it troubles me. The memory of that day returns to the forefront of my thoughts again and again, like a flame I can’t extinguish.

  “I read the article in the Gazette. They say you’re not investigating, that you’ve closed the case.”

  Thackery’s mouth is a thin, tight line. “Not much of an investigation,” he says. “Poor boy killed by sirens like that. Not the first nor last, unfortunately.” Compared to his appearance on Jude’s doorstep, he looks less striking holed up in this cluttered office. His face is pale and drawn, and his hair is not as neat, dark strands falling into his eyes.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Are you positive it was sirens, sir?”

  The lines across his forehead deepen. “What do you mean by that, Miss Alexander?”

  “His wounds seem to suggest another cause.”

  “Do they, now?” Thackery leans forward, hands clasped atop his desk. “I’m curious how you came to that conclusion. I was under the impression you were visiting Mr. Osric—and when we asked, you said you hadn’t been down to the beach. Has that fact changed? Should I be taking another look at Mr. Osric’s statement?”

  I swallow hard, caught in the lie. “No, sir. I perhaps misspoke earlier. Mr. Osric took me down to see the body. I asked it of him.”

  “I see.”

  Undeterred, I say, “Connor’s injuries were much too clean for a siren’s claws, sir. I’ve seen survivors of their attacks—the cuts are ragged and not quite so deep.”

  Thackery raises his eyebrows. “Do you consider us incompetent, Miss Alexander?” Without waiting for my answer, he goes on. “I know your late father was viewed as a fount of knowledge in regard to the sirens, but we’re all accustomed to their methods. I’m sure Mr. Osric can attest to that.”

  My stomach churns. Thackery wields his words like he means to draw blood, and I feel the sting of every cut. “Sir,” I say, “I think you would do well to listen to me. You ought to be looking for a killer. A human one.”

  He heaves a sigh. When he stands, making his way around the desk, I realize he’s about to see me out. “I assure you,” he says, opening the door, “we have considered Connor Sheahan’s death with as much thoroughness as any of our other cases. Now, if you please, I’ve a lot of work to be getting on with.”

  “Detective,” I persist, “if you’ll just—”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Alexander.”

  I feel Catriona’s eyes on me as I head across the lobby. My jaw tightens, my hands turn to fists in my pockets, and I want to push my way back into Thackery’s office and shout at him that yes, I do think the whole lot of them are incompetent.

  Rather than the usual path back home, I take the roundabout way along the cliffs. I see the lighthouse in the distance, and scuff at the damp grass with the toe of my boot. When my eyes shift to the beach, I catch sight of a pale figure at the shoreline.

  A solitary siren rests in the shallows, her dark hair knotted, sleek with salt water, each wave rushing over the fold of her legs before retreating into the ocean. My pulse flutters as adrenaline floods my veins. I feel the all-too-familiar tug at my heart, the song of the whispering sea. She clutches a dying fish in her hands; its blood and oil trail over her skin as she tears into it, sharp teeth stained red.

  It’s been said just the sight of a siren is enough to drag men into a watery grave. Children’s stories, for the most part. But in this moment I have little trouble believing them. I imagine her gaze flitting up the cliff—watchful and hungry and dark as the deep—to find me staring back.

  I won’t let them blame you, I tell her silently.

  Whoever killed Connor, for whatever purpose, I’ll track them down myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I TAKE COVER IN THE cliff’s crevice, hidden among the shadows. The cliff itself is a black looming wall in the twilight, and the sand shifts beneath my bare feet, the sea whispering music in my ears—but it’s not for the sea I wait.

  My father’s hand on my arm. You must be patient, he says.

  I make myself completely still. I feel the hard grit of the crag against my back, the taste of salt bitter on my tongue. My heart beats loud in the silence, a steady rhythm, and I wonder if that’s what calls the sirens to shore. A living composition, heartstrings sounding a promise of blood.

  In the encroaching darkness, she rises from the water like a ghost. My father’s voice is a quiet breath at my ear.

  See her there, my dear. She has come.

  Her face is white as chalk, sharp as a knife. Her eyes are deep blue like the sky in the final hour of evening. She moves as though she’s still under the waves, a smooth dance over rocks and sand. She is stark and dangerous—and she is absolutely lovely.

  Pacing along the beach’s edge, she keeps her feet in shallow tide. I do not dare blink while I watch her. We wait in the shadows, hidden, long after she passes over t
he mouth of the crevice.

  Beside me, my father lets out a quiet sigh. I turn to see his smile outlined by the fading sun. His eyes glitter and I feel the grin that spreads across my face. Adrenaline hums through my veins, blood singing in my ears, as the last streaks of sunlight disappear into the sea.

  * * *

  I wake gasping, jolted by the sudden scrape of branches outside my window. I stare into the darkness of my bedroom, breathing hard, waiting for my heart rate to slow. Just a dream. A memory—woven into the fabric of nightscape, timeworn and dusty.

  I lie back on thin sheets that feel cold against my skin. As my eyes close, the tears come, unrelenting.

  I do not try to stop them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I STAND ON THE DOORSTEP to the keeper’s cottage, my knuckles touching the wood without knocking. From below, I make out the low rush of the sea, waves surging and breaking against the shore. I close my eyes.

  Just leave. Go on. He doesn’t want you here.

  I won’t ask his forgiveness, but I must do my best to apologize. Jude is owed that. If he wishes to rake me over the coals, to never have me set foot here again, I’ve brought it upon myself.

  I breathe in, breathe out, attuning my heart to the ebb and flow of the tide. I pull my hand back to knock, but the door swings open the next instant.

  Jude stands before me, dressed in his wool coat and cap. His eyes alight on mine, and he removes his cap, holding it to his chest. I suspect he does so unthinking—I don’t imagine Jude feels obligated to extend me any sort of courtesy.

  “Moira.” He says it similar to how he did that storm-dark afternoon. Startled, a little breathless, as though I’m one of the apparitions thought to haunt the moors. He squints. “How long have you been out here?”

  “It’s no matter. I see I’ve caught you on your way out.” I back up, stepping down onto the path. “I’ll come back later. Or not at all, if you prefer.”

  For a moment he looks pained. Moving aside, he opens the door wider. “Please, come in.” As I step over the threshold, he sets his cap on an empty hook. He holds out a hand, and when I simply stare at it, he murmurs, “I’ll take your coat, Moira.”

  “I don’t mean to keep you.”

  His dark eyes shine. He doesn’t draw his hand back, so I surrender my coat to him. I watch as he places it on the hook next to his cap, something raw and tender about his expression.

  “Jude,” I begin, “I’m here to say how truly sorry I am for the other day. I regret it more than anything.”

  He ducks his head. “There’s no need…”

  “I never believed it was you. I let logic sway me when I oughtn’t have. You’re not a killer—and I had no reason to accuse you of something so foul.”

  Jude leans back against the wall opposite me. Narrow as the hall is, we remain close. Light from the doorway threads gold into his hair, catching in his brown eyes. His mouth curves. “Thank you,” he says, sounding somewhat wry.

  I swallow. “What I did was unforgivable. I’ll understand if you don’t…”

  “I forgive you, Moira. Gladly I do.” He passes a hand through his curls. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”

  “You had every right.”

  He straightens up. “Well, we’ll agree to disagree on that.”

  I falter, muddled by uncertainty despite his words. I stare down at my boots, black and scuffed around the edges, and say, “I’d still like your help.”

  Jude takes off his coat and hangs it up, whatever errand he meant to run forgotten. He wears his brown waistcoat, a white collared shirt, and a tie, so likely he’d planned to visit Mr. Daugherty. “I thought you might.” He gives me an easy smile. “Have you already spoken to the police?”

  “Yes.” I scowl, recalling my exchange with Thackery. “They were quite useless.”

  We head into the kitchen. Jude prepares the stove for tea, putting fresh kindling into the firebox. He lights a match, nearly dropping it, as someone hammers at his front door.

  Frowning, he shakes out the tiny flame.

  I look to the hall. “Do you know who that is?”

  He fidgets with his shirt cuff, rubbing the fabric between forefinger and thumb. “Someone from the harbor, probably.”

  I take a seat at the table as he disappears down the hall. Skimming over the knots in the wood, I listen as he lifts the latch, opens the door. I expect him to greet whoever’s out there, but what I hear next is dead silence.

  A voice—distinctly male but not Jude’s—says something too muffled for me to interpret. Though I hear Jude quite clearly when he says, “You have what?”

  I’m out of my chair in a flash.

  At the entrance, Jude stands with one hand clutching the frame, like he’ll fall without the support. I peer around him, and my heart begins to race rabbit-fast.

  Two young officers stand beneath the overhang.

  “What’s all this?” I come up beside Jude, narrowing my eyes.

  The officers seem unsettled by my appearance. It’s obvious they thought Jude was here alone. They doff their hats upon seeing me, and one of them folds a piece of paper, tucking it away in his coat. He says, “We have an arrest warrant for him, miss.”

  I turn to Jude. He continues to lean against the doorframe, his face sheet white, his eyes staring out at nothing. I’ve no doubt what the warrant is for, but I ask anyway.

  The officer scratches the back of his neck. “He’s a suspect in the death of Connor Sheahan.”

  At this Jude squeezes his eyes shut. Facing the officers, I say, “Your lot already deemed sirens responsible.”

  “There’s been a recent development,” replies the other officer. “They’re reopening the case, having another look at things.”

  “And what part of that warrant says you can take Jude Osric in without proof?”

  “We have probable cause, miss. You’ll have to speak to our superiors.”

  Rage coats my throat like bile. “I was just there yesterday,” I snarl, “and I’ll tell you what you’re doing is ridiculous.”

  Eyes still shut, Jude whispers, “I can’t leave.” It comes out low enough he might very well be talking to himself. “I can’t.”

  The first officer clucks his tongue. “Come now, Wick.”

  Jude looks up, eyes hazy. He stares off into the middle distance as though seeing something different than the rest of us. He says, “Who will keep the light?”

  “We’ve sent word to your uncle. He ought to be here before dark.”

  Jude presses the back of one hand to his mouth. He exhales shakily.

  “Jude,” I say. “Jude, don’t you dare go with them. This isn’t right.”

  “We’re following the letter of the law, Miss Alexander.” The officer sets his sights on Jude. “Your uncle is on his way over from the offshore light. Mr. Daugherty cleared his transfer this morning. If you don’t come willingly, we’ll have to cuff you, and for your sake I’d rather not.”

  I grab Jude by the back of his waistcoat. I’m desperate for him to hold his ground, to argue, to stay. All too well, I can see my part in this. Would these officers be here to collect Jude if I hadn’t visited Thackery? Had I persuaded him to reopen Connor’s case?

  I put my finger on the trigger, but the shot was poorly aimed.

  “Moira,” says Jude, voice flat. “Let me go.”

  He won’t meet my eyes. His gaze is far away, expression vacant. I fear he’s torn the heart from his sleeve and buried it somewhere too deep for me to find. I release him, feeling like I’ve pushed him off the cliff to drown.

  One officer actually has the boldness to offer to walk me home.

  I present the full force of my glare in return. “I’ll be at that station of yours first thing tomorrow,” I tell him. “If I pass you there, you best cast your eyes down in shame.”

  Snatching my coat from the wall, I shove between the pair. On the path, I look over my shoulder to rest my gaze once more on Jude Osric. He hasn’t moved. H
is shadow falls upon the open door, dark and rough as a sketch.

  Sickness twists my stomach. It’s doubled when I remember my thoughts from yesterday, minding that siren in the shallows.

  I won’t let them blame you.

  Wrapping my coat around myself, I walk quickly away. These are the consequences of my actions—and I can’t bear to watch.

  * * *

  Throughout the rest of the day, I’m unable to ease the distraction of my mind. I’ve a tutoring session—my first since Connor’s death—but the memory of Jude standing before the officers, the shock writ so clearly on his face, leaves me faint and fractured. I cut the lesson short, only to feel guilty for doing so, and return home to write up a flyer to place in the schoolhouse.

  Adjoining St. Cecilia’s, it’s a squat one-room building of white siding. The students have been let out; I worry momentarily the school is locked up for the day. I try the door, reassured when it swings open. Closing it behind me, I glance around to find my former teacher, Nell Bracken, still seated at her desk in front of the empty class.

  “Oh, Moira,” she says, looking up. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  I make my way over to her, passing the neat rows of desks. Tall windows let in the pale afternoon light, accentuating scuff marks across the floorboards from countless shoes. Here, children are taught reading, writing, and arithmetic until they’re thirteen. That is the principle, at least. Quite a number leave early: if they’re needed at home, needed to work. Jude did not return after his family died. An ache would bloom in my chest afterward, whenever I’d look toward his desk across the room and remember anew that he wasn’t there, why he wasn’t there.

  Gripping the flyer, I say, “Yes, only… Do you mind if I pin this up?” I hand Nell the slip of paper, an advertisement of my violin lessons.