Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  “Except he wasn’t.”

  “Think of me, then,” he says, meeting my eye. His jaw tightens, until he drops his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck, and I hate how his sadness spelled out in so few words can dig in and cut out my heart.

  The path leads us to the Sheahans’ house of pale-yellow siding. In their window boxes, bluebells have dried up and browned, curling in on themselves. The shutters above are latched shut, and I think of one of the rooms beyond lying empty, collecting dust year after year. The room of a ghost.

  Jude pulls off his cap and steps up to knock on the door. I stand a little straighter, smooth a hand over my coat. He gives me a sideways glance, looking as if he’s about to say something, when the door opens.

  Mr. Sheahan stands before us, blinking in the sunlight. He wears only a cotton shirt and trousers, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. He looks at Jude, perplexed. “Wick?” And then, “Moira?” Our names are questions in his mouth, like he’s wondering if we’re real.

  I nod at him. “Afternoon, Mr. Sheahan.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  It seems he might just fall to pieces where he stands, so I rush to get my words out. “Something’s happened down the harbor. With Russell Hendry. We were wondering if you could—”

  “That is to say,” Jude interjects gently, “Moira and I have come to express our condolences. I understand how hard it must be for you at the moment.”

  Sheahan mumbles something like an affirmative. He looks a bit lost, clenching his hands before shoving them into his pockets. “Would you… like to come in? I can put the kettle on.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Jude replies. “We don’t mean to trouble you.”

  Sheahan steps aside, and we move into the entryway. I let him take my coat, studying him as he does so: the heavy shine to his eyes, that of a person who has spent several hours crying and is planning to go another round later in the evening.

  Remember to be kind to them.

  We follow him into the drawing room. The curtains are drawn like the latched front shutters, a sofa and mismatched armchairs turned toward the fireplace. In the grate, a fire burns low, giving the furniture pieces long shadows, darkening Sheahan’s expression. I sit on the sofa, Jude taking a seat on the cushion next to me. Thoughts of tea are forgotten as Sheahan settles into an armchair, considering Jude.

  “A great disservice they did you, Wick,” he says with a grimace. “Arresting you of all people for a siren’s doing. They ought to know better.”

  Jude ducks his head, saying nothing.

  “Must’ve been difficult for you,” Sheahan continues. “Finding him.”

  My eyes flit to Jude, but his expression doesn’t change. He rubs his palms together, his voice soft as he replies, “I only wish I’d found him sooner.”

  Sheahan drags a hand across his face. “Don’t think on it, Wick. I’ve done so myself enough times these past few days.” He clears his throat. “I know you did all you could.”

  “We’ve just come from the harbor,” I tell him. “Russell Hendry—he poisoned two sirens this morning.”

  Sheahan makes a sound of disappointment rather than surprise. “Shouldn’t have done that.” He moves his gaze to the floor. “Suppose the lad’s in custody now?”

  “He said he did it for Connor. To protect everyone else on the docks.”

  I was getting back our own, he’d said. Russell grinned while siren corpses lay just a few feet away. He called them monsters, like he wasn’t one himself.

  Mr. Sheahan only stares at me. His eyes look hollow, and I see no answers in them.

  “Do you have any idea why Connor was on the beach that day?” I ask.

  “No.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “Bit strange, isn’t it? What with the storm.”

  “What about George and Brendan?” asks Jude, referring to the Sheahans’ older sons. “Perhaps they could’ve been with Connor?”

  Slowly, Mr. Sheahan shakes his head. “No. No, they were at the harbor with me. Securing boats for the weather, you see.”

  Jude meets my eye, and the expression he wears reflects my own thoughts. We aren’t getting anywhere. Leaning forward, I say, “Was Connor at the harbor as well? Do you remember who saw him last?”

  “He was.” Sheahan swallows. “He was helping me strip sails. I—I told him to get home before the storm hit. Warren Knox offered to walk him back. A bit odd, that, actually. He’d never offered before, but you know he’s awful careful now since Iona passed, God rest her. I told him Connor knew the way, can get there on his own.” Regret weighs down each word, the sound of it worse than any possibility of seeing him cry.

  I say quietly, “So Connor went back alone?”

  He looks to the ceiling, closes his eyes. “Warren left a little while after him, but we all headed home soon enough. Thought we’d meet Connor on the path.” He pauses, exhaling. “God, I was sure he had iron on him that morning. I was sure of it.”

  “Who else was by the harbor that afternoon?”

  The question seems to sharpen Sheahan’s confusion. His brow furrows. “Why do you ask?”

  From down the hall, there’s a soft shuffling. The three of us look over as Mrs. Sheahan appears in the doorway. She wears a dark dressing gown, her hair falling loose over her shoulders. She smiles upon seeing us, saying, “I thought I heard company. I’ll make tea, shall I?”

  Jude, having stood at her arrival, takes a step forward. “If you’ll show me where everything is, Mrs. Sheahan, I’d be happy to help.”

  My lips thin. I try wordlessly to order him to stay put as he crosses the room. At the doorway, he glances around, and my irritation tapers off. His hands are shaking, just slightly, but it makes me think he might need the escape. I nod at him and he’s gone.

  Mr. Sheahan says, “We still have his violin.”

  I look back. “Sorry?”

  “Connor’s violin. Still packed away in his room.”

  “He was a quick learner.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “Had a good ear for music. He would’ve been playing at the hall soon enough.”

  “You were his favorite at the dances.” Sheahan rubs his eyes, but not before I see the wistfulness in them. “Always. Never had to drag him along when he knew you were playing.”

  “I remember.” I clasp my hands together, anchoring myself. “Mr. Sheahan, you said Warren offered to walk Connor home? Can you think of any others who were there? On the path? Perhaps heading toward the beach?”

  He heaves a sigh, grief outweighing any lingering curiosity.

  “I don’t know,” he says again. “There was a lot of rushing around. Saw the Bracken sisters on their way home. Dylan Osric was at the harbor. Trying to get back to the offshore light before the storm hit, I reckon.”

  I swallow. I’d seen Nell Bracken just the other day. She’d mentioned losing students to sirens, but would she murder one of her own pupils? Perhaps her sister, Imogen, could be involved.

  And Dylan Osric.

  That very afternoon Jude had told me of his uncle’s visit. I realize only now the timing makes him a suspect. His ill will toward sirens is also something I’m well accustomed to. In the years between Llyr’s death and my father’s, when Dylan Osric acted as Jude’s guardian, there were many times he gave voice to his grievances. He’d hated my father, and my father had hated him in turn.

  Bringing my attention back to Mr. Sheahan, I find him staring down at his hands. “If you don’t mind my asking, Moira,” he says softly, “none of this matters, does it?”

  I’ve no desire to burden him with the knowledge of our investigation. I look toward the fireplace, but the fire has burned down, reddened coals and ashy-white wood left to grow cold in the grate. Already, the room feels colder.

  And where is Jude? He and Mrs. Sheahan can’t still be making tea, can they?

  Standing up, I walk over to where Mr. Sheahan sits in his armchair. I take one of his hands in both of mine. “It may not,” I tell him, “but than
k you for telling me, all the same.”

  I head out of the drawing room, making my way toward the kitchen. Mrs. Sheahan must hear my footsteps. She leans out from the doorway, and I work to frame my expression into something pleasant.

  “Looking for Wick?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yes. Where is he?”

  “He went out into the back garden. Poor dear. I think he was wanting some fresh air; he was looking so pale-like.”

  “I’m sure he’s quite all right.”

  Rosy light warms the scuffed kitchen table and chairs. Through the lace-curtained window, I note the faded touch of evening in the sky.

  “I’ll just go and fetch him,” I say, starting for the door.

  Outside, two white sheets flutter on the clothesline. Across the way, Jude sits hunched over on a garden bench, his head in his hands. Though as I near, he rallies quickly, taking his pocket watch from his waistcoat to study its face. “My,” he says, “is that the time?”

  I take a seat beside him. “It’s getting late,” I agree.

  His eyes slide toward me and away. “Did you get much else from Mr. Sheahan?”

  “He mentioned some people near the harbor, yes.” My thoughts are so full of names and possibilities I fear they’ll all tumble out with the slightest sound.

  “You’re not still set on Warren Knox, are you? You think Connor’s death has something to do with Iona?”

  “There’s also the Brackens to keep in mind—Mr. Sheahan said he saw them heading home just before the storm. He brought up your uncle, too.”

  I hadn’t seen Dylan Osric those few days Jude was behind bars. I’d kept my distance just as promised, but now I wonder why Jude asked it of me.

  He makes a noncommittal sound, twisting the cuff of his shirt between his fingers.

  I chew my bottom lip. “Perhaps Warren—perhaps he took Iona’s death out on Connor.”

  He’d left the harbor soon after him that day, and his sister’s demise gave him motive enough to frame the sirens. It could’ve been Warren who gave Russell Hendry those cans of poison.

  Jude doesn’t look convinced. “The Sheahans seem friendly with him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And her death was more than a year ago. Why kill Connor now? Why kill him at all? He wasn’t the one responsible.”

  I know this. I know all of this already. Staring up at the sky, I watch the clouds begin to thin over the horizon. “You think there’s no association between the two,” I say, without voicing it as a question. It’s obvious from the way he disputes each piece of information.

  “Well, it’s a bit of a puzzle why a girl taken by sirens would relate to a boy murdered on the beach a year later.”

  “It’s our best lead,” I reply.

  Jude looks away. He surveys the patchy grass, the rusted bicycle leaning up against the house. I fist my hands in my lap. I ask him, “Why did you leave?”

  He swallows. “It’s been a long day is all.”

  As we sit there, the sun dips below the fence. The moment feels similar to when we stood over Connor’s body—afterward, a silent walk along the cliff and up the spiral staircase of the lighthouse. Things left unsaid.

  Turning toward him, I ask, in a softer voice, “Are you all right?”

  I likely should’ve asked this earlier. Jude has been suspected of murder, taken from the lighthouse, put in jail. And I’ve yet to ask after his welfare.

  He stands up. “It’s late,” he says. “We’d best be on our way.”

  We take our leave, and Jude is a paragon of politeness, straight-backed and smiling. Setting ourselves on the path, I let my thoughts turn over recent events. Not too far from the house, we come across Brendan Sheahan. Jude spies him first, saying, “Brendan,” which makes me look up as well.

  He raises a hand to touch the brim of his cap. “Hallo, Wick. You doing all right? I heard what happened down the docks. Some fellows said you were sick over it.”

  Jude flushes. “I’m well, thank you.”

  “Now you’ve come to convey your condolences, eh?” Brendan looks over at the house. “You and the rest of the island.”

  “We came to talk about Connor, yes,” I say, stepping forward. I study him, wondering if he knows anything more than his father. “Russell Hendry killed those sirens on his behalf.”

  “I know.” He makes a start for the house, but he half turns, letting me see the edge of his smile. “I only wish I were there to thank him.” He touches his cap again, about to move on, when I grab hold of his sleeve.

  “Can you meet me tomorrow morning?” I ask.

  “What if I’ve got things to do?”

  “You don’t.”

  A grin cuts across his expression. “All right, Moira. Where?”

  I tell him to meet me at the old church in Dunmore, and he promises to be there. Jude watches this exchange in silence, biting his lip. I think he’ll question me about it, but once Brendan leaves, Jude doesn’t say a word.

  My hand catches at leafless branches as we continue on the trail. I smell wood smoke in the air, wet leaves, pine needles. It all seems magnified by the night, the wind whistling through the trees, the snapping of twigs underfoot. Neither one of us has a lantern, but it’s odd when Jude ventures onto the wrong path. From here, the lighthouse is still visible, the white tower standing stark over the moors.

  “Jude.” I raise a brow, gesturing in the direction of the cliffs. “Your lighthouse is this way.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets. “Just as well I’m not headed to the lighthouse.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He hesitates, gaze lowered as he scuffs at the dirt. “The Four Fathoms,” he says.

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because”—he digs the toe of his boot deeper into the soil—“I need a drink. Not a crime, is it?”

  I blink at him. “No, but you don’t—” I stop, uncertainty knotting my stomach. It’s as though I’ve lost my footing, my entire perception of Jude Osric pulled out from under me. “You don’t drink, Jude.”

  Voice bitter, he says, “How would you know?”

  Something’s wrong. I can see it in his hunched shoulders, his shuttered expression. I shake my head and say, “Because I know you, Jude Osric.”

  “No.” He steps back. “No, you truly don’t.”

  “You’re being absurd,” I snap. “Why you’re doing this I’ve no idea, but if—”

  He turns away from me. I close my hands into fists as he walks off, a tall lonely figure on the path toward Dunmore. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes, and when I look again, I stand alone in the disquieting silence.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I CLENCH MY JAW until it hurts, granting myself time to fume as I walk. Jude was clearly upset, whatever he said. Upset enough to wander into Dunmore and into the smoky corners of the Four Fathoms. I hope he knows I won’t be the one to fetch him once he’s drunk himself under the table. Perhaps he’ll see just how unpleasant it is as soon as he steps over the threshold and come running back. I pause, glancing behind me, imagining his silhouette amid the fog and shadowed trees. But the path is empty.

  Ahead of me lies a stretch of grass that runs toward the inky blackness of the sea. A slice of moonlight peeks out from beneath cloud cover, bathing the landscape in silver. The lighthouse stands as the last pillar before the cliff’s edge, the first warning to sailors of the rocks below. I head for home and make it halfway there before I pause. A strong wind rattles the closed window shutters of nearby houses; tree branches scrape against one another, leaves rustling in the breeze. After a moment of indecision, I turn sharply on my heel and start for Dunmore.

  * * *

  The Four Fathoms is one of the oldest buildings on the island. It’s a black-fronted tavern with fogged glass windows and heavy oak doors, light spilling over the threshold and onto the street. In bygone days, it was a renowned hideout for criminals—cutthroats and smugglers, pirates trading in contraband—but now it fills e
very evening with fishermen and dock workers up from the harbor. I pull open the door, letting myself in alongside the cold.

  The low-beamed ceiling and flagstone floor give the place a closed-in quality. The bar is dark, polished wood, and ship masts are built into the structure, said to be taken from the first ships that came ashore. A fire burns in the cobbled fireplace, casting the room in a warm glow.

  Next to the bar, Warren Knox puts out the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray. The shadows accentuate the deep lines at the corners of his eyes; he’s a few years over thirty, but he looks older. The sea and the sirens both have aged him. He glances my way and seems taken aback by the sight of me here in this place.

  I can only hope my own expression doesn’t show my discomfort so readily.

  “Mr. Knox,” I say, calm and steady. “I’m looking for our Wick.”

  “Ah. He’s here.”

  Warren tips his chin to indicate somewhere farther into the pub, and I nod my thanks, eager to be away. I realize I’d expected to find Jude Osric alone at a barstool, drinking away his sorrows, only when I happen across the opposite. He sits at a crowded table, his face rosy in the firelight. Several empty glasses take up space in front of him, and he smiles in a loose, faraway manner, making it clear he’s already plastered. He laughs, leaning forward, and a vicious pang of something like envy strikes me near the heart.

  However reserved he is, however shy, Jude has never set himself apart. He likes belonging—and he knows how to in a way I can’t seem to match. I recognize the others at the table, of course. Gabriel Flint and Peter Atherton, Killian Riley and Hamish Tully. As I get closer, it’s Peter who’s first to notice. He nudges Jude with an elbow, murmuring in his ear.

  Jude looks around. Catching sight of me, he says, “Oh.” Then he grins, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. “Hallo, Moira.”

  Everyone else at the table appears to find this hilarious. They snicker into the backs of their hands, into their glasses, and I deliver them all a dirty look in return.

  Putting a hand on the table, I say, “Get up, Jude.”

  Peter gestures as if to wave my words from the air. His dark eyes are glassy from drink, but I can tell he’s still sharp enough to have his wits about him. “Just leave him. He’s fine.”