by Kelly Powell
So no one uses it, because after so many years there might still be a siren waiting inside.
It’s not that I use it either, but I’ve always liked coming here. A stone bench is next to the well, sheltered under the branches of an ash tree. I brush some dried leaves from the stone and sit down.
Not too far off, I hear people, their voices and footsteps carrying with the wind. But there’s no one in sight. If there were, they’d only look at me strangely, wonder what I’m doing so close to a siren-haunted well. Or perhaps not. I am my father’s daughter after all.
Brendan’s words echo back to me: People always thought he had one foot in the sea. They’ll say the same of you if you carry on like this.
Gavin Alexander was often seen as odd. People didn’t understand why he couldn’t let things alone—not realizing that my father hoped to better the island with his research. He knew of the dangers, but he also knew sirens belonged in our waters. I can only imagine what he’d think about an islander trying to frame them for their own wrongdoing.
I watch a leaf flutter up to the side of the well, turning over the case in my mind. I always arrive at the same questions. Why would someone kill Connor? Why frame the sirens? If there was something to be gained by killing him, I couldn’t begin to guess at what.
Jude finds me eventually. Just as he always does. When he reaches the bench, he removes his cap, coming to a standstill before me. He looks neat and pressed, but his eyes still have that glazed shine to them, telling of his headache. Quietly, he says, “You weren’t at home.”
“So you thought you’d wander Dunmore all morning?”
He winces. “Moira,” he says, “I’m so—”
“You did a fool thing last night, Jude Osric.” Looking away, I set my gaze on the leaves falling from the ash tree. A hard wind blows in off the sea, heavy with salt. The chill of it sneaks past my collar and into my bones.
“I came to apologize.” Jude takes a step forward, casting his eyes down. “I know it was thoughtless of me. I can only hope I wasn’t too much of a bother.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t remember?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I remember enough.” He flushes. “I wish you hadn’t seen me that way.”
I brush more leaves from the bench and pat the space beside me. Jude glances at the well before taking a seat. Bracing his hands on the stone, he asks plaintively, “Why do you come here?”
This isn’t the first time he’s found me by the well.
The graveyard is a sea of people dressed in dark suits and dresses, black gloves and netted veils. I run out the gates, wet grass slipping under my feet, and Jude runs after me. I curl up beside the stone well, my hands pressed to my eyes. “Don’t say it’s all right,” I whisper. “Don’t say it.”
Jude remains silent for a moment. Then, in a voice as quiet as my own, he says, “Of course it’s not.” He embraces me, and he seems so much older, so much kinder, so much of everything I am not. I cry into his shoulder, and Jude doesn’t say a word about it.
Now I scuff my heel against the ground and tell him, “I met up with Brendan Sheahan.”
Jude lets out a sigh. “What did he have to say?”
“He doesn’t know what Connor was doing down there. Or anything else really. I couldn’t get many answers out of him.”
I watch Jude’s hand skim back and forth over the stone. His gaze fixes on the base of the well. “What of the person you saw last night? The one following us?” He looks at me, studying my face. “Or did I dream that?”
“No. That was quite real.” I swallow, recalling the terror in my heart as I tugged Jude down the hillside. “Though whether they were following us—whether it was indeed Connor’s murderer—I can’t say.”
Jude shudders. “Gosh,” he says. “I was rather hoping it was a nightmare.” He gets up abruptly, to begin pacing back and forth. “All the while I was no help at all. Moira, forgive me. If they were following us, it was because they heard me talking. I should have—”
“Oh, sit down. There’s nothing to be done about it.” I curl my fingers around the edge of the bench as Jude sits back down. He does so with care, his expression contrite. I look him in the eye. “I do forgive you, Jude. I know you were not yourself.”
He takes one of my hands, holding it between us. With his eyes lowered, I see only the fringe of his lashes, dark against his cheeks. “I would’ve never forgiven myself,” he says, “if any harm came to you.”
I stare at him for a moment, wordless. His touch is warm and solid, his palms hardened by calluses. An instant later he draws away from me, returning his gaze to the well. “We ought to discuss our suspects,” he says, a somewhat uneven quality to his voice. “Those who were near the harbor.”
“Right.” I blink. “Well, if we’re to believe the killer was out on the moors last night, it can’t be your uncle, can it? He’s all the way over at the offshore light.”
Jude hesitates, seeming to weigh his words. “You said yourself it might not have been the killer. Last summer, before he left, my uncle and I—we had a bit of a row.”
“I see.”
I wait, but he doesn’t appear eager to expand on the answer. “This row is enough to suspect him of murder?” I ask.
Jude twists his hands together, looking toward the ash tree. He says, voice soft, “Perhaps.”
More secrets. I close my eyes, trying to center myself. I don’t see how much longer we can go on like this. Jude spoke of it already, last night, his words slurred but truthful. You still feel far away sometimes. I wonder if he realizes he distances himself as well.
I tell him, “I’ve got to tutor today.”
He turns back. At this angle his eyes shine amber in the light. “Who?”
“Eve Maddox.”
Jude rubs his mouth, contemplative. “And the investigation?”
“Well, Eve is around Connor’s age. Perhaps she knows something. If Connor planned to meet someone on the beach, he might’ve told his friends ahead of time.”
Jude heaves a sigh. “That isn’t what I meant, but all right.” He presses the heel of one hand to his temple. “I suppose I’ve work to do.”
“Like what?”
“I need to polish the lens, still, and clean the chimney. I ought to start on the monthly report, too—Daugherty will have my head if I’m late with it.”
Folding my hands in my lap, I imagine Jude knocking at my door earlier: his coat unbuttoned, the bags heavy under his eyes. Had he rushed out of the lighthouse? Did he think I had abandoned him after last night?
My heart feels twisted in knots.
A sudden breeze whips up the leaves near us in a flurry of red-brown-yellow. I glance toward the courtyard. “I’d best be off,” I say. “Eve will be waiting.”
“I’ll see you at Mass tomorrow?” He phrases it like a question. We’ve always seen each other at church; I don’t know why this Sunday would be any different.
I nod. “Of course.”
My answer seems to put him at ease. I stand, cross my arms over my coat, and wander closer to the well. I place my hands on the damp stone, peering over the edge. Algae rings the inside, stone blocks circling into blackness.
“Moira,” says Jude. There’s the faintest trace of anxiety in his voice.
Pushing away from the well, I turn around. “You ought to have been a sailor,” I tell him. “So superstitious.”
“Just because you can’t see something,” he says darkly, “doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
The words put my teeth on edge. Twillengyle seems riddled with secrets and half-truths, things seen and never quite forgotten.
We head out of the courtyard together, leaving the well behind us.
* * *
Eve’s grandmother is the one to answer the door when I arrive. I grip my violin case tight as she looks me over. She wears a thin shawl across her shoulders, a nettled expression on her face. “You’re late, dearie,” she says.
“Sorry.”
“She’s waiting for you in the garden.”
I nod, brisk, and head around the side of the house. The gate is already unlatched, and I step through into a tiny, cluttered yard. Empty flower pots and loose bricks line the edges, gardening tools piled against a tumbledown shed. Eve Maddox sits on a wood bench, her brown hair braided in a single plait and tied with a ribbon. Her violin is laid out on her lap.
“Afternoon, Miss Alexander.” She smiles.
“Afternoon.” I set my violin case beside hers on the bench, and motion her up. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Where were you?”
“Nowhere you need worry about,” I say. Eve flips open the clasps on her case, and I watch as she rosins her bow. “Have you been practicing?”
“Yes. I did scales just yesterday.”
I take her violin in my hands. Plucking at the strings, I begin tuning it for her. Eve doesn’t have the natural ear for intonation that Connor did—not yet at least. I’ve been tutoring her for almost two months now, and while she practices, she is absentminded: daydreaming about music rather than concentrating on the composition at hand.
“Did you try the piece I gave you?”
Eve makes a face as she twists the bow back and forth. “Yes, but it’s incredibly dull, miss. When can I play something faster?”
“Once you improve,” I tell her.
She places the violin on her shoulder, looking for my approval as she holds the bow just above the strings.
I reach out to tug her left elbow farther from her side before saying, “Good. Now, let’s go through the A major scale; then you can show me how you’re playing that piece.”
Unmoving, Eve says, “Did you hear about Russell Hendry?”
“I was there.”
The words escape my mouth without thought. I don’t want to talk about this; there’s no use talking about it. Russell’s in police custody, and the sirens are dead. All for Connor Sheahan, buried in the cold ground. Dead, dead, dead. My heart throbs with the truth of it.
“I think it’s awful,” says Eve, “what he did. The sirens were only doing what’s natural to them—shouldn’t have to be punished for that.”
I study her, head tilted, puzzled at this reflection of my younger self. “They still could’ve hurt someone on the dock, Eve.”
“Not if they had iron on them. Isn’t that what all those charms and things are for? To keep the sirens away.” Eve looks earnest now. Her violinist posture has come undone: bow limp at her side, her grip too tight on the neck.
With her questions ringing in my ears, I try to smile. “Yes, that’s what they’re for,” I tell her. “And it’s what Mr. Hendry should’ve used.”
“But he didn’t,” Eve says quietly.
“No.” I take her bowing hand in mine, rearranging it over the strings. “That is why he’ll get a good long prison sentence.”
She manages to play through half a scale before asking another question. “Were you with Mr. Osric earlier?”
I pause, eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
She ducks her head, worrying her bottom lip. For a long moment she doesn’t answer. Until, finally, she says, “No reason.”
I don’t know what to make of that. I give her a curious look, knowing there must be a reason and somewhat peeved she won’t offer it freely.
“Finish the scale, please.”
This time Eve seems chastened. She goes through the scale from the start—slow, careful, concentrated—before we move on to the piece I gave her to practice.
Connor had played the same composition just last year. I search for the memory, for the sound of his violin when he hit that first note, and my chest tightens with the realization that I can’t. The music distorts, past and present becoming one. Eve’s melody blots out the fine distinctions that made up Connor’s.
She finishes the piece—slightly out of tune, sometimes shrill—and brings the violin to rest at her side. “How was that, miss?”
“It’s an improvement. You still need to work on playing slower.”
Eve nods, and I hope she takes the words to heart.
I sit down on the little garden bench. Eve Maddox follows my lead, moving her violin case to sit in its place. She turns to face me, expectant. “Now,” I say, “since you’ve asked me your questions, could you answer one of mine?”
“What is it?”
“Connor Sheahan”—I watch her expression shift, become solemn—“do you know if he said anything to anyone? That day? Perhaps why he was going to the beach?”
Eve holds my gaze. Her eyes are very dark and very young. She’s seen the horrors of this island only at arm’s length, not yet close enough to touch. “Angus Llewellyn told me Connor said he knew something,” Eve whispers. “Said it was secret.”
“Connor told Angus this?”
“Yes, miss. Said he had to meet someone after helping his da at the harbor.” She pauses, staring down at her violin. “Obviously the sirens got to him first.”
Taking a breath, I close my eyes. I lay my hands flat on the bench to stop them trembling. “Have you told anyone else?” I say, looking back.
Eve shakes her head. “No one else has asked.” A lock of her hair loosens from her braid, and she tucks it behind her ear. “But, miss, you should know…”
“What?”
“Wick. Mr. Osric. Connor wanted to speak with him before he”—she swallows—“I don’t know if he got a chance to.”
My mind races. “Did he say why?”
“No,” she says softly. “Not to me anyway.”
I feel my skin flush hot, then cold. What could Connor have wanted to talk to Jude for?
There’s so much I don’t know. Every time I feel close to lacing a single thread, the whole thing seems to unravel in my hands.
“Right,” I croak out. “I’ll be sure to tell him.” I stand, taking hold of my violin case. “If you practice that piece a little more, I’ll bring you something faster next lesson. And remember to do your scales.”
“I always do,” Eve says, indignant.
“As you should.”
I go into the house to let her grandmother know I’m leaving, and then I’m back on the pathway home. It’s a short walk, not enough time by far to get my thoughts in order. So instead I cut across another trail and head for the moors.
The lighthouse comes into view, streaks of rust running across its blue-and-white spirals. I walk to the cliff’s edge, where the grass is patchy and dried out, a bit of old fencing set along the crag to mark the fall.
My fingers are numb as I undo the clasps of my tattered case.
I wonder if Jude sees me.
Music hums in my chest, my pulse alive with it as I tuck the violin under my chin. I play until I am empty, thoughtless, stark as the salt air.
Until all I can hear is the sea.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT HAS RAINED DURING THE night, so the cobbles leading to St. Cecilia’s are smooth and slick underfoot. I walk with my mother through the streets as the tower bell tolls the hour. The inside of the church is warm—a respite from the morning damp—but also stuffy, close, with so many islanders already present. We’ve arrived just five minutes early; there’s not an empty pew in sight.
A few short from the back is Jude Osric, sitting where he usually does. After some pardons and excuse me, I get to the end of the pew. Jude shifts his coat and cap, and I take a seat next to him. My mother sits on the other side of me, leaning forward to exchange quiet hellos with Jude. We kneel, and I close my eyes, my hands folded on the worn edge of the pew in front. The familiarity of it calms my nerves, an imperfect mend for all that has shaken me in the past week. When I sit back, I whisper in Jude’s ear: “I spoke with Eve about Connor.”
He splays a hand on his knee. “Oh?”
“She said he planned to meet someone on the beach.”
Jude’s eyes stray to the altar ahead of us. “I don’t know if you should be discussing murder while we’re in church.”
<
br /> I scowl at him before casting my eyes toward the other pews. I’m looking for Warren Knox, and find him on the opposite side of the aisle. He is stocky and broad-shouldered, wearing his Sunday best. It doesn’t stop me imagining the worst of him. He could’ve given those cans to Russell, could’ve led Connor down the cliff and slit his throat.
Beside me Jude murmurs, “Something wrong?” His forehead is creased with worry.
I swallow, shake my head, but my conversation with Eve continues to play out in the forefront of my thoughts. Connor had words for Jude Osric—and I need to tell him so.
Jude looks prepared to say something else, but whatever it might be is cut off by the sound of the choir. Everyone rises to their feet, and Mass begins. It’s grounding, the songs and motions that follow in kind. I kneel once more and think of my father. I wonder if this hole in my heart will ever fade, if I’ll ever be able to bear it without feeling so wretched.
Jude’s eyes are still closed when I open mine. I watch him, contemplating what it is he prays for. It’s not a thought I should have—somewhere I’ve no business prying. He sits up, brow furrowed, and I glance away.
When the service is over, Jude and I walk behind my mother, following the flow of people out onto the street. I blink in the cloudy sunlight. Jude scuffs at a dried leaf with his boot.
Usually, after Mass, Jude heads for the churchyard to visit his family’s grave. I’ve seen him there when I’ve lingered in the yard myself, seen the careful way he brushes debris from their headstone, how he’ll sit for some minutes, then set his hand atop the marker in farewell.
My mother starts chatting with several women nearby, and I take the opportunity to catch hold of Jude’s sleeve. “Come back with us,” I tell him.
He looks down at my hand on his arm. “Why?”
“I want to go through my father’s books. I think they might help with the investigation.”
“I’ve seen your father’s books, Moira. They’re just full of siren tales.”
And it’s sirens the police seem set on condemning. Two have already suffered in the wake of Connor’s death. I meet Jude’s gaze and hold it. “They’re worth a look.”
