by Ellen Jane
“We’re a little confused about one of the things you mentioned,” Heather said firmly. “You said that the Careys were untrustworthy and the Dunnes should never have protected them like that, but we weren’t sure what that meant. The Dunnes argued with the Careys over business, didn’t they?”
Mrs Fletcher snorted. “Business? Codswallop. The Dunnes were no more terrible at their business than they were lax on paying their gardeners,” she said pointedly. “No, they were onto Mr Carey before Mrs Carey even knew what happened, and they did nothing. Left poor Mrs Carey humiliated for weeks before I worked out what had happened.”
“Humiliated?” Cian frowned. “For what? For having ill luck?”
“Ill luck?” Mrs Fletcher’s voice took on a slight shriek. “Bad breeding and poor decision-making have nothing to do with ill luck. That man brought disgrace upon his family, and he has no right to the secrecy the Dunnes provided him.” She snorted again. “Business. Is that what they’re calling extramarital affairs these days? Disgraceful.”
Heather and Cian shared a glance.
“We hadn’t heard about this,” Heather said.
Mrs Fletcher sniffed. “That’s nothing to do with me,” she said airily. “I made quite sure the community was aware. If you haven’t been keeping up with events of note, that’s your own fault.”
“Naturally,” Cian said, nose wrinkling a little in distaste.
Heather had never before seen Cian less than relaxed over anything. Apparently Mrs Fletcher’s gossip mill marked Cian’s line in the sand.
“And the argument between the Dunnes and Mr Williams?” Heather asked. “You still don’t think it was about payment?”
Mrs Fletcher scoffed. “If so, I’ll eat my hat. Mr Williams wanted something kept a secret, and the Dunnes thought it should be shared.” The pinched twist to her lips told them exactly which side she stood on.
It was beginning to look like Mr Williams really might be the culprit behind the blocked letters; Heather just couldn’t work out why.
“Well, that’s cleared that up, then,” Heather said, standing up and forcing a smile. “Thank you for your time.”
“You didn’t take any notes.” Mrs Fletcher looked at their empty hands.
Cian stood and tapped his head with a cheery grin. “It’s all up here. Best memory in England, Mrs Flecker, don’t you worry.”
Mrs Fletcher’s nostrils flared at the deliberate mispronunciation, but they were already halfway down the corridor before she could respond. Her quick footsteps followed them to the door, and when she shut it behind them—without a goodbye—the firm thud reverberated at a pitch only just short of a slam.
“Guess we’ve got to revisit the Careys,” Cian said once they were standing back outside. “Something doesn’t add up.”
“Why would Mrs Fletcher say the Dunnes protected them?” Heather asked with a frown. “Do you think the fight was really about the affair?”
“It sounds a lot more likely than a tiff about bad luck,” Cian replied. “Particularly if the Dunnes are as reliable as everyone seems to think. Bit odd that they’d mess up one order.”
“I agree.”
They made their way back to the Careys’ house. Heather tried to put thoughts of Sinéad and danger from her mind, but they kept finding their way back in, creeping and insidious. She wondered if the raven had found Sinéad yet and if it would protect her as Heather had charged it to do. Heather’s new loaf of bread had filled the kitchen with a rain cloud the size of the oven this morning, and Heather had once more begun to doubt her own magic capable of achieving anything useful at all.
“Welcome back.” Mrs Carey greeted them, opening the door and waving them inside. “Do you have any leads?”
“Not quite,” Cian apologised. “We wanted to clarify a couple things, if that’s all right. Is your husband home?”
Mrs Carey shook her head. “He’s out, I’m afraid. Would you like me to get him to call you when he’s back?”
Cian glanced at Heather before smiling at Mrs Carey. “I don’t think it will be an issue, actually. I think you’ll be able to help us out.”
Heather privately agreed. The man had dominated the conversation last time, barely allowing his wife to get a word in. This way they might hear a new perspective.
Mrs Carey’s eyes widened guilelessly. “Anything you need, absolutely.”
She led them into the kitchen where the kettle had just boiled. In a few minutes, she placed a tray of fresh tea, milk, and biscuits in front of them—the complete opposite of their visit to Mrs Fletcher.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, and Heather’s heart twisted a little.
“This is lovely, thank you,” Heather said as warmly as she could manage. “We won’t keep you too long, but can you tell us a little more about the fight between your husband and the Dunnes?”
Mrs Carey’s eyelashes fluttered, just for a second. If Heather hadn’t been looking for any sign of lying, she wouldn’t have noticed it.
“Gee,” Mrs Carey said, bringing her mug up to hide her mouth. “I can’t remember any other details. After the window broke, and then the ice by the car, and the robbery, we went down to the meadow where the bees love to go and we found them absconding from their hives. There’s no question they hadn’t been put into proper mourning. I really don’t think I can tell you any more than that. I don’t know what the Dunnes did wrong or how it happened, but my husband called off all business with them and refused to pay for their service. That was that; we haven’t spoken to them since.”
Her eyes flitted around the room as she spoke, and as soon as she finished, she hid her mouth once more, staring down at the table.
Heather sighed. She had hoped Mrs Carey would be more forthcoming on her own, but it appeared they had no choice but to confront her. Even still, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“So, your fight had nothing to do with the Dunnes discovering your husband’s affair?” Cian’s voice remained calm, but when Heather looked over at him, his eyes flashed.
The expression on his face twisted so that his mouth became a haggard, thin line. Heather reeled, unused to seeing such bitter emotion on Cian’s face. It seemed as though he had reached the end of his tether, all the lies building until he couldn’t take it anymore. He looked just like his sister.
Mrs Carey stared at them, cup paused halfway to the table, and then she broke.
“It wasn’t meant to be public,” she moaned. “How did they know? And why would they spread such horrible gossip like that?”
“They—” Heather began, but Mrs Carey didn’t seem to even notice she had spoken, she just kept going.
“We had worked so hard to keep his indiscretion from the public eye, and then those two swoop in with their innocent little act and the whole neighbourhood knows. Who would do such a thing? It’s between a husband and wife, no one else.”
Heather frowned. “How do you know the Dunnes spread it and not someone else?”
“Oh, they did it,” she said darkly. “They phoned to ask a few more details about Agatha—may she rest in peace—and they couldn’t resist slipping it into conversation. Kept hinting that John should consider the notion that not all secrets stay secret, and that a good person would make things right.”
Cian snorted and tried to cover it up as a sneeze.
“Well,” Heather said slowly, “it does sound a little like a threat.”
“It was absolutely a threat,” Mrs Carey whimpered. “What else would it be? They told him he had to break things off with that harlot or they would tell the whole community. And then he did and they told them all anyway.”
“See, that’s the part that still doesn’t quite make sense,” Cian said, leaning forward and munching on a biscuit. “Have you met the Dunnes? They’re not the gossiping type. Are you sure they weren’t just trying to support you by getting your husband to quit his affair?”
Mrs Carey stared at him. “And what about the secret part?
‘Not all secrets stay secret’? What is that but a threat?”
“You’re sure they weren’t just warning you that they knew? I mean, if they found out, it isn’t exactly a secret anymore, is it?”
Mrs Carey slumped in her seat, staring forward at the tray with unseeing eyes. “How did they even find out? No one knows. I don’t even know who she is.”
It was a good question. How had the Dunnes managed to learn about both the affair and the jewellery heists when, according to Mrs Fletcher, they had no interest in gossip? Mr Amberville leaving the jewels where the Dunnes could see them was an extraordinary coincidence. Heather’s gut told her to pay attention, just as it told her the jewellery lead was false.
If only it could tell her how to find the answers.
Chapter Twelve
“So how did the Dunnes learn all this?” Heather asked the second they’d said goodbye to Mrs Carey and were alone again.
Cian pulled a face. “They do attract a lot of drama for a couple that, well… looks like that. Pink cardigans and all. Hardly an ensemble that goes hand in hand with juicy gossip.”
“It’s really not,” Heather agreed. “Do you have time for one more stop?”
“You mean before I go home and panic-eat my way through a whole sponge cake while we continue to get no updates from my missing sister? Yeah, I think I can manage that.”
Heather cut through a back alley, leading the way toward the Dunnes’ house. The sun was near setting, bringing them closer to dawn on Sunday when Sinéad planned to meet with the kidnappers. Heather tried not to think about that. They had several hours yet before their presence at the house would put Sinéad at risk.
Around the back, they were met with the gentle buzzing of the hives and the sway of police tape cordoning off the house. Cian stuck his face against the window and gave a low whistle.
“They weren’t kidding. The place is destroyed. Are we going in?”
Heather shook her head, eyes landing on a bush with several buzzing bees around it. “We don’t need to. I just have to check something.”
She took the revealing powder from her pocket and sprinkled it over the bees. Just as it had that first time, it glowed blue; only now she knew it wasn’t her imagination. She muttered the rest of the charm and watched the blue haze shimmer as it began to reveal the nature of the concealed magic to her.
Cian appeared behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder, watching as the blue sheen lifted into the air and began to twist into letters and then words. The only magic Heather could imagine this signalled was some kind of communication spell, but the spell that allowed a keeper to communicate to bees wouldn’t be concealed; this was something else.
“Only Ryan,” Heather read aloud, frowning. “What does that mean?”
“Isn’t that their son?” Cian stepped back to let the bee buzz over them, back to the hive. The words lingered in the air for a moment and then faded. “Well, we know one thing.” He grinned at Heather. “The bees do talk back after all.”
The grin dropped from his face at the same moment Heather’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open. “Only to Ryan,” she exclaimed. “The thing he was going to reveal at the Society initiations, do you think this was it?”
“Seems like it’d be a pretty big deal to bunch of beekeepers,” Cian said, eyes wide. “I’d say that’s a yes. Didn’t Mr Williams call that a mutation?”
“Which must be why he didn’t want the initiations going ahead this year!” Heather’s heart raced. “He knew Ryan’s secret. And the gardening magic on our phones, on the letters—he tried to make sure you two didn’t come to the ceremony.”
“Don’t really follow that last bit of logic, I’m afraid. Why would it matter if we came?”
“No,” Heather agreed. “We’re still missing something.” She paused. “You don’t think he took the Dunnes, do you? If he thinks it’s a mutation, he might want to hurt them…”
Cian chewed his thumbnail as he thought it over. “No,” he said finally, his voice thoughtful but firm. “The kidnappers said they took something, and you said yourself that whoever tried to keep us all away wasn’t the same person who sent the letters getting us involved. I don’t know what Mr Williams’ game is, but I don’t think it’s kidnapping.”
Heather sighed. “Then we still don’t have a name for the kidnappers. We just have to hope Sinéad’s right and it is someone involved in the jewellery theft.”
The two of them stared at each other, trying to fill in the blanks, but even though a stronger picture was forming, they had no way of making sense of it. They made their way back to the house, stewing silently on what they had pieced together and how much more they had to find out.
The frigid air of the house wrapped around Heather as she entered, reminding her how empty the place had been when she left. She tried to ignore the darkness and oppressive silence but found herself holding her breath, as if that might lessen the overwhelming dread. Sinéad always opened all the curtains in the morning, but with everything that had happened, Heather had forgotten to do it.
When they entered the workroom, Sinéad’s painting smiled at them, which lifted a weight from Heather’s chest she hadn’t known she was carrying. Cian walked over and tapped the map. When it unfurled, the bright red cross had changed location to a small collection of buildings in the suburbs.
“She’s moved to her studio!” Heather exclaimed, racing over to stare at it. “Do you think she’s met with the kidnappers already? No, actually, the note said to meet at the Dunnes’ house at dawn. But can we go see her now she isn’t at the police station?”
She turned to Cian, excitement bubbling up and over into a giddy smile and breathless laughter, but when she saw Cian’s expression, she stopped dead. He stared up at Sinéad’s portrait, eyes grim. Nothing changed in Sinéad’s face, but she watched Cian too. It was as if an unspoken communication passed between them.
“She still doesn’t want you to go,” he said quietly. “She wants to do this on her own.”
“What?” Heather’s voice caught. “Why? How do you know?”
“I’m not sure.” His voice came slow, hesitant. “It’s like I can sense her magic as if it’s my own, you know? When I look in her eyes, I can feel what she’s feeling. She isn’t worried, but she doesn’t want to risk you.”
Heather looked into Sinéad’s eyes, but she could only feel her own fear and worry. She tried not to get upset that Cian shared a connection with Sinéad in a way Heather never would—they were twins after all—but the sadness welled up inside her all the same.
Cian soon left. He offered to stay with Heather, but for the first time in a while she wanted to be alone. There was nothing else they could do that night but wait and hope Sinéad’s plan pulled through.
After he had gone, she drifted aimlessly around the kitchen, forcing herself to make something to eat even though there were few things she felt less like doing. It wasn’t until a large cloud hovered above her, threatening her with droplets of rain, that she realised she was cutting into the new loaf of bread she had baked.
She pulled up a chair and studied the cloud. It fluffed out on itself—a hulking, undulating mass of dark grey even bigger than last time. It didn’t thunder like before, but rather pulsed with occasional flickers of lightning and droplets of rain that seemed to leak out only when the cloud couldn’t hold them anymore. Heather frowned, wondering why the cloud acted so strangely. The other cloud had been quick to pour everything out in thunder and lightning, but this one chose to hover and rumble quietly instead, like it was sulking.
“Me too, cloud,” Heather muttered, biting into her sandwich, and then it hit her.
The bread dough magic hadn’t connected to the weather. It had connected to Heather’s moods. And it didn’t control them; it predicted them.
The cloud gave a dismal clap of thunder and began to rain. Heather stared at it, and then, not sure if it meant the cloud was right or if it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, she be
gan to cry. The last few days caught up to her, overwhelming her until she no longer had any idea which part upset her most, and she sank down onto a kitchen stool and closed her eyes.
Despite everything with Sinéad, the case, and Heather’s own business, it was the loss of her parents’ voicemail that filled her mind and refused to leave. No matter how hard she’d searched, she’d found no record of her parents’ voices in her phone or external storage—no videos, no messages, nothing. Why had they never recorded anything? What had they thought would happen after they were gone? Was she meant to just forget them?
Deep down, she knew that wasn’t the real problem. She was sad about that, certainly, but it was only loss. Only grief. She could choose to share it and then move on, but a part of her didn’t want to share it, and that was the real problem.
She was changing into someone her parents had never met. Heather had never been interested in becoming a private investigator before, and she’d never in her life believed she would meet someone she loved enough to want to move in together—someone who would make her want to leave her old life behind.
Her parents never knew this Heather, and they never would. The more of herself she shared with Cian, with Sinéad—with people her parents had never met—the more she would become something beyond their recognition. As stupid as it sounded, when she could still hear their voices on her answering machine, it had been as though they were just waiting for her to call. She had believed, in some deep and illogical part of her, that she could call them, tell them everything, and it would be like nothing had changed. But their voices were gone, and the silence was so loud she thought she might drown in it.
When she lifted her head from the bench, the tiny rain cloud was thundering so violently she was amazed the dogs hadn’t been scared away. But there they were, at her feet, having slinked in sometime when she was lost in her thoughts. She leant down and scratched Bear’s head, smiling when the rottweiler leaned into her touch and closed her eyes. The dogs loved it here, in Sinéad’s house. Heather was fairly certain they’d happily move here for the rest of their lives.
