by Kelly Powell
She reads through it. She has changed little since my school days, dressed in her practical shirtwaist and skirt, her chestnut hair done up tightly. Her expression softens upon meeting my gaze. “Of course, dear.” As I turn to hang it on the wall, she continues. “You must be terribly cut up about it, losing one of your students.”
I pause. “He was your student too.” And because my back is to her, because there is no one to see my face, I close my eyes, biting my lip, as her words coil tight around my heart.
“Yes,” says Nell. “Not the first I’ve lost, but I find that does not lessen the pain of it.”
I set a hand on the wall, needing something solid to lean against. I wonder what Nell might say if I told her Connor was murdered, that he was taken by one of our own. Word of Jude’s arrest has yet to spread. The gossip will be passed around tonight, in casual conversation over tea. And all the while Jude…
Jude will be…
I hear rather than see Nell get up from her desk. I hurriedly pin my flyer, blinking back tears. When she looks into my face, I cut my eyes away from hers. She tuts. “My dear, you’re quite undone. You ought to rest.”
Undone. Yes, I suppose that’s the word for it. I feel cut loose, set adrift on uncertain waters, without the means to chart my way back. Clasping my hands in front of me, I gaze out one of the windows.
Jude and I heading out the door, falling into step beside each other. Jude taking my bookstrap onto his shoulder, Jude walking me home.
I shouldn’t have come here.
With a nod at Nell I say, “Thank you kindly, Miss Bracken. I fear you’re right. I’ve been rather out of sorts.”
“You get on home and have your mother make you a cup of tea.”
She ushers me toward the door. When I’m alone on the sidewalk, I flex the fingers of my bowing hand. Playing now, in this temper, is likely to yield only a broken string. Clouds have settled over the slate roofs, a cold drizzle speckling the cobbles. Starting for home, I duck my head against the rain.
The chill still manages to work its way into my bones.
CHAPTER TEN
THERE ARE FIVE SEPARATE LOCKUPS in Dunmore’s police station. The cells run along a corridor of white tile and metal piping, toward the back end of the building. I smooth down the buttons of my coat as I enter the hall. My eyes go to the ceiling, and I spot mold flourishing in patches.
Jude spent a night in this place.
Did they leave him in the dark?
So many pressing thoughts, yet that one—that one unnerves me at my core. The corridor is empty, quiet, and it soon becomes evident Jude is the lone occupant. I come to a stop outside his cell. It has a small, barred window, a wooden bed against the wall, and a pail tucked beneath it. In the dim, it takes me a moment to locate Jude Osric. He sits on the floor, wedged into a corner. His eyes are closed, and he clutches one knee to his chest.
The police have taken his boots. His waistcoat and tie are folded neatly on the bed. He wears only shirt and suspenders, trousers and socks. It makes him look younger, apart from the sleepless smudges marking his eyes. My chest tightens.
“Jude,” I murmur. “Please, look at me.”
He presses his forehead against his knee, hiding his face from view. In a rasp, he says, “I believe I told Miss Finley not to let you down here.”
“She knows which of us not to cross.”
Jude raises his head. His lips quirk in a humorless smile. “She might be remiss in that regard. I’m the one behind bars.”
I curl a hand around one of said bars, the metal cold against my palm. The morning sun emerges from cloud cover, its light shining sheer through the window to dash upon the floor. Jude picks at his shirt cuff, eyes lowered to the task.
“Tell me what they did to you,” I say.
He continues to fidget with his cuff. I worry, for a moment, he won’t say anything at all. He swallows, and softly he asks, “Do you think I did it? Truly?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t.” My grip on the bar is white-knuckled. I wish he’d get up and walk over to me, so I might bring a hand to his cheek and look into his eyes proper.
Instead, Jude rests his head back against the wall. He is a shadow cloaked in shadows. He hasn’t once met my gaze. “Well, that’s a comfort,” he says, and I hate how unfeeling he sounds, when it’s plain he must be feeling a great deal. “I think the police mean to keep me here a while longer.”
“I’ll talk to them. I’m going to get you out.”
“Fine.” At last his eyes settle on mine. “Let’s say you do. What of Daugherty? Do you think he’ll permit my return to the lighthouse?”
Now I realize: This is the root of what really plagues him.
“That’s your post, Jude.” I falter, unsure. “Once your name is clear, he’ll have no choice…”
“It’s been my family and no other working that light for generations. My ancestors walked that staircase. They trimmed the wicks and stood on the gallery deck just as I do.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I felt the press of those years—felt them watching over me. I was meant to add my page to that book, but now I—I’ve broken the line. I’ve ruined it.”
“Jude, stop.” My voice is thick, my heart aching like his words have run me through. “You haven’t ruined anything. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He sets a hand on the floor, fingers splayed. “I must ask something of you, Moira.”
I nod. “Anything at all.”
“However long I’m in here”—he pauses, biting his lip—“don’t visit the lighthouse. Don’t speak with my uncle.” He rubs his palm against his trouser knee, dark eyes gleaming. “Stay away altogether. Promise me, please.”
“I promise.” I believe it would hurt too much, anyway—going back when Jude himself isn’t free to do so.
He bows his head. “Thank you.”
After I leave him, the storm inside me seethes. I’m awash in it, rage boiling over until I’m shaking. If Jude were not here and I was given a match, I think perhaps I’d burn the whole place to the ground. I march down the hall to Thackery’s office, banging my fist against the door.
“Yes, Miss Alexander, do come in.”
I bring the tempest to him. My hands slam down on his desk, hard as a wave smashing up against the island. “I’ll grant you the generosity of thinking you’ve made a mistake,” I tell him, “but you’ve imprisoned a good man, and I demand you release him at once.”
Detective Thackery considers me with disinterest. “Your idea of what constitutes good in a man is too broad, Miss Alexander. We’ve a suspected murderer behind bars.”
“You suspect Jude Osric because he found Connor on the beach? Because he reported it? You’re punishing him for doing what he’s tasked as keeper.”
There is little in Jude’s power to alleviate disaster, when it comes. A fishing boat might run aground on the rocks, some iron-less sailor might be charmed overboard by sirens, but Jude can’t save everyone from the perils of the sea. Nor is he expected to. He is meant only to report the occurrences.
He is meant to keep the light.
“I’m not required to present our findings to you.” Thackery folds his hands over his lacquered desk. “Miss Alexander, you reminded me that I ought to investigate every avenue. You directed us to look for a human killer. At the moment Mr. Osric is our prime suspect.”
“You can’t keep him in that cell forever. You can’t.”
Thackery hums. Looking elsewhere, he says, “It’s true we can’t hold him indefinitely. Not without solid evidence.” He unfolds his clasped hands to tap twice against the edge of his desk. “We’ll be releasing Mr. Osric no later than tomorrow.”
Relief rushes over me, cold and clean. I draw back, straightening up. “And what of his position? I do hope unfounded suspicion won’t deprive him of his livelihood.”
Thackery’s gaze swings back around. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’ll speak with Mr. Daugherty,” he says cautiously. “I’m sure he’l
l reinstate Mr. Osric as keeper. Provided he’s innocent, he won’t be removed from his posting.”
“Very good.” I head for the door, but as I reach it, I turn back. “Sir, why did you do it? Why reopen the case?” Hope flutters in my rib cage, but fear stills it in one fell swoop. Even if the police no longer fault the sirens, they have a poor handle on things going by their first arrest. “Do you not think sirens attacked Connor after all?”
“My thoughts haven’t changed, Miss Alexander. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Right.” I grind my teeth. “Well, sir, I’d say good day, but it’d be quite the lie with Jude Osric sitting in jail.”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your concern,” he says, eyeing me. “This is police business—something I suggest you keep in mind.”
I stare back at him. “Mr. Osric is my friend. Connor Sheahan was a student of mine. Perhaps you ought to keep that in mind, sir.”
“Take care, Miss Alexander.”
Out on the cobblestones, I push my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. I make my way toward the moors, toward home, but I feel directionless even as my feet set me on the path. I’ve no idea how to solve a murder. I’ve no idea how to set things right. A killer walks free, going about their day, while Jude Osric is under lock and key for their crimes.
Frustration grips me. If the murderer did mean to frame the sirens, what purpose did it serve?
In Lochlan, I know, records of siren attacks are kept in the library. If indeed Connor’s death was made to mirror them, perhaps they’re worth a look.
It’s not much. But it’s a start.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I SURVEY THE HARBOR from beneath the curve of my umbrella. It’s been raining on and off all morning, making the docks slick underfoot. There’s a chill in the air, and my breath escapes in a mist. I dig my free hand into the pocket of my long coat. For God’s sake, September is not meant to be this cold.
I stare down at the vacant boats, all of them with flaked paint, tangled knots, unclean sails. More than a dozen masts pierce the gray sky. Of the several faces I recognize, it’s Gabriel Flint who’s first to notice me. From the boathouse, he grins wide enough to reveal his chipped incisor. He wears no hat, and the dampness has given his blond hair a cowlick that curls back from his forehead. Driving his fillet knife into the cutting table, he heads over to where I stand.
“Moira Alexander,” he says. “A pleasure to have you here on such a foul day.”
“Keep away from me, Flint.”
He does quite the opposite, offering his arm as if I’m fool enough to take it. I skirt around him. He’s quick to follow after, saying, “You’re not still angry with me, are you? My, you know how to hold a grudge, girl.”
Inside my coat pocket, my fingers twitch with the desire to seize him by the collar and pitch him over the side of the dock.
“Is that why you stopped playing at the hall?” he asks. “Just to spite me?”
Ignoring him, I continue down the pier, passing rowboats and fishing trawlers. Warren Knox straightens up after securing one of the trawlers and makes his way toward us. It seems I’m not the only one wanting to take Flint by the collar—Warren does so as he passes us, pulling him to a stop. “Where do you think you’re rushing off to?” he growls. “There’s still work to be done.”
Flint pats him on the shoulder. “I’m doing a simple kindness, is all. Our Moira is looking to go somewhere, and I’ve offered to take her.” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that so, Moira?”
“Hardly the weather for it,” says Warren.
“Why, this?” Flint gestures to the storm clouds overhead. “It’ll blow itself out before evening.”
Warren grunts and releases him with a shove. I watch him walk off toward the boathouse, until Flint draws my attention back, saying, “You are looking to go somewhere, then.”
I pause. I’d come here with a mind set on taking the ferry, but that’s time and money I’d rather not spend. Snapping my umbrella shut, I jab him with the pointed end. “I’m not paying you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t want your coins, Moira.”
I didn’t expect so. Flint is always asking something of me, but it’s never in the form of silver. He presses me to read his compositions, to join him in a duet at the dances. It’s ironic, really. He’s the main reason I cut ties with the hall.
“You oughtn’t ask anything of me,” I tell him. “Where’s your boat?”
Flint jerks his chin toward it. Terry Young is there on the dock, tightening knots against rough tide. Waves lash the harbor posts, choppy and white-capped.
The stormy weather isn’t fierce enough to trouble the sirens. I imagine looking over the edge of the pier to find one there: a silvery flash emerging from the dark waters, smiling up with sharp teeth. Most times their dislike of iron—an essential part of many fishing vessels—is a good enough deterrent to keep them from the harbor.
Most times.
Terry glances around at the sound of our footsteps. Like his name, he’s young—fourteen at the most. He’s also excitable and kind, which makes me worry over him. I know what this island does to softhearted boys, how much it takes from them, wearing them down just as the wind and sea erode our cliffs. Removing his cap, he waves to us. “Hello, Miss Alexander. You picked a fine day to come out.”
Flint claps him on the shoulder. “Get these knots untied, Terry. Miss Alexander has business”—he looks to me—“where?”
“Lochlan,” I answer.
“Lochlan. Right.”
Terry grumbles, but crouches down to do as he’s told. Flint’s boat rocks to and fro with the current, the blue paint on the hull peeling and cracked through. Flint jumps aboard and holds out a hand. Ignoring it, I step down after him.
There’s a bundle of tangled line on deck and, beneath it, a box of fishhooks and a slim knife. I sit and take up the knife to study it. It’s stained and well rusted for something that ought to be used only for cutting line.
“Mind,” says Flint. “I’m not answering to your mother if you slice your finger off.”
I scowl at him and drop the knife back into the heap of fishing line.
The storm seems to worsen once we’re underway. Each wave threatens to spill over the hull, and Flint curses, grip tight on the tiller, as he concentrates on steering into the wind. I pull my coat close, blinking against the rain.
“What are you needing in Lochlan?”
I hadn’t thought he’d start a conversation, with the wind roaring in our ears, but he manages. I’ve not even answered before he’s asking, “How’s Wick faring these days?” And the way he says it, I can tell he knows Jude’s whereabouts. Gossip is second only to siren song in enchanting the island, spreading like wildfire in the daylight hours. News of Jude’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment would’ve struck like lightning.
“They’re going to release him,” I say shortly.
“He’s off his head.” Flint’s tone is wicked. “Sitting up at that lighthouse all by his lonesome. Matter of time, if you ask me.”
I glare back at him. “I haven’t asked you anything.”
He smiles just enough to show his teeth. “You think he’s innocent.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” I snap. “He’s Jude Osric.”
Flint groans. “There you go sounding like everyone else at the harbor.” He takes a moment to tighten the sails, then touches the back of his hand to his forehead like some fainting maiden. “Our Wick? Accused of murder? It’s them sirens who took dear Connor!”
I cut my eyes away. The island’s cliffs loom over us, tall and ethereal in the mist. “The sirens are still suspect,” I say.
“Aye.” Flint shifts our angle. The boat pitches up and down on the growing swells. “That must tear into you, eh?”
I don’t speak. Curling my fingers around the gunwale, I gaze over the side to watch the hull cut through strings of kelp. The sirens will be in the depths below, wait
ing, swimming in the silent blackness. Sometimes, in the back corner of my mind, I think I wish to hear them sing. I want it with a desire that is nameless and cares not if my ears bleed from the sound.
Sometimes the things I desire terrify me.
Flint calls, “Nearly there,” and adjusts the sails to keep us parallel to the shore. I stare across the expanse of water until Lochlan’s harbor appears out of the fog. It’s larger than Dunmore’s, with several ferries anchored at port. Men in wool sweaters and trousers stuffed into heavy boots walk up and down the docks, checking lines, logging the arrival of each ship. They remind me of Jude, in some way, and I shake my head to dispel the image.
Flint passes the boat’s line over to one of the men at the edge of the dock. He has a shock of ginger hair and a quick smile, his hands tying the fishing boat in place with smooth efficiency. We step onto the pier, and he takes down our names.
“Awful weather to sail in,” he says. “Do you know when you’ll be casting off?”
“Before evening,” I reply. “We’ll not be staying long.”
We walk away from the harbor, up the wooden staircase set into the side of the cliff. Every step is slick with rainwater, and Flint is thoroughly irritated after almost slipping twice. A tourist ship has disembarked its passengers, probably the last of the season, and a trail of people follow behind us. Their voices are loud and accented, rising easily over the noise of the harbor.
Neither Flint, nor I, nor any other islander I know holds much fondness in their heart for tourists. Even Jude’s goodwill—seemingly limitless—begins to chafe after long exposure.
I hazard a glance over my shoulder to catch a few of the newcomers leaning forward at the dock’s edge, peering into the water. I’ll be surprised if any one of them had the foresight to carry iron on their person.
Flint looks around, spots the group, and lets out a single bark of laughter. “Don’t even need singing to,” he says. “They’ll just fall right in.”
Every summer tourists come to call as though the sirens have sung them to our shore. It’s little wonder their self-absorbed selves account for most of the siren death tally. They see Twillengyle’s sirens as charming curios rather than creatures who could charm them into a sea grave.