Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  He shakes his head. “I won’t ask that of you.” When he holds out a hand for the knife, my fingers tighten around it.

  “You needn’t ask,” I say quietly. “Let me do this.”

  Jude considers me. His expression is grave, his eyes so dark I see my own reflection in them. Finally, he nods and sets his hand back on the ground.

  The knife fits neatly into my coat pocket.

  Taking my leave, I look toward the beach. Swells break as they kiss the shore, the water blue-black and endless, stretching out into forever.

  I do not bring the knife to the sea.

  Instead, I walk over the hillside and bury it deep beneath the heather. It’s slow going, as I have only my hands, but I don’t begrudge the work. If it saves Jude from doing something so ghastly, I’ll be glad for the dirt under my nails.

  There’s no sign of anyone as I dig, but I feel watched all the while. We’re caught between the start and the close, racing to meet whatever lies ahead. My blood sings in my ears.

  I am so, so ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE DANCE HALL IN DUNMORE is a large, open space, made up of gleaming wood and lofty chandeliers. Windows line the walls, high and arched, reaching for the rafters. I make my way across the length of the room, my boot heels loud against the floorboards.

  It’s been two years since I was last here. Two years since I last stood on the stage, took up my violin, and played for a crowd of people. There are dips in the floor, black marks, from all the nights islanders and tourists filled the emptiness. It’s an effort to push down those memories—of my father playing onstage, of Jude’s hand in mine as we spun around, dancing together—but I’ve practice in snuffing out such ruminations.

  Next to the stage is a door to the back room. It has no lock, but I tap my knuckles on the wood before letting myself in.

  The inside is just as I remember: small, cramped, woefully untidy. Dust covers every surface, from the stage equipment to the piano pushed against the back corner. An oil lamp burns atop the desk. Behind it, Peter Atherton sits, looking over sheet music. When he glances up, his jaw goes slack. “Moira.” He sets down his papers to place his hands flat on the desk. “Please, tell me you’re back.”

  I put my fingertips to the desk’s edge. “I don’t think so.”

  He shifts, leaning back, now watching me with something like suspicion. At twenty, he’s the oldest of us, the one trying to hold everything together in my absence.

  I feel only a little sorry for him.

  “Then why are you here?” he asks.

  Skimming my fingers along the desk, I stare at the lines made through the dust. “I’m wondering if Flint was at rehearsal yesterday.”

  I’d left the harbor without seeing him set off. If he hadn’t gone out, he’d have had time to leave a note at the lighthouse, and if he didn’t show up for rehearsal, he could’ve planted that knife in Jude’s garden. There had been a similarly stained knife in his boat—now I wish I’d gotten a better look at it.

  “We didn’t have rehearsal yesterday.” Peter catches my eye. “You’d know that if you were back with us.”

  I grind my teeth. “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugs, looking away. “Bree was feeling poorly. We’ve moved it to later this evening, if you’d like to attend.”

  Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I know how to return. I’ve gotten used to playing in the wind, above the roar of the surf, without recognition or applause. But at the hall, my violin accompanied other instruments, giving layers to a song. People waited for my music, listened to it, danced to the melodies I performed.

  “I know you’re still cross with him,” says Peter.

  “And you,” I bite back.

  “It’s been two years, Moira.” He lifts a hand, palm up. “Surely your pride has recovered by now.”

  I press my lips thin. “Flint insulted me.”

  “He apologized.”

  “Only after I demanded it. Only after you said naught about it.”

  Peter rubs his forehead, eyes closing for a moment. “It was a bad night,” he says.

  That much is true. I remember it down to the date, as it was the day before the anniversary of my father’s passing. I was ill-tempered, as such, and after dealing with a crowd of mostly tourists, everyone was a bit short with one another. Once Peter, Flint, and I were the last musicians in the back room, Flint had it out with me.

  “Third figure of the set,” he said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice when you came in late.”

  I huffed out a breath as I opened my case, placing my violin inside.

  “And you can’t start a reel like that out of the blue.” He took me by the arm, my hand still gripping my bow. “Might come as a shock, but you’re not the only one up there.”

  Peter stopped fidgeting with his chanter reed just long enough to look in our direction. He said only, “Flint.”

  Flint paid no mind. Seizing my bow, he held it as if to snap it in half.

  I looked him dead in the eye. “Give that back.”

  And he did. Right after he offered up a gleeful smile and split the wood in two.

  I’d walked out with no intention of playing at the hall again. Now I stand in front of Peter’s desk, contemplating that very idea. If I’m to keep tabs on Gabriel Flint, this is the best way to do so.

  I gaze through the open door to the stretch of floor beyond. Come this weekend, islanders will arrive as the sun goes down. The place will fill with music, the click of heels, couples whirling, laughing, kissing.

  I do miss it. I really do.

  Turning to Peter I ask, “What time this evening?”

  * * *

  When I enter the hall for the second time that day, it’s with my violin case in hand. I clutch it tightly as I walk to the stage. There’s Peter with his bagpipes, Flint with his flute. Bree Cairns stands with them, watching as I make my way over.

  “Why have you come back?” she asks, more curious than vexed. She’s a fine singer and an adept pianist. Her dark hair is done up in a chignon, her eyes shining in the evening light coming in through the windows. That light falls upon the stage, turning the wood a burnished gold.

  “Because I’ve decided to.”

  The answer is a simple one—too simple for something that feels momentous—but Bree takes it at face value. She looks to Peter, as I do, and his eyes meet mine.

  “Leave your case in the back room,” he tells me.

  Just that. It’s like the three of them were waiting for me all along, knowing I’d return, and now that I have it’s business as usual. I slide my gaze to Flint, and he grins back, devilish. I grip my violin case that much tighter.

  In the back room, I find someone else waiting for me. He steps away from the desk when I come in, holding his cap at his side.

  I stop in my tracks. Then I hurriedly close the door behind me. Through it, I hear Peter laugh, but it’s muffled by the rush of blood in my ears. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Jude presses his knuckles to his mouth. I don’t think he’s ever stood in this room, but he doesn’t look wholly out of place. The shadows give weight to his solemn expression; he’s little more than a silhouette in the dim. My heart hammers as I wait for him to speak. He says, “Peter told me you’ll be playing at the dance this weekend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t believe it. It’s all anyone’s talking about at the docks.”

  I shift my violin case from one hand to the other. “Jude,” I say.

  He seems to grasp the uncertainty in my tone. “I think”—he pauses, biting his lip—“I think we ought to talk.”

  “Don’t worry. You made yourself quite clear.” Unexpectedly, my voice breaks, and I clamp my mouth shut.

  Jude looks down, kneading his cap. I don’t know what he wants from me, but having him here, so close, tugs at my heartstrings. “Moira,” he starts, only to pause again, searching for words. He flicks his gaze back up, eyes dark. “Y
ou are—you have always been—my closest friend. I don’t wish to spend another few years apart because of this. It’s hypocritical of me to be upset with you for keeping secrets, when I’ve done the very same.”

  I’m not sure what he means, but now seems a poor time to inquire. I lay my violin case on the desk, pressing my fingers to the clasps.

  “I can’t fault you for your father’s actions,” he says. “Nor can I fault you for shielding such actions from me. I know you were only trying to protect his good character.” In the dimness, I see his grip tighten on his cap. “He didn’t force my family out there iron-less. My father made that choice.”

  I swallow. “I am sorry, Jude.” I look up at him, at his dark eyes, the set line of his mouth. “I should not have kept it from you—certainly not for so many years.”

  He offers me a small smile. “Well,” he says, “I understand why you did it. Now, I’m sure I’ve taken up quite enough of your time. I oughtn’t intrude upon your practice any longer.” He moves for the door, but I catch hold of his sleeve.

  “You can stay, if you like.”

  His lips part. As I watch, a blush rises in his cheeks. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  Warmth kindles to life in my chest. I can’t help but grin as I unfasten the clasps on my case and rosin my bow. Jude opens the door once I’ve finished preparing, and the others eye us without comment. Onstage, I take up my violin. Jude sits with his feet dangling over the edge, the pink across his cheeks not yet faded.

  We manage to play through our entire set. In perfect moments, everyone is wonderfully in tune, the song permeating the hollows of my heart, humming through violin strings. Realizing I’ve closed my eyes, I open them, and find Jude watching me.

  His expression is soft, his own eyes far away. I imagine him at the dance, the sound of his laugh entwined with the music, the brightness of the hall spilling out into the night. Bree begins to sing “Over the Moor,” and Jude smiles at me as though we’re sharing a secret. I want to memorize that smile—to preserve its image and place it beside all the compositions in my mind—but the song ends all too quickly, and Jude’s gaze breaks away.

  When Peter calls an end to rehearsal, Jude gets to his feet. He waits on the dance floor as I head into the back room. On my way out, I catch him looking up into the rafters as if studying the woodwork.

  “How was I?” I ask.

  He tucks his hands into his pockets. “You know I always love your music, Moira.”

  I grin back. “I do hope that means you’re coming to the dance.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  We step out of the hall together. The sun has dipped below the nearby shops, casting shadows, the smell of burning leaves sharp in the air. I swing my violin case back and forth, content with a job well done. That feeling soon dulls when I remember why I was there in the first place.

  “We need to keep an eye on Gabriel Flint,” I say.

  Jude turns on his heel, walking backward to hold my gaze. “I reckon most of our suspects will be in attendance at the hall,” he says, “once people find out you’re playing.”

  I kick a stray leaf down the sidewalk. “Mr. Sheahan said he saw the Brackens walking home that day. We’ve yet to question them.”

  The sisters are also Jude’s closest neighbors. It’d be easy for them to put a knife in his garden and take off back home before anyone noticed. Whoever might be at fault for Connor’s fate, we’ll have to build a case against them. Someone we could place at the crime scene around the time of Connor’s death, at the harbor before Russell tipped that poison in the sea.

  We reach the edge of town—cobbled streets disappearing into heather and moss and sprawls of shingled houses—and I pause as the path diverges.

  Jude says, “I can meet you tomorrow, if you want to visit them.”

  I stare out at the wide sweep of grass tinted red by autumn. After today I ought to feel gladness, some sense of satisfaction. Jude is once more at my side, once more willing to help me investigate. My hands are still warm with the memory of my violin, my fingers still pleasantly sore after playing for such a stretch.

  Yet dread continues to gnaw at my insides. It seeps through my rib cage, winding tight around my heart. I think of the scratches marking Jude’s door, the knife in his garden. The police have made no other arrests as far as I’m aware. It doesn’t sit right with me, and the longer this goes on, the longer the killer is out there, watching us, aware of our investigation.

  “We’ll go in the morning,” I tell Jude.

  We part ways, and I look back, regarding him until he’s but a figure in the distance, cast in relief by the setting sun. Gripping my violin case, I start for home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  JUDE APPEARS ON MY DOORSTEP just after breakfast. When I lead him into the kitchen, my mother looks him over, lips pursed. “Finished all your morning duties?” she asks.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He smooths a hand down the front of his wool sweater, nervous, as if we’re at town hall and my mother is Mr. Daugherty.

  Our table is still cluttered with odd plates and silverware, the butter dish flanked by my teacup and a tiny basket of bread rolls. Jude sits down opposite me, and I push the basket toward him. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  He shakes his head, but he doesn’t take a bread roll, either. He twists the loose threads at his cuff, pulling at the ones that have come undone. His expression is drawn, and he looks so tired; I fear he’s passed another night without sleep.

  My mother pushes a cup of tea into his hands. “Eat, Wick,” she says. “I won’t have you wasting away in my kitchen.”

  Jude nods meekly, setting the teacup on the table beside him. He looks to me and says, “I repainted the door.” His voice is quiet, but it wavers nonetheless. “It was in need of a new coat anyway.”

  I want to say something like you shouldn’t make excuses, because it’s foul, intolerable, for Jude’s home to be treated in such a poor fashion. But another part of me understands his desire to bury this, to render the event mundane. This is Jude’s way of coping.

  At the counter, my mother picks up a basket of pastries. She says, “I may not be back until late, Moira.” She nods at Jude. “Take care, Wick.”

  When she’s gone, Jude heaves a sigh and starts diligently buttering one of the bread rolls. Confirming my suspicions, he mumbles, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  I tap my fingers against the table. “Well, you’re not sleeping now. We’ve got to go question the Brackens.” Though even as I say it, my heart aches in sympathy. It’s easy to see why Jude might have trouble sleeping. He lives alone, at the island’s edge, and his nearest neighbors may be the persons responsible for Connor’s death.

  Imogen and Nell Bracken reside in a small cottage by the cliffs. It’s a quarter of a mile away from the lighthouse, close to the crime scene, close enough to observe Jude’s comings and goings if they wished to leave him a message.

  They are among the few people Mr. Sheahan mentioned seeing around the harbor, aside from Jude’s uncle.

  I want it to be them. I don’t want it to be them.

  I rack my brain for recollections of their family history. It’s rare for families on this island to go completely untouched by siren song. Somewhere down the line, there’s the great-grandmother who survived an attack, the happily married fisherman lost to sirens at sea. My father’s father had been lured in by their song, stolen away when Da was just a child himself.

  To have killed Connor, Imogen and Nell need a motive.

  Jude rubs his eyes. “Nell was our schoolteacher,” he says, as if this excludes her from any wrongdoing.

  “Their cottage is near the crime scene,” I reply. “They could’ve met Connor on the beach and made it home before the storm got bad.”

  It makes me feel a little sick, envisioning how the murder could’ve been planned, and Jude’s expression reflects my thoughts. “I still don’t think it’s them,” he says
, but doubt lingers behind his eyes. I just can’t tell whether it’s doubt over the Bracken sisters, or simply everyone on the island.

  We leave the house and make our way over the hillsides, toward the cliff’s edge. As we approach, I hear the rush of waves against the rocks, salt air ruffling the heather.

  The sisters’ cottage is a timeworn accompaniment to the windswept moors. It’s made up of old stone and weathered wood, with a garden of roses, foxgloves, daisies. Jude removes his cap and knocks on their door. Through the wood, there’s nothing but silence, and I hope the sisters haven’t already left. Imogen works as a secretary at town hall, but surely she hasn’t already set off. School doesn’t start for another couple of hours, so Nell should be in.

  “Perhaps they’re not home?” says Jude.

  Then the door opens.

  Detective Thackery stands on the other side of the threshold.

  Next to me, Jude freezes up. His breath comes quick, and I feel my pulse thrum in response. I can only imagine what ideas must be racing through his head. The last time I talked to Thackery, Jude was behind bars for someone else’s crime.

  Thackery smiles as though he’s been anticipating our arrival. “Ah, Miss Alexander, Mr. Osric,” he says. “A good morning to you both.”

  I try to see past him into the cottage.

  Voice hoarse, Jude says, “Good morning, sir.”

  What’s he doing here?

  “I was just asking after you, Wick. You’re a hard man to track down.”

  “Am I?” Jude holds his cap in front of him, white-knuckled. “Did you…? Did you try wiring me? I check for messages every morning. I didn’t see…”

  Thackery waves him silent. At the end of the entrance hall, Nell Bracken emerges from another room. She pauses, hands clasped, watching us with a curious expression. I meet her eye.

  “I caught word your lighthouse suffered some damage,” says Thackery.

  “Oh.” A number of emotions play across Jude’s face. Relief and embarrassment war with each other. “Oh, gosh, that. I’ve already sorted it, sir. The door, that is. Some resin, some paint—good as new.”