“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 thank 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.