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.”
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.”