“Would you like me to stay with you?”
“Yes.” Jude’s voice cracked, halfway to a sob. “I don’t want to be alone.”
In the hall of the cottage, I curl my arms around myself. I’d kept this secret dreading Jude would fault my father, blame him, never mind the fact that this was what our fathers did. They were all fascination and no fear when it came to chasing sirens.
“I used to lie awake at night, wondering how it could’ve happened.” Jude pales markedly. “I could never puzzle it out. It didn’t occur to me, you see, that they might’ve gone out there without any iron.”
I cast my eyes down, tears blurring my vision. “Jude…”
“Your father… He just—” The rest of his words seem to catch in his throat. He pauses, taking a breath. “You should’ve told me. I deserved to know.”
I look up to see his gaze has returned to the letter. He clings to it as though it might vanish at any given moment, his hands red and chapped against the page.
To think just yesterday I considered burning it.
“What can I do?” I ask. “How can I…? How can I put this right?”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t something you can put right, Moira.”
I hesitate. His words feel like a door closing, like a ship leaving port. Panic jolts my heart into beating twice as fast. “What does that mean?” When he says nothing, I hide my hands in the pockets of my cardigan, biting my lip. “Connor’s murderer is still out there. We still haven’t questioned—”
“All right, enough.” He closes his eyes. “I need to be alone.”
I try to keep my voice regular. “For how long?”
He stares, incredulous, and I wish to disappear beneath the floorboards. More than anything I want to be away from here, on the cliffs, with my violin in hand and salt air filling my lungs. I move toward the door, pull up the latch. “I’ll be off, then.”
Jude remains quiet, but he looks over just as I step out. For a second, for a heartbeat, our eyes meet.
I shut the door behind me.
* * *
I reach the harbor before the fishermen set out for the morning. It’s still early and dark enough for lanterns, the small lights traversing the docks as men ready their boats with lobster pots and trawls. The sun has yet to appear, but the sky lightens each passing minute, the horizon streaked pale yellow.
Heading down the main pier, I look about for Gabriel Flint. He’s not at the dockside; instead, I find him gathering rope in the boathouse. The building is old, made up of clapboard siding and open archways, the wood faded by the sun. The inside smells just like the outside—like kelp and fish and brine. Nets hang from the rafters, creels and lobster pots stacked against the walls.
Flint pretends not to see me until I’m too close to ignore.
“I have words for you,” I say.
“Well, poor timing, Moira. I’m busy.”
Patience is a virtue I’ve never had in abundance, and I certainly don’t have room for it now. As he hoists the corded rope onto his shoulder, I snatch hold of it. “That was hateful what you did to Jude Osric. You know good and well he doesn’t drink.”
“I don’t see him taking issue with it.” Tugging the rope from my grip, he adds, “What concern is it of yours, anyway?”
“He told me what he said to you. About Connor.” I cross my arms. “What concern is that of yours?”
“Just being curious.” He smirks. “I suppose you think that’s criminal of me.”
My lip curls. He pushes his cap back, turns away, and heads for the line of boats still anchored at their moorings. He’d questioned Jude that night and gotten answers. He knows I believe Connor was murdered—though when we sailed to Lochlan, he didn’t seem opposed to the idea either. At least when Jude was set to take the fall for it.
I’m out of the boathouse and on Flint’s heels in an instant. “What do you think they’ll do with Russell Hendry?” I ask.
He spares me a glance. “I hear they’re keeping him locked up till trial.”
I still can’t comprehend what drove Russell to tip that poison in the sea. Did he really have so little interest in his freedom? Was he that enraged over Connor’s death? He could’ve been coerced, perhaps, blackmailed—any number of possibilities.
But I want more than possibilities. I want facts and hard evidence, all lined up in front of me. I want answers.
Flint says, “And I don’t know where he got those cans, before you ask.”
Through gritted teeth, I ask something else entirely. “Do you know where I can find Warren Knox?”
He raises a brow, perplexed, but nods toward the boats. “He’ll be setting off, same as everyone.”
I start in that direction, my boots clacking against the rotting wood of the dock. Men turn to watch me, pausing in their work, the lines around their eyes crinkling. A few of them—of the elder generation—tend to keep rowan sticks in the pockets of their overalls alongside the iron nails they have for protection. They’re the ones who took to blood sport in the past. I think they worry the sirens might smell that blood on their hands and desire some in return.
The last of the lobster traps are stacked on deck. Crews begin casting off their mooring lines. I spot Warren Knox on a boat with half a dozen other men and dash over, calling out to him.
“You oughtn’t be down here, Miss Alexander.” He says it friendly-like, but I know where I’m not wanted. Lately, it’s quite a number of places. The harbor, the police station, the lighthouse. Only those at the dance hall seem in want of my presence—or rather, in want of my fingers on violin strings and my hand around a bow.
The realization leaves me cold. “I wanted to ask you about Connor,” I say.
Warren’s expression clouds over. He doesn’t say anything at all, disregarding me as someone passes the stern line over to him.
I can do nothing but watch as they push away from the dock. Morning fog skims the water, waves ebbing into foam. Warren’s boat makes its way out of the harbor, and I turn to make my way back up the cliff.
Once I reach the moors, my gaze shifts unerringly to the lighthouse. I tear my eyes away, silently berating myself. I ought to be glad for Jude Osric. Now he knows better than to treat me kindly. Now he’s free of my treacherous self.
I go home only to grab my coat. I’ve other business to attend to, and though it feels like eons since I woke to Jude standing at my window, it’s still the dawn of that day. Slipping my hands into my coat pockets, my fingers touch upon a bit of paper. I take it out, unfold it, and realize what it is.
It’s the note he left me when I stayed the night in the keeper’s cottage. A note I tucked away and promptly forgot about. I picture him writing it, taking it down the hall, sliding it under the guest room door.
Morning, Moira.
I crumple the paper in my fist.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CATRIONA FINLEY APPEARS both mystified and exasperated to observe me at her desk again. “What’s the nature of your visit this time, Miss Alexander?”
On the other side of the room, two gentlemen sit, quietly conversing. From the corner of my eye, I catch the pair glancing in my direction. I turn fully to stare at them until they look pointedly elsewhere.