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. “You 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.