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.”
I make sure to study Nell as he speaks. She blinks back at me, brow furrowed.
Thackery narrows his eyes. “This is a serious matter, Mr. Osric. If you wish, I could have some officers investigate the incident further.”
“No.” Jude shakes his head. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but that won’t be necessary. I’d rather put the whole thing behind me, to be honest.”
“That’s one way of dealing, I suppose.” Thackery straightens his coat before glancing back at Nell. “Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Bracken.”
From the front step, I see the soft line of her smile. “It was no trouble, Detective.”
Thackery takes his leave, and Nell comes forward to usher us into the house, talking all the while. “What’s that about your lighthouse, Wick? You haven’t been getting into trouble, have you? Goodness, you haven’t visited us in such a long while. Would you like a cup of tea? Imogen! Put the kettle on!”
Nell walks us through the hall into the drawing room. I remember times when Jude and I had visited and been afraid of knocking something over. There are cabinets full of books and crockery, tables laden with knickknacks. I skirt around the maze of it to sit on the sofa near the bay windows, looking out at the open fields behind the house. Jude sits beside me, eyes searching the room. He puts his hands between his knees as if to keep from disturbing the surroundings.
When Nell joins us, it’s with a tea set and Imogen Bracken in tow. They take seats on the opposite sofa, and Nell spends a few moments fussing over tea. She seems pleased at the very sight of us, while Imogen looks sullen—like we are a bother to her, arriving unannounced. She is the elder sister, I know. The both of them are in their forties, and they’re graceful and tall, fair-skinned and dark-haired.
“Is there a reason for this visit?” Imogen asks.
Jude looks to me. Clutching my teacup, I say, “Jude’s front door was marred the other day. We were wondering if either of you saw anything.”
Nell tsks. “When was this? We were at work for most of the day.”
“Detective Thackery mentioned something of that nature,” says Imogen, nodding. “Probably just some little urchins having a go at you, Wick. I’d pay no mind to it.”
Jude nods. He stares down into his tea, expression pensive.
I drag my attention back to the sisters. I can’t tell whether or not they’re lying.
“We were both elsewhere at the time,” I say, careful with my words. “I thought it would be charitable to visit Russell Hendry. It’s a wonder, isn’t it, how he got ahold of that poison?”
“Hendry?” Imogen snorts. “What a disaster. Thinks himself a saint, I bet. He’ll change his tune once the trial’s over.”
“Unpleasant business,” Nell adds. Her fingers skim the edge of her teacup. With a shake of her head, she shifts topic. “Have you seen the garden? The lilies are still doing well.”
“Yes,” I say. “Lovely. Now, are you quite—”
“Already feels like October,” she continues. “End of the harvest. Will you be playing at the festival, Moira dear?”