“We’re following the letter of the law, Miss Alexander.” The officer sets his sights on Jude. “Your uncle is on his way over from the offshore light. Mr. Daugherty cleared his transfer this morning. If you don’t come willingly, we’ll have to cuff you, and for your sake I’d rather not.”
I grab Jude by the back of his waistcoat. I’m desperate for him to hold his ground, to argue, to stay. All too well, I can see my part in this. Would these officers be here to collect Jude if I hadn’t visited Thackery? Had I persuaded him to reopen Connor’s case?
I put my finger on the trigger, but the shot was poorly aimed.
“Moira,” says Jude, voice flat. “Let me go.”
He won’t meet my eyes. His gaze is far away, expression vacant. I fear he’s torn the heart from his sleeve and buried it somewhere too deep for me to find. I release him, feeling like I’ve pushed him off the cliff to drown.
One officer actually has the boldness to offer to walk me home.
I present the full force of my glare in return. “I’ll be at that station of yours first thing tomorrow,” I tell him. “If I pass you there, you best cast your eyes down in shame.”
Snatching my coat from the wall, I shove between the pair. On the path, I look over my shoulder to rest my gaze once more on Jude Osric. He hasn’t moved. His shadow falls upon the open door, dark and rough as a sketch.
Sickness twists my stomach. It’s doubled when I remember my thoughts from yesterday, minding that siren in the shallows.
I won’t let them blame you.
Wrapping my coat around myself, I walk quickly away. These are the consequences of my actions—and I can’t bear to watch.
* * *
Throughout the rest of the day, I’m unable to ease the distraction of my mind. I’ve a tutoring session—my first since Connor’s death—but the memory of Jude standing before the officers, the shock writ so clearly on his face, leaves me faint and fractured. I cut the lesson short, only to feel guilty for doing so, and return home to write up a flyer to place in the schoolhouse.
Adjoining St. Cecilia’s, it’s a squat one-room building of white siding. The students have been let out; I worry momentarily the school is locked up for the day. I try the door, reassured when it swings open. Closing it behind me, I glance around to find my former teacher, Nell Bracken, still seated at her desk in front of the empty class.
“Oh, Moira,” she says, looking up. “Is there something I can do for you?”
I make my way over to her, passing the neat rows of desks. Tall windows let in the pale afternoon light, accentuating scuff marks across the floorboards from countless shoes. Here, children are taught reading, writing, and arithmetic until they’re thirteen. That is the principle, at least. Quite a number leave early: if they’re needed at home, needed to work. Jude did not return after his family died. An ache would bloom in my chest afterward, whenever I’d look toward his desk across the room and remember anew that he wasn’t there, why he wasn’t there.
Gripping the flyer, I say, “Yes, only… Do you mind if I pin this up?” I hand Nell the slip of paper, an advertisement of my violin lessons.
She reads through it. She has changed little since my school days, dressed in her practical shirtwaist and skirt, her chestnut hair done up tightly. Her expression softens upon meeting my gaze. “Of course, dear.” As I turn to hang it on the wall, she continues. “You must be terribly cut up about it, losing one of your students.”
I pause. “He was your student too.” And because my back is to her, because there is no one to see my face, I close my eyes, biting my lip, as her words coil tight around my heart.
“Yes,” says Nell. “Not the first I’ve lost, but I find that does not lessen the pain of it.”
I set a hand on the wall, needing something solid to lean against. I wonder what Nell might say if I told her Connor was murdered, that he was taken by one of our own. Word of Jude’s arrest has yet to spread. The gossip will be passed around tonight, in casual conversation over tea. And all the while Jude…
Jude will be…
I hear rather than see Nell get up from her desk. I hurriedly pin my flyer, blinking back tears. When she looks into my face, I cut my eyes away from hers. She tuts. “My dear, you’re quite undone. You ought to rest.”
Undone. Yes, I suppose that’s the word for it. I feel cut loose, set adrift on uncertain waters, without the means to chart my way back. Clasping my hands in front of me, I gaze out one of the windows.
Jude and I heading out the door, falling into step beside each other. Jude taking my bookstrap onto his shoulder, Jude walking me home.
I shouldn’t have come here.
With a nod at Nell I say, “Thank you kindly, Miss Bracken. I fear you’re right. I’ve been rather out of sorts.”
“You get on home and have your mother make you a cup of tea.”
She ushers me toward the door. When I’m alone on the sidewalk, I flex the fingers of my bowing hand. Playing now, in this temper, is likely to yield only a broken string. Clouds have settled over the slate roofs, a cold drizzle speckling the cobbles. Starting for home, I duck my head against the rain.
The chill still manages to work its way into my bones.
CHAPTER TEN
THERE ARE FIVE SEPARATE LOCKUPS in Dunmore’s police station. The cells run along a corridor of white tile and metal piping, toward the back end of the building. I smooth down the buttons of my coat as I enter the hall. My eyes go to the ceiling, and I spot mold flourishing in patches.
Jude spent a night in this place.
Did they leave him in the dark?
So many pressing thoughts, yet that one—that one unnerves me at my core. The corridor is empty, quiet, and it soon becomes evident Jude is the lone occupant. I come to a stop outside his cell. It has a small, barred window, a wooden bed against the wall, and a pail tucked beneath it. In the dim, it takes me a moment to locate Jude Osric. He sits on the floor, wedged into a corner. His eyes are closed, and he clutches one knee to his chest.
The police have taken his boots. His waistcoat and tie are folded neatly on the bed. He wears only shirt and suspenders, trousers and socks. It makes him look younger, apart from the sleepless smudges marking his eyes. My chest tightens.
“Jude,” I murmur. “Please, look at me.”
He presses his forehead against his knee, hiding his face from view. In a rasp, he says, “I believe I told Miss Finley not to let you down here.”
“She knows which of us not to cross.”
Jude raises his head. His lips quirk in a humorless smile. “She might be remiss in that regard. I’m the one behind bars.”
I curl a hand around one of said bars, the metal cold against my palm. The morning sun emerges from cloud cover, its light shining sheer through the window to dash upon the floor. Jude picks at his shirt cuff, eyes lowered to the task.
“Tell me what they did to you,” I say.
He continues to fidget with his cuff. I worry, for a moment, he won’t say anything at all. He swallows, and softly he asks, “Do you think I did it? Truly?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t.” My grip on the bar is white-knuckled. I wish he’d get up and walk over to me, so I might bring a hand to his cheek and look into his eyes proper.