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Authors: Beth Bernobich
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strange.’”
Ó Deághaidh nodded in recognition. “Henry Donne. The famously obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century.”
“An obscurity he earned,” Síomón replied. “And yet, worth studying. His meter falters, but I find his sentiments ring true.”
They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto Tulach Mhór Street, a broad avenue filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Ó Deághaidh leading, they crossed between the horses and cars to the farther side, then into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City’s heart. The sun shone like a diamond in the September sky, bright against a lacework of silvery clouds, and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in high-collared shirts and bowlers. The air was summer-warm, but then a gust of wind rattled the trees, sending down a shower of brown and crimson leaves.
“As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”
Ó Deághaidh’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Síomón’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the Garda gave up its investigation for lack of evidence.”
“The department merely suspended their inquiries. They did not close the case.”
“And now?”
“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”
Síomón stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had another death, Mr. Madóc. A young woman named Maeve Ní Cadhla.”
The news struck Síomón like a physical blow. He’d talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon. She had answered the last arguments from her adviser, and meant to start writing her thesis the following semester. It was to be a paper concerning a simpler proof for the prime number theorem.…
“When?” he whispered. “How?”
“Last night,” Ó Deághaidh said. “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons.”
Síomón stared at Ó Deághaidh, still unable to comprehend the news. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance. Blue messenger craft and grand air-yachts, heading across the Éireann Sea to the island of Albion—some to the kingdom of Alba in the north, or beyond to Denmark’s territories, others for the various districts of the Anglian Dependencies—Manx or Wight or Cymru or to Anglia itself, who gave the region its name. Above them all, a single red balloon floated between the pale gray clouds.
“We’ve notified Lord Ó Cadhla about his daughter,” Ó Deághaidh continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime.”
With an effort, Síomón recovered himself. “How do you know it’s the same murderer?”
“The evidence so far supports our theory.”
He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Síomón, and he had to struggle to keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?”
“Several reasons, but the chief among them is that your provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the young woman, did you not?”
“Of course I knew her!”
The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Síomón wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.
A gifted young woman, who had discarded all the trappings of wealth and privilege when she entered the university, much to her family’s dismay. The family had become reconciled, then proud of her achievements. Síomón recalled how Maeve’s cheeks flushed with the passion of numbers
Ó Deághaidh nodded in recognition. “Henry Donne. The famously obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century.”
“An obscurity he earned,” Síomón replied. “And yet, worth studying. His meter falters, but I find his sentiments ring true.”
They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto Tulach Mhór Street, a broad avenue filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Ó Deághaidh leading, they crossed between the horses and cars to the farther side, then into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City’s heart. The sun shone like a diamond in the September sky, bright against a lacework of silvery clouds, and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in high-collared shirts and bowlers. The air was summer-warm, but then a gust of wind rattled the trees, sending down a shower of brown and crimson leaves.
“As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”
Ó Deághaidh’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Síomón’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the Garda gave up its investigation for lack of evidence.”
“The department merely suspended their inquiries. They did not close the case.”
“And now?”
“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”
Síomón stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had another death, Mr. Madóc. A young woman named Maeve Ní Cadhla.”
The news struck Síomón like a physical blow. He’d talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon. She had answered the last arguments from her adviser, and meant to start writing her thesis the following semester. It was to be a paper concerning a simpler proof for the prime number theorem.…
“When?” he whispered. “How?”
“Last night,” Ó Deághaidh said. “A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons.”
Síomón stared at Ó Deághaidh, still unable to comprehend the news. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance. Blue messenger craft and grand air-yachts, heading across the Éireann Sea to the island of Albion—some to the kingdom of Alba in the north, or beyond to Denmark’s territories, others for the various districts of the Anglian Dependencies—Manx or Wight or Cymru or to Anglia itself, who gave the region its name. Above them all, a single red balloon floated between the pale gray clouds.
“We’ve notified Lord Ó Cadhla about his daughter,” Ó Deághaidh continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime.”
With an effort, Síomón recovered himself. “How do you know it’s the same murderer?”
“The evidence so far supports our theory.”
He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Síomón, and he had to struggle to keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?”
“Several reasons, but the chief among them is that your provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the young woman, did you not?”
“Of course I knew her!”
The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Síomón wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.
A gifted young woman, who had discarded all the trappings of wealth and privilege when she entered the university, much to her family’s dismay. The family had become reconciled, then proud of her achievements. Síomón recalled how Maeve’s cheeks flushed with the passion of numbers
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