The Time Roads

“More questions than I like, sir. I cannot tell you more until we reach the Garda station.”

“Am I under arrest?” Síomón demanded.

“No, Mr. Madóc. Not unless you give us reason.”

Ó Deághaidh helped him into his overcoat and led him outside, where a cab with a sergeant waited. It was late in the afternoon, or early in the evening, Síomón could not tell which. The air felt damp and chill with impending rain, and Síomón huddled into a corner of the cab, glad for his heavy coat. Ó Deághaidh himself remained silent throughout the long uncomfortable drive to the Garda station. Fatigue lined his face, making him look much older than he had that first day, when they walked along the Blackwater. Síomón noted a scar below Ó Deághaidh’s left temple and faint hatch marks beside his eyes. How many years had he served in the Queen’s Constabulary? And why had his superiors assigned him to this obscure murder case?

They arrived just as the sun was sliding behind the Garda station, which stood on a prominence overlooking the Blackwater. Ó Deághaidh dismounted first and scanned the walkway. When Síomón climbed down, the commander took him by the elbow and hurried him inside.

Gardaí and their charges filled the outer rooms—tramps and beggars, a woman with gaudy makeup, a nervous man in evening dress explaining his possession of a gun. Ó Deághaidh guided Síomón up the nearest stairwell, along a deserted corridor, and into a wai

ting room. He closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

Síomón hesitated. He had expected the same scene as last time—the several uniformed sergeants standing along the walls, the gardaí writing notes, another of Ó Deághaidh’s colleagues listening in. Instead, they were alone, and Ó Deághaidh himself remained silent, his narrowed gaze upon Síomón.

“The newest victim is Susanna Patel,” Ó Deághaidh said abruptly.

For a moment, Síomón’s mind went blank. Then the blood drained from his face and he sank into the chair. “Susanna? When? How?”

Ó Deághaidh studied him a moment before answering. “Last night. Very late, if our witnesses are telling the truth. The coroner is confirming their testimony.”

Susanna. Dead.

Síomón leaned his head against his hands. “That’s not possible,” he whispered. “She visited me this afternoon. No, wait. She came by yesterday.”

Ó Deághaidh gave no reaction, except that his features went more still than before. “Tell me everything you did this past week. Leave nothing out.”

“I … I spent them in my rooms.”

“The entire five days? Doing what?”

Five days? Another wave of vertigo passed over Síomón. He steadied himself against the tabletop and managed to meet Ó Deághaidh’s eyes. “Research. Studying.”

“For your thesis?”

“Yes. That and … something that concerns my sister.”

Ó Deághaidh regarded him steadily. “Miss Patel was last seen in the mathematics library. She bid the librarian good night just as the clock struck ten. The librarian happened to look out the window and saw a man waiting underneath one of the lampposts. He accosted Miss Patel. They spoke a few moments, then walked off together. The librarian said he had only a glimpse of the man’s face, but he swears it was you.”

“Impossible,” Síomón whispered. “I never went there. My manservant can testify—”

Ó Deághaidh stopped him with a gesture. “We spoke with Kevin Garret. You dismissed him two days ago, he claims. We also spoke with your landlady. Mrs. Drogha and the chambermaid both agree that you remained in your rooms throughout the day, but they cannot guarantee your whereabouts after sunset.”

Síomón felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. “I did not leave my rooms, Commander. I—besides my studies, I was quite ill, Commander. Ask Evan De Mora. He came to my rooms.”

Ó Deághaidh nodded. “We know. As did Miss Patel. She spoke with Mr. De Mora yesterday morning. She was concerned, as was he, about your health. He did not say it outright, but Mr. De Mora thought you had had dealings with Mr. Blácach.”

“That’s a lie,” Síomón burst out. He stood up hastily, knocking over the chair. Breathing heavily, he righted the chair. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I can only say I’m upset. Any man would be with his friends dying and his sister—” But he would not speak of Gwen to this man. “Never mind about my sister. I’ve enough to upset me these past three days.”

“Five,” Ó Deághaidh said softly.

“Three or five or twenty-five. Does it matter? My friends are dead, and you accuse me of being their murderer.”

“But I don’t.”

Síomón stopped. He had been circling the table, unaware that he did so. Now he faced Ó Deághaidh across the room. One of the windows had been opened a crack. A thin breeze filtered into the room, relieving the stifling heat. “You don’t?”

“No.” Ó Deághaidh watched him closely. His gaze was bright, disquieting in its intensity. “We have contradictory testimony, Mr. Madóc. We have other evidence I cannot share with you. Suffice to say that we do not have adequate proof to arrest you.”