M. Tern

Iris did not sleep. The storm hammered the roof, and the paperback in her hands, Murder at Gannet Point, was far better than it had any right to be. By three in the morning she had read a hundred pages and noticed two things she could not ignore. The first was the prose: spare, ironic and occasionally breathtaking. The second was a sentence on page 87, “A house remembers everyone who ever tried to leave it”, which she had last seen in the dedication of Rhys’s famous novel, The Salt Road.

At breakfast, Rhys was already at the table, reading a newspaper that was clearly three days old. “I hope the storm didn’t keep you awake,” he said without looking up. “It didn’t,” Iris replied. “Your neighbour did. M. Tern writes well.” The newspaper stopped moving. “A local hobby,” Rhys said. “Islanders write stories about lighthouses. Mrs Pryor posts them to Dublin for a little extra money.” It was a smooth answer, and Iris did not believe a word of it.

She walked down to the village shop on the excuse of buying stamps. The postmaster, Mr Devlin, who also sold bread and fishing line, was weighing a parcel when she asked about Tern. “Aye, every month, regular as the tide,” he said. “A thick brown envelope, always addressed in the same hand. I’m not supposed to say whose.” “Mrs Pryor’s?” Iris suggested. He hesitated. “Mrs Pryor posts them,” he said carefully. “She doesn’t write the address.”

Back at the house, Iris searched the guest-room desk, telling herself that a journalist was not the same thing as a thief. In the drawer she found a paperclip, a box of typewriter ribbons and a postcard of a lighthouse, unsigned except for a few lines: “Chapter nine is the best yet. The readers keep asking who you are. — Declan, Harbour Press.”

“You’re an excellent snoop,” said a voice behind her. Rhys stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame and the other on a walking stick she hadn’t noticed the day before. He did not seem angry; he seemed tired, like a man who has waited thirty years for a knock at the door. “Before you write a word, Miss Calloway, there is something you ought to see. Come with me.”