The Song of the Siren

I went out. They were talking about it in the streets, in the shops. Those who knew me looked at me oddly as though they were speculating about me.

Good heavens, I thought, they cannot think I had anything to do with it!

I came back to the house. That same hush, that whispering. As I went up the stairs I heard two of the servants talking together in one of the rooms.

“Crime passionnel,” I heard. “That is it. ... It is love.”

“Fancy having someone killed for love of you.”

“Well, that’s what a crime passionnel is all about, silly.”

I fled up to my room.

What were they saying? What were they hinting?

Hessenfield came in late that night. I was waiting for him.

He looked unruffled. I wondered if he had heard of the body which had been brought out of the Seine and the rumour that it was Matt ‘ilkington’s.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

I told him.

“Matt Pilkington,” I cried. “Murdered! There must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” he said.

I cried: “You ... you did it.”

“Not personally,” he said. “It was decided on and carried out. The man was a spy.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“My dear Carlotta, you are new to all this. I blame myself for not seeing it earlier.”

I stared at him. Matt a spy. I thought back quickly. He had stayed at Grasslands for a long time when he was courting Damaris. He had talked of estates in Dorset and a post in the army. He was in the army in a way, I supposed, and was available when he was needed. He must have been having a long leave of absence when he was at Grasslands. Then I remembered. ... On the night when I had left England he had been near Eyot Abbass. Then events seemed to fall into place. He had known that Hessenfield was there. He was looking for him when he came to Eyot Abbass; and I had been vain enough to think he came for me! I was the excuse ... and a good one. It was because of him that we had narrowly escaped being taken. They must have been close to have shot at us as we rowed out to the boat.

“Matt was a spy. Suppose he and Mary Marton had been working together.”

Hessenfield nodded. “She got the information. She must have been hiding in the next room when we discussed it.”

“And,” I said, “she passed it on to Matt Pilkington. That was why she went out to meet him.”

“So I believe. It was fortunate that you saw them meet after she ‘eft. That put me on to him. He was caught ... red-handed, one might say. There were letters on him which exposed him absolutely.”

“And you killed him.”

“We could not afford to let him live. He was shot and his body dumped in the river.”

“And now he has been found.”

“And people are looking towards me,” said Hessenfield. “Do you know why? They suspect that Pilkington either was or was attempting to be your lover. They think I killed him out of jealousy.”

“That must be stopped.”

“On the contrary, no. That is what I wish to be generally believed.”

“But they will brand you as a murderer.”

“That does not worry me.”

“What of the law?”

“It is inclined to turn a blind eye here on crimes of passion. Besides, I can prove he was a spy. His was the fate spies must expect.”

“So they are saying that ...”

“Yes, and I want them to go on saying it. They know my devotion to you. They know Pilkington called often at the house. You are an outstandingly attractive woman.

It is for our enemies to believe that he was killed through jealousy, not because we know that he was one of their spies.”

I shivered.

Hessenfield put his arms about me.

“Dearest Carlotta,” he said, “this is not an amusing game, you know. This is a matter of life and death. We are facing death all the time, all of us. Pilkington knew it.

Mary Marton knew it. We live dangerously, Carlotta. And you’re one of us now. We die for the cause. We accept all that fortune throws at us if it is all for the cause.

I don’t forget that, ever. Death is always there ... leering round the corners waiting to catch me unawares. He is often at my heels. If you are afraid I could send you home. It would not be very difficult.”

“You would send me away? Then you are tired of me.”

“You are a fool if you think that. Don’t you know that it is because I love you that I would send you back ... away from our plots .. ? away from danger.”

I threw myself into his arms and clung to him. “I will never leave you,” I said.

He stroked my hair. “Somehow I knew you would say that.” He laughed. “That was why I offered to send you back.”

We were wildly passionate that night; but I could not feel lighthearted. I wondered if I ever could again. There was so much to come between me and peace of mind. There was Damaris, there was Benjie, and now I could not get out of my mind the thought of Matt’s murdered body lying on the banks of the Seine.

Two Pairs of Gloves