The Song of the Siren

She replied: “How many times have you worn the gloves? I see you have worn them.”

I shook my head impatiently.

“It is important,” she said. “They are deadly.”

I stared at her. I thought: She is mad. I must get away from her quickly. I have not the strength to deal with her now. I stepped towards the door.

“You have worn them,” she said. “It shows. All those good looks, they will be gone in a day or so.... We are tainted; your husband ... you, and I ... too. That is why I have come here. I want you to understand how ... and why ... before we die.”

“Madame,” I said, “this is a very unfortunate time to call. My husband is very ill.”

“I know. Who better? You too are very ill-more ill than you know. I have not escaped.

They are deadly. I have handled them too much.”

I caught at a chair. I should have fallen otherwise.

“Madame, please go. I am going to call the servants. I have too much to concern me ...”

“This concerns you,” she said. “This concerns you deeply. You must start at once to repent of your sins.”

“Sins ... ?”

“You have committed many ... so has my lord Hessenfield.... You have committed sins against me and mine ... and I determined to have my revenge.”

“Please explain then if you must.”

“For a moment at Versailles I thought you knew me. We have met once before.”

I said: “In the Oeil de Boeuf. ...”

“No, not there. In Enderby Hall. Do you remember Beth Pilkington?”

“Beth Pilkington! You ... ?”

Then I remembered. She had had amazing red hair then. It was easy to change that.

I saw her face fall into the lines I remembered. She was a good actress. She had looked and acted the part of a woman of French nobility to perfection.

“I came to see Enderby Hall. You showed me round. I was coming down to find out what had become of Beaumont Granville. I did find out in time.”

“Beau? What was he to you?”

“My lover ... for years. I was his favourite mistress. He said he would marry me if I could give him a son. He wanted children ... he wanted a son.”

I stared at her unbelievingly.

“Yes,” she went on. “You put an end to that. Oh, do not think I blame you for that.

It was not your fault. You came along. You had everything to offer him. Good looks, your own kind of fascination, youth ... and a fortune. Most important of all, a fortune.

But for that fortune Beau would have married me. I already had my beautiful son ...his son.”

“Matt, you mean.”

“Yes, Matt!”

I understood then why I had been attracted by him. I had thought he reminded me of Beau because of a faint resemblance which I had believed was merely that of one dandy for another. I thought of the button I had found in Enderby Hall; the lingering odour of musk. Beau’s son, of course, who perhaps had been wearing a coat with gold buttons which had belonged to his father-who had been brought up with a taste for the musk scent.

“I came to that place to find out what had happened to Beaumont,” she went on. “I was sure that if he had fled abroad-which seemed plausible enough-he would have let me know at some time. Our association had lasted from the day we met. I was always there in the background, whatever other women there were. He looked on me as a wife and but for you ... when my child was born .. . But that is of no importance now.

I want you to understand how it happened. I came down to find out where Beau had gone ... and I did. The dog had been his dog. Matt took her when Beau went. The dog found his shoe. That was why she died.”

“Where ... ?” I murmured.

“Under the soil in that patch of land where people were forbidden to go. He was buried there by your mother’s husband.”

I gasped. “I don’t believe it.”

“He killed the dog but he did not kill Beau. That was Christabel Willerby. Beau was blackmailing her and she shot him; your father buried the body thinking that your mother had done it. If you knew all the details it falls naturally into place, but that is not why I am here. You are innocent of Beau’s death.”

”I think, Mistress Pilkington, that you are imagining these things. You are suffering from hallucinations. You are ill.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It is the end for us all-for me no less than you. I want you to know but I want you to understand. I wanted my son to be happy. He would have been with your sister. She is a good girl. It made me happy to see how gradually they began to love each other. She was the girl I wanted for him. She was different from anyone he was likely to meet in London. He realised her virtues. She would have provided him with a steadying background ... the sort I had never been able to give him. I wanted that for him.”

She looked at me malevolently and put her hand to her heart. She was growing breathless.

“But you spoilt it,” she went on. “He followed you here ... and he was murdered.

But for you he would be alive to this day. My only son. He was everything to me.

All my life was centered round him. But you lured him here and then Lord Hessenfield killed him ... had him murdered and his body thrown in the Seine.”