The Song of the Siren

“One never can of the good spy. She was that, I grant you, and now we have lost her ... unless we catch up with her somewhere, which is hardly likely. At least she won’t dare come out to France again. It would be too dangerous for her.”

“I should have seen it,” I said. “I remember the day you were here with those men.

I heard Mary on the landing. I thought I heard a door open. I went down and she was going out as I came down the stairs. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought she was only creeping out for a rendezvous with her lover.”

“With her lover?” said Hessenfield sharply.

“Oh, with Matt Pilkington. You know we thought there was something between them.

I thought at first that she had left because something had happened with him ... that he had told her he didn’t want her. That’s what the servants think. They talk about it all the time. They love anything that has a hint of romance in it.”

“Let them go on thinking it,” he said thoughtfully.

The incident had had a sobering effect on me, but Hessenfield quickly recovered his optimism. “It is the fortunes of war,” he said. “Sometimes success, sometimes failure.

We can only go on in hope.”

He was gay and lively and we resumed the old way of life; but I could not help those moments of reflection which kept intruding. I kept remembering details about Mary.

I should have seen that she was no ordinary nursery governess. I should have checked her story more thoroughly. That she had been a spy in our household and that I was the one who had brought her in, distressed me. Moreover, Clarissa was continually asking questions. I had told her that Mary had gone to her sick aunt in Lyons, which seemed the easiest way of dealing with the matter. And, as Hessenfield had suggested, that was the story which was circulated through the household. The servants thought it a little odd that she should have gone away without telling anyone, but she was English, and, as I overheard Jeanne say, the English often did odd things.

It was a week after Mary had left when I was out with Clarissa and Jeanne. We had shopped in the market for vegetables and were returning home along by the river when we noticed a crowd and a commotion.

Naturally we were curious and went over.

Jeanne turned to me and whispered: “Not for La Petite, madame.”

La Petite was immediately all ears.

“What is it? What have they found?” cried Clarissa.

“Oh, it is something they have dragged out of the river,” said Jeanne.

“What? What?”

“I don’t suppose they know yet. And I have the dinner to see to.”

“Maman.” She had already taken the French form and used it all the time. “Let us stay.”

Jeanne was throwing anxious glances at me.

I said firmly: “No, we must go home. It is nothing much.”

“Just a bundle of old clothes someone has fished out of the river,” said Jeanne.

“Who threw them in?”

“Well, that is what we don’t know,” said Jeanne.

“Who does know?”

“Whoever threw them in.”

“Who did?”

“Oh, Clarissa,” I cried, “we know no more than that. We are going home now so that Jeanne can cook the dinner. You want some dinner, don’t you?”

Clarissa considered. “I want to know who threw his clothes in the river first,” she said.

“You won’t say that when we are having dinner and you’re waiting to hear about river-sodden clothes,” I said.

“What’s river sodden?”

It was the opportunity. I took her hand firmly and more or less dragged her away.

Later that day Jeanne sought me out.

“I thought madame would want to know. It was a man they pulled ůt of the river this morning.”

“Oh, dear, some poor unfortunate man. He must have been unhappy to take his life.”

“They’re saying that he didn’t, madame. They’re saying he was murdered.”

“That’s even worse. I am glad we didn’t let the child see or hear. Don’t tell her, Jeanne, or let any of the others.”

“No, madame, I will not.”

I knew that something had happened even before they told me. There seemed to be a perpetual buzz of conversation in the household-but more subdued than usual and it stopped at my approach.

Finally Jeanne could restrain herself no more.

“Madame,” she told me, “they know whose was the body in the Seine. ... They know who the man is.”

“Oh,” I said, “who was it?”

There was a short pause then Jeanne said quickly: “It was the gentleman who used to come here so much.”

“What!” I cried.

“Monsieur Pilkington.”

“No,” I whispered. “It can’t be.”

“It is, madame. And he was murdered. Shot, they say.”

I was terribly shaken. I stammered: “I don’t believe it. Why should anyone shoot him?”

Jeanne looked sly.

“Someone who was jealous, madame?”

“Jealous. Who would be jealous of him?”

Jeanne lifted her shoulder.

“I thought you should know, madame.”

“Yes ... yes ... thank you for telling me. Please see that none of this reaches my daughter’s ears.

“Oh, no, madame. Certainly not. It would not be good for La Petite.”

I shut myself in my room. It was hard to believe it. I felt sure there must be some mistake. Matt... dead ... murdered. His body thrown into the Seine.