Song of the Siren

by Philippa Carr

  “I must ask you to go,” I said. “I have much to do.”

  “Yes, make a shroud for your lover. Make one for yourself … and for me …”

  I felt sick with horror, for I knew that she was telling the truth.

  She went on: “I planned to destroy you. It is better that no others should suffer through you. Three men all dead … and all because of you—although I do not blame you for Beau. You see, you are disaster. You are the siren. Even involuntarily you deal death. You have to go. There is no way for it. I contrived the meeting. I disguised myself for fear you should remember me. But we met only once and I was one of the best actresses on the London stage. I listened to all I could of those long ago poison trials. I talked to people who remembered … and I decided what I should do. I did not believe that there could be poisons which could be transmitted through the skin. But there are … there are … And if you know where to go for them and if you are prepared to pay … So I went and I paid and I had the gloves made. Lord Hessenfield has been more virulently attacked. He must have worn the gloves I sent him for a long time. You are less so. And I even less. But we are all doomed. I no less than you, although mine will be a more lingering death. I have the poison in my blood just as you have…. You see, I have destroyed the siren and my son’s murderers, but in doing so I have destroyed myself.”

  I stood up uncertainly. These were the ravings of a mad woman.

  I must get rid of her. I must get back to Hessenfield. I must call the doctors and tell them what this woman had told me.

  I left her. I heard her walk out unsteadily behind me.

  I went up to the bedroom

  Hessenfield was lying white and still on his bed … unnaturally still.

  I knew that he was dead.

  Till then I had not believed her. I had told myself that she was lying about the poison. Such things might have happened thirty years ago but they could not happen now. But I had heard such strange stories of those long ago poisonings and the subtleties of the Italian art of producing deadly substances which could attack in many different ways. There were still Italian poisoners in Paris, still men who worked out their secrets in dark places and grew rich on them.

  I was bewildered. It was too much to grasp. All that time Beau had been lying under the soil near Enderby. And Leigh, whom I had looked on as my father, had buried him; my mother was involved too, and Matt was Beau’s son.

  I could not believe it. And yet everything that had happened clothed it with reasonable truth.

  Beau … dead all those years. Matt and I together. No wonder I was drawn to him. There was a grain of comfort in that. It had not been such a wild whim.

  But there was one terrible fact which threw a dark pall over everything, and I was thinking of the past now so that I might not look to the present.

  Hessenfield dead. I would not accept it. He who had been so full of life … dead … and all because of a pair of gloves. He would get up from the bed soon. He would laugh at me.

  It was a trick. It was a joke … to prove to me through my desolation how much he loved me.

  How much I loved him! “Oh, Hessenfield,” I murmured, “infinitely!”

  I covered my face with my hands. How clammy they were … My face was burning and yet I was shivering.

  Then a sudden wild joy possessed me. “I am coming to you, Hessenfield. We always said only death could part us … but even death can’t do that.”

  I sat there by his bed watching him and an exultation came over me.

  “I am coming with you, Hessenfield. I shall not be long.”

  Death! It was very close. I could almost hear the flap of his wings as he hovered over me. Odd to think of death with wings.

  An old illusion, I thought. Why … Why?

  I stopped. I stared before me. I had been rejoicing that Hessenfield and I would not be parted. And now the thought had come to me: Clarissa. My daughter … our daughter … when we were both dead what would become of her?

  I clasped my hands together to stop their shaking.

  “My child … my little girl. What will become of you? You will be left alone here and who will care for you?”

  I must do something. I must act quickly.

  I stood up. The room was swaying round me. “Hurry,” I said aloud. “Who knows how much time there is left to you.”

  I prayed then. I could not remember praying before. I supposed people such as I only prayed when they wanted something; and I had had so much.

  It was only when things were denied me that I thought of prayer.

  Then suddenly, as though there was an answer to my earnest supplication, I saw what I must do.

  I went to my bureau and took out paper. In this terrible hour of bewilderment, anxiety and tragedy I thought of my sister.

  I remembered how she and Clarissa had been together during that time when I had gone with her to Eversleigh. Clarissa and Damaris had loved each other then. There had been some special relationship between them.

  Damaris, I said to myself. It must be Damaris.

  Dear Damaris [I wrote hurriedly]

  I am dying. By the time you receive this I will be dead. Lord Hessenfield, who is Clarissa’s father, is also dead. I am desperately anxious about my Clarissa. She is here in a strange country and I do not know who will care for her when I am no longer here.

  I have been wicked but that is no fault of my daughter’s. Damaris, I want you to take her. You must send over here at once. You must take her and bring her up as your daughter. There is no one I should rather see her with than you. I am known over here as Lady Hessenfield and Clarissa is acknowledged as our daughter, which she is. I cannot tell you now how all this came about. It is of no importance. All that matters is Clarissa.

  There is a good woman here, named Jeanne. I shall leave her in this woman’s care until you come. She is a good woman who has been looking after Clarissa and is fond of her. She was once a flower seller and lived in great poverty, but I trust her more than anyone else.

  Damaris, I have been wicked. I have brought trouble and disaster wherever I have been. I ruined your life, but Matt was not really good enough for you otherwise he would not have behaved as he did. You need someone specially good.

  Do this for me, please … No. For Clarissa’s sake. Send for her as soon as you receive this.

  Your sister Carlotta.

  I sealed the letter. I sent for the courier who had taken Hessenfield’s urgent messages back and forth from England.

  “Take this,” I said, “with all speed.”

  Then I prayed that he would reach Damaris, for naturally traffic between the two countries was difficult and such missions had to be taken with the utmost care. Often couriers did not reach their destination; and I suppose that after that disastrous mission which had cost Matt his life there would be more checks than ever on people coming into the country.

  But I prayed that Damaris would receive the letter, and that she would come and take Clarissa away.

  I sent for Jeanne.

  “Jeanne,” I said, “I am dying.”

  “Madame … it is not possible.”

  “You know Lord Hessenfield is dead.”

  “Oh Madame, what will become of us all?”

  “There is the child. Jeanne, I trust her to you.”

  “My lady?”

  “Care for her. I have a sister in England. I have written to her. She will send someone to take Clarissa away.”

  “When will they come, my lady?”

  “Soon … soon. They will come. I know they will come.”

  “From England, Madame …”

  “They will come, Jeanne. I promise you they will come. Wait for them, and care for the child until they come. Jeanne …” I caught her hands and looked pleadingly into her eyes. “Jeanne, this is the wish and the command of a dying woman.”

  Jeanne looked frightened.

  But I knew she would keep her word.

  I burned the gloves—both mine and
Hessenfield’s. They gave off a strange light as they flared up. I thought there would be a conflagration, but after blazing for a few moments they subsided into a black powder.

  I took up my pen and wrote in my journal of what had happened to me. I set it out and thought there might be some comfort in the writing of it.

  I had told Jeanne that I wanted her to keep my journal and when messengers from my sister came to give it to them to take to her.

  I wanted her to understand how it had happened. To understand is often to forgive.

  I put down my pen. Then I called Jeanne again and I told her where she would find the journal.

  She looked bewildered. But she listened to my instructions and after she had gone I could not resist taking my pen again.

  Then I wrote right at the beginning of my journal: “This is the Song of the Siren who did not ask to be as she was. But she was so and it happened that one who accused her was right. Those who came near her were lured to their deaths. It seems right and fitting that death should overtake her in the midst of her singing.”

  DAMARIS

  The Tenant Of Enderby Hall

  I AM LONELY. THE days seem endless. Hour after hour I lie here on my couch and I tell myself that my life is over. It never began really.

  I was happy. I was on the threshold of what had seemed a great adventure. Then suddenly it was over. I saw everything I had dreamed of shattered in one revealing instant. And then it was that this further blow was delivered.

  It sometimes seems that life is not content with taking happiness from one, then decides that there is something else that can be done to make life more intolerable. I lost the man I loved on one dark November day—and that night was stricken with a terrible illness which has made an invalid of me ever since.

  Oh, I am surrounded by love. No girl could have parents who loved and cherished her more than mine do. I have been shown in a thousand ways that I am the centre of their lives. They blame themselves for what happened to me; and they are not to blame, but how can I tell them without involving Carlotta?

  I do not want to think of Carlotta. I cannot bear to think of Carlotta. Sometimes her image creeps into my mind and I tell myself that I hate her. But I see her there in my mind—that almost unbelievable beauty. I used to think: No one has any right to be as beautiful as Carlotta. Everything was given to her. It was as though the powers above who decide how we shall be had been in a very happy mood when they planned for Carlotta. She shall have everything … everything … they said.

  And so she had. I had often seen the way in which men looked at her when she came into a room; she had only to look at them and they were at her side. I admired her so much. I was so proud that she should be my sister.

  Now I understand more than I did. My mother has shown me her journal. I know about Carlotta’s romantic birth in Venice and the terrible thing that happened to my mother. I know about that wicked man who died and who killed him and the terrible suspicions my parents had of each other. It explains everything. I understand why my father had to shoot Belle and bury her. If only I had known of what my parents had suffered I should not have gone to Belle’s grave when I saw Matt and Carlotta together.

  I had been shocked, it was true, for I thought that it was not only Matt who had deceived me. It was also my kind father, who had secrets to preserve because of which he had killed an innocent animal. So I thought but it was not quite like that.

  And because of my ignorance I had suffered with them.

  Had I been more knowledgeable in worldly matters I might have suspected the attraction between Matt and Carlotta. It would have hurt me deeply of course but I would not have suffered that fearful shock. I would have been prepared for my discovery.

  But what was the use of going over it. It was over. It was done, Matt had gone out of my life. I saw little of Carlotta—nor did I want to see her, for that was too painful. But I had loved her dear little daughter and I should have liked to know her better.

  It was strange, but when that child came I felt new interest in life. Since that terrible night I had not been interested in anything at all, but the child came and when we were together I forgot my grievances against her mother. I loved the way in which she demanded to know the answers to every question that occurred to her, I loved to play games with her. “I Spy” was the favourite. I would hint at what I was looking at and she had to guess. She would ponder seriously until she found the answer and shriek with delight when she was right.

  It was love at first sight between us.

  One day when I was lying on my couch I heard her playing in the garden; she was shouting and chanting as she bounced a ball; then suddenly there was silence. I listened and the silence went on. I suppose it was only a minute or two but it seemed like five. I had the terrible suspicion that something might be wrong. She had fallen and hurt herself. She had wandered too far away.

  I got up from my couch and ran to the window. She was lying on the grass watching something there … some insect. I saw her stretch out a wary finger and touch something. It was probably an ant.

  I went back to my couch; and then I remembered that I had run to the window. I had not run anywhere since that terrible night. I had walked only with the utmost difficulty.

  It was a revelation. I found after that that I could walk about my room a little.

  I knew that visiting us was embarrassing to Carlotta because she found it difficult to face me; so we saw little of her and that meant not seeing the child.

  But I thought a great deal about her. I often thought of little things that used to happen when I was well and roaming about the countryside. My special love of plants and birds and animals had made that a delight for me. There were so many stories of living things that I had known and now I wanted to tell them to Clarissa.

  Then I heard the news which shattered my family. Carlotta had been abducted and taken to France; Clarissa was with her.

  There was terrible consternation. Harriet came over to see and tell us what she knew.

  My mother told me afterwards because since I had been ill she told me things. I think she felt that had I not been in ignorance of what had happened I would not have gone into the forbidden wood that night but would have come straight home, in which case I could probably have been nursed back to health.

  What she told me was this: “Harriet says that Carlotta has been taken away by a man called Lord Hessenfield who is an important Jacobite. He was known to be in the neighbourhood. He made his escape to France. And has taken Clarissa with him. What is not generally known is that Lord Hessenfield is Clarissa’s father.”

  Then Harriet told us how Carlotta had been captured by these Jacobites when she was at the Black Boar Inn on her way to Eyot Abbass and that Lord Hessenfield had raped her. The result was that she was pregnant and Benjie had married her to help, as Harriet said, “straighten matters out.” Benjie had long been in love with her and eagerly grasped the opportunity to marry her. So Clarissa is the daughter of Hessenfield. He must have cared something for Carlotta to risk his life to take her back with him. That she had been taken by force was clear because her cloak came off in the struggle and was found in the shrubbery. It seemed likely that Clarissa had been taken before, because she was missing some hours before Carlotta was forced to go.

  It all seemed wildly incredible. But Carlotta was born to be the centre of storm. Moreover, when I considered what had happened to my parents I wondered whether almost all of us did not at some time have to face unusual and stormy episodes in our lives. Even I had once had a frightening adventure with Good Mrs. Brown. For a long time after that I used to let my imagination run on as I pictured all sorts of horrible consequences which could have ensued. I had never really grown away from it and occasionally had a nightmare.

  We have a tenant at Enderby Hall. It amazed me that anyone should take the place. It was so gloomy and had this reputation of being haunted. One or two people came to see it. My mother or my father and sometimes my gran
dmother from Eversleigh Court showed them over it. In fact people were more inclined to go to Eversleigh Court than to the Dower House.

  I remember the day my grandmother came to tell us about this man who had come.

  We were all sitting in my room because my mother always brought visitors to me. She had some notion that it cheered me.

  My grandmother said: “I cannot think why he came to see it. He seemed determined to dislike everything even before he saw it and heaven knows it is easy enough to find fault with Enderby.”

  “I always think,” said my mother, “that if one set out to change all that, one could.”

  “How, Priscilla dear?” asked my grandmother.

  “Cut away some of the undergrowth, for one thing. It’s terribly overgrown. Get a little light into the place. Bring in the sunshine. I visualise a happy man and his wife with a horde of children. It’s light and laughter that place lacks.”

  “Dear Priscilla!” was all my grandmother said.

  Of course, I thought, there had been a murder in it. Beaumont Granville was murdered there and lay buried nearby. Then there was the original ghost who had tried to hang herself from the minstrels’ gallery.

  “Tell us about this man,” said my mother.

  “He fitted the place, I will say that. He was lame, and of a morbid countenance. He looked as if it would really hurt him to smile. He was not by any means old. I said to him: ‘And if you took the house would you live here alone?’ He said he would, and I must have looked surprised for he added: ‘I prefer it that way,’ as though warning me to keep my thoughts to myself, which I certainly decided to do. He said the place was dark and gloomy. I said exactly what you have been saying, Priscilla. Cut things down and let the light in.”

  “What about the furniture?” said my mother, and I immediately thought of that bedroom and the four-poster bed with the red curtains.

  “He said that it would suit him to have the place furnished.”

  “Well, that would solve a problem,” said my mother.