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Authors: Tanith Lee
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noticed.
“It is very good of you to call,” he said.
I stared at him. We had both gone mad. Dispense with these ramblings then.
“Tell me what has happened –” I cried.
“I regret – an illness, an hereditary ailment. We had hoped –”
“Doctors,” I said, “who is attending her?”
“The most capable physicians, of course, monsieur, I assure you. And among our own household, the use of herbal medicine is not unknown – but in any event –” he broke off. He said, with sudden and sinister calm, “You should not be optimistic, Monsieur St Jean.”
I clutched one of the chairs. I said, “What do you mean? You’d let her die –”
“Oh monsieur, please. You do astound me.”
“Let me see her at once! Where is she? I’ll search your house – throw meout and I’ll return with the City police. You are not a citizen, Baron. An alien – they can deal with you –”
“Please, monsieur, these threats, these outcries, are uncalled for, and wasteful of your strength.”
“You say to me she’s dying –”
“I tell you there is no hope at all.”
I stood there staring. I stared, but saw nothing, and when he poured the cognac for me and put it in my hand, I drank it down, though it might well have been poison. What did I care for that?
“I will tell you, Monsieur St Jean, what it would be best for you to do. Go away now, and come back, perhaps in the early evening.”
“I must see her,” I said. I took his arm, his hand, imploring him. “Please, for God’s sake –”
“Tonight then, if you wish,” he said. “It’s not possible now.”
“You expect me to go, and leave you to get on with killing her –”
He was so serene now before my ranting. He said to me, “But she has told you my place, has she not?” He withdrew his hand from my grasp, gently. He put his own hand upon my shoulder. “Now do as I say, monsieur. It is beyond any of us, but I’ll assist you as best I can, for as long as I can. You have my sympathies.”
I laughed. This was what I should have said to him.
“I love her,” I said. How vapid, such words. “If you must kill someone, then here I am.”
“I know you love her. I have nothing to do with any killing.”
Without knowing what I did, I walked towards the door. I could dash up the stair, and fling open all the doors – the commotion of that might finish her, if what he said was a fact. But it was all a surreality. She could not die.
Out in the hallway, I gazed up at the curving stair, and for a moment I seemed to hear the piano being played, above in the salon, but the music only rang through my head.
“There, monsieur,” said the kindly placid cuckold. “Now do as I say. Return this evening, or I’ll send for you if there is any improvement. But that is of course unlikely. It is improbable.”
As he finished speaking, an awful, unearthly, etheric cry tore through the house. The shock of it threw me round on him again, almost taking him by the throat – “What in God’s name –”
“That is her dog, monsieur. Howling. The dog knows, monsieur.”
It was not until I had left the house, not until I was on the hill again, that I comprehended what I had all this while known. It was I who was the murderer. In the blissful whirlpool of adoring, death-wishing delirium, I had never thought
I
might be the poison. Or had she foreseen – was it that whichmade her hold me off? That fear which finally brought her to me?
I had no strength now. None. But I would return in the evening, duly as he said. Come back and die with her.
The dim piano continued to play within my skull, and now and then the dog howled there, or voices spoke to me, as if into my ears. The borders between unconsciousness and waking, between dream and reality, had long since given way.
Above the door of the
Cockatrice
, the sign of the scaled, snake-headed cockerel turned its look on you and blasted you to a stump. Then you went inside to the damp and greasy cave, where
“It is very good of you to call,” he said.
I stared at him. We had both gone mad. Dispense with these ramblings then.
“Tell me what has happened –” I cried.
“I regret – an illness, an hereditary ailment. We had hoped –”
“Doctors,” I said, “who is attending her?”
“The most capable physicians, of course, monsieur, I assure you. And among our own household, the use of herbal medicine is not unknown – but in any event –” he broke off. He said, with sudden and sinister calm, “You should not be optimistic, Monsieur St Jean.”
I clutched one of the chairs. I said, “What do you mean? You’d let her die –”
“Oh monsieur, please. You do astound me.”
“Let me see her at once! Where is she? I’ll search your house – throw meout and I’ll return with the City police. You are not a citizen, Baron. An alien – they can deal with you –”
“Please, monsieur, these threats, these outcries, are uncalled for, and wasteful of your strength.”
“You say to me she’s dying –”
“I tell you there is no hope at all.”
I stood there staring. I stared, but saw nothing, and when he poured the cognac for me and put it in my hand, I drank it down, though it might well have been poison. What did I care for that?
“I will tell you, Monsieur St Jean, what it would be best for you to do. Go away now, and come back, perhaps in the early evening.”
“I must see her,” I said. I took his arm, his hand, imploring him. “Please, for God’s sake –”
“Tonight then, if you wish,” he said. “It’s not possible now.”
“You expect me to go, and leave you to get on with killing her –”
He was so serene now before my ranting. He said to me, “But she has told you my place, has she not?” He withdrew his hand from my grasp, gently. He put his own hand upon my shoulder. “Now do as I say, monsieur. It is beyond any of us, but I’ll assist you as best I can, for as long as I can. You have my sympathies.”
I laughed. This was what I should have said to him.
“I love her,” I said. How vapid, such words. “If you must kill someone, then here I am.”
“I know you love her. I have nothing to do with any killing.”
Without knowing what I did, I walked towards the door. I could dash up the stair, and fling open all the doors – the commotion of that might finish her, if what he said was a fact. But it was all a surreality. She could not die.
Out in the hallway, I gazed up at the curving stair, and for a moment I seemed to hear the piano being played, above in the salon, but the music only rang through my head.
“There, monsieur,” said the kindly placid cuckold. “Now do as I say. Return this evening, or I’ll send for you if there is any improvement. But that is of course unlikely. It is improbable.”
As he finished speaking, an awful, unearthly, etheric cry tore through the house. The shock of it threw me round on him again, almost taking him by the throat – “What in God’s name –”
“That is her dog, monsieur. Howling. The dog knows, monsieur.”
It was not until I had left the house, not until I was on the hill again, that I comprehended what I had all this while known. It was I who was the murderer. In the blissful whirlpool of adoring, death-wishing delirium, I had never thought
I
might be the poison. Or had she foreseen – was it that whichmade her hold me off? That fear which finally brought her to me?
I had no strength now. None. But I would return in the evening, duly as he said. Come back and die with her.
The dim piano continued to play within my skull, and now and then the dog howled there, or voices spoke to me, as if into my ears. The borders between unconsciousness and waking, between dream and reality, had long since given way.
Above the door of the
Cockatrice
, the sign of the scaled, snake-headed cockerel turned its look on you and blasted you to a stump. Then you went inside to the damp and greasy cave, where
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