Authors: Sally Beauman
“I see you’re fond of her,” said Gray with a smile. “I’d like to meet your sister. I wonder if she’d talk to me?”
“Not a chance,” I said, somewhat piqued. “In the first place, Rose left here donkey’s years ago. She skedaddled off to Girton College, and she’s been in the Fens ever since. In the second, she’s vague and very unreliable. And in the third, she’s virtually a recluse.”
“A recluse? The Fens? Really? But Ellie said—”
“Unsociable, then,” I said, interrupting swiftly. “Forget the whole idea, Gray. Now—what were we talking about? I think we got a little sidetracked. Where were we? Remind me.”
“We were talking about Rebecca de Winter. That led you to the subject of her husband, and the type of women that interested him…. So I suppose we did sidetrack a little. But as always, sir, it was illuminating.”
Dry again! I cast a little glance in his direction. Gray was given to understatement, and I was never sure when he might be needling me. His expression now was perfectly bland and innocent. He steepled his fingers. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “we were speaking of Rebecca’s death. Which interests me, as you know. A mysterious life—so little known—and an equally mysterious death. I was wondering, Colonel Julyan, if—”
“Time for my nap,” I said firmly. “We’ll discuss that another day.
Down
, Barker—in heaven’s name what’s the matter with that blasted dog? Will you stop that infernal whining and whiffling?
Down
, dammit, Gray is leaving….”
W
E DID DISCUSS IT ANOTHER DAY—ON MANY OTHER
days. At least, Gray attempted to do so, and I grew more recalcitrant and evasive. The habit of silence is hard to break, and a twenty-year-
plus silence on this subject was, on my part, near insuperable. Things were not made any easier by my knowing full well that in Kerrith my failure to cooperate was unusual. Everyone else was only too eager to talk—including those like Marjorie Lane, whose ignorance is total. They were all at it, bending Gray’s ear, pouring out to him their unreliable tenth-hand gossip and their frankly ludicrous theories. Not content with unsupported speculation as to Rebecca’s origins, how she came to meet Maxim in the first place, et cetera (areas where my own knowledge is infinitely superior), they sank their teeth into the question of her death, just as they’ve been doing at intervals, whenever they’re bored with bridge, or the weather is bad, for the last two decades.
The likes of Marjorie Lane fed him the tuppence-colored versions originally peddled by that wretched Evans man: that Rebecca was having an affair (identity of the lover unknown); that she had frequent assignations in the boathouse below Manderley; that she was murdered—strangled, smothered, stabbed, take your pick—either by the lover, or more probably by her husband who came upon them
in flagrante
; that her body was then dumped in her boat,
Je Reviens
, which was taken out into the bay by the murderer and scuttled.
Marjorie Lane gave these suggestions a twist of her own. In her view, she told Gray (who repeated it to me), Maxim de Winter was a obvious deviant, a homosexual (or “pansy” as she put it) who had been “carrying on” with that estate manager of his, Frank Crawley, and who had then killed his wife when she threatened to reveal his predilections to the world in a divorce court. Her evidence for this was a little confused, but placed great emphasis on the fact that Maxim and his second wife had slept in twin beds—as she had learned on the best authority, that is, from the ex-Manderley maid who changed the sheets on them.
I was outraged when I heard this. I couldn’t believe the woman’s crassness and audacity. I couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to tell Gray this farrago of rubbish, and I noted she’d never dared mention it to me. “Talk to the Briggs sisters,” I said. “They’ll soon set you straight. They knew Maxim very well, and they know exactly what happened.”
Gray did so. The Briggs sisters, as expected, gave him my “authorized version.” Both sisters had been devoted to Rebecca and were quick to defend her. They explained that poor Rebecca had learned
from a doctor in London that she was mortally ill; she had returned at once to Manderley, gone out at night in her boat, and ended her own life as decisively and courageously as she had lived it. The inquest verdict of suicide, they added, was correct, and fully justified.
Obviously, this version was influenced by conversations with me; but, unfortunately, the Briggs sisters are not subtle. I’ve told them a thousand times that, given the doctor’s evidence, the suicide verdict could not be
challenged
. They simply cannot see, or remember, that there is a very important distinction between “challenged” and “justified.”
I did not expect Gray, who
is
subtle, to accept what they said—and indeed, he didn’t.
“Rather an unusual way to kill yourself, isn’t it?” he remarked. “To scuttle your own sailboat, and then wait in the cabin to drown? What was wrong with an overdose? Or cutting the wrists in a warm bath? Or jumping off a cliff, come to that? There are plenty of suitable cliffs hereabouts, in all conscience. What in God’s name were the jury-men at the inquest thinking of? They didn’t even have the information that she was ill, at that point—am I right?”
“Yes. You are.”
“Then the suicide verdict is even more nonsensical. Was the possibility of foul play mooted?”
“Briefly. Yes. The coroner raised that issue, as he was bound to do. But there was no evidence given in court that Rebecca had enemies—that there was anyone who wished her harm. There were no signs of violence to the body….”
“The body had been in the water for over a year. It was heavily decomposed—at least so the evidence given at the inquest suggests. Was that the case, Colonel Julyan? You were there, I understand, when her body was brought up.”
“Yes. I was. I was present in my capacity as local J.P., as magistrate, and…look here, Gray, I prefer not to discuss this. The memories are painful, even now.”
“I can understand that, sir.” His tone softened, but he continued to regard me intently. “You were her friend. You were also her husband’s friend. But—forgive me—I’m still puzzled. I can see the London doctor’s evidence gave a motive for suicide—but surely it left a great many questions unanswered. She left no suicide note. She took her life in an unusual way, to put it mildly.
Did
she have any enemies?
People seem to know virtually nothing about her marriage or her circumstances, yet they’re happy to pronounce judgment: Either she killed herself and she’s a saint, or she was murdered and she’s a sinner. Every single analysis of this case suggests the same thing: If she was killed, it was
because
she had a lover—or lovers. But was that true? Where’s the evidence?”
“I’m not going to discuss this. We’re talking about a woman I greatly admired.”
“Then surely, sir, you must believe she had rights? And wasn’t one of them the right to have her death investigated as fully as possible?”
“It
was
investigated.”
“With respect, Colonel Julyan, I don’t agree with you. If Rebecca de Winter
was
killed, then her murderer went free. No sooner was she dead than her character was attacked. The blame began to attach itself to her almost immediately: She was an unfaithful wife,
therefore
she was killed. Given the lack of evidence, doesn’t it ever strike you that, as far as she’s concerned, there may have been a
double
miscarriage of justice?”
“It happened over twenty years ago,” I replied, after a very long pause. “I regret the stories about Rebecca more than I can say, but I’m powerless to stop them. Nothing can be proved now, anyway. Rebecca is dead. Maxim de Winter is dead. I’m not likely to see too many more summers. The world moves on, Gray. You’re young. You knew none of these people. I don’t understand—why should it matter to you?”
“The truth matters,” he replied in an obstinate way. “It matters to me, and I believe it matters to you….”
“Go home. Go home,” I said to him. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, and you’re wearing me out. I’ve had enough of it. You remind me of—” I stopped abruptly.
Of my son, I could have added, though I didn’t. And it’s true, Gray does sometimes remind me of Jonathan. He asks the questions my son would have asked of me had he lived, and it’s when I notice a resemblance between them—sometimes there is a likeness around the eyes—that I feel most weak, and long to unburden myself to him.
I
THOUGHT OF THIS CONVERSATION DURING OUR LUNCH
. A week had passed since we had that discussion, and I knew it had influ
enced me. The final point Gray had made then was indeed crucial: Did the truth matter? Yes, indeed, it mattered if you wanted to live with yourself. It mattered urgently if, as may be my case, there is precious little time left to you.
During lunch, I tried to watch and listen to Gray very carefully. I was trying to assess him. How do you measure a man? I gave him the following marks: nine out of ten for table manners (pretty good, given “Auntie May” and that grammar school); seven out of ten for his suit (it was off the peg, but freshly pressed, and the tie was unexceptional); five out of ten for conversational skills (like most Scots, he’s inclined to be taciturn); and ten out of ten for patience—we had reached the pudding stage before he mentioned Manderley.
I had hoped this “marking” process would tell me something, but of course it didn’t. Those kind of markers, which I’ve relied on all my life, made me ashamed of myself. They were utterly trivial, and they were not the signposts I should now be using.
Sub specie aeternitatis
. I might be off to meet my Maker at any second; if so, I’d better reform, and pull my moral socks up.
I was feeling low again, and I was so deep in thought that, if Ellie had asked, I couldn’t have told her whether the pudding I was eating was stewed apples or stewed cactus. I was busy trying to decide if I could trust this young man, whether I should confide in him, whether he should be my Watson or not; whether, indeed, there might be an even more significant role for him at The Pines in the future…. Then I suddenly realized something very obvious. Terence Gray was my
conscience
. That was my conscience sitting opposite me now; my conscience was wearing a ready-made suit and eating apples and custard.
This idea threw me completely—so much so that Gray and Ellie had been discussing Rebecca’s famous fancy-dress balls at Manderley for some while before I even noticed. It was not until Ellie mentioned the costume that Rebecca chose for the last ball she gave, and I heard the words “Caroline de Winter” and “Raeburn portrait” that I surfaced. I saw my opportunity and interrupted.
“Those parties made work for the servants,” I said. “Frith used to complain about that. Which reminds me, Gray—what
did
he have to say when you saw him yesterday?”
“Frith? He sent you his respects, sir. He made a point of that.”
“His respects?” I looked at Gray closely. “Is that
all
he’s sent me recently? He didn’t mention sending me anything
else
, I suppose?”
“No.” Gray looked mystified. “What sort of thing, sir? I don’t quite follow—”
“Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Time for our walk, I think.” I rose. “Ellie, for heaven’s sake, leave the plates, there’s no need for you to deal with them. Someone else can attend to all that. We’ll skip coffee. We’re missing the best of the afternoon as it is. Barker—where’s that damn dog got to? Barker—
heel
.”
In the hall, I kitted myself out: hat, scarf, gloves, stick, overcoat. Grasping Barker firmly by the lead I waited in the porch with my conscience while Ellie fetched the car from the garage. I looked my conscience up and down. “Look here, Gray. There’s something I must ask you,” I burst out. “Did you send me a parcel—arrived this morning? About so big? Brown envelope?”
“No, sir.” Gray frowned. “I don’t quite understand. If I wanted to show you something, I’d bring it over myself. And if I posted it, I’d enclose a letter.”
“Of course you would. Just thought—maybe the letter, or note, got left out by mistake. Never mind. It’s not important. Forget I mentioned it.”
I allowed Gray to help me down the path to the car. There was one last test ahead for him, and much depended on how he conducted himself at Manderley. Meanwhile, his reactions to my question had surprised me.
When I said I had something I must ask him, he tensed. When I posed the actual question and he denied all knowledge of that parcel, I saw transparent honesty—but I also saw relief.
Now why should that be? Gray had been anticipating a different question, I thought. He had been expecting me to ask him something else.
And whatever it was, the prospect had alarmed him. It was the first time I had ever seen him visibly nervous.
E
IGHT
E
LLIE BROUGHT OUR
M
ORRIS
O
XFORD ROUND TO THE
front gate, and, with Gray’s assistance, I was bundled into it. Given my rheumatism and general decrepitude, it’s quite a performance getting me into a car, but in the end we managed it. Gray sat in the back behind Ellie, and Barker sat behind me, occasionally licking the backs of my ears, and panting expectantly.
It was a truly glorious day, and my spirits lifted as we bowled along (Ellie is an impetuous driver). We bounced down the narrow, steep hill that leads into Kerrith from our aerie, chuntered along past the brightly painted cottages that perch by the harbor, and skirted the pier, where the ferry departs up river to villages such as Pelynt, where Gray may or may not have stayed in his childhood.
Coming out on the far side of the town, with the Manderley headland directly opposite us across the brilliance of the water, we passed Golden Guinea cove, where Gray’s rented cottage is located, and where, allegedly, smugglers once stored their loot (though it’s difficult to find a cove around here where they allegedly didn’t). Ellie, practising for Le Mans, spun the wheel; we zipped around the notorious blind bend where, shortly after his marriage to Rebecca, Maxim once wrote off his latest motorcar (and was lucky to survive, as it happened). We began the long climb inland, the road snaking along the
indentations of the creeks, and mounting toward the thick plantations of oak, beech, and Scots pine that mark the farther boundaries of the Manderley woodland.