Rebecca's Tale (3 page)

Rebecca de Winter had been found at last. What followed was more tragedy—and a travesty of justice to boot. An inquest was hastily convened, and the jury—composed in the main of tenants of
the de Winter estates only too willing to tug their forelocks to the deceased woman’s husband—brought in a verdict of suicide. Maximilian de Winter, then forty-one, was let off lightly in the witness box by the elderly coroner. The then magistrate for the district, Colonel A. L. Julyan, a lifelong friend of Rebecca’s husband, alleged by locals to be a “snob who liked to keep in with the bigwigs,” declined to pursue inquiries any further. As he insisted then, and still insists, the matter was resolved.

Yet, consider the following seven facts, any one of which should surely have prompted further investigation, given the unusual nature of this “suicide”:

1. Not long after his wife’s disappearance, Mr. de Winter had identified the body of a dead woman washed ashore miles up-coast as that of Rebecca: He made this identification, which later proved to be “mistaken,” alone.
   
2. Less than a year after his first wife’s death, Mr. de Winter married again, his new wife, whom he met on a jaunt to Monte Carlo, being half his age.
   
3. His movements on the night of his late wife’s death could not be accounted for in full. He dined with his estate manager, Mr. Frank Crawley, who lived nearby, but he could be said to lack an alibi for the key hours—from ten P.M. on.
   
4. There had been persistent rumors, in neighboring Kerrith and beyond, that his marriage to Rebecca, which was childless, had been a stormy one.
   
5. The de Winters did not share a bed at Manderley, and Mrs. de Winter frequently spent the night either at her flat in London or at her boathouse cottage, a situation her husband appeared to condone.
   
6. On April 12, Mrs. de Winter’s devoted housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, who also acted as her personal maid, was enjoying a rare evening off duty. Who in that household knew that Mrs. Danvers—the person who first raised the alarm the next morning—would be absent from Manderley then? Does this absence explain why it was that particular night that Mrs. de Winter disappeared?
   
7. On the afternoon prior to her disappearance, Mrs. de Winter saw a consultant gynecologist, Dr. Baker, at his Bloomsbury consulting rooms. It was her second appointment. What happened at the first? (Dr. Baker, who diagnosed an inoperable cancer, has since “moved abroad.”)
   

These questions, and numerous others, remain unanswered to this day. And Rebecca de Winter did not rest in peace—or so locals claim. After the inquest, she was buried in the de Winter crypt, next to her husband’s ancestors. Within hours of that hasty and secretive interment, Manderley was burned to the ground…. Accident? Or were more sinister forces at work? Had Rebecca, a victim of injustice, apparently unmourned by her husband, returned from the dead to take her revenge? Had she risen from the grave, as she’d risen from the sea? Remember that boat’s name….
Je Reviens
.

In pursuit of answers to these questions, and others, I set off last month to Kerrith, the nearest small town to Manderley. In the public houses and humble cottages of that picturesque and remote place were many who had loved and respected Rebecca de Winter. Outraged by these events, they were all too ready to talk to me, I found.

Within a day, armed with new and sensational evidence, I was in no doubt that there had been a concerted conspiracy to cover up the truth about Rebecca de Winter’s death. Standing at last on the storm-swept headland by the ruins of Manderley, I looked out over the dark sea where she had met her end. And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Mrs. de Winter had not died at her own hand. I knew the name of her murderer, and the method he’d used. Only one question remained: Why had Rebecca been killed? Might the answer to that question lie in her mysterious past? Turning my back on the haunted ruins of Manderley, I embarked on a quest for the truth about her origins….

He never completed it, I’m glad to say. That doodlebug got him first. By then the damage was done, of course.

I sank my head in my hands. In the fairground mirror in front of which I’m eternally trapped, two ghosts and one clown were gesturing away. That unreliable heart of mine was playing up again. I was feeling distinctly unwell.

T
HREE

I
CLOSED THE FILE OF PRESS CUTTINGS, AND STARED
through the window at my mournful monkey puzzle tree. Barker was twitching his legs as he dreamed, and my own dream of the night before had returned. Up it came, like a nasty gas from the marsh of my unconscious. Once again, I saw myself trapped at the wheel of that sinister black car, which seemed to steer and propel itself without my aid. Once again, I was traveling up that endless drive to Manderley; I was driving through a snowstorm; when I applied the brakes, they failed to respond; beside me, incongruous on the passenger seat, that tiny coffin was beginning to move.

I rose from my chair, walked around my room a couple of times, and inspected my books (the room is barricaded with books). I forced that dream out of my mind. I had sat down at my desk feeling energetic and purposeful; now, as had happened so often before, I felt old, seedy, and inadequate, blinded by a blizzard of misinformation that went back twenty years and more.

Eric Evans might claim that he had discovered “new and sensational evidence,” but what did it amount to? Precious little. Like the newshounds who’d come after him, he’d raided the pungent rubbish heap of Kerrith gossip; former Manderley staff and suchlike had tossed him a few smelly old bones. But he and his successors had
never unearthed any proof as to what happened to Rebecca on the last night of her life. They had discovered virtually nothing about her pre-Manderley past. Even Terence Gray, an historian, not a journalist, but a sharp operator all the same, has got precisely nowhere with such inquiries—at least, not as far as I knew. That didn’t surprise me. I was Rebecca’s friend. I knew, better than anyone, how well Rebecca had covered her tracks, how secretive she’d been.

Would I be embarking on this task of mine, I asked myself, returning to my desk, were it not for the influence of Terence Gray, that strange young man, recently arrived in Kerrith—a young man who, for reasons unexplained, has been taking such a persistent interest in the circumstances of Rebecca de Winter’s mysterious life, and death?

Possibly not. My dreams had certainly taken a turn for the worse since he arrived and launched his interrogations. I drew the telephone toward me: Time to speak to the man and propose our afternoon visit to Manderley—a visit long postponed, which I was beginning to regard as a
test
. How would Gray respond when he finally saw a house that seems to obsess him? (And why
does
it obsess him, for that matter?)

I picked up the receiver, then replaced it. It was still only ten o’clock (I rise early; Ellie and I breakfast early); the invitation could wait. Mr. Gray is formidable. He’s young and energetic, and aspects of the man worry me (not least his motivation, which remains opaque). I was beginning to admit that Gray could be useful to me, but before I spoke to him I needed to think. I picked up the parcel that had arrived that morning, weighed it in my hand, decided it could wait until later, and turned my attention to the second of my appointed tasks—my “witness” list.

Unlike the newshounds and Mr. Gray, I told myself, I did not really
need
the testimony of others if I were to write the truth about Rebecca. I was her friend (possibly her closest friend, or so I flattered myself); I’d known Maxim for most of my life. I’d been familiar with Manderley from my early childhood, and the de Winter family had very few secrets from
me
. I am, as Mr. Gray keeps telling me, a prime source—
the
prime source, since Maxim’s death. Even so, as my conversations with Gray had shown me, there were one or two gaps in my knowledge—nothing of any great significance, but irritating nonetheless. I’ve always had a taste for crime fiction—Sherlock, Her-
cule, and the rest; a bit of digging around, a bit of sleuthing might not come amiss: so—my witnesses. Who might know something that I did not?

Concentrate, concentrate
, I said to myself. The injunction was necessary. I am never dilatory, thanks to my self-discipline and my military training, as I said, but I have noticed recently a certain tendency to be distracted. I am seventy-two, which may be a contributing factor. I’ve noticed the tendency worsens when, as then, I feel forlorn/irritable/uncertain/suspicious/upset—take your pick. Recovering instantly, and at lightning speed, I wrote the following list:

1. Rebecca
   
2. Maxim de Winter
   
3. Beatrice (his sister)
   
4. The elder Mrs. de Winter (his grandmother, who brought him up)
   
5. Mrs. Danvers (housekeeper at Manderley in Rebecca’s time)
   
6. Jack Favell (Rebecca’s ne’er-do-well cousin; her sole known relative)
   
7. Former staff (Manderley maids, footmen, etc.; many still living hereabouts)
   
8. Frith (former butler at Manderley; ancient retainer from the year dot)
   

Not a long list. The fact that the first four candidates on it were all dead might have discouraged some people, but not me. I have letters from them, and I have my memories. In such ways, the dead can speak.

Even so, just to write their names distressed me. I knew Beatrice, who died at the end of the last war, from her childhood. Maxim, who was some ten years younger than I was, I’d known from the day of his birth. That terror of a grandmother of his I could remember only too vividly from my boyhood. She had still been alive during his marriage to Rebecca, whom she’d adored; if anyone had been privy to Rebecca’s many secrets, it was she, I suspected—indeed, I’d often thought she knew more about Maxim’s wife than Maxim did. I could be wrong, of course.

There were ghosts in the corners of the room. Writing their
names had conjured them up. Barker lifted his great head; his hackles rose and fell. He gave me a soulful and comforting look. We both thought of my former friend Maxim, dead these five years, killed in a car accident he certainly willed, which occurred at the Four Turnings entrance to the Manderley gates. Only months after his long years of exile abroad with that second wife of his had finally ended; only a very short time after he and she had returned to England to live.

I know something about being pursued by the Furies, and I’ve never doubted they pursued Maxim with their customary efficiency once he left Manderley, though he ceased communicating with me then, and never answered my letters, so I have no way of confirming this. I was not invited to his funeral; that slight hurt me at the time, and still does. I’ve been loyal to my old friend Maxim—too loyal, perhaps.

The second wife—“the sad little phantom,” as my friends the Briggs sisters refer to her—scattered his ashes in the bay below Manderley, I heard. Did she find the idea of his lying in the de Winter crypt alongside Rebecca unbearable? It wouldn’t surprise me. Possessive women remain possessive after death. She has now spirited herself off to Canada, or so I’m told. I considered, then rejected, the idea of adding her name to my witness list.

On the few occasions I’d met her, I’d found her vapid; in fact, I didn’t take to her, though, given my admiration for Rebecca, I was biased, I expect. True, the second Mrs. de Winter might know more about Rebecca’s death than anyone else; I’ve no doubt Maxim would have taken her into his confidence. But would she ever reveal her knowledge to me? Hell would freeze over first, I thought—and in any case, being practical, I had no way of locating her. According to my spinster cronies Elinor and Jocelyn Briggs, no one in this locality remains in touch with her. She’s said to have walled herself up in Toronto (or was it Montreal?) and no one has her address.

I ran my eye down my list again: Not many names left. As Terence Gray has remarked, there’s a distinct
paucity
of informants in this case. Of the remaining candidates, several could be quickly eliminated. I had no intention of consulting antediluvian Frith, erstwhile Manderley butler, footman, bootboy, et cetera. I’ll admit he was an exemplary butler, but he was also an exemplary busybody, and he had an inexplicably
knowing
way of looking at me that I still resent. He’s now in a local nursing home and virtually senile, in any case. Why
had I added his name to my list in the first place? Probably because Terence Gray has taken an interest in him, I decided. More fool him. I drew a thick line through the noodle’s name. Who else?

In Rebecca’s day, in the Manderley glory days, when the house was filled every weekend with distinguished guests, there was a
tribe
of servants, most of them invisible—invisibility, dumbness, and deafness being the mark of the well-trained servant then, of course. Many of them are still alive, and many of them still live in the Kerrith area. Unlike evil Evans and his disciples, who were not above interviewing former maids, asking zealous questions about bedroom arrangements and so forth, I drew the line at female staff: Most were empty-headed gossipers, who knew nothing (not that this prevented them from inventing reams of stuff for the newshounds, rattling on about sheets, shouts, rows, and rapprochements, et cetera). Some of the menservants, however, Robert Lane for instance, might have a morsel of knowledge to contribute.

I bump into Robert from time to time, as one does in a small place, and he’s always struck me as a nice enough chap. Once a young footman at Manderley (Footman! How antique that sounds), he survived the last war, and—according to the Briggs sisters, my invaluable local informers—is now married with four children. He has brilliantined hair and works behind the bar in an unprepossessing hotel at Tregarron, a souvenir-ridden, plaster-piskie infested tourist trap some three miles from here.

Robert, once notorious in Kerrith for his weakness for redheads, was rumored to be loquacious. Could this be true? My confidence sagged. Robert might be talkative, but he’s never struck me as in the least observant, and I didn’t relish the prospect of pumping questions at him across a bar. There was something unspeakably seedy about it; interrogate a man who used to bring me a whisky and soda? Unthinkable! Who else, who else? My list of informants was shrinking by the second. Only two names were left. With a certain reluctance, I considered my next candidate: Mrs. Danvers. A peculiar woman, Mrs. Danvers.