Rebecca's Tale (30 page)

He paused; a familiar aggrieved note had entered his voice. “And when I finally
did
get home, Rebecca didn’t exactly overdo the sympathy. She wasn’t a little kid any more, she was growing up fast; she was beautiful, and she knew it. Uncle Jack spoiled her. He was going to make her into a fine lady—he’d set his heart on that. She’d sweep in, in these amazing dresses, with her long black hair, and she was—
scornful, always putting me down. It riled me. So we had a bit of a falling-out. Nothing serious. But I saw her less after that. She’d been telling tales out of school, I think.” He looked away. “Queered my pitch with Uncle Jack. Fed him a pack of lies. Which didn’t endear her to me. But I got over it.”

I could sense evasiveness again. I thought there was more to this sequence of events than Favell was prepared to say. I tried pressing him, but got nowhere; he was becoming surly. Eventually, I was forced to change tack.

“Did she ever talk to you about her childhood, about her life with her mother?”

“A few times. I wasn’t that interested.”

“Was her mother French? Did Rebecca spend time in France as a child? When did they come to England?”

“I don’t think her mother was French, she was just staying in France when Devlin met her—that was the impression I got. I think they came back to England when Rebecca was small—five, six? Beyond that, haven’t a clue, old boy.”

“Did her mother act under the name Devlin? Isabel Devlin?”

“Might have done. I really couldn’t say. She wasn’t exactly Sarah Bernhardt, you know. She was very, very pretty—and I suspect very, very untalented. Rebecca wouldn’t hear a word against her. Adored her. Put up this little shrine to her in her bedroom at Greenways: a little triptych of photographs. Mama as a walk-on. Mama in some two-line role. Oh, and Mama’s big moment. You know what Mama’s big moment was? Playing Desdemona to some old ham’s Othello in some second-rate dump of a theater, on some third-rate tour.

“Jesus—” He stubbed out his cigarette in an irritable way. “It was pathetic. Rebecca put flowers in front of those pictures every night—lit a candle and said her prayers in front of them, I expect. She was very childish, in some ways, Rebecca, when I first knew her. But then she’d never been to school; Mama gave her lessons, and, frankly, I don’t think Mama was too well qualified. Very much the gentlewoman, Mama, despite being an actress. She could play the piano, and sew, I gather, and that’s about it. So, Rebecca was a funny little thing then—knew yards of Shakespeare by heart, knew those bloody plays backward—but she couldn’t multiply or divide, she could scarcely add two and two. Didn’t know the simplest things: no geo
graphy, no history—not until Uncle Jack started shipping the governesses in, anyway, and Rebecca gave
them
a hard time. She was very willful. Spoke French, of course, and spoke it like a native—and she was a brilliant mimic. She could do any accent, any voice, she only had to hear it once, and she had it off pat. All those years in the wings, I imagine….

“Of course, Uncle Jack loved all that, and he encouraged her. He was turning her into a bloody performing monkey in my opinion—not that anyone ever asked me. We’d sit down after dinner, and it would be ‘Becka, won’t you recite a bit of a play, now, for your old father?’ Old? I told you: He wasn’t forty. And she’d be on her feet, before you could blink; we had hours of the bloody stuff. I’ve never liked Shakespeare—can’t see the point of him, myself. Half the time you can’t understand a word he’s on about. But Uncle Jack didn’t think so, oh, no. Especially when his precious Becka was giving the recitation. She made him read some bloody stupid play—what’s that one where the dead wife comes back as a statue, and the king’s reunited with his daughter?”

“The Winter’s Tale.”

“That’s it. Well, that was his favorite. ‘My long-lost daughter’—that’s what he started calling her. That’s how he used to introduce her to people. ‘This is Becka—my long-lost daughter. My own little…’ What’s the girl’s name in that play?”

“Perdita.”

“Perdita. That’s it. ‘My own little Perdita.’ I used to cringe—he could be a sentimental fool, now that I think about it.”

“Did it embarrass her, when he spoke in that way?”

“Embarrass her? Some chance! You couldn’t embarrass Rebecca. She never gave a tuppenny damn what anyone thought of her. And she’d never hear a word of criticism against her father. She loved him, the same way she loved her mother. I told you: She was very childish in some ways. She’d cling to an idea, or a person, or a place; she’d attach herself to them—and then nothing would shift her.”

“So, she and her father were very close. Did they remain close? Was he still alive when she married?”

“What?” Favell gave me a blank stare. “No. Of course he wasn’t. I told you—”

“I don’t think you did, actually.”

“Then I’ll tell you now. He died young. When I came to England, he had six years left, poor devil. Got thrown by one of his horses, some great black brute of a thing, out on one of the gallops. It was 1921—Danny sent a telegraph to the ship I was on, and those bastards wouldn’t give me compassionate leave. So, I never even went to his funeral….” He turned his brooding gaze to the wall, then tossed back the dregs of his brandy.

“Never went back to Greenways. Cut my losses. There wasn’t any money anyway. Not a bean—can you believe that? In debt, up to the eyeballs—he’d lost money on investments, on those bloody horses, he was in hock to the banks, the Jews, you name it. It was all a sham—that blasted house, the stables, the horses, Rebecca’s clothes, a house full of servants and hangers-on—and the whole damn lot was on credit. That was a bloody shock. I mean, I didn’t expect him to die, and I told you I wasn’t in his good books at the time….”

He paused, looking away. “You see, I’d assumed…I’d thought I could expect a nice little legacy. I knew Rebecca would get the lion’s share, he was besotted with her, but I thought there’d be something coming my way, enough to buy me out of the bloody Navy anyway. But there wasn’t. Sweet F.A. I didn’t get a penny—and neither did Rebecca. That’s when we had our little falling-out. I wrote to her, asked if the creditors were letting her keep her jewelry—some perfectly bloody harmless inquiry of that kind. And she wasn’t too nice about it, old boy. Called me some pretty vile things. She always had a vicious tongue. So, that was that. End of a lovely friendship. No contact for seven years, and don’t ask me what she was doing then, because I haven’t a clue. Then, I come back to England, and there she is—at Manderley. And we know what happened
then
, don’t we?”

He broke off, fiddling with his cigarette case. His expression had become preoccupied. I could see he was following some train of thought, and I wondered if he felt ill. He was very drawn, and beginning to sweat a little.

“What was Rebecca
like
…that’s what you said earlier, wasn’t it?” he went on. “I’ll tell you what she was like: She was
dangerous
. Oh, you’ll meet plenty of people who’ll say she was kind, and beautiful, and charming, and witty. But I knew her better than most, and I’m telling you: It was a bad idea to cross her. If you did, she paid you back. Sooner or later. And the way she did it was clever….”

He gave a frown. “Strange, isn’t it? You start talking about the past, and you think you’ve understood it, and then you suddenly see: Maybe it
wasn’t
the way you thought at the time, maybe there’s a
different
explanation. That note she sent me the day she died, for instance. I’ve been thinking about that all evening, and I’m just beginning to see…”

“What about the note?”

“I told you, if Max had caught me with her at the boathouse he’d have killed me, too. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. He wasn’t too stable by then, and he hated my guts. Rebecca knew that. So, think about it: Supposing she
meant
him to kill me? What if she was setting me up? That way, we all three of us end up dead. Rebecca escapes months of illness, cousin Jack gets his comeuppance, and Max goes to the gallows. Very neat. And she could have pulled it off, too….

“Don’t you see?” He turned his brooding gaze back to me. “It was pure chance I got the note so late, that I didn’t go down to Manderley. It was pure chance that Danny had kept Rebecca’s diary, so we found out about that doctor in London—and Rebecca didn’t
want
us to trace the doctor, I see that now. She’d covered her tracks; she hadn’t told anyone she was ill, not even Danny. You bet she didn’t want that doctor traced: His evidence saved Max’s neck…. What a bloody joke. She had it in for
both
of us—and I’ve never once thought of that possibility until now; it’s taken me twenty years to see something so damn obvious….”

The suggestion seemed unlikely to me; I suspected the drink was now affecting him. But I could see his mind inching its way through these possibilities, and I could see he believed them. Oddly, he spoke without bitterness. His tone was ironic, pitched somewhere between admiration and amusement.

“That presupposes Rebecca wanted you dead,” I said, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Have you any reason to believe she did?”

“One or two. Now I look back.” Favell gave me a quick evasive glance. “I told you—it wasn’t a good idea to cross her. She was vengeful.”

“Had you crossed her? In what way? I thought you were lovers.”

“That’s what they say in Kerrith, is it, old boy?”

“I gather it’s what
you
said. In front of several witnesses, three of whom are still alive. Frank Crawley, for instance. Colonel Julyan. The second Mrs. de Winter. At Manderley, on the night of your cousin’s funeral.”

That remark, and the tone in which I made it, was unwise, and I saw that instantly. Favell turned his pale blue eyes in my direction; he gave me a narrow considering look. “Well, you know all about it already then, don’t you, old boy? No point in my explaining, even if I felt inclined to do so—which I don’t. Not just at this moment.” He pushed back his chair, and tossed down his napkin. “Why don’t you get the bill? I’ve had enough of this place, quite frankly. Why don’t we go on somewhere else? I know a club just round the corner where we can get a nightcap. We could continue our little chat there. What say you?”

I didn’t welcome this suggestion, and I tried to block it, but Favell merely smiled. He could sense he had the upper hand now, and he was enjoying it. “Up to you, old boy,” he said. “You can push off, if you prefer. But if you want to continue our little conversation, we’ll do it on my territory. Besides, I’ve sung for my supper now, and—fair’s fair—it’s my turn. You see, I’ve got the feeling you’ve been holding out on me. That’s my instinct. More to you than meets the eye, I think. Could be wrong, of course, but before I say anything else, there’s something important I need to ask you….”

It was the last thing I wanted to do, but Favell could be obstinate. Nothing would persuade him to remain in the restaurant: It was either consent to the club or say good-bye to him. I paid the bill, and we went out into the Soho street.

Favell’s manner was making me uneasy. I wondered what he knew, or thought he knew, about me. I told myself he knew nothing, that he was simply building up to the question of payment. I was wrong—as I shortly discovered.

E
IGHTEEN

F
AVELL’S CLUB WAS NOT “AROUND THE CORNER,” AS HE
claimed; nor was it along the street, or up the alleyway where Favell insisted we look for it. Eventually we found a basement with a flickering pitchfork sign that said R
ED
D
EVIL
. “Found it,” said Favell. “I knew the damn place was around here somewhere.”

He plunged down the steep steps, brushed past a notice that said M
EMBERS
O
NLY
, was stopped in his tracks by a thickset man in an ill-fitting dinner jacket, and was eventually admitted after I’d handed over a five-pound note. We entered a small dark room, with a pianist and a brunette in a gold lamé dress who was crooning a Sinatra song into a microphone. The air was thick with cigarette smoke; the place smelled of nicotine, desperation, and alcohol. All the patrons were male, the “hostesses” who served us were predatory, and the only drink available was champagne—at three times the normal price, naturally.

I was rapidly losing patience. I don’t like clip joints. I’d had enough of Favell’s cat-and-mouse games, and I knew that if one of the hostesses joined us—Favell seemed keen on that idea at first—I’d get nothing out of him for the rest of the evening. Favell sat opposite me, looking morose and resentful. He was drinking the champagne steadily, and he was building up to something, I could sense it. With
little to lose at that point, I abandoned tact. I pressed him on the remarks he’d made at the end of our meal. He refused, in a sullen way, to elaborate. I asked him a whole series of other questions. Having received no useful answers to any of them, I changed tack. Thinking of the notebook and that picture postcard, I finally asked him whether, to his knowledge, Rebecca had ever known, or visited, Manderley in her childhood.

I knew it was a question too far, but I didn’t care. Favell, who had been growing increasingly irascible, lost his temper.

“No, I
don’t
know,” he said. “What
is
this? What’s your game, old chum? Some reporter you are. Let me tell you, I’ve known a few journalists in my time—got pretty pally with them on occasions, when it suited me—and I’ve never met one like you. I smelled a rat when you first wrote, and I smelled a rat as soon as I laid eyes on you. Fine: I thought I might as well get a decent dinner out of it, but now I have, let’s lay our cards on the table. You’ve been trying to lead me up the garden path, old pal. You’ve been lying to me. Claim you’ve written twice and that’s it? I don’t think so. You want to know why I agreed to see you? I agreed because you sent me this. Arrived last Wednesday, brown envelope—about this big. No covering letter, nothing to warn me.”

I stared at him. I’d been about to leave; I’d already pushed back my chair. Favell had taken a small envelope, a tiny envelope, from his inside jacket pocket.