Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  “Of course, we’ve given him every encouragement!” Jocelyn, the younger Briggs, cried. “We think it would be so suitable in every way, don’t we, Elinor? He’s made the cottage so very snug and charming—and it’s only ten minutes walk, less, to The Pines! What could be more convenient?”

  “Convenient for whom?” I asked coldly.

  “Why, everyone, Arthur, dear,” said Jocelyn, becoming flustered.

  “We mean,” Elinor put in, giving her sister an admonitory look, “that it would be delightful if he were to stay here permanently. And so nice for you, Arthur, dear! You’re such great friends now, and you share so many interests…” She paused. “I find it hard to believe he never told you about his childhood. He never mentioned his Aunt May? How strange! Jocelyn and I were counting on you to fill in the gaps—we thought you’d be familiar with the whole story….”

  I was familiar with the whole story. I had read it, or variations upon it, in countless novels. It had Dickensian echoes that unsettled me. Did I believe in Auntie May, alias Betsy Trotwood? Not being as gullible as the Briggs spinsters, I wasn’t at all sure that I did. I thought there might be very good reasons why the Terrier had spared me these details—he couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes, and I think he knew that.

  My suspicions being thus aroused (What was Gray hiding? Could he be illegitimate? Ye gods, could he be married? Could there be a deserted wife and child in Peebles or Perth?), I took care what I divulged, and I watched with an eagle eye the precise nature of his inquiries. At once, his angle became obvious. Medieval field boundaries? What a dimwit I’d been! Gray was interested in the de Winter family, yes, but his chief interest was, and always had been, Rebecca.

  Now why should that be? Once I had marked his interest, that was the question I asked myself. Could there be some small personal link that explained it? I wondered. If Gray’s claims regarding childhood holidays could be believed, he’d have been coming here during the latter half of the 1920s, when Rebecca was still alive and at the height of her social fame. If his visits continued into his teens, he might have stayed here at the time of her disappearance, or the subsequent inquest. Details of that were splashed across the pages of the newspapers, and gossip was rife. Had Gray and his Aunt May, staying in a modest boardinghouse, perhaps, heard these stories? Had the seeds of Gray’s interest been planted then? It seemed possible. Crime (and punishment) were certainly subjects that interested him.

  Finally, exasperated, I asked him straight out. I put this scenario to him. He denied it. He had been aware of Manderley as a boy, he added—how could he not be when every second shop sold postcards showing views of the house? He and his aunt generally stayed farther up river; they used to rent a tiny waterside cottage near the ancient church at Pelynt. He thought he might have made a visit to the Manderley church to take brass rubbings of the medieval de Winter tombs on one occasion, but he and his aunt moved in very modest social circles and he could remember no discussion locally of those exalted beings, Rebecca and Maxim de Winter. As for the inquest and the subsequent fire, he thought he could remember reading about them in the national newspapers—but he was at least fifteen then, and the holidays in this area had ceased.

  He paused; then, as if satisfied with this thumbnail portrait of an earnest little boy, an infant historian in the making, he changed the subject. On balance, I believed that story about brass rubbings. It was in character. Even as an adult, Gray retains a fondness for churches and tombs, and will walk miles in all weathers to visit them. It goes hand in hand with his passion for old books and documents, for the days he spends trawling through archives, newspaper libraries, and antiquarian bookshops.

  This is a man who loves evidence—or so I initially thought—a man who delights in reconstructing the past by means of estate records, church registers, the incunabula of birth, wedding, and death certificates; this is a peruser of wills, a disinterer of dusty forgotten letters, diaries, and notebooks—and I could quite see that for such a man Manderley represented a special challenge. Why? Because there were gaps—huge gaps—and the historian in Gray was at once drawn to this apparent vacuum.

  When Manderley burned down, the contents of the house were destroyed completely. The fire occurred within thirty-six hours of the inquest into Rebecca’s death. It began at night and raged through the building. Everything went: all the exquisite furniture Rebecca had assembled, all those spying portraits that so terrorized me as a child—and all the de Winter family papers.

  But the estate records, as I’ve said, had survived. At the time of the fire, they’d been lodged at the estate office, under Frank Crawley’s fussy care; now they had passed to the very archive where Gray works, and—needless to say—Gray was quick to make himself familiar with them. His fascination with this dry-as-dust stuff amused me at first. That a fit, active young man with a good mind should choose to bury himself in these details of acreages, tenant farms, rents, and crop rotations seemed to me absurd. My own interest in history takes a more romantic turn; Malory has left an enduring legacy. I like love affairs, fatal passions, dastardly deeds, battles, and derring-do—and, fool that I was, I felt patronizing toward Gray for the footling matters that so absorbed him. The more he labored away at the coalface, the less I thought of him.

  I can now see that these labors were preparatory; I suspect Gray may have uncovered several little gems in those records that no one could have foreseen. He has certainly shown a marked interest in one de Winter tenant family, the Carminowes, whom I remember well from my childhood, and about whom I have long held my own conjectures. Their story is a sad one—three sons dead in the first war, their pretty widowed mother left to bring up her two surviving children herself, and one of those children—the boy, Ben—an idiot from birth.

  It was Gray who bothered to follow up on their history, and Gray who discovered that Ben Carminowe, who used to haunt the coves below Manderley, was dead—apparently he ended his days in the county asylum. Maybe it was when Gray began to cross-question me about these loyal de Winter tenants that I first became uneasy. My misgivings soon deepened. Having exhausted the estate papers, Gray turned his attention to my own little archive. The Manderley family records might have gone up in smoke, but what about all that rich information packed away in my study—and in my memory?

  It was then that the Terrier’s interrogations really started. He wanted to know about Lionel and poor Virginia and the Termagant. He wanted to know about Maxim as a boy, and he became very animated indeed when I let slip that, millennia ago, when my bluestocking sister, Rose, was young and lovely, she and Maxim had for a brief period been expected to marry. “Just before the first war?” he asked sharply.

  “Round about then,” I said, retreating rapidly. “Probably nothing to it, now I look back. People were always speculating—he was the heir, after all. He and Rose were close in age; they were friends, which was surprising in some ways…”

  “Why?”

  “Because Rose always had her nose in a book, even then. And that wasn’t really Maxim’s taste at all. Most of the de Winters were philistines, now I think about it, and Maxim was influenced by them. He liked to be outdoors. He sailed. He rode. On the other hand, he was handsome. He was dashing. There was a streak of melancholy even then, even before the war—I expect that intrigued Rose….”

  “He was also very rich, of course. One day, he would own Manderley.”

  I was annoyed. “And you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think that would influence my sister,” I said with some heat. “You don’t know Rose. Rose was a socialist in the nursery. She was a suffragette at six. All Rose wanted to do was to go off to Cambridge, God help us, and spend the rest of her life writing unreadable books with lots of footnotes. Which is exactly what she did do. She’s now Dr. Julyan. She may even be Professor Julyan. She’s a feminist, a man-hating eccentric, and an embarrassment to the entire family.”

  “I see you’re fond of her,” said Gray with a smile. “I’d like to meet y
our 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….”

  WE 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 influenced 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.