Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  I watched Ellie’s window for a short while, to see if the light would be extinguished. It wasn’t. I wondered if she was reading, and, if so, what—Ellie is a bit of a mystery. Then I eased myself off the rocks and slipped back into the dark still water. The tide was on the turn; I could feel the ebb pull commencing; I swam back to my cove, and returned shivering to my cottage. It felt several degrees colder than the water.

  There’s no bath here beyond a tin contraption stored in the shed, which you’re supposed to place in front of the fire: I thought this had a certain quaint charm, until I discovered how many kettles of hot water it took to quarter-fill it. There’s no washbasin, either, so I wash and shave in the sink in the ill-lit, wood-lice-infested scullery. There’s a feather mattress, which is permanently damp, and I’m cooking on a paraffin stove—which is fine since I can’t cook anyway. In short, the cottage is picturesque, and, like most picturesque cottages, has drawbacks. But there are many compensations. I like the silence and the isolation. I like the ceaseless changes of the sea, which I can watch from the windows, as I always did at May’s house. And I like to stand, as I did today, and watch the first thin dawn light slowly reveal the woods of the Manderley headland opposite.

  I pulled on some warm clothes and walking boots. I stowed this journal and my papers in the usual hiding place, and then set off. I wanted to take a closer look at that boathouse, in view of what Colonel Julyan told me the other night, but I wasn’t expecting to make any discoveries. I certainly didn’t expect any evidence of the Colonel’s “watcher at the window,” and so—as I can now see—I was ill prepared for the surprises that awaited me.

  I took the coast path that leads directly up from this cove to the headland. The sun was beginning to rise, the sky was opalescent, and in the quietness of the very early morning, it was astonishingly beautiful. This path, overgrown, extremely steep, and dangerous in places, seems to be rarely used. As always, so far, I met and saw no one.

  Great clumps of pink sea thrift were in flower on the cliff edges to my left; on my right, on the landward side, the banks were rich with primroses, cowslips, and a little vetch that I must ask the Colonel, or Ellie, to identify. The drop was vertiginous in places—straight down to the rocks and the churning water. There have been landslips here, too—the cliffs are unstable—and at some points the path disappears completely. The first time I made one of my moonlit expeditions this way, I had several near disasters, when the path disappeared without warning, or I stepped onto what felt like solid ground, only to have it crumble away beneath me.

  But I’m familiar with the route now, and it was much easier in daylight. As the sun strengthened and I gained height, I could look back toward the bright pygmy cottages of Kerrith and see the whole town laid out, clustering around its central church and steeple. Looking westward, I was dazzled by the great glittering expanse of the ocean. I felt sure it was too early for anyone to have their binoculars trained in this direction; the only sign of activity was one fishing boat, turquoise and scarlet, chugging out to sea from Kerrith harbor. It’s unusual for the boats to go out on a Sunday—the Sabbath is still observed rigorously here, just as it is in my part of Scotland. I drew back into the shelter of the banks and raised my own glasses; there was no answering flash from the fishing boat’s deck. I could see its skipper in the wheelhouse, blessedly unconcerned with me, smoking a pipe, his gaze on the horizon.

  Finally, I reached the familiar outcrop of gorse where the coast path now gives out completely. From here, it was once possible to walk around the point and on down to the coves below Manderley—I’ve checked the old maps of the region, and the route can be seen clearly. But the cliffs are constantly eroding, and there was a rockfall about ten years ago, so that approach has become virtually impassable; I’d like to attempt it sometime—it would be an exhilarating climb—but I wouldn’t risk attempting it without ropes and proper equipment. As it is, you’re forced to cut inland, following an almost nonexistent path parallel to the estate walls, which finally emerges after miles of mud, brambles, and nettles, on the Four Turnings road. But there is a place about half a mile back from the cliffs where you can get over those estate walls without great difficulty. It has the advantage of being invisible (even to binoculars) from Kerrith.

  I used this route, and made my now familiar way through the woods. It was cool in the half shade; the first bluebells were just breaking into flower; the still air smelled of leaf mold and spring. By moonlight or at dawn I find this the loveliest and most haunting part of Manderley. A wood pigeon murmured from the branches; a robin caroled and proclaimed his territory. I saw a dog fox, out hunting early: a glimpse of russet; I halted. He lifted his head, sniffing the air, then, with no sign of alarm, slipped away through the undergrowth and left me.

  I could willingly have stayed here a long while. The local people claim these woods are malevolent and haunted, but I’ve never felt that. When I first came to Kerrith, my state of mind was troubled; I still couldn’t come to terms with Julia’s death and Nicky’s grief, or with the guilt I felt during those last months of her illness. To be in Kerrith, to have embarked on this search after years of delay and avoidance, created its own turmoil, too—but I think the beauty and solitude here have helped to effect a cure. Something or someone (the Colonel, perhaps) is beginning to restore me to a more normal state, anyway; equilibrium and hope are returning, and I can sense it.

  I came out of the woods above the so-called Happy Valley where a few of the swathes of species of azaleas that Rebecca de Winter planted still survive, though most were choked by nettles and bindweed long ago. I could smell the azaleas’ sweet lingering perfume in the air as I reached the rough grass above the cove, and began negotiating the overgrown path that leads down to it. The dark shape of Manderley itself was now behind me; I stopped halfway down the path, shielding my eyes with my hand; the light was strengthening, and the sea was dazzling. I scanned the water, and eventually made out the dark line that marks the ridge of rocks running across the bay. This ridge is clearly marked on all the marine charts, and I wanted to look at it carefully. I sat down on a rock and trained my binoculars on it.

  There are many mysteries in Rebecca’s life, as I’ve been discovering—and the circumstances of her death are equally puzzling. This rock ridge is at the heart of the puzzles surrounding her death. Were it not for its existence, Rebecca’s boat and her body might never have been discovered. It was pure chance. Over a year had passed since the disappearance of Rebecca and her converted Breton fishing vessel, Je Reviens. It was believed she had gone sailing at night, and foundered at sea—and that her boat would never be recovered. Then, in the second summer after her disappearance, in heavy seas and thick mist, a German merchant vessel strayed into this bay. It foundered on that very ridge of rock I was now inspecting through my binoculars.

  The crew was taken off; a salvage vessel was brought in, and a diver was sent down to inspect the German ship’s hull for damage. He happened on the sunken shape of a sailboat, which proved to be Je Reviens. It was just clear of that ridge, lying on sand, and apparently undamaged; it was the diver, looking in through the porthole, who saw the body lying in the cabin. It was Rebecca—and, despite her having been underwater for so long, she was quickly identified by the two rings, a wedding ring and an eternity ring, that were found on her finger—although the body was heavily decomposed, these remained. Her hands had been clenched, apparently.

  It was fifteen months since Rebecca had disappeared. And during those months, two things had happened that interested me very much: First, Maxim de Winter had identified another woman’s body washed ashore much farther up the coast as that of his late wife (mistakenly, as it turned out); and, secondly, less than a year after her death, he had remarried.

  As de Winter’s defenders locally have been quick to tell me, his identification of this body was made only a few months after Rebecca’s disappearance, at a time when he was under great strain, mourning his wife, and on the edge o
f a breakdown. In such circumstances, they say, mistakes happen. At the time they were deeply concerned for him—and greatly relieved when he subsequently decided to leave Manderley for a while and travel abroad, retracing the route he and his beloved wife had taken on their honeymoon. An affecting story. I might be more inclined to accept it, had de Winter not then found a new wife for himself with such alacrity.

  To remarry less than twelve months after your young wife’s sudden and tragic death would raise eyebrows even now. Twenty years ago, it was a flagrant breach of convention. Did Maxim de Winter want to cause talk? If so, he certainly succeeded. Or didn’t he care? Was he so in love with that “sad little ghost of a second wife” of his (as the Briggs sisters describe her) that he was prepared to flout convention? Possibly, for he married in haste, only weeks after first meeting her at a hotel in Monte Carlo.

  I find this difficult to understand. De Winter was then forty-two—twice the age of his wife-to-be. He wasn’t some impulsive young man—he was six years older than I am. Surely he could have seen that to remarry so precipitately and bring his new wife back here would make her position very difficult. He might be indifferent as to his own reputation—but I felt that, if he truly loved his new wife, he would have wanted to protect her from the least hint of scandal.

  What would it have cost him to wait a few months more, and then bring her to Manderley in less invidious circumstances? If I’d been in that situation, I’d have acted differently—or I hope that I would. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. When in love, who does act sensibly? I’ve been in that state once, I still haven’t recovered, and I’m not anxious to experience that chaos again. Can I say I conducted myself well, or even rationally? No, I can’t—the very opposite.

  I frowned at the sea. Puzzling—every aspect of this story was puzzling, and Maxim de Winter’s behavior most of all. Some people here claim that he never loved his first wife, that he came to hate her—but, if so, why go on that strange pilgrimage after her death, retracing the route of their honeymoon? Other people claim that he did love Rebecca, that he was obsessed with her—but could that be true, when he mourned her less than a year before remarrying? And if he killed her—as most journalists who’ve written about the case believe—why then behave with such ineptitude? Why identify the wrong body, even have it laid in the de Winter crypt, and then, just when he had everyone’s sympathy, forfeit that sympathy and cause an instant outbreak of rumors by remarrying?

  If, as his accusers believe, he was guilty of Rebecca’s death, then remarrying so swiftly was just about the stupidest thing de Winter could have done…though not, perhaps, quite as stupid as leaving her body in her boat, and scuttling that boat so close to shore, within view of Manderley. I’ve studied the plans of the house: I calculate that from the upper floor of the west wing where he and Rebecca had their rooms, he could have seen this stretch of water clearly. From those windows, he would be looking at the place where his wife’s body lay…. So perhaps it’s significant that, as Frith told me, he moved his rooms to the other side of the house when he remarried.

  I stared at the dark line of the submerged reef. I could just see the paler water close by it, where Rebecca’s boat was found, where the sand below made the sea azure. I was certain in my own mind that she had been killed, and, for want of any other candidate, felt her husband was probably the murderer; I think this is what Colonel Julyan also believes in his heart of hearts. But why risk sinking her boat so close to shore? At the mouth of this bay, the seabed shelves deeply. Je Reviens could have lain there, fathoms down, with very little risk of discovery. Had the killer panicked—or had he subconsciously wanted Rebecca’s boat to be discovered? If it was de Winter who killed his wife, his subsequent actions seemed designed to draw attention to himself, and to awake suspicions. It was as if he were saying, Yes, I’m guilty, I killed her, arrest me….

  Questions, questions. Sitting there above the cove, I felt that I’d answer them only when I understood Rebecca herself, when I knew more about her. But that was proving peculiarly difficult. By accident or design, Rebecca had left behind virtually no evidence of her existence. It was as if the slate had been wiped clean. The thought of that made me suddenly impatient. I put the binoculars away, rose, and continued on down the steep path to the cove. I began walking across the sand and shingle, making for the boathouse.

  I was thinking about the progress I’ve made—and the lack of it. My search hasn’t been helped by the fact that all the recent de Winter family papers were destroyed in the Manderley fire—but that fire can’t explain the extraordinary absence of all the usual official records. I located Rebecca’s death certificate very quickly, that was straightforward; but, to my astonishment, I still can’t lay my hands on either her marriage or her birth certificate. Each time I’ve thought I had some new lead, it’s taken me up a blind alley; I still don’t even know her maiden name. This failure to locate the obvious documents that would give me a starting point is making me suspicious. In my weaker moments—and this morning was one of them—I’ve begun to believe that this covering of the tracks was intentional, that inquiries such as mine were intended to be thwarted.

  I continued on down to the shingle and began to walk toward the boathouse. This small square building, with its thick walls and tiny windows, summed up in a way all the contradictions about Rebecca that I’ve been battling to resolve since I came here. To the Colonel, and those of his persuasion, this was the refuge of a beautiful and unhappy woman in her last months on this earth. To Rebecca’s detractors, it was a place of assignation where her lover (or lovers) was taken, a place that witnessed acts of shameless degradation—even perversity…. The idea of “perversity,” of course, gets the Kerrith gossips wonderfully excited.

  To the defenders, it’s the place where she resolved to die rather than linger on for months with a painful and debilitating illness. To the detractors, it’s the place where she met her comeuppance. And, as far as they’re concerned, when a lovely woman stoops to folly, murder is fully justified. “After all,” as one of them said to me, and without shame, too, “carrying on the way she did. She was asking for it, wasn’t she?”

  For several reasons—not least I have a brain—I don’t accept that kind of argument. But then my views on what constitutes morality (or perversity, come to that) are not widely shared in places such as Kerrith. So I keep quiet. It’s difficult enough to get reliable information, without alienating everybody. So I’m that “nice Mr. Gray”—and a very useful cipher he is, I thought, as I approached the boathouse. I came to an abrupt halt. A sweet and familiar scent stopped me in my tracks. Perhaps I’m not as immune to the stories of Manderley hauntings as I should like; perhaps I was discovering that an obsessive interest in a person now dead is a form of haunting anyway. Whichever the reason, I recoiled sharply.

  In front of the boathouse door was a small paved area of thick Cornish granite. Lying in the center of these flagstones was a wreath—at least, I think it was intended as a wreath, but it was of a curious kind, not the monstrosity associated with funerals; more the garland once used to bind the brows of poets, heroes, or generals. It was not a wreath of bay, however. It had been fashioned from the branches of those azaleas once planted in such abundance in the Happy Valley.

  These azaleas, as the Briggs sisters, both impassioned gardeners, had explained to me, were remarkable for the delicacy of their habit and their fragrance. According to the sisters, Rebecca had always worn a particular scent, which smelled very like those flowers; they associated it with her to such a degree, Elinor said, that they could not pass one of these shrubs without thinking of her. I’d noticed this perfuming of the air when I brushed past the few surviving plants in the Happy Valley. The flowers, small and of a pale yellow color indeed had a scent that was fresh and sweet. It was the scent of these flowers that first stopped me in my tracks. I smelled them a second before I saw them.

  The thin branches had been carefully wound together to form the garland. I c
rouched down to touch the flowers; as soon as they were moved, the scent intensified. The branches had been laid in shade; there was no sign of wilting, but by midday these flagstones would be in full sun. Had the garland been placed here yesterday it would be shrivelled by now. So, someone had laid it here much more recently, at the earliest the previous evening, or during the night—or even this very morning.

  It was now seven—I’d been sitting staring at that ridge for longer than I’d realized. For the past hour this cove had been in full view; I’d seen no one. Who would come here, to this particular place, with that particular token of remembrance? Someone who had loved her, surely. Someone who still thought of her when she’d been dead twenty years. Who could that be?

  I felt a prickling unease. Straightening up, that unease at once intensified. I saw that the lock on the boathouse door—a flimsy affair of hasp and padlock—had been broken. The door had swollen with damp, but two pulls and it was open.

  Someone had been in here, too. Peering into the gloom inside, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the half-light, I saw that there were footmarks on the dust of the floor, and the two windows had been screened off with sacking. I crossed to the landward window and pulled the material aside. So the Colonel hadn’t been hallucinating after all. Someone had been here, perhaps on the very day we’d come to Manderley. Had I been seen, approaching the cove? Had someone heard my footsteps on the shingle? On both windows, the sacking was dry and new. Like the strange wreath outside, it had been placed there recently.

  I looked around me with growing astonishment. I’d expected the place to be empty, but now there was more light, I could see that the furniture Colonel Julyan had described was still here; it had been stacked either side, as if to give clear passage down the center of the space, but several items were recognizable. I could see the deal table and the sofa bed he had spoken of, its metal frame flaking with rust. On top of it was a pile of moldering boxes; the whole place stank of damp, and the walls were green with it, but—unbelievably, after twenty years—some of Rebecca’s belongings were still in situ.